something to cling to in an hour of need? But that, I know, is impossible;
there is no help for me there. So what shall I do with the things? Since they
can’t help me, am I to let them harm me, as must be the case, given my
knowledge about them?
I am well aware that something remains which would prohibit publication to those of
outstandingly delicate feelings. But I believe it to be my duty to resist the very insidious
lure of such scruples. My decision does not rest on any of the reasons given above but
simply and solely on the fact that Kafka’s unpublished work contains the most wonderful
treasures, and, measured against his own work, the best things he has written. In all
honesty I must confess that this one fact of the literary and ethical value of what I am
publishing would have been enough to decide me to do so, definitely, finally, and
irresistibly, even if I had had no single objection to raise against the validity of Kafka’s last
wishes.
Unhappily Kafka performed the function of his own executor on part of his literary
estate. In his lodgings I found ten large quarto notebooks — only the covers remained; their
contents had been completely destroyed. In addition to this he had, according to reliable
testimony, burned several writing pads. I only found one file in his lodgings (about a
hundred aphorisms on religious subjects), an autobiographical sketch which must remain
unpublished for the moment, and a pile of papers which I am now putting in order. I hope
that among them several finished or almost finished short stories may be found. I was also
entrusted with an incompleted beast-tale and a sketchbook.
The most valuable part of the legacy consists in those works which were removed
before the author’s grim intentions could be fulfilled and conveyed to a place of safety.
These are three novels. “The Stoker,” a story already published, forms the first chapter of a
novel whose scene is laid in America; and, as the concluding chapter is extant, there is
probably no essential gap in the story. This novel is in the keeping of a woman-friend of
the author. I obtained possession of the two others, The Trial and The Castle, in 1920 and
1923; and this is a great consolation to me now. For these works will reveal the fact that
Kafka’s real significance, which has been thought until now with some reason to lie in his
specialized mastery of the short story, is in reality that of a great epic writer.
These works will probably fill about four volumes of the posthumous edition; but
they are far indeed from rendering the whole magic of Kafka’s personality. The time has
not yet come for the publication of his letters, each single one of which shows the same
truth to nature and intensity of feeling as his literary work; but meanwhile a small circle of
Kafka’s friends will see to it that all the utterances of this incomparable human being
which remain in their memory shall be collected forthwith. To give onh’ one instance: how
many of the works which, to my bitter disappointment, were not to be found in his
lodgings, were read out to me by my friend, or read at least in part, and their plots sketched
in part. And what unforgettable, entirely original, and profound thoughts lie communicated
to me! As far as my memory and my strength permit, nothing of all this shall be lost. I took the manuscript of The Trial into my keeping in June 1920 and immediately put
it in order. The manuscript has no title; but Kafka always called it The Trial in
conversation. The division into chapters as well as the chapter headings are his work; but I
had to rely on my own judgment for the order of the chapters. However, as my friend had
read a great part of the novel to me, memory came to the aid of judgment. Franz regarded
the novel as unfinished. Before the final chapter given here a few more stages of the
mysterious trial were to have been described. But as the trial, according to the author’s own