De contemplat pe muzica asta – Pink Martini, Lullaby…

“A book should be as an axe, to break the frozen sea within us.”

-Franz Kafka

Adaptacion al comic por Peter Kuper del relato de Franz Kafka publicado en 1915.

Cuando Gregor Samsa desperto una mañana tras un sueño intranquilo se descubrio transformado… No era un sueño.

Descarga La Metamorfosis

Da ich am Dienstag zwar im Schleichers war, dort aber nur aus Recherchezwecken (für was würdet ihr gern wissen, nicht? Tjaha….Kanada ;D), dachte ich mir am Mittwoch Morgen, dass ich vielleicht auch einmal wieder etwas für mich finden könnte. Diese Überlegung fruchtete dann auch, als ich aus der Berliner Volksbank heraustrat und mir einfiel, dass ich mir doch vielleicht ein Einstiegswerk in die Materie “Kafka” zulegen könnte. Meinem Gedanken folgend ging ich somit auch in die Buchhandlung und suchte im Taschenbuchregal nach Kafka. Man lobe die gute Sortierung im Schleichers, denn meine Wahl war recht schnell gefallen. Doch: Wie kommt man an ein Buch, das ungefähr 2,50m hoch im Regal steht? Zwei Möglichkeiten: Entweder man reckt sich oder man bittet eine Angestellte, das Buch herunterzuholen. Ich entschied mich für erstere Variante, da ich nicht am frühen Morgen schon das Personal überanstrengen wollte und ich ja auch nicht gerade von mir behaupten kann, kurz gewachsen zu sein. Nach ein wenig Schnippen und Schnappen hatte ich das gute Werk dann auch schon. Hier also Vorhang auf für:

Franz Kafka – Brief an den Vater

Kurzbeschreibung

Autorenporträt

Franz Kafka wurde am 3. Juli 1883 als Sohn eines jüdischen Kaufmanns in Prag geboren. Von 1901 bis 1906 studierte er zunächst kurze Zeit Germanistik, dann Jura. Nach der Promotion zum Dr. jur. absolvierte er eine einjährige “Rechtspraxis”, trat dann 1907 in die “Assicurazioni Generali” ein und ging 1908 als Jurist zur “Arbeiter-Unfall-Versicherungs-Anstalt”, wo er bis zu seiner Pensionierung im Jahre 1922 blieb. Ende 1917 erlitt Franz Kafka einen Blutsturz, es war der Beginn einer Tuberkulose, an der er einige Jahre später, am 3. Juni 1924, starb.

Aber nachdem ich mir den Kafka so angesehen hatte, dachte ich, dass ich doch vielleicht noch etwas neue U-Bahn-Lektüre bräuchte. Ein weiteres Herumtigern um das Taschenbuchregal brachte mich dann einem Buch nahe, das ich schon bei mehreren Besuchen bemerkt, doch bisher nicht mitgenommen hatte. Im Nachhinein frage ich mich, wieso nicht.

Meine Nummer 2 also:

Pascal Mercier – Lea

Kurzbeschreibung

“Eine gute Novelle verschlingt man in einem Zug. ‘Lea’ schaffen Sie in einer Nacht.” BRIGITTE

Die achtjährige Lea hat sich nach dem Tod der Mutter in eine eigene Welt zurückgezogen, zu der auch der Vater keinen Zutritt hat. Erst der Klang einer Geige holt sie ins Leben zurück. Lea erweist sich als außerordentliche musikalische Begabung, und schon bald liegen ihr Publikum und Musikwelt zu Füßen. Doch während Lea von Erfolg zu Erfolg eilt, treibt es ihren anfangs überglücklichen Vater Martijn van Vliet immer tiefer in die Einsamkeit. Bei dem verzweifelten Versuch, die Liebe und Nähe seiner Tochter zurückzugewinnen, verstrickt er sich in ein Verbrechen, das alles verändert …

Über den Autor

Pascal Mercier, geboren 1944 in Bern, heißt im richtigen Leben Peter Bieri und ist Professor für Philosophie an der Freien Universität Berlin.

Mit diesen beiden Büchern ging es für mich also zur Kasse und mein Bücherregal freute sich über neue Bücher, die es beherbergen konnte.

Ein weiteres Buch kam schon etwas früher dazu. Es ist etwas speziell. Ja geradezu zu speziell, wenn man sich mit der Materie nicht auseinandersetzt. Die Rede ist von Haiku. Haiku (sg. Haiku) ist eine weitverbreitete japanische Gedichtform. Die Silbenanzahl beschränkt sich in diesem Dreizeiler auf die traditionelle Verteilung 5-7-5. In diesen Gedichten wird vorallem der Mensch im Einklang mit der Natur und die Natur selbst thematisiert. So auch bei Matsuo Bashô, dem wohl bekanntesten Haiku-Dichter seiner Zeit.

Matsuo Bashô – Hundertundelf Haiku

Ganz ohne japanischen Input ging es dieses Mal auch wieder nicht, wie man sieht

Quelle: Amazon

Anything that has real and lasting value is always a gift from within.
~Franz Kafka

Often, the divine derives from the decomposed. At least so say most funeral directors.

(You are aware that Dexter was preceded by decades—over a century ago—by Franz Kafka, right?)

Fungi are members of a group of eukaryotic organisms that includes microorganisms such as yeasts, molds and my beloved mushrooms. Eukaryotic, you say? Derived from the Greek for “noble” or “true” combined with “nut” (an intriguing match), eukaryotes are organisms whose cells contain complex structures enclosed within membranes. A single eukaryotic cell contains membranous compartments in which specific metabolic activities take place.

Decomposers that feed on the remains of dead plants and animals, fungi are taxonomically classified as a kingdom separate and apart from plants, animals, protists and bacteria. Not green for lack of chlorophyll, they have cell walls that contain chitin, unlike the cell walls of plants, which are composed of cellulose.

From a genetic view, fungi are more closely related to animals than to plants. Animals and fungi share a common evolutionary history, and the limbs of their genealogical tree branched away from plants over one billion years ago. The common ancestor of animals and fungi actually was a protist—a single celled creature that very likely possessed both animal and fungal characteristics. It is surmised that this precursor spent part of its early life cycle in a membranous and mobile form resembling a human sperm, and then morphing into its next stage by growing a stiff chitin cell wall more resembling the mushroom that graces our tables.

All murk aside, this is a silky, luxuriant soup worthy of your spoon. If you opt for a more meaty, handsome texture, simply omit the blending stage and keep the mushrooms sliced.

CREAM OF MUSHROOM SOUP

1 ounce dried mushrooms (porcini, morels, or shitakes)
1 C chicken or vegetable stock, heated

3 T extra virgin olive oil
2 T unsalted butter

1/2 C shallots, peeled and chopped
3 garlic cloves, peeled and chopped
1 T fresh thyme, finally minced
Sea salt and freshly ground pepper

1/2 lb crimini mushrooms, cleaned and sliced
1/2 lb shitake mushrooms cleaned, stemmed and sliced
1/2 lb oyster mushroomes, cleaned, stemmed and sliced

1/4 C Madeira
1/4 C all purpose flour

5 C chicken or vegetable stock
1-2 C heavy cream

Chives
Truffle oil

Soak the dry mushrooms in 1 cup of warm stock about 30 minutes, until plump. Strain the soaking liquid through cheesecloth to remove grit. Reserve, along with the reconstituted mushrooms, until needed.

Heat the oil and butter in a large, heavy pot or Dutch oven over medium heat, and then add the shallots, garlic, salt and pepper and cook for 5 minutes, until the shallots are soft and translucent but not browned.

Turn heat to medium high and add the sliced mushrooms, thyme, bay leaves and sage. Cook mushrooms to exude liquid until they become quite soft, about for 10 minutes, stirring occasionally. Add Madeira and flour and stir constantly for around 5 minutes.

Add the chicken stock and the dried mushrooms along with the soaking water. Simmer for 30 minutes.

Remove the herbs, then add the cream and working in batches, puree the soup in a food processor or an immersion blender until smooth. Return to the pot and keep at a very low simmer until ready to serve.

Garnish with chives and drizzle lightly with truffle oil.

Kafka, La Métamorphose

“Souvent il restait étendu là, tout au long de la nuit, sans dormir un instant, restant pendant des heures à gratter le cuir. Ou bien, ne reculant pas devant le grand effort de pousser un fauteuil vers la fenêtre, il grimpait jusqu’à la tablette et, s’arc-boutant sur le fauteuil, il s’appuyait contre la vitre, manifestement repris par une sorte de réminiscence de la sensation libératrice qu’il éprouvait autrefois à regarder par la fenêtre.” (traduction de Brigitte Vergne-Cain et Gérard Rudent, LP)

C’est une géographie du deuil qui se déploie et se resserre : la grande ville – Paris, Lyon -, la banlieue parisienne, et surtout une maison de banlieue. Au premier étage une chambre et par la fenêtre de cette chambre : la cour, c’est là qu’Alain Cavalier a parlé pour la dernière fois à sa femme Irène. Le trottoir devant la maison, on ne l’aperçoit plus (il est caché par un arbre), c’est de là qu’il a vu Irène partir en voiture, et depuis la place est vide pour toujours. Il y a le salon, toujours au premier, et au bout près de la fenêtre, un canapé, la place la plus proche du mur était celle qu’il occupait pendant les heures d’attente avant que le téléphone, ce téléphone là précisément (il nous le montre, il s’en saisit) sonne pour annoncer la mort d’Irène.

Ce que parcourt Cavalier, ce sont des lieux au sens le plus simple, concret, ponctuel, précis du terme. D’ailleurs tout est précis, car tout est noté sur ses carnets tenus à l’époque (1971, 1972, janvier, la mort d’Irène). Cavalier écrivait, désormais il filme. C’est son journal.

On se déplace beaucoup (et ce n’est pas qu’un un chemin de croix) mais Cavalier le filmeur sort rarement (ou alors la nuit). Des fenêtres de ses chambres d’hôtels, des fenêtres d’un château, de celles de cette maison maudite, de la sienne, ou encore à travers celles de Françoise, qui donnent sur une petite cour intérieure, il filme le monde comme un autoportrait. Les fenêtres protègent : on peut contempler un pur paysage sans bruit, ni vent, ni pluie. Les vagues se brisent silencieusement sur un montant et sur un gros rocher, tandis que le reflet du filmeur, un peu fantomatique, apparaît sur la vitre. Le monde n’est pas troublé, lui non plus, par la présence de l’artiste. Tout est bien: l’intériorité idéalement ouverte et fermée.

Les miroirs aussi abondent dans le Filmeur et dans Irène. Comme les fenêtres ils rappellent un genre plus ancien, bien plus ancien que le cinéma. En redoublant le cadre, le sujet, l’acte créateur lui-même, Cavalier refait une fois encore le geste renaissant de la mise en abyme.

Le monde est une toile.

L’artiste est un voyeur tout puissant, mais il a la fragilité de l’insecte.

Chez Cavalier il y a un écart entre la légèreté du dispositif choisi depuis une vingtaine d’année, cette petite caméra (son carnet et son stylo) qui permet toutes les libertés, et la pesanteur du lieu clos, le poids du monde qui vous assigne une place.

Le regard myope vole comme une mouche à travers les pièces, se pose, grandit les objets minuscules et ils deviennent d’impressionnantes reliques ou d’intimidants totems. Le filmeur semble fuir les autres humains (sauf ceux qu’il aime). Il se réfugie souvent dans la salle de bain, les toilettes.

Si le cœur se serre devant les images d’Alain Cavalier, c’est peut-être parce qu’elles rappellent le malheureux Gregor Samsa dont le regard scrute à travers les vitres de sa chambre le monde extérieur qui disparaît chaque jour un peu plus.

Gregor, qui se découvre méthodiquement, un matin, patte par patte, avec ce mélange d’effarement et de curiosité un peu froide (d’amusement?) que Cavalier cultive quand il observe son visage attaqué par le cancer, ravagé par une chute, son cou et ses épaules recouverts d’un zona purulent.

Par sa fenêtre, surtout, Cavalier attend : patiemment qu’un oiseau se pose, qu’un petit chat maigre entre dans la pièce, qu’un fruit pourrisse.

Dans l’angoisse qu’Irène revienne, et en écho, vingt-cinq ans plus tard, avec une impatience légère, légèrement inquiète, que l’ami Joël arrive enfin, qui doit l’accompagner dans un café pour voir la finale de la coupe du monde de football (et la France perd). Cavalier ira seul et revient dans le noir de la nuit, ivre de bonheur.

Mais il y a un plus beau moment encore, qui survient en pleine lumière de midi: un autre ami (Philippe Davenet) en plan serré, on devine bien à gauche la fenêtre ouverte qui laisse entrer le son d’une volée régulière de cloches (c’est Claudel à Cambridge!), mais on ne soupçonne pas le piano qui attend sous ses doigts. Les cloches donnent le tempo d’un petit prélude de Bach, exécuté devant nous sans façon, avec un sourire tendre, comme ce qu’il y a de plus naturel, de plus anodin, de plus extraordinaire, tout cela en même temps, comme tout ce que filme Alain Cavalier.

Films d’Alain Cavalier évoqués:

Irène (2009)

Le Filmeur (2005)

La Rencontre (1996)

J’attends Joël (2006)

On trouvera les trois derniers dans le coffret L’intégrale autobiographique

Belirli bir noktadan sonra geri dönüş yoktur. Bu noktaya erişmek de gerekir. – syf 25

Bilgeliğin başladığına ilk işaret, ölmek isteğidir. Bu yaşam dayanılmaz görünür, bir başkası ise erişilmez. İnsan ölmek istediği için utanmaz artık; nefret ettiği eski hücresinden alınıp ilk işi nefret etmeyi öğrenmek olacağı yeni hücresine konulmak için yalvarıp yakarır. Bunda belirli bir inancın kalıntısı da etkilidir; taşınma sırasında efendi koridorda görünecek, tutukluya şöyle bir bakacak ve diyecektir ki: “Bu adamın yeniden hücreye kapatılmasına gerek yok. O bana geliyor artık.” – syf  28

Sonbaharda bir yol gibi: temiz pak süpürüyorsun, sonra yol bir kez daha kurumuş yapraklarla örtülüyor. – syf 29

Sen ödevsin. Ama görünürde öğrenci yok. – syf 31

İyi, bir bakıma rahatsızlık vericidir. – syf 33

Nefsime hakim olacağım diye uğraşmıyorum. Nefse hakimiyet, tinsel varlığımdan saçılan sonsuz sayıda ışınların rastgele bir yerinde etkili olmayı istemektir. Ama çevremde böylesi çemberler çizmem gerekiyorsa, o zaman benim için en iyisi bunu bir eylemde bulunmaksızın, şaşkınlıkla devasa düzen’i ağzım açık seyrederim sadece, ve bu seyrin bana bütünlükle karşıtlık içinde vereceği güçten yararlanırım, o kadar. – syf 33

Kargalar, tek bir karganın gökleri yok edebileceğini iddia eder. Buna hiç kuşku yok, ama bu yine de göklere ilişkin hiçbir şey ifade etmez, çünkü gökyüzü kargaların yokluğu demektir. – syf 34

Belki bir şeylere sahipsin, ama kendi varlığın yok savına verdiği cevap, bir titreme ve yürek çarpıntısı oldu sadece. – syf 35

Kıyamet Günü’nü böyle adlandırmamızın nedeni ancak bizim zaman kavramımızdır; aslında o bir tür sıkıyönetim mahkemesidir. – syf 37

Tiksinti ve nefret dolu bir başı önüne eğmek. – syf 37

Bu dünya için koşumlarını takınman gülünç. – syf 38

Bu dünyada hemcinsini seven kimse, dünyada yalnızca kendisini seven kimseden ne daha çok ne de daha az hata yapmakladır. Sadece geriye bir soru kalıyor ki, o da insanın hemcinsini sevip sevemeyeceğidir. – syf 45

Kuramsal olarak eksiksiz bir mutluluk olanağı vardır: İçimizde yokedilemez bir varlık olduğuna inanmak, ve ona ulaşacağım diye çaba harcamamak. – syf 47

Ölüm, sınıf duvarında asılı İskender’in Savaşı adlı tablonun bir röprodüksiyonu gibi önümüzde duruyor. Yapmamız gereken, daha bu yaşamda eylemlerimizle, tabloyu karanlığa gömmek, ve hatta ortadan silip atmaktır. – syf 54

Sadece burada ıstırap ıstıraptır. Bu demek değildir ki, burada ıstırap çekenler bir başka yerde de çektikleri ıstıraptan ötürü ödüllendirilecek; bunun anlamı, bu dünyada ıstırap denen şeyin bir başka dünyada değişmeyip, yalnız karşıtından bağımsız kılınacağı ve mutluluğa dönüşeceğidir. – syf 58

O’na yaptığı her şey olağanüstü yeni geliyordu. Eğer hayatın tazeliğinden yoksunsa, o zaman kaçınılmaz olarak –biliyor bunu– cehennemin eski çukurundan kalan bir nesnenin esas değerine sahiptir. Ama bu tazelik aldatıyor O’nu; bu gerçeği unutmasına, yahut ona omuz silkmesine ya da onu acısız kabullenmesini sağlıyor. Çünkü her şeye karşın, bugün, ilerlemenin daha da ileriye gitmek için yola koyulduğu şimdiki bugündür, yani bugünkü gündür. – syf 68

O, bir Dağılış içinde yaşıyor. Elementleri, avare avare dolaşan o kalabalık dünyanın çevresinde başıboş dolanıp duruyor. Arada sırada, sırf kendi odası da bu dünyaya ait olduğu için, uzaktan uzağa onları görüyor. Onlar için nasıl sorumlu olması beklenebilir ondan? Buna artık sorumluluk denilebilir mi? – syf 73

O, kendini bu dünyada hapsedilmiş hissediyor, kuşatılmış hissediyor kendini; tutuklunun üzüntüsü, acizliği, hastalığı, çılgın kuruntuları onun içinde de infilak ediyor; hiçbir avuntu onu avutamaz, salt avuntu olduğu için, tutsaklığın hayvani gerçeğine karşı nazik ve baş ağrıtan bir avuntu olduğu için. Ama eğer gerçekten ne istediği sorulsa, cevap veremez, çünkü– bu onun en sağlam delillerinden biri– özgürlük fikrine sahip değil. – syf 75

İki düşmanı var; birincisi arkasından, köklerinden sıkıştırıyor onu; ikincisi ise önündeki yolu sürgülüyor. İkisiyle de mücadele ediyor. Gerçekte birincisi ikincisiyle mücadelesinde onu destekliyor, çünkü onu ileriye doğru itmeyi istiyor, ve aynı şekilde ikincisi birincisiyle mücadelesinde onu destekliyor; çünkü onu geriye doğru sürüyor. Ama bu ancak kuramsal olarak böyle; çünkü sadece iki düşman değil var olan, kendisi de var, ve onun niyetinin ne olduğunu kim gerçekten bilebilir? – syf 75

Franz Kafka, Aforizmalar.

Altıkırkbeş Yayınları – 1998,  Özgür Metin.

www.textenet.de

Freitag, 20. November 2009 um 19:30 Uhr

Werkstatt für Kunstprojekte
Jens Paul Wollenberg und Uta Pilling – „Ein Bericht für eine Akademie“
Jens Paul Wollenberg liest „Ein Bericht für eine Akademie“ von Franz Kafka, Musik: Uta Pilling

Freitag, 20. November 2009 um 20:00 Uhr

Galerie Koenitz:
Bild und Bildner – Texte zur bildenden Kunst
Texte zur Bildenden Kunst mit Interessierten aus Bildender Kunst und Literatur: u.a. Rosemarie Fret, Jutta Pillat und Ralph Grüneberger, Musik: Martin Höpfner

Freitag, 20. November 2009 um 21:00 Uhr

Galerie A und V:
Ronald M. Schernikau – Abend
Mit Tobias Amslinger und Hannes Becker

Samstag, 21. November 2009 um 16:00 Uhr

Werkstatt für Kunstprojekte:
Verlagspräsentation der Leipziger Belletristik-Verlage
Mit Verlag Faber & Faber, Plöttner Verlag – für den Verlag lesen: Reinhard Bernhof & Thomas Kunst, Poetenladen – für den Verlag lesen: Katharina Bendixen & Johanna Schwedes, Leipziger Literaturverlag – für den Verlag lesen: Viktor Kalinke & Carsten Zimmermann, Connewitzer Verlagsbuchhandlung, Passage Verlag, Mitteldeutscher Verlag – für den Verlag liest Jörg Jacob, PaperOne – für den Verlag treten auf: Volly Tanner & Wolfgang Flür (vom Schlagzeuger der Gruppe „Kraftwerk“ zum Schriftsteller), Zeitschrift EDIT, Carpe Plumbum, Poesiealbum neu, Buchverlag für die Frau – für den Verlag liest: Christel Foerster, edition vulcanus – für den Verlag lesen: Maren Uhlig & Elmar Schenkel, Edition TP, Ausgabe 1 – für den Verlag lesen Marcel Rabe & Thomas Jez

Samstag, 21. November 2009 um 20:00 Uhr

Galerie A und V:
Jürgen von der Wense-Abend
„Lest nicht die Times, lest die Ewigkeiten“ mit Konstantin Ames, Tobias Amslinger, Hannes Becker und Volker Baumann

Samstag, 21. November 2009 um 20:00 Uhr

Begegnungsstätte Mühlstraße:
„So traurig arm im irren Wind der Reisen“ – Rilke und Piano
Mit Stefanie Gersch und Janna Kagerer. Anschließend: „Tonotopy“ mit Lena (vocals, piano), Frank (guitar)

Samstag, 21. November 2009 um 21:00 Uhr

Werkstatt für Kunstprojekte:
„lauter niemand labor“ – EXTRA
Seit Jahren durchforstet die Zeitschrift „lauter niemand“ die Szene auf der Suche nach neuen Talenten. Im Anschluss an die Lesung das „lauter niemand labor“: Jeder kann sich mit eigenen Texten beteiligen. Die Texte bitte in mehreren Kopien mitbringen.

11:00 Uhr RT
Gedichte für Kinder – Poesiealbum „neu“
Kinder des Bleilaus-Verlages lesen ihre Lieblingsgedichte aus dem Poesiealbum. Der Bleilaus-Verlag wird sein Buch „ZYX – Neue Zungenbrecher“ präsentieren. Moderation: Ralph Grüneberger

19:00 Uhr VT
Muspilli – Lesung, Podiumsdiskussion & Konzert mit Bert Papenfuß & Friedrich Schorlemmer
Musik: Ensemble Thios Omilos, Ensemble phase drei, Thomas Becker, Michael Hain. Sprecher: Konstantin Ames. Moderation: Bertram Reinecke

21:00 Uhr RT
Nacht der Autoren
Zum Thema Sonett mit Ann Cotten, Brigitte Lange, Thomas Kunst, HEL & Andreas Reimann

23:00 Uhr VT
Weltuntergangslounge
Eine Sounds&Poetry-Inszenierung zwischen Todes-Meditation und „Muspilli“-Variationen, gestaltet von den Underwater Agents.

Montag, 23. November 2009 um 20:00 Uhr

Werkstatt für Kunstprojekte::
Floppy Myriapoda – Gegner
Subkommando für die freie Assoziation präsentiert: Eine floppy-myriapoda-Lesung mit Ann Cotten, Bert Papenfuß, Kai Pohl, Helko Reschitzki, Su, HEL ToussantT und Florian Günther.

Montag, 23. November 2009 um 20:30 Uhr

Galerie A und V:
„Einzimmerspringbrunnen“ – Buchpremiere
Mit Léonce W. Lupette & Tobias Amslinger

Montag, 23. November 2009 um 21:30 Uhr

Werkstatt für Kunstprojekte
Finissage der Ausstellung „Ehrliche Fälschung“
Mit Valeri Scherstjanoi. Lernen durch Nachahmung. Valeri Scherstjanoi erzählt über seine Begegnungen mit Carlfriedrich Claus und seiner Kunst und liest seine Lautgedichte aus jener Zeit.

Dienstag, 24. November 2009 um 19:00 Uhr

Stadtteilbibliothek Südvorstadt:
Umkreisungen – Die neue Anthologie des Poetenladens
Buchpremieren Leipziger Autoren in der Stadtbibliothek: Der Poetenladen stellt seine neue Anthologie „Umreisungen“ vor: Begrüßung: Andreas Heidtmann. Es lesen: Stefan Heuer & Lars Reyer, Musik: Wolfram Dix, Moderation: Jan Kuhlbrodt

Dienstag, 24. November 2009 um 19:30 Uhr

Café Westen
Studenten des Kompositionskurses von Bernd Franke bearbeiten Gegenwart-Literatur
Seit Jahre führt Bernd Franke Kompositionskurse durch. Dort entstand ein weites Spektrum der verschiedenartigen Arbeiten. Ein abwechslungsreicher Text-Musik-Abend unter anderem mit Kerstin Preiwuß und Dagmara Kraus.

Dienstag, 24. November 2009 um 20:00 Uhr

Werkstatt für Kunstprojekte:
„Entschuldigung wo geht’s ’n hier zur Revolution“
In Manfred Jendryschiks Notizen und Prosaminiaturen aus dem HerbstStraßenTageBuch von 1989 lebt eine Zeit auf, in der alles möglich schien

Dienstag, 24. November 2009 um 21:30 Uhr

Werkstatt für Kunstprojekte:
Versnetze 2 – Virtuelle Lesung
Unter anderen mit Johanna Schwedes und Angelika Janz. Moderation: Michael Gratz

Mittwoch, 25. November 2009 um 17:00 Uhr

Haus des Buches, Literaturhaus Leipzig:
Poetisches Podium IV/2009
„Sind Gedichte übersetzbar?“ Lesung mit Arne Braun und Thomas Eichborn. Moderation: Jan Zänker

Mittwoch, 25. November 2009 um 22:00 Uhr

Werkstatt für Kunstprojekte:
Preis-Gala des Michael-Linder-Literaturwettbewerbs
Es werden die beiden Gewinner der ausgeschriebenen Literaturpreise prämiert. Mit Live Musik von Thomas Becker.

Kids never do as they’re told.  The lauded novelist Vladimir Nabokov asked that his unfinished manuscript The Original of Laura be burned upon his death.  But lucky for us, his son Dmitri didn’t listen.  This week marks Laura’s inflammatory publication, which means that fans of Nabokov’s will now have to decide whether to respect the master’s wishes or run to the nearest bookstore to crack open the spine of this much-anticipated book and bite into some forbidden fruit.

Written on 138 index cards in the final years of Nabokov’s life, mostly from a hospital room, Laura spent more than three decades under lock and key in a safe-deposit box somewhere in Switzerland.  It’s the story of the aristocratic Flora Lanskaya’s life with her morbidly obese (and otherwise morbid) husband Philip Wild. After the passing of Nabokov’s own spouse, Vera, the question of whether or not to publish “Laura” fell upon Dmitri’s shoulders.  In the end, the thought of not sharing his father’s final work with the rest of the world was apparently too much for Dmitri to bear… (coupled with the thought of not possessing the financial means to get from point A to point B: “It’s true that my wheelchair requires some costly modifications to fit into the trunk of a Maserati coupe,” he told The New York Times last year.)

Dmitri in front of a portrait of his father. Photograph: Patrick Aviolat/EPA/AFP

This isn’t the first time an author’s wishes have been overruled in favor of publication.  Kafka wanted The Trial incinerated after his death, and long before that, Virgil requested that The Aeneid be destroyed.  “Read the works!” journalist Ron Rosenbaum pleaded in 2005.  “Life is too short to care more deeply about the life of the one who wrote them, whose secrets are usually irretrievable anyway.”  Playwright Tom Stoppard had a different take: “It’s perfectly straightforward: Nabokov wanted it burnt, so burn it.”

- Jordan Sayle

W. G. Sebald, Austerlitz, p.174

« (…) de sorte que l’ensemble du bâtiment, qui de l’extérieur fait plutôt songer à un hôtel particulier, est constitué de quatre ailes d’une profondeur de trois mètres tout au plus ceinturant la cour intérieure un peu comme un décor en trompe-l’oeil et ne comportant ni couloirs ni dégagements, à l’image de l’architecture carcérale de l’époque bourgeoise dans lequel le modèle de quartiers de cellules, construits autour d’une cour rectangulaire ou ronde et complétés à l’intérieur par des passerelles de circulation, s’est imposé comme le plus adéquat pour l’exécution des peines. Mais la cour intérieure des Archives de la Karmelitska ne me rappelait pas seulement une prison, dit Austerlitz, elle évoquait aussi l’idée du cloître, du manège, de l’opéra ou de l’asile d’aliénés, et toutes ces images se mêlaient dans ma tête tandis que je levais les yeux vers le clair-obscur tombant d’en-haut et croyais voir dans cette lumière parcimonieuse, sur les rangées de galeries, une foule compacte où des gens agitaient qui des chapeaux, qui des mouchoirs, comme en d’autres circonstances les passagers d’un paquebot prenant la mer. En tout cas je mis un certain temps à recouvrer mes esprits (…) »

(Edition Actes Sud, traduction Patrick Charbonneau)

C’est par le début qu’on achèvera cet arpentage provisoire des rues de Prague.

A peine descendu de l’avion, un jour de mars 1993, Jacques Austerlitz se rend en taxi de l’aéroport de Ruzyne (dont sa mère avait dû, il l’apprend plus tard, déblayer les pistes sur ordre des nazis (p.211)) aux Archives d’Etat sur la Karmelitska, au coeur de Prague, espérant retrouver l’adresse du domicile familial. En pénétrant dans ce qui fut à l’origine l’église Sainte-Marie-Madeleine, avant d’être transformé en poste, en caserne, et finalement en archives, il est pris d’un de ses fréquents malaises. Sous la haute voûte en berceau qui rappelle autant celle du Great Eastern Hotel que celle du palais de justice de Bruxelles, ou encore le plafond de la salle des pas perdus de la Gare d’Anvers, il est immédiatement déstabilisé par l’air de famille qu’il remarque entre le bâtiment et les autres productions de « l’époque bourgeoise ».

Austerlitz est maître dans l’art de dégager, sous l’infinie variété des choses, le soubassement archéologique qui dit l’esprit d’un temps. Mais il n’est pas Michel Foucault, et c’est le corps ici qui parle plus que la raison, la mémoire davantage que l’histoire. Les images les plus contradictoires se mêlent dans son esprit, qui révèlent ses obsessions, ses angoisses, son érudition: un cloître (refuge, bibliothèque, prison), un paquebot (de touristes, de migrants? le Titanic?), un asile, un manège où hommes et bêtes tournent en rond, mais aussi un opéra, écho anticipé à la mère, Agata, et à ses répétitions au Théâtre des Trois-Ordres. Point commun: la dimension carcérale, panoptique, de ces constructions.

Au lendemain de cette première visite, armé cette fois-ci de son petit appareil photo et de son savoir d’historien de l’architecture, Austerlitz échappe au vertige en prenant quelques clichés et en identifiant de nouvelles formes, plus anciennes. L’escalier, en particulier, retient son attention du fait de sa parenté avec les folies architecturales d’une noblesse anglaise aujourd’hui disparue.

L’inquiétante étrangeté du lieu rappelle bien sûr le Procès dans lequel les bâtiments du pouvoir, spécialement ceux qui rendent la justice, ont un caractère labyrinthique, démesuré, déconcertant. Le narrateur a d’abord bien du mal à se pencher et à se faire comprendre du portier reclus dans son minuscule guichet. Au troisième étage de la Karmelitska, depuis la balustrade de la galerie intérieure, les choses prennent à se yeux des dimensions inhabituelles, disproportionnées.

Il se perd dans les couloirs tel Joseph K à la recherche de son juge d’instruction, dans un immeuble d’un faubourg de la ville. A la différence du récit de Kafka, celui de Sebald n’est pourtant pas irrémédiablement marqué du sceau de l’échec. Même si Austerlitz, à son retour de Prague, sombre dans une profonde dépression, il parvient à retrouver la précieuse adresse et la rencontre avec son ancienne nourrice Vera, le récit qu’elle lui fait de ses années de jeunesse sont une étape décisive de sa recherche (1).

La tension dialectique entre un passé subi et une histoire maîtrisée résume assez bien l’oeuvre dans son ensemble. Le récit dispose à tout instant des traces, des indices, qui permettent de mettre en scène la mémoire involontaire d’Austerlitz, mais ce dernier progresse aussi grâce à la mise en œuvre de techniques spécifiquement historiennes: consultation des archives (qui sont déjà le résultat d’un choix, d’une sélection), y compris les archives cinématographiques (p.290-291) recherches en bibliothèque (rue Richelieu ou BNF (p.324-325)), lecture de thèses (celle d’Adler sur Theresienstadt (p.277)), mise à distance par la photographie, le discours érudit. Dans ce jeu de va-et-vient constant entre histoire et mémoire, entre savoir rationnel et connaissance plus intuitive et émotionnelle, entre mémoire volontaire et involontaire, la Karmelistka apparaît comme un lieu central, l’épisode un moment charnière.

Comme le souligne J. J. Long (2), le personnage est un familier des archives, qu’il utilise dans la première partie du roman et de sa vie comme des substituts à son histoire personnelle. Les monceaux de documents relatifs à l’architecture de l’ère capitaliste qu’il a rassemblés dans son bureau de Londres (p.42) forment ainsi un rempart à l’histoire plus récente et plus tragique, celle qui débute au moment de sa naissance, en 1934, celle qu’il ne veut pas voir, et à laquelle il n’accède le plus souvent qu’incidemment et sans l’avoir cherché. A Prague, pour la première fois, en ces deux jours du printemps 1993, dans la grande bâtisse des Archives d’Etat, Austerlitz plonge volontairement au cœur de son histoire.

L’archiviste Teresa Ambrosova est une figure étrange à bien des égards, avec sa pâleur diaphane, ses yeux de pervenche, sa petite veine au cou dont la pulsation attire le regard d’Austerlitz, mais elle n’a plus l’aura angoissante des dépositaires kafkaïens de l’autorité. Elle apparaît en Ariane, elle qui, sans se départir de sa réserve et de son efficacité professionnelle, sait accueillir Austerlitz « avec la plus exquise courtoisie », identifier le malaise qui le prend subitement, et y mettre fin en lui offrant un simple verre d’eau.

Le lecteur d’aujourd’hui, en revanche, ne s’y retrouvera pas tout à fait. Le 2/4 de la Karmelitzka abrite depuis 2004 le musée national de musique.

Notes:

(1) Michael Niehaus, dans un article que j’ai déjà évoqué, insiste davantage sur la dimension déceptive de la recherche. Selon lui l’épisode pragois ne permet aucune véritable libération (p.330) et les personnages sebaldiens semblent  condamnés à traverser les institutions et les bâtiments qui les abritent comme des non-lieux dont ils seraient irrémédiablement exclus. C’est sans doute juste, et à bien des égards le travail d’historien mené par Austerlitz apparait comme un échec, mais on peut aussi, en suivant le propos de Martine Carré, voir dans le retour à Prague une étape essentielle d’une véritable reconstruction, et Austerlitz comme un récit qui couronne le triptyque Vertiges-Emigrants-Anneaux de Saturne en permettant pour la première fois une forme de résolution (p.293) grâce au passage du statut d’historien à celui de témoin oral (p.293), et grâce à la mise au premier plan de la Shoah.

Voir :

Michael Niehaus, “No Foothold. Institutions and Buildings in W. G. Sebald’s Prose.”, in Scott Denham et Mark McCulloh (ed) W. G. Sebald, History, Memory, Trauma, Walter de Gruyter, 2006, p.330

Martine Carré, W. G. Sebald, le retour de l’auteur, PUL, 2008, p.281-293.

(2) J. J. Long, W. G. Sebald, Image, Archive, Modernity, CUP, 2007, chapitre 8: “The Archival subject: Austerlitz”

]]> http://kissing.wordpress.com/2009/11/17/dont-even-wait/ Tue, 17 Nov 2009 18:14:51 +0000 monkeymind http://kissing.wordpress.com/2009/11/17/dont-even-wait/

You do not need to leave your room.
Remain sitting at your table and listen.
Do not even listen, simply wait.
Do not even wait, be still and solitary.
The world will freely offer itself to you
to be unmasked, it has no choice.
It will roll in ecstasy at your feet.

Franz Kafka (1883-1924), major fiction writer born into a German-speaking Jewish family in Prague. Most of his work was published posthumously.

To cover more songs from The Cure has been a desire long overdue. So when the opportunity presented itself, we were more than happy to indulge. The pop sensibility of the 80’s icon has influenced my songwriting for more than a decade – in doses big and small – but not as heavily as The Smiths and The Beatles.

It was an awesome event.  The place was packed and everyone was looking forward to each band’s rendition of a Cure classic. We were favored to cover “Just Like Heaven” while I personally chose “A Letter To Elise” – one of my all time favorite Cure single. Here is a clip our friend Antonette manage to acquire with her digital camera. Please excuse the audio and video quality. First time we ever jammed “A Letter To Elise.”

I read in wiki that Letters to Felice by Kafka was a huge influence when Robert Smith wrote the lyrics of the track. Franz Kafka is a Jewish-Bohemian major fiction writer and “Letters To Felice” is a book collecting some of Kafka’s letters to Felice Bauer from 1912 to 1917. During the correspondence they were engaged twice. Must be something worth reading.

"A Letter to Elise" is the third and final single taken from the album Wish from The Cure in 1992.

To listen to the original track of “Letter To Elise:, click Here.
Below is our minimal live performance of “Just Like Heaven” from the same night. It would’ve been nicer having an electric guitarist to session. It’s fun to spin around with.

The group largely wrote the song during recording sessions in Southern France in 1987.  Robert Smith  drew inspiration from a past trip to the sea shore with his future wife. Do not be fooled to thinking that “Just Like Heaven” is a happy heartwarming song. Beneath the sunny-day-holding-hands-together-on-grassy-fields trance the music exude lies an incredibly sad ending. Wait till you hear the third verse. Click Here to watch the music video.

"Just Like Heaven" was the third single released from the band's 1987 album Kiss Me, Kiss Me, Kiss Me.

Never mind the big, towering hair and smeared lipstick on their faces (a signature look) the musical styling is great and offers a mix of records wallowing in melancholia to ear-candy-pop madness.

—– 0 —–

The Cure are an English rock band formed in Crawley, West Sussex in 1976 by Robert Smith, Lawrence Tolhurst and Michael Dempsey. The band has experienced several line-up changes, with frontman, vocalist, guitarist and principal songwriter Robert Smith being the only constant member. The Cure first began releasing music in the late 1970s with their debut album Three Imaginary Boys (1979); this, along with several early singles, placed the band as part of the post-punk and New Wave movements that had sprung up in the wake of the punk rock revolution in the United Kingdom. During the early 1980s, the band’s increasingly dark and tormented music helped form the gothic rock genre.

After the release of Pornography (1982), the band’s future was uncertain and Smith was keen to move past the gloomy reputation his band had acquired. With the 1982 single “Let’s Go to Bed” Smith began to inject more of a pop sensibility into the band’s music. The Cure’s popularity increased as the decade wore on, especially in the United States where the songs “Just Like Heaven“, “Lovesong” and “Friday I’m in Love” entered the Billboard Hot 100 chart. By the start of the 1990s, The Cure were one of the most popular alternative rock bands in the world. The band is estimated to have sold 27 million albums as of 2004. The Cure have released thirteen studio albums and over thirty singles during the course of their career. (source: Wikipedia)

Se c’era una cosa che sognavo da anni, era di andare a cercare il naso di Tycho de Brahe.

Lo perse in duello a Rostock, ma non era quello il naso che cercavo.

Io volevo quello d’oro, che portava a mo’ di protesi, ed ero convinto di trovarlo in riva alla Vltava, nera e minacciosa.

A dire il vero trovai tutto nero, non solo il fiume, e il bianco di uno Smažený sýr già mi abbagliava.

Al U dvou koček trovai le prime tracce, ma un Svíčková na smetaně con Bramboráčky rallentò la ricerca.

Cinque Velkopopovický Kozel poi, invece di portarmi più vicino al naso, mi ricordarono la brutta fine di Tycho, morto ad una festa con la vescica scoppiata perchè tardò ad andare a svuotarla…

La missione fu dunque infruttuosa, ma io lo so, un giorno troverò il suo naso d’oro, anche se la Vltava non fa più paura, e Hasek non si ubriacherà più con me al Cafè Slavia.

traduzione dal tedesco di Elisabetta Zoni

Franz Kafka

Racconti brevi

Il silenzio delle sirene

A dimostrazione che anche mezzi inadeguati, addirittura puerili, possono portare alla salvezza:

Per proteggersi dalle sirene, Odisseo si tappò le orecchie con la cera e si fece incatenare all’albero maestro. Qualcosa di simile, naturalmente, avrebbero potuto fare da sempre tutti i viaggiatori – tranne coloro che le sirene avevano già attirato da lontano – ma era risaputo in tutto il mondo che non sarebbe servito a nulla. Il canto delle sirene pervadeva di sé ogni cosa, e la passione dei sedotti avrebbe spezzato ben più che catene e alberi maestri. Ma a questo Odisseo non pensò, benché forse ne avesse avuto notizia. Si fidava completamente di quel pugno di cera e di quel mucchio di catene e, rallegrandosi candidamente dei suoi mezzucci, navigò incontro alle sirene.

Ora però le sirene possiedono un’arma ancor più tremenda del canto: il loro silenzio. Anche se non è mai accaduto, è forse concepibile che qualcuno si fosse potuto salvare dal loro canto; di certo non dal loro silenzio. Nulla di terreno può resistere alla sensazione di averle vinte con le proprie forze, all’orgoglio che ne scaturisce, e che travolge ogni cosa.

E davvero, quando Odisseo giunse, le potenti cantatrici non cantarono, o perché pensarono che quell’avversario poteva esser battuto solo con il silenzio, o forse perché la vista della beatitudine dipinta sul volto di Odisseo, che non pensava ad altro che alla cera e alle catene, le fece dimentiche di ogni canto.

Odisseo tuttavia non udì, per così dire, il loro silenzio, credendo che stessero cantando e che solo lui fosse protetto dall’udirle. Di sfuggita vide dapprima il movimento dei loro colli, i loro respiri profondi, gli occhi colmi di lacrime, le labbra socchiuse, ma credette che tutto questo facesse parte delle arie che, non udite, risuonavano intorno a lui. Ben presto, però, tutto scivolò via dai suoi sguardi rivolti in lontananza, le sirene sparirono del tutto di fronte alla sua risolutezza e, proprio quando fu più vicino a loro, non ne seppe più nulla.

Esse tuttavia – più belle che mai – si allungarono e si contorsero, sciolsero gli orrendi capelli al vento e tesero gli artigli aperti sugli scogli. Non volevano più sedurre ormai, volevano solo trattenere il riflesso dei grandi occhi di Odisseo il più a lungo possibile.

Se le sirene possedessero una coscienza, quella volta sarebbero state annientate. Invece sopravvissero, e solo Odisseo sfuggì a loro.
Si tramanda poi un’appendice a questa storia. Odisseo, si narra, era talmente ricco di astuzie, era una tale volpe, che persino la Dea del Destino non riuscì a penetrare nel suo intimo. Forse egli, anche se questo già trascende la comprensione dell’intelletto umano, in realtà si accorse che le sirene tacevano e, quasi a guisa di scudo, oppose a loro, e agli dei, la suddetta simulazione.

marc chagall, les sirènes d’ulysse

Franz Kafka

Kurzgeschichten

Das Schweigen der Sirenen

Beweis dessen, daß auch unzulängliche, ja kindische Mittel zur Rettung dienen können:

Um sich vor den Sirenen zu bewahren, stopfte sich Odysseus Wachs in die Ohren und ließ sich am Mast festschmieden. Ähnliches hätten natürlich seit jeher alle Reisenden tun können außer denen, welche die Sirenen schon aus der Ferne verlockten, aber es war in der ganzen Welt bekannt, daß dies unmöglich helfen konnte. Der Sang der Sirenen durchdrang alles, und die Leidenschaft der Verführten hätte mehr als Ketten und Mast gesprengt. Daran aber dachte Odysseus nicht, obwohl er davon vielleicht gehört hatte. Er vertraute vollständig der Handvoll Wachs und dem Gebinde Ketten und in unschuldiger Freude über seine Mittelchen fuhr er den Sirenen entgegen.

Nun haben aber die Sirenen eine noch schrecklichere Waffe als den Gesang, nämlich ihr Schweigen. Es ist zwar nicht geschehen, aber vielleicht denkbar, daß sich jemand vor ihrem Gesang gerettet hätte, vor ihrem Schweigen gewiß nicht. Dem Gefühl aus eigener Kraft sie besiegt zu haben, der daraus folgenden alles fortreißenden Überhebung kann nichts Irdisches widerstehen.

Und tatsächlich sangen, als Odysseus kam, die gewaltigen Sängerinnen nicht, sei es, daß sie glaubten, diesem Gegner könne nur noch das Schweigen beikommen, sei es, daß der Anblick der Glückseligkeit im Gesicht des Odysseus, der an nichts anderes als an Wachs und Ketten dachte, sie allen Gesang vergessen ließ.

Odysseus aber, um es so auszudrücken, hörte ihr Schweigen nicht, er glaubte, sie sängen, und nur er sei behütet, es zu hören. Flüchtig sah er zuerst die Wendungen ihrer Hälse, das tiefe Atmen, die tränenvollen Augen, den halb geöffneten Mund, glaubte aber, dies gehöre zu den Arien, die ungehört um ihn verklangen. Bald aber glitt alles an seinen in die Ferne gerichteten Blicken ab, die Sirenen verschwanden förmlich vor seiner Entschlossenheit, und gerade als er ihnen am nächsten war, wußte er nichts mehr von ihnen.

Sie aber – schöner als jemals – streckten und drehten sich, ließen das schaurige Haar offen im Winde wehen und spannten die Krallen frei auf den Felsen. Sie wollten nicht mehr verführen, nur noch den Abglanz vom großen Augenpaar des Odysseus wollten sie so lange als möglich erhaschen.

Hätten die Sirenen Bewußtsein, sie wären damals vernichtet worden. So aber blieben sie, nur Odysseus ist ihnen entgangen.
Es wird übrigens noch ein Anhang hierzu überliefert. Odysseus, sagt man, war so listenreich, war ein solcher Fuchs, daß selbst die Schicksalsgöttin nicht in sein Innerstes dringen konnte. Vielleicht hat er, obwohl das mit Menschenverstand nicht mehr zu begreifen ist, wirklich gemerkt, daß die Sirenen schwiegen, und hat ihnen und den Göttern den obigen Scheinvorgang nur gewissermaßen als Schild entgegengehalten.

i’m in that sort of state, where i am restless and feel crazy and don’t quite know what to do with myself.  i want to go out but i don’t and all of my stability is in suitcases and dispersed to the winds.  it feels incredibly strange to have this group of people that i have been depending on spending 8 – 10 hours a day with starting to move off in different directions, nothing to hold us and me too insular to be able to reach out at all.

argh argh argh.

apparently i just hate in betweens.

sitting at the cafe for what is probably the last time, because we leave tomorrow.  feeling very sad about all this, and also like my nerves are on the outside of my skin.  been snappy all day long, and a little bit pushy.  want to call people, but i forgot my headphones.  the wait staff are not bringing me any beer.  that’s ok, though, i probably don’t need any.

and we went to the kafka museum, which was probably the worst possible thing for my state of mind.  dark and clank and people speaking german into telephones in the midst of hallways of filing cabinets labeled with characters’ names, while screens show the same image of hands full of severed fingers and stamps and oh man, it was awesome, but it made me worse.

found out that “in the penal colony” was what he read the only time he did a reading outside of prague — in munich.  three ladies fainted.  he was excoriated for being tasteless.

that was always my favorite of his stories.

http://www.kafkamuseum.cz/ShowPage.aspx?tabindex=1&tabid=-1

wow, excoriated is a wicked big word for someone with the amount of brain cells i have.

it feels better to be typing and not worrying so much about much.

except that perhaps this is getting more and more boring.

i am going to miss this city.  i think i need to come back someday …

Texto: Juan Miguel Muñoz Y Joseba Elola. El País.com. 15/11/2009.

Traiciones, contrabandos frustrados y exitosos, amoríos ocultos, testamentos violados. Subastas que proporcionaron pingües beneficios a una mujer codiciosa, Esther Hoffe, la depositaria de los papeles ocultos de Kafka. Demandas judiciales del Estado sionista contra Hoffe, broncas a gritos en el tribunal para reclamar la entrega del preciado tesoro. Y para rematar la faena, una disputa soterrada entre Alemania e Israel por ese archivo secreto y por el manuscrito de El proceso, la emblemática novela del escritor checo. Son los ingredientes de esta historia rocambolesca, en ocasiones kafkiana, plagada de intrigas. ¿Y todo este lío, para adueñarse de qué? Ésa es la gran incógnita.

Dos ancianas israelíes, Ruth y Eva Hoffe, conocen el contenido del archivo oculto de Kafka. En estos días esperan a que la justicia israelí les permita recuperar los preciados papeles que su madre, Esther, recibió del albacea de Kafka.

Esther Hoffe, que falleció en 2007 a los 102 años, fue secretaria e íntima amiga de Max Brod, el agente literario que recopiló los manuscritos del genial escritor checo y los trasladó a Israel en su apresurada escapada de los nazis. Hoffe heredó su archivo, que incluye papeles de Kafka. Un archivo que fue vendiendo por entregas, pero cuya mayor parte está celosamente guardada en cinco cajas fuertes de un banco. Dicen que una parte estuvo durante un tiempo en la apestosa vivienda de Eva Hoffe. Bajo la ventana enrejada del apartamento 1 del número 23 de la calle de Espinosa, en Tel Aviv, lo que hay es platos repletos de comida para gatos.

El peregrinar del codiciado tesoro comienza con la muerte del enfermizo autor, el 3 de junio de 1924. Kafka dejó escrito a su gran amigo Brod: “Querido Max. Mi última petición: todo lo que dejo debe ser quemado sin ser leído…“. Brod desobedeció. Una traición de la que el mundo obtuvo gran provecho. De haber cumplido el deseo póstumo, nadie habría leído nunca El proceso, El castillo o América. Publicó las obras y en 1939, cuando el Ejército de Hitler invadía Praga, el agente literario, fervoroso sionista, emigró a Tel Aviv. En la ciudad mediterránea falleció su esposa, en 1942, y a partir de ese instante entra en escena Esther Hoffe para convertirse en la más dura guardiana de los papeles. Desde entonces, sólo algún investigador tuvo acceso a los documentos. Y a veces con nocturnidad, porque Brod tenía que eludir la vigilancia de Esther.

El legado de Kafka comenzó a desmembrarse paulatinamente en vida de Brod, que al menos se preocupaba por su conservación. En 1956 envió a Suiza los manuscritos de las tres famosas novelas: la guerra -la campaña de Suez- amenazaba con extenderse por Oriente Próximo. Años más tarde, los manuscritos de América y de El castillo viajarían, donados, a la Universidad de Oxford. Allí permanecen hoy por hoy. Sin embargo, El proceso siguió bajo su custodia hasta su muerte, en 1968. Es ésta la fecha en que arranca el incesante trasiego y mercadeo de los papeles de Kafka.

Por mucho que el testamento de Brod permitiera a Esther Hoffe gestionar los documentos del difunto y de Kafka, una precisión era explícita: los papeles debían ser entregados “a la Biblioteca Nacional de Jerusalén, a la Biblioteca Municipal de Tel Aviv o a otro archivo público en Israel o en el extranjero”. Los alemanes sostienen que tanto Brod como Hoffe mencionaron el Archivo de Literatura Alemana de Marbach como uno de los destinos para los papeles.

Al pasar de Brod a Hoffe, el preciado patrimonio deja de estar en manos de un hombre erudito para convertirse en potencial negocio para la ambiciosa Hoffe. Los documentos comienzan a ser vendidos al mejor postor. “Durante años, cartas del legado de Brod aparecen en subastas en Europa. La identidad del vendedor, como es costumbre, no es revelada, pero las evidencias apuntan a Esther Hoffe”, asegura Ofer Aderet, el periodista de Haaretz que persigue el rastro de ese patrimonio cultural. Las últimas evidencias del desmembramiento: en 2006 se subasta una carta de Kafka a Brod por 60.000 euros; en 2008, cartas de amor del escritor checo se venden por 25.000 euros.

Las trampas de Hoffe no eran cosa nueva. En 1974, fue pillada in fraganti en el aeropuerto Ben Gurión de Tel Aviv cuando intentaba volar a Suiza con manuscritos de Brod y correspondencia del venerado escritor checo. El desprecio a la legalidad ha sido nota distintiva de Esther. La Ley de Archivos del Estado prohíbe el contrabando de documentos valiosos sin depositar previamente una copia. Hoffe y las autoridades israelíes llegaron a un acuerdo para fotocopiar el legado, pero la mujer nunca cumplió su compromiso y sólo una pequeña porción fue fotocopiada. También se las apañó para violar, en la década de los ochenta, el pacto que suscribió para traspasar el tesoro de Brod a la Biblioteca Nacional.

Esther Hoffe se hizo rica. La joya más preciada de la herencia, el original de El proceso, reposa hoy en el Archivo de Literatura Alemana de Marbach. Batió el récord mundial del precio abonado en una puja por un manuscrito: Sotheby’s lo adjudicó por 1,98 millones de dólares (1,32 millones de euros) en 1998.

Las peripecias y los detalles del legado se van conociendo poco a poco, después de que el diario Haaretz lograra que se levantara la censura que se impone sobre tantos asuntos en Israel. Así rezaba el testamento de Esther, redactado en 1970: “Los borradores, las cartas y los dibujos de Kafka que me fueron donados por Max Brod los cedí a mis dos hijas en porciones iguales. Los libros de Kafka de la biblioteca de Brod permanecen en posesión de mis dos hijas. Cada una de mis hijas y mis nietas tienen derecho a recibir 40 cartas del legado de Brod”.

No parece que vaya a ser así. Un tribunal de Tel Aviv congeló a finales de octubre millonarias cuentas corrientes de las Hoffe y ordenó la entrega de las llaves de las cinco cajas fuertes bancarias. Allí se conserva el legado para los albaceas que designe la justicia. “El testamento de Esther”, apunta Oderet, “es ilegal porque no podía legar a sus hijas los documentos, ya que incumplió la voluntad de Brod de donarlos a una institución pública”.

¿Cuál es el contenido del patrimonio? Nurit Pagi está escribiendo una tesis doctoral sobre el legado del agente literario checo. “Brod”, explica a este diario, “era un escritor obsesivo. Siempre escribió un diario, por lo que supongo que en ese archivo se pueden hallar los diarios que comenzó al menos desde 1939, el año en que emigró a Palestina, si no antes. Podremos encontrar correspondencia de personalidades bien conocidas de la cultura de su época y notas sobre sus proyectos nunca realizados. Estoy segura de que en la maleta que se llevó desde Praga conservó dibujos de Kafka, sus trabajos literarios originales, cartas y quizá esquemas preliminares de sus futuras novelas”.

Desde Praga, el profesor Josep Cermak, gran experto checo en Kafka, considera que lo más importante es poner a disposición de los estudiosos esos diarios de Brod. “Aportarán información sobre principios del siglo pasado, la época de Kafka en la que hay más lagunas”, explica. Brod y Kafka tuvieron una relación muy honesta, cuenta. Y asegura que esos diarios y esa correspondencia secreta desvelarán nuevos detalles de la “vida erótica” de ambos personajes. Ulrich von Büllow, jefe de departamento del Archivo de Literatura Alemana de Marbach, señala que es posible que también haya fotografías del escritor checo. Y debe de estar, según cuenta en conversación telefónica, el manuscrito de una de las novelas inacabadas de Kafka, Preparativos de una boda en el campo. “La familia Hoffe dispone de grandes tesoros”, resume Cermak, que lleva 45 años estudiando al autor de La metamorfosis.

El contenido del legado de Brod podría haberse conocido si Esther Hoffe hubiera cumplido su acuerdo con una editorial suiza, a la que estafó, en la década de los ochenta. La empresa pagó una suma millonaria por los diarios de Brod. Esther jamás los entregó.

El serial sobre el destino final del legado de Brod se complica ahora por la disputa entre instituciones israelíes y alemanas por el manuscrito de El proceso, que el Archivo de Marbach adquirió en Sotheby’s en 1988. Meir Heller, abogado de la Biblioteca Nacional de Israel, defiende el retorno a Jerusalén del texto original. “La Biblioteca Nacional no ignora el hecho de que el Archivo de Marbach debería ser compensado por el dinero que pagó a Hoffe”, afirma Heller, que considera la dispersión de la obra de Kafka un “error histórico”. “La Biblioteca Nacional de Israel, que es también la biblioteca del pueblo judío, entiende que Brod pide en su testamento que los documentos deberían depositarse en un archivo público, y el nombre de la Biblioteca Nacional es su primera opción”, añade el letrado. Heller explica haber llegado a un pacto de silencio con las autoridades alemanas para no perjudicar la negociación.

El enfrentamiento entre ambas instituciones se suavizó el pasado 22 de octubre, cuando Ulrich Raulff, director del Archivo de Literatura Alemana de Marbach, dirigió una carta a su homólogo en la Biblioteca Nacional Israelí para abrir la puerta al diálogo. En su respuesta del 28 de octubre, el israelí Shmuel Har Noy se alegraba de que los alemanes acepten el veredicto de la justicia israelí y estuvieran dispuestos a dialogar “en vez de que el asunto sea resuelto en los medios”, según reza textualmente esa carta, a la que ha tenido acceso EL PAÍS.

El periodista Ofer Oderet intenta explicar la posición de la parte israelí: “La Biblioteca Nacional considera que Brod era judío y sionista, y que si no hubiera emigrado a Israel habría sido trasladado a Auschwitz. Es un escritor judío que escapó del Holocausto, por eso lo consideran parte de la cultura judía. En su opinión, no es un escritor alemán, sino israelí. Éste es un argumento moral, no legal. La Biblioteca también estima que Brod designó en primer lugar Jerusalén como destino de la obra de Kafka; después, Tel Aviv, y en tercer lugar, un archivo público en el extranjero, y alega que es ilegal traficar con documentos de gran significado para el pueblo judío o el Estado de Israel”.

Los alemanes reclaman que Brod y Kafka escribían en alemán, y no en hebreo, que son parte de la cultura alemana, no de la hebrea. Ulrich Raulff, director del Archivo de Marbach, considerado el más importante de Europa central, lo tiene muy claro: “No hay posibilidad alguna de que devolvamos el manuscrito de El proceso”, afirma en conversación telefónica desde Marbach. Considera que la compra del original en la subasta de Sotheby’s no pudo ser más transparente. “El manuscrito estuvo expuesto durante semanas, hicimos una compra ante los ojos de la opinión pública mundial. Si nadie discutió la legitimidad de aquella compra entonces, no comprendo por qué se cuestiona ahora”. Raulff considera que Esther Hoffe, como legítima propietaria del legado, tenía derecho a vender el manuscrito. En términos legales, estima que aquella operación fue nítida. “La parte israelí a veces confunde los términos legales de esta cuestión con el aspecto moral o histórico”. Otra cosa es la cuestión del legado de Max Brod, cuyo control las hermanas Hoffe esperan recobrar en cuanto se produzca el fallo de la justicia israelí. En este campo, Ulrich Raulff se muestra flexible. “Creemos en la independencia de los tribunales israelíes. Si aceptan que las hermanas Hoffe puedan disponer del legado y ellas nos lo quieren vender, estaremos en disposición de comprar”.

Las hermanas Hoffe tienen una relación muy fluida con Marbach. Suele ser Eva la que habla con Raulff. “Hablé hace poco con ella. Creo que las hermanas estarían dispuestas a vendernos los papeles, y nosotros aceptaríamos que se entregaran copias a la Biblioteca Nacional israelí”.

El jefe del archivo en Marbach, Ulrich von Bülow, destaca que están interesados en todos los papeles que hay de Kafka a lo largo y ancho del mundo. “Pero no para quedarnos mirándolos. Para que investigadores y estudiosos los puedan consultar”, puntualiza. En este sentido, Cermak, el experto checo que publicó esta misma semana La lucha que supone escribir, su cuarto libro sobre Kafka, considera que el archivo alemán es un destino excelente para los archivos de Brod y Kafka: “Como profesional, creo que deben estar en los mejores archivos. Y Marbach es el mejor archivo de Europa central. El mejor y el más rico: son capaces de comprar a precios muy altos”.

Marbach posee 1.200 legados de literatura en alemán del siglo XX. Es el segundo archivo que más documentos de Kafka posee tras la biblioteca Bodleiana de Oxford.

Marieta Malisova, directora de la Franz Kafka Society, confiesa desde Praga que a ella le gustaría que los papeles estuvieran allí: “Él pasó toda su vida en Praga. Lo mejor sería que los papeles volvieran aquí”.

Sospechan los expertos que los documentos pueden haber sido dañados. Es posible que durante largo tiempo hayan sufrido condiciones pésimas de conservación. Los gatos siguen acudiendo puntuales a su cita en el apartamento de Eva Hoffe, que llena religiosamente sus platos de comida. Ésa es una de las obsesiones de esta mujer. Otra: el celo por esconder los documentos y sacar tajada. Sus vecinos ni siquiera saben si reside en esa vivienda. “Sólo viene a dar de comer a los gatos”, comenta escueto el anciano Dov Avner, que se lleva una mano a la nariz. “Nos mantenemos alejados de ella. Nos crea muchos problemas. La odio”, comenta otro hombre que reside en el inmueble desde hace 40 años.

“Existe el riesgo de que desaparezca el legado de Kafka”, concluye Aderet. “Se ignora si Eva Hoffe posee los papeles y en qué estado se hallan. Es importante que se conserven en un archivo público. No importa que sea en Alemania”.

El culebrón de los papeles secretos de Kafka sigue vivo. Para enero se espera una resolución de la justicia israelí que desatasque la situación. Entonces se empezará a conocer el contenido de ese tesoro que vive atrapado en un proceso kafkiano.

En Algún día: Franz Kafka.

In the struggle between yourself and the world second the world.

Franz Kafka (1883-1924)

Chapter I

As Gregor Samsa awoke one morning from uneasy dreams he found himself transformed in his bed into a gigantic insect. He was lying on his hard, as it were armor-plated, back and when he lifted his head a little he could see his dome-like brown belly divided into stiff arched segments on top of which the bed quilt could hardly keep in position and was about to slide off completely. His numerous legs, which were pitifully thin compared to the rest of his bulk, waved helplessly before his eyes. What has happened to me? he thought. It was no dream. His room, a regular human bedroom, only rather too small, lay quiet between the four familiar walls. Above the table on which a collection of cloth samples was unpacked and spread out-Samsa was a commercial traveler-hung the picture which he had recently cut out of an illustrated magazine and put into a pretty gilt frame. It showed a lady, with a fur cap on and a fur stole, sitting upright and holding out to the spectator a huge fur muff into which the whole of her forearm had vanished! Gregor’s eyes turned next to the window, and the overcast sky-one could hear rain drops beating on the window gutter-made him quite melancholy. What about sleeping a little longer and forgetting all this nonsense, he thought, but it could not be done, for he was accustomed to sleep on his right side and in his present condition he could not turn himself over. However violently he forced himself towards his right side he always rolled on to his back again. He tried it at least a hundred times, shutting his eyes to keep from seeing his struggling legs, and only desisted when he began to feel in his side a faint dull ache he had never experienced before. Oh God, he thought, what an exhausting job I’ve picked on! Traveling about day in, day out. It’s much more irritating work than doing the actual business in the office, and on top of that there’s the trouble of constant traveling, of worrying about train connections, the bed and irregular meals, casual acquaintances that are always new and never become intimate friends. The devil take it all! He felt a slight itching up on his belly; slowly pushed himself on his back nearer to the top of the bed so that he could lift his head more easily; identified the itching place which was surrounded by many small white spots the nature of which he could not understand and made to touch it with a leg, but drew the leg back immediately, for the contact made a cold shiver run through him. He slid down again into his former position. This getting up early, he thought, makes one quite stupid. A man needs his sleep. Other commercials live like harem women. For instance, when I come back to the hotel of a morning to write up the orders I’ve got, these others are only sitting down to breakfast. Let me just try that with my chief; I’d be sacked on the spot. Anyhow, that might be quite a good thing for me, who can tell? If I didn’t have to hold my hand because of my parents I’d have given notice long ago, I’d have gone to the chief and told him exactly what I think of him. That would knock him endways from his desk! It’s a queer way of doing, too, this sitting on high at a desk and talking down to employees, especially when they have to come quite near because the chief is hard of hearing. Well, there’s still hope; once I’ve saved enough money to pay back my parents’ debts to him-that should take another five or six years-I’ll do it without fail. I’ll cut myself completely loose then. For the moment, though, I’d better get up, since my train goes at five. He looked at the alarm clock ticking on the chest. Heavenly Father! he thought. It was half-past six o’clock and the hands were quietly moving on, it was even past the half-hour, it was getting on toward a quarter to seven. Had the alarm clock not gone off? From the bed one could see that it had been properly set for four o’clock; of course it must have gone off. Yes, but was it possible to sleep quietly through that ear-splitting noise? well he had not slept quietly, yet apparently all the more soundly for that. But what was he to do now? The next train went at seven o’clock; to catch that he would need to hurry like mad and his samples weren’t even packed up, and he himself wasn’t feeling particularly fresh and active. And even if he did catch the train he wouldn’t avoid a row with the chief, since the firm’s porter would have been waiting for the five o’clock train and would have long since reported his failure to turn up. The porter was a creature of the chief’s, spineless and stupid. Well, supposing he were to say he was sick? But that would be most unpleasant and would look suspicious, since during his five years’ employment he had not been ill once. The chief himself would be sure to come with the sick-insurance doctor, would reproach his parents with their son’s laziness and would cut all excuses short by referring to the insurance doctor, who of course regarded all mankind as perfectly healthy malingerers. And would he be so far wrong on this occasion? Gregor really felt quite welt apart from a drowsiness that was utterly superfluous after such a long sleep, and he was even unusually hungry. As all this was running through his mind at top speed without his being able to decide to leave his bed-the alarm clock had just struck a quarter to seven-there came a cautious tap at the door behind the head of his bed. “Gregor,” said a voice-it was his mother’s-”it’s a quarter to seven. Hadn’t you a train to catch?” That gentle voice! Gregor had a shock as he heard his own voice answering hers, unmistakably his own voice, it was true, but with a persistent horrible twittering squeak behind it like an undertone, that left the words in their clear shape only for the first moment and then rose up reverberating round them to destroy their sense, so that one could not be sure one had heard them rightly. Gregor wanted to answer at length and explain everything, but in the circumstances he confined himself to saying: “Yes, yes, thank you, Mother, I’m getting up now.” The wooden door between them must have kept the change in his voice from being noticeable outside, for his mother contented herself with this statement and shuffled away. Yet this brief exchange of words had made the other members of the family aware that Gregor was still in the house, as they had not expected, and at one of the side doors his father was already knocking, gently, yet with his fist. “Gregor, Gregor,” he called, “what’s the matter with you?” And after a little while he called again in a deeper voice: “Gregor! Gregor!” At the other side door his sister was saying in a low, plaintive tone: “Gregor? Aren’t you well? Are you needing anything?” He answered them both at once: “I’m just ready,” and did his best to make his voice sound as normal as possible by enunciating the words very clearly and leaving long pauses between them. So his father went back to his breakfast, but his sister whispered: “Gregor, open the door, do.” However, he was not thinking of opening the door, and felt thankful for the prudent habit he had acquired in traveling of locking all doors during the night, even at home. His immediate intention was to get up quietly without being disturbed, to put on his clothes and above all eat his breakfast, and only then to consider what else was to be done, since in bed, he was well aware, his meditations would come to no sensible conclusion. He remembered that often enough in bed he had felt small aches and pains, probably caused by awkward postures, which had proved purely imaginary once he got up, and he looked forward eagerly to seeing this morning’s delusions gradually fall away. That the change in his voice was nothing but the precursor of a severe chill, a standing ailment of commercial travelers, he had not the least possible doubt. To get rid of the quilt was quite easy; he had only to inflate himself a little and it fell off by itself. But the next move was difficult, especially because he was so uncommonly broad. He would have needed arms and hands to hoist himself up; instead he had only the numerous little legs which never stopped waving in all directions and which he could not control in the least. When he tried to bend one of them it was the first to stretch itself straight; and did he succeed at last in making it do what he wanted, all the other legs meanwhile waved the more wildly in a high degree of unpleasant agitation. “But what’s the use of lying idle in bed,” said Gregor to himself. He thought that he might get out of bed with the lower part of his body first, but this lower part, which he had not yet seen and of which he could form no clear conception, proved too difficult to move; it shifted so slowly; and when finally, almost wild with annoyance, he gathered his forces together and thrust out recklessly, he had miscalculated the direction and bumped heavily against the lower end of the bed, and the stinging pain he felt informed him that precisely this lower part of his body was at the moment probably the most sensitive. So he tried to get the top part of himself out first, and cautiously moved his head towards the edge of the bed. That proved easy enough, and despite its breadth and mass the bulk of his body at last slowly followed the movement of his head. Still, when he finally got his head free over the edge of the bed he felt too scared to go on advancing, for after all if he let himself fall in this way it would take a miracle to keep his head from being injured. And at all costs he must not lose consciousness now, precisely now; he would rather stay in bed. But when after a repetition of the same efforts he lay in his former position again, sighing, and watched his little legs struggling against each other more wildly than ever, if that were possible, and saw no way of bringing any order into this arbitrary confusion, he told himself again that it was impossible to stay in bed and that the most sensible course was to risk everything for the smallest hope of getting away from it. At the same time he did not forget meanwhile to remind himself that cool reflection, the coolest possible, was much better than desperate resolves. In such moments he focused his eyes as sharply as possible on the window, but, unfortunately, the prospect of the morning fog, which muffled even the other side of the narrow street, brought him little encouragement and comfort. “Seven o’clock already,” he said to himself when the alarm clock chimed again, “seven o’clock already and still such a thick fog.” And for a little while he lay quiet, breathing lightly, as if perhaps expecting such complete repose to restore all things to their real and normal condition. But then he said to himself: “Before it strikes a quarter past seven I must be quite out of this bed, without fail. Anyhow, by that time someone will have come from the office to ask for me, since it opens before seven.” And he set himself to rocking his whole body at once in a regular rhythm, with the idea of swinging it out of the bed. If he tipped himself out in that way he could keep his head from injury by lifting it at an acute angle when he fell. His back seemed to be hard and was not likely to suffer from a fall on the carpet. His biggest worry was the loud crash he would not be able to help making, which would probably cause anxiety, if not terror, behind all the doors. still he must take the risk. When he was already half out of the bed-the new method was more a game than an effort, for he needed only to hitch himself across by rocking to and fro-it struck him how simple it would be if he could get help. Two strong people-he thought of his father and the servant girl-would be amply sufficient; they would only have to thrust their arms under his convex back, lever him out of the bed, bend down with their burden and then be patient enough to let him turn himself right over on to the floor, where it was to be hoped his legs would then find their proper function. Well, ignoring the fact that the doors were all locked, ought he really to call for help? In spite of his misery he could not suppress a smile at the very idea of it. He had got so far that he could barely keep his equilibrium when he rocked himself strongly, and he would have to nerve himself very soon for the final decision since in five minutes’ time it would be a quarter past seven-when the front door bell rang. “That’s someone from the office,” he said to himself, and grew almost rigid, while his little legs only jigged about all the faster. For a moment everything stayed quiet. “They’re not going to open the door,” said Gregor to himself, catching at some kind of irrational hope. But then of course the servant girl went as usual to the door with her heavy tread and opened it. Gregor needed only to hear the first good morning of the visitor to know immediately who it was-the chief clerk himself. What a fate, to be condemned to work for a firm where the smallest omission at once gave rise to the gravest suspicion! Were all employees in a body nothing but scoundrels, was there not among them one single loyal devoted man who, had he wasted only an hour or so of the firm’s time in a morning, was so tormented by conscience as to be driven out of his mind and actually incapable of leaving his bed? Wouldn’t it really have been sufficient to send an apprentice to inquire-if any inquiry were necessary at all-did the chief clerk himself have to come and thus indicate to the entire family, an innocent family, that this suspicious circumstance could be investigated by no one less versed in affairs than himself? And more through the agitation caused by these reflections than through any act of will Gregor swung himself out of bed with all his strength. There was a loud thump, but it was not really a crash. His fall was broken to some extent by the carpet, his back, too, was less stiff than he thought, and so there was merely a dull thud, not so very startling. Only he had not lifted his head carefully enough and had hit it; he turned it and rubbed it on the carpet in pain and irritation. “That was something falling down in there,” said the chief clerk in the next room to the left. Gregor tried to suppose to himself that something like what had happened to him today might some day happen to the chief clerk; one really could not deny that it was possible. But as if in brusque reply to this supposition the chief clerk took a couple of firm steps in the next-door room and his patent leather boots creaked. From the right-hand room his sister was whispering to inform him of the situation: “Gregor, the chief clerk’s here.” “I know,” muttered Gregor to himself; but he didn’t dare to make his voice loud enough for his sister to hear it. “Gregor,” said his father now from the left-hand room, “the chief clerk has come and wants to know why you didn’t catch the early train. We don’t know what to say to him. Besides, he wants to talk to you in person. So open the door, please. He will be good enough to excuse the untidiness of your room.” “Good morning, Mr. Samsa,” the chief clerk was calling amiably meanwhile. “He’s not well,” said his mother to the visitor, while his father was still speaking through the door, “he’s not well, sir, believe me. What else would make him miss a train! The boy thinks about nothing but his work. It makes me almost cross the way he never goes out in the evenings; he’s been here the last eight days and has stayed at home every single evening. He just sits there quietly at the table reading a newspaper or looking through railway timetables. The only amusement he gets is doing fretwork. For instance, he spent two or three evenings cutting out a little picture frame; you would be surprised to see how pretty it is; it’s hanging in his room; you’ll see it in a minute when Gregor opens the door. I must say I’m glad you’ve come, sir; we should never have got him to unlock the door by ourselves; he’s so obstinate; and I’m sure he’s unwell, though he wouldn’t have it to be so this morning.” “I’m just coming,” said Gregor slowly and carefully, not moving an inch for fear of losing one word of the conversation. “I can’t think of any other explanation, madam,” said the chief clerk, “I hope it’s nothing serious. Although on the other hand I must say that we men of business-fortunately or unfortunately-very often simply have to ignore any slight indisposition, since business must be attended to.” “Well, can the chief clerk come in now?” asked Gregor’s father impatiently, again knocking on the door. “No,” said Gregor. In the left-hand room a painful silence followed this refusal, in the right-hand room his sister began to sob. Why didn’t his sister join the others? She was probably newly out of bed and hadn’t even begun to put on her clothes yet. Well, why was she crying? Because he wouldn’t get up and let the chief clerk in, because he was in danger of losing his job, and because the chief would begin dunning his parents again for the old debts? Surely these were things one didn’t need to worry about for the present. Gregor was still at home and not in the least thinking of deserting the family. At the moment, true, he was lying on the carpet and no one who knew the condition he was in could seriously expect him to admit the chief clerk. But for such a small discourtesy, which could plausibly be explained away somehow later on, Gregor could hardly be dismissed on the spot. And it seemed to Gregor that it would be much more sensible to leave him in peace for the present than to trouble him with tears and entreaties. Still, of course, their uncertainty bewildered them all and excused their behavior. “Mr. Samsa,” the chief clerk called now in a louder voice, “what’s the matter with you? Here you are, barricading yourself in your room, giving only ‘yes’ and ‘no’ for answers, causing your parents a lot of unnecessary trouble and neglecting-I mention this only in passing-neglecting your business duties in an incredible fashion. I am speaking here in the name of your parents and of your chief, and I beg you quite seriously to give me an immediate and precise explanation. You amaze me, you amaze me. I thought you were a quiet, dependable person, and now all at once you seem bent on making a disgraceful exhibition of yourself. The chief did hint to me early this morning a possible explanation for your disappearance-with reference to the cash payments that were entrusted to you recently-but I almost pledged my solemn word of honor that this could not be so. But now that I see how incredibly obstinate you are, I no longer have the slightest desire to take your part at all. And your position in the firm is not so unassailable. I came with the intention of telling you all this in private, but since you are wasting my time so needlessly I don’t see why your parents shouldn’t hear it too. For some time past your work has been most unsatisfactory; this is not the season of the year for a business boom, of course, we admit that, but a season of the year for doing no business at all, that does not exist, Mr. Samsa, must not exist.” “But, sir,” cried Gregor, beside himself and in his agitation forgetting everything else, “I’m just going to open the door this very minute. A slight illness, an attack of giddiness, has kept me from getting up. I’m still lying in bed. But I feel all right again. I’m getting out of bed now. Just give me a moment or two longer! I’m not quite so well as I thought. But I’m all right, really. How a thing like that can suddenly strike one down! Only last night I was quite welt my parents can tell you, or rather I did have a slight presentiment. I must have showed some sign of it. Why didn’t I report it at the office! But one always thinks that an indisposition can be got over without staying in the house. Oh sir, do spare my parents! All that you’re reproaching me with now has no foundation; no one has ever said a word to me about it. Perhaps you haven’t looked at the last orders I sent in. Anyhow, I can still catch the eight o’clock train, I’m much the better for my few hours’ rest. Don’t let me detain you here, sir; I’ll be attending to business very soon, and do be good enough to tell the chief so and to make my excuses to him!” And while all this was tumbling out pell-mell and Gregor hardly knew what he was saying, he had reached the chest quite easily, perhaps because of the practice he had had in bed, and was now trying to lever himself upright by means of it. He meant actually to open the door, actually to show himself and speak to the chief clerk; he was eager to find out what the others, after all their insistence, would say at the sight of him. If they were horrified then the responsibility was no longer his and he could stay quiet. But if they took it calmly, then he had no reason either to be upset, and could really get to the station for the eight o’clock train if he hurried. At first he slipped down a few times from the polished surface of the chest, but at length with a last heave he stood upright; he paid no more attention to the pains in the lower part of his body, however they smarted. Then he let himself fall against the back of a near-by chair, and clung with his little legs to the edges of it. That brought him into control of himself again and he stopped speaking, for now he could listen to what the chief clerk was saying. “Did you understand a word of it?” the chief clerk was asking; “surely he can’t be trying to make fools of us?” “Oh dear,” cried his mother, in tears, “perhaps he’s terribly ill and we’re tormenting him. Grete! Grete!” she called out then. “Yes Mother?” called his sister from the other side. They were calling to each other across Gregor’s room. “You must g_o this minute for the doctor. Gregor is ill. Go for the doctor, quick. Did you hear how he was speaking?” “That was no human voice,” said the chief clerk in a voice noticeably low beside the shrillness of the mother’s. “Anna! Anna!” his father was calling through the hall to the kitchen, clapping his hands, “get a locksmith at once!” And the two girls were already running through the hall with a swish of skirts-how could his sister have got dressed so quickly? -and were tearing the front door open. There was no sound of its closing again; they had evidently left it open, as one does in houses where some great misfortune has happened. But Gregor was now much calmer. The words he uttered were no longer understandable, apparently, although they seemed clear enough to him, even clearer than before, perhaps because his ear had grown accustomed to the sound of them. Yet at any rate people now believed that something was wrong with him, and were ready to help him. The positive certainty with which these first measures had been taken comforted him. He felt himself drawn once more into the human circle and hoped for great and remarkable results from both the doctor and the locksmith, without really distinguishing precisely between them. To make his voice as clear as possible for the decisive conversation that was now imminent he coughed a little, as quietly as he could, of course, since this noise too might not sound like a human cough for all he was able to judge. In the next room meanwhile there was complete silence. Perhaps his parents were sitting at the table with the chief clerk, whispering, perhaps they were all leaning against the door and listening. Slowly Gregor pushed the chair towards the door, then let go of it, caught hold of the door for support- the soles at the end of his little legs were somewhat sticky-and rested against it for a moment after his efforts. Then he set himself to turning the key in the lock with his mouth. It seemed, unhappily, that he hadn’t really any teeth-what could he grip the key with?-but on the other hand his jaws were certainly very strong; with their help he did manage to set the key in motion, heedless of the fact that he was undoubtedly damaging them somewhere, since a brown fluid issued from his mouth, flowed over the key and dripped on the floor. “Just listen to that,” said the chief clerk next door; “he’s turning the key.” That was a great encouragement to Gregor; but they should all have shouted encouragement to him, his father and mother too: “Go on, Gregor,” they should have called out, “keep going, hold on to that key!” And in the belief that they were all following his efforts intently, he clenched his jaws recklessly on the key with all the force at his command. As the turning of the key progressed he circled round the lock, holding on now only with his mouth, pushing on the key, as required, or pulling it down again with all the weight of his body. The louder click of the finally yielding lock literally quickened Gregor. With a deep breath of relief he said to himself: “So I didn’t need the locksmith,” and laid his head on the handle to open the door wide. Since he had to pull the door towards him, he was still invisible when it was really wide open. He had to edge himself slowly round the near half of the double door, and to do it very carefully if he was not to fall plump upon his back just on the threshold. He was still carrying out this difficult manoeuvre, with no time to observe anything else, when he heard the chief clerk utter a loud “Oh!”-it sounded like a gust of wind-and now he could see the man, standing as he was nearest to the door, clapping one hand before his open mouth and slowly backing away as if driven by some invisible steady pressure. His mother-in spite of the chief clerk’s being there her hair was still undone and sticking up in all directions-first clasped her hands and looked at his father, then took two steps towards Gregor and fell on the floor among her outspread skirts, her face quite hidden on her breast. His father knotted his fist with a fierce expression on his face as if he meant to knock Gregor back into his room, then looked uncertainly round the living room, covered his eyes with his hands and wept till his great chest heaved. Gregor did not go now into the living room, but leaned against the inside of the firmly shut wing of the door, so that only half his body was visible and his head above it bending sideways to look at the others. The light had meanwhile strengthened; on the other side of the street one could see clearly a section of the endlessly long, dark gray building opposite-it was a hospital-abruptly punctuated by its row of regular windows; the rain was still falling, but only in large singly discernible and literally singly splashing drops. The breakfast dishes were set out on the table lavishly, for. breakfast was the most important meal of the day to Gregor’s father, who lingered it out for hours over various newspapers. Right opposite Gregor on the wall hung a photograph of himself on military service, as a lieutenant, hand on sword, a carefree smile on his face, inviting one to respect his uniform and military bearing. The door leading to the hall was open, and one could see that the front door stood open too, showing the landing beyond and the beginning of the stairs going down. “Well,” said Gregor, knowing perfectly that he was the only one who had retained any composure, “I’ll put my clothes on at once, pack up my samples and start off. Will you only let me go? You see, sir, I’m not obstinate, and I’m willing to work; traveling is a hard life, but I couldn’t live without it. Where are you going, sir? To the office? Yes? Will you give a true account of all this? One can be temporarily incapacitated, but that’s just the moment for remembering former services and bearing in mind that later on, when the incapacity has been got over, one will certainly work with all the more industry and concentration. I’m loyally bound to serve the chief, you know that very well. Besides, I have to provide for my parents and my sister. I’m in great difficulties, but I’ll get out of them again. Don’t make things any worse for me than they are. Stand up for me in the firm. Travelers are not popular there, I know. People think they earn sacks of money and just have a good time. A prejudice there’s no particular reason for revising. But you, sir, have a more comprehensive view of affairs than the rest of the staff, yes, let me tell you in confidence, a more comprehensive view than the chief himself, who, being the owner, lets his judgment easily be swayed against one of his employees. And you know very well that the traveler, who is never seen in the office almost the whole year round, can so easily fall a victim to gossip and ill luck and unfounded complaints, which he mostly knows nothing about, except when he comes back exhausted from his rounds, and only then suffers in person from their evil consequences, which he can no longer trace back to the original causes. Sir, sir, don’t go away without a word to me to show that you think me in the right at least to some extent!” But at Gregor’s very first words the chief clerk had already backed away and only stared at him with parted lips over one twitching shoulder. And while Gregor was speaking he did not stand still one moment but stole away towards the door, without taking his eyes off Gregor, yet only an inch at a time, as if obeying some secret injunction to leave the room. He was already at the hall, and the suddenness with which he took his last step out of the living room would have made one believe he had burned the sole of his foot. Once in the hall he stretched his right arm before him towards the staircase, as if some supernatural power were waiting there to deliver him. Gregor perceived that the chief clerk must on no account be allowed to go away in this frame of mind if his position in the firm were not to be endangered to the utmost. His parents did not understand this so well; they had convinced themselves in the course of years that Gregor was settled for life in this firm, and besides they were so preoccupied with their immediate troubles that all foresight had forsaken them. Yet Gregor had this foresight. The chief clerk must be detained, soothed, persuaded and finally won over; the whole future of Gregor and his family depended on it! If only his sister had been there! She was intelligent; she had begun to cry while Gregor was still lying quietly on his back. And no doubt the chief clerk so partial to ladies, would have been guided by her; she would have shut the door of the flat and in the hall talked him out of his horror. But she was not there, and Gregor would have to handle the situation himself. And without remembering that he was still unaware what powers of movement he possessed, without even remembering that his words in all possibility, indeed in all likelihood, would again be unintelligible, he let go the wing of the door, pushed himself through the opening, started to walk towards the chief clerk, who was already ridiculously clinging with both hands to the railing on the landing; but immediately, as he was feeling for a support, he fell down with a little cry upon all his numerous legs. Hardly was he down when he experienced for the first time this morning a sense of physical comfort; his legs had firm ground under them; they were completely obedient, as he noted with joy; they even strove to carry him forward in whatever direction he chose; and he was inclined to believe that a final relief from all his sufferings was at hand. But in the same moment as he found himself on the floor, rocking with suppressed eagerness to move, not far from his mother, indeed just in front of her, she, who had seemed so completely crushed, sprang all at once to her feet, her arms and fingers outspread, cried: “Help, for God’s sake, help!” bent her head down as if to see Gregor better, yet on the contrary kept backing senselessly away; had quite forgotten that the laden table stood behind her; sat upon it hastily, as if in absence of mind, when she bumped into it; and seemed altogether unaware that the big coffee pot beside her was upset and pouring coffee in a flood over the carpet. “Mother, Mother,” said Gregor in a low voice, and looked up at her. The chief clerk for the moment, had quite slipped from his mind; instead, he could not resist snapping his jaws together at the sight of the streaming coffee. That made his mother scream again, she fled from the table and fell into the arms of his father, who hastened to catch her. But Gregor had now no time to spare for his parents; the chief clerk was already on the stairs; with his chin on the banisters he was taking one last backward look. Gregor made a spring, to be as sure as possible of overtaking him; the chief clerk must have divined his intention, for he leaped down several steps and vanished; he was still yelling “Ugh!” and it echoed through the whole staircase. Unfortunately, the flight of the chief clerk seemed completely to upset Gregor’s father, who had remained relatively calm until now, for instead of running after the man himself, or at least not hindering Gregor, in his pursuit, he seized in his right hand the walking stick which the chief clerk had left behind on a chair, together with a hat and greatcoat, snatched in his left hand a large news paper from the table and began stamping his feet and flourishing the stick and the newspaper to drive Gregor back into his room. No entreaty of Gregor’s availed, indeed no entreaty was even understood, however humbly he bent his head his father only stamped on the floor the more loudly. Behind his father his mother had torn open a window, despite the cold weather, and was leaning far out of it with her face in her hands. A strong draught set in from the street to the staircase, the window curtains blew in, the newspapers on the table fluttered, stray pages whisked over the floor. Pitilessly Gregor’s father drove him back, hissing and crying “Shoo!” like a savage. But Gregor was quite unpracticed in walking backwards, it really was a slow business. If he only had a chance to turn round he could get back to his room at once, but he was afraid of exasperating his father by the slowness of such a rotation and at any moment the stick in his father’s hand might hit him a fatal blow on the back or on the head. In the end, however, nothing else was left for him to do since to his horror he observed that in moving backwards he could not even control the direction he took; and so, keeping an anxious eye on his father all the time over his shoulder, he began to turn round as quickly as he could, which was in reality very slowly. Perhaps his father noted his good intentions, for he did not interfere except every now and then to help him in the manoeuvre from a distance with the point of the stick. If only he would have stopped making that unbearable hissing noise! It made Gregor quite lose his head. He had turned almost completely round when the hissing noise so distracted him that he even turned a little the wrong way again. But when at last his head was fortunately right in front of the doorway, it appeared that his body was too broad simply to get through the opening. His father, of course, in his present mood was far from thinking of such a thing as opening the other half of the door, to let Gregor have enough space. He had merely the fixed idea of driving Gregor back into his room as quickly as possible. He would never have suffered Gregor to make the circumstantial preparations for standing up on end and perhaps slipping his way through the door. Maybe he was now making more noise than ever to urge Gregor forward, as if no obstacle impeded him; to Gregor, anyhow, the noise in his rear sounded no longer like the voice of one single father; this was really no joke, and Gregor thrust himself-come what might-into the doorway. One side of his body rose up, he was tilted at an angle in the doorway, his flank was quite bruised, horrid blotches stained the white door, soon he was stuck fast and, left to himself, could not have moved at ale his legs on one side fluttered trembling in the air, those on the other were crushed painfully to the floor-when from behind his father gave him a strong push which was literally a deliverance and he flew far into the room, bleeding freely. The door was slammed behind him with the stick, and then at last there was silence.