Franz Kafka - The Lost Writings

Also available from New Directions

Franz Kafka

(translated by Michael Hofmann)

Amerika: The Man Who Disappeared

Investigations of a Dog: Stories

Reiner Stach

Is That Kafka? 99 Finds

Selection and afterword copyright 2020 by Reiner Stach

Translation copyright 2020 by Michael Hofmann

All rights reserved. Except for brief passages quoted in a newspaper, magazine, radio, television, or website review, no part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the Publisher.

publishers note: All texts are translated from volume II of Nachgelassene Schriften und Fragmente (S. Fischer Verlag), except for pp. 3 and 109128, which are drawn from volume I.

First published clothbound in 2020

Manufactured in the United States of America

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Kafka, Franz, 18831924, author. | Stach, Reiner, compiler, writer of afterword. | Hofmann, Michael, 1957 August 25 translator.

Title: The lost writings / Franz Kafka ; selected & with an afterword by Reiner Stach ; translated by Michael Hofmann.

Description: First edition. |

New York : A New Directions Paperbook, 2020.

Identifiers: LCCN 2020021801 | ISBN 9780811228015 (cloth ; acid-free paper) |

ISBN 9780811228022 (ebook)

Classification: LCC PT2621.A26 A6 2020 | DDC 833/.912dc23

LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020021801

New Directions Books are published for James Laughlin

by New Directions Publishing Corporation

80 Eighth Avenue, New York 10011

I lay on the ground at the foot of a wall, writhing in agony, trying to burrow down into the damp earth. The hunter stood next to me, pressing his foot gently down on my back. A capital specimen, he said to the driver, already cutting through my jacket and collar to feel me. The dogs, bored with me already and avid for new tasks, were running mindlessly against the wall. The coach arrived, and with hands and legs bound I was tossed next to the gentleman on the back seat, with my head and arms dangling out of the window. The drive was brisk; athirst, with open mouth, I breathed in clouds of dust, and every so often I felt the gentleman greedily pinching my calves.

So, you want to leave me? Well, one decision is as good as another. Where will you go? Where is away-from-me? The moon? Not even that is far enough, and youll never get there. So why the fuss? Wouldnt you rather sit down in a corner somewhere, quietly? Wouldnt that be an improvement? A warm, dark corner? Arent you listening? Youre feeling for the door. Well, where is it? So far as I remember, this room doesnt have one. At the time this was built, no one had imagined such earth-shattering plans as yours. Well, no matter, a thought like yours wont get lost, well discuss it over dinner, and our laughter will be your reward.

A large loaf of bread lay on the table. Father came in with a knife to cut it in half. But even though the knife was big and sharp, and the bread neither too soft nor too hard, the knife could not cut into it. We children looked up at Father in surprise. He said: Why should you be surprised? Isnt it more surprising if something succeeds than if it fails? Go to bed, perhaps Ill manage it later. We went to bed, but every now and again, at all hours of the night, one or another of us got up and craned his neck to look at Father, who stood there, the big man in his long coat, his right leg braced behind him, seeking to drive the knife into the bread. When we woke up early in the morning, Father was just laying the knife aside and said: You see, I havent managed yet, thats how hard it is. We wanted to distinguish ourselves, and he gave us permission to try, but we could hardly lift the knife, whose handle was still almost glowing from Fathers efforts, it seemed to rear up out of our grasp. Father laughed and said: Let it go, Im going out now, Ill try again tonight. I wont let a loaf of bread make a monkey out of me. Its bound to let itself be cut in the end; of course its allowed to resist, so its resisting. But even as he said that, the bread seemed to shrivel up, like the mouth of a grimly determined person, and now it was a very small loaf indeed.

I can swim as well as the others, only I have a better memory than they do, so I have been unable to forget my formerly not being able to swim. Since I have been unable to forget it, being able to swim doesnt help me, and I cant swim after all.

Boats glided past. I hailed one. The pilot was a solidly built old man with a white beard. I hesitated a little on the pier. He smiled, and looking at him, I climbed in. He pointed to the far end of the boat, and I sat down there. Only to leap up right away, exclaiming: Large bats you have here, because some large wings had flapped around my head. Be quiet, he said, already busy with the boat hook, and we pushed off so hard that I almost fell back onto my seat. Instead of telling the pilot where I wanted to go, I asked him if he knew; from his nodding, he knew. That was a great relief to me, I stretched out my legs and leaned back my head, though always keeping an eye on the pilot, and told myself: He knows where you want to go; behind that brow of his he knows. And hes dipping his oars into the sea to get you there. And by chance it was him you called out to out of all of them, and you even hesitated before getting on board. With satisfaction I closed my eyes a little, but if I wasnt to see the man I at least wanted to hear him, so I asked: At your age, you probably shouldnt be working any more. Havent you any children? Only you, he replied, you are my only child. Its only for you that Im undertaking this trip, then I will sell the boat and stop working. You refer to your passengers as children here? I asked. Yes, he said, thats the custom here. And the passengers call us Father in turn. Curious, I said, so wheres mother? There, he said, in the cabin. I got up and in the little round window of the cabin that was stuck in the middle of the boat I saw a hand stretched out in greeting, and the sharply etched features of a woman framed in a black lace kerchief appeared. Mother? I asked with a smile. If you like she said. But youre so much younger than Father? I said. Yes, she said, much younger, he could be my grandfather, and you my husband. You know, I said, its a strange thing if youre in a boat at night all alone, and suddenly a woman crops up [...]

Its the animal with the long tail, the fox-like tail many yards long. I would love to be able to lay my hand on such a tail, but its not possible, the animal is in constant movement, and its tail flicks out this way and that. The animal resembles a kangaroo, but unusually in its small, flat, oval, almost human-looking face, only its teeth are expressive, whether it bares or conceals them. Sometimes I have the feeling the animal wants to train me; what other reason could it have for withdrawing its tail from me as I reach out to grab it, and then waiting patiently till I am drawn to it again, only to leap away once more.

The deep well. It takes years for the bucket to reach the top, then in an instant it plummets to the bottom, faster than you can lean down; you think you are still holding it in your hands and already you hear the faraway splash, but youre not even listening.