K

Today I visited another cemetery.

This will probably be the last one that I'll visit. Again, I know it seems morbid to do this. But the truth is, there's so much great art, music, and literature in the world that, if I happen to be near the graves of its creators, it just seems appropriate to stop in and say thanks.

And this one was pretty important.

I'm not exactly sure what drew me to the works of Franz Kafka. I don't remember who introduced me to him, or why I even thought to read him. I just remember the feeling I got when I did read him. A warm sense of comfort. That might seem like a strange reaction to an author whose works are so associated with isolation and confusion.

But that's just how I felt.

There was something in Kafka's work that spoke to me, at the exact period of time that I was reading it. I was in my very late teens/early twenties. I had moved away from my little prairie town to a much bigger city. I was living in residence at a university of (at the time) complete strangers. It seemed that I was constantly surrounded by different ideas, different ideals, and differing life-styles.

And I was terrified.

It was Kafka who told me "Hey man...I know how you feel!". His writing made me realize that all of us, in our own way, feel completely alone and freakish. We're all confused, and we all just want to get a handle on where we're going, and how we'll get there.

It was Kafka that taught me that I needed to be brave.

My favorite Kafka story? To ask that is kind of like asking me what my favorite toe is. But if I was forced to pick one, I would go with a specific part of "The Castle".

In the middle of the the novel, K's wanderings lead him to a courtyard, where he finds a box sleigh. He enters the sleigh, and there he finds a bear skin rug to wrap his feet in. A bottle of cognac and a glass sit near his wrist. K takes a moment to warm himself, before heading back out into the cold, in search of the official, Klamm.

I always thought that it was nice of Kafka to give his character a break in the middle of his story.

And now I find myself in the middle of Prague. The language here is different, and the signs make no sense. It can be very confusing to find your way around, sometimes. More than once I've gotten lost, here. I even got lost on the way to visit Kafka's grave.

But there wasn't a moment where I was afraid. I knew that I was just trying to find my way...like everybody else. All I had to do was stop, take a little break, then keep on searching. Eventually I got where I needed to go.



But Kafka's wasn't the only grave I wanted to see.

Max Brod is buried nearby. He and Kafka were very close friends. So close that Brod was the executor of Kafka's estate, when he died of tuberculosis.

On his deathbed, Kafka made Brod promise that he would burn all of his works. At the time many of his most beloved pieces were still unpublished. Brod committed what he called a "happy disobedience" of this order. Now, Kafka stands up as one of the most important literary figures of our century.

So he deserved a thanks as well.



Both were paid their respects. Both had stones placed upon their headstones. And both were toasted with a shot of vodka, in a bar not far from their cemetery, where this entry is being written.

Kafka and Brod, in their own way, made a contribution to my metamorphosis.

I thank them both.


Jim out.