A Acusação
                          Spectacle based on the novel "The Trial", by Franz Kafka.

                                                                                          


        
Birth and childhood

        Franz Kafka was born on July 3, 1883, the first child of Hermann and Julie (née Löwy) Kafka.
Franz was sent to German schools, not Czech ones, which demonstrates his father's desire for social advancement. At this time the vast majority of people in Prague spoke Czech, but owing to the power of the Austro-Hungarian Empire, the language of the elites was German. Franz had been speaking mostly Czech as a child (owing to the fact that his governesses were Czech), but learned to master the German tongue early, as reflected in his wonderful handling of it in his stories. In school he did well, taking classes like Latin, Greek and history. At school he met another student a year younger than he was, Max Brod, who was a writer of some note and had his own little circle. The two would become very close friends for the rest of their lives. In June 1906, he graduated with a doctorate in law.

        Franz had been trying his hand at serious writing since about 1898, but these early works were destroyed. Later he began writing more seriously. His first extant story, Description of a Struggle, dates from 1904-1905. He got his first job at the Assicurizioni Generali Insurance Company in 1907 but soon left, due to the lengthy hours and intolerable conditions. Later, in 1908, he began working at the Workers' Accident Insurance Institute, where he would work most of the rest of his life, although only sporadically after 1917, and in June 1922 he was put on "temporary retirement" with a pension. This job, although not great, had short hours (8 to 2) and so allowed him time to think and write. In 1911, however, this state of affairs was shattered when his father wanted him to take charge of his brother-in-law Karl Hermann's asbestos factory, which took up a lot of his time until 1917 (when it was shut down) and literally almost drove him to suicide. He still looked extremely young, sometimes being mistaken for being 15 or 16 when in fact he was 28.

         In 1911 he also made a trip to Paris, Italy, and Switzerland with Brod. He also became very interested in Yiddish theater (think a more melodramatic, more ethnic, shlockier, unintentionally funny sitcom or soap opera), even going so far as to give a talk on Yiddish in 1912 and becoming close friends with Isaac Löwy, a Yiddish theater actor, whom his father considered a good for nothing. Besides, Hermann Kafka thought his son was too eccentric, with his vegetarianism and quiet nature.
Max Brod convinced Kafka to publish some of his work, and in January 1913 Meditation, a collection of some early short stories and sketches, appeared. In the meantime he was gathering information for his "American novel," which he began writing in 1912.

Felice

        On the evening of August 13, 1912, Franz met Felice Bauer, born November 18, 1887 and living in Berlin, at Brod's house and soon became enamored of her, at least of the image of her he had in his mind. He began writing her long letters about everything, although mostly about himself and his feelings of inadequacy. In this first flush of love he wrote "The Judgment" on the night of 22-23 September, which he dedicated to her. He considered it his first mature work, and proudly read it to his family and friends. In November and December he wrote "The Metamorphosis." He also worked at Amerika, or Der Verschollene (The Stoker, the first chapter, appeared separately in book form in 1913); work on it continued sporadically until 1914.

        Felice had a friend, Grete Bloch, born 1892, who also began writing to Franz. She acted as an intermediary between Franz and Felice; Franz would write to her about some of his problems with Felice, and she would try to help. They wrote each other many letters and built up a kind of friendship. Grete wanted more, though—she seems to have wanted Franz all to herself. The Prague Enquirer has recently found out that Franz Kafka, 31, an insurance worker who "scribbles" in his spare time, has allegedly fathered a son by one Grete Bloch, 22, a friend of his fiancée, Felice Bauer, 26.

        Franz broke off the engagement in July of 1914, undergoing a particularly nasty scene in a hotel with Felice, her sister Erna, and Grete Bloch, but nevertheless continued writing to her. He began writing The Trial that same year, working on it off and on until 1916. Although Franz proposed again to Felice in July 1917 after actually spending a week with her at Marienbad, and later taking a trip with her to Budapest, he began coughing up blood and in August was diagnos ed with tuberculosis. Always fearful of marriage and sex, this spelled the end of his relationship with Felice, who had had about enough of his crap. She married another man in 1919 but kept his letters

Milena

        Milena Jesenská-Pollak was the wife of one of Franz's friends, Ernst Pollak. She was born August 10, 1896, and was a strong, intelligent woman who recognized his talent and uniqueness. Kafka began writing her in 1920 and very occasionally saw each other. Milena wasn't Jewish but she did relate to Jews. Her husband, she said, was unfaithful to her "a hundred times a year," and she found some solace in Franz after separating from Pollak. Whether or not they were lovers isn't really clear. They did love and care for each other very much, but Franz's fear of sex remained, which he openly discussed with her. She was very understanding, not just with this matter but with all his problems. They did go to see each other a few times, but again, as with Felice, this was mostly an affair-by-mail. After a while, in 1923, Milena and Pollak were reconciled, and Franz broke off the relationship, saying they shouldn't see each other or write. The Castle was written in about nine months of feverish work during 1922. Kafka's most complex and perhaps strangest work (no mean feat), it's since been interpreted thousands of times in hundreds of different ways, even though (or perhaps because) it remained unfinished. Milena seems to have been a major inspiration, specifically in the character of Frieda, and a café she and her husband frequented in Vienna, the Herrenhof, turns up in the book.

Dora

        In the summer of 1923, owing to his interest in Judaism and Zionism, Franz was trying to learn Hebrew (which had been taught at school but didn't make an impression on him at the time), and went through a couple of teachers before meeting Dora Diamant (sometimes spelled Dymant), an Orthodox Jewish girl from Poland who could read Hebrew fluently. They met in July in the resort town of Graal-Müritz on the German coast of the Baltic Sea and hit it off more or less immediately. They became very close, and in September Franz moved out of his parents' apartment, which, aside from a few attempts from 1915-1917 to have his own place, he had never left and moved to Berlin with Dora.

        As 1924 began, Franz's health got worse and worse. He was forced to go to a couple of sanatoriums, and his weight plummeted. In April he went to a sanitorium in Kierling, Austria, near Vienna. He agreed to the publication of "A Hunger Artist," with some other stories, and began proofing the galleys. He asked Dora's rabbi father for permission to marry her, even though he was almost totally wasted away, and was turned down. But he seemed happy enough with Dora at his bedside.

Kafka´s Death

He died on June 3, 1924.
Franz Kafka has become an icon of sorts, emblematic of modern times. His popularity increased exponentially after the publication of his stories in the 20s and 30s, especially in the English translations done by the Muirs. He is now an institution, his own adjective. About ten years ago, somebody bought the manuscript of The Trial for close to two million dollars. Not quite as good as Stephen King or John Grisham, but not bad for an uncompleted manuscript meant for the flames. (Just imagine the royalties!) Few writers have had such an effect on their times as he has.

                                                                                       Some Kafka´s short works

My Destination (transl. Alex Flores)

        I called for my horse to be brought from the stable. The servant did not understand me. I myself went into the stable, saddled my horse and mounted. In the distance I heard a trumpet blast. I asked him what it meant but he did not know and had not heard it. By the gate he stopped me and asked "where are you riding to sir?" I answered "away from here, away from here, always away from here. Only by doing so can I reach my destination." "Then you know your destination" he asked. "Yes" I said "I have already said so, 'Away-From-Here' that is my destination." "You have no provisions with you" he said. "I don't need any" I said. "The journey is so long that I will die of hunger if I do not get something along the way. It is, fortunately, a truely immense journey."

The Neighbour (transl. Annika Eder)

I am totally responsible for my own business. Two ladies with typewriters and account books in the outer office, my room with desk, cash-box, conference table, club chair and telephone, that is everything I work with. So easy to survey, so easy to carry on. I am very young and business is going well for me. I don't complain, I don't complain. Since New Year's the small, empty flat, which I unfortunately hesitated to rent for such a long time, has been rented by a young man right away. As well a room with outer office, but besides that a kitchen. -Room and outer office I could have used well - sometimes my ladies felt a bit overloaded -, but how would I have used the kitchen? This little worry is to blame that I didn't rent the flat myself. Now this young man is sitting there. Harras is his name. What he is actually doing, I don't know. His door reads: "Harras,
bureau". I made inquiries, I've been notified that it is a business similar to mine. You couldn't necessarily warn of guarantee for credit, since we are dealing with a young, rising man, whose business may have a good future, but you couldn't advice to credit either, since there doesn't seem to be any fortune at the present. The common information you get, if you no one knows a thing.
Sometimes I meet Harras in the staircase, he always must be in an extraordinary hurry, he formally scurries past me. I haven't seen him completely yet, the keys to his office are always sitting ready in his hand. In the matter of an instant he has opened the door. Like the tail of a rat he slid in and again I am standing in front of the sign "Harras, bureau", which I have already read more often than it deserves.
These awfully thin walls, which betray the honest man, but cover the dishonest! My telephone is attached to the wall that separates me from my neighbour. But I only emphasise that as a special ironic fact. Even if it was hung on the opposite wall, you could hear everything in the neighbouring flat. I gave up saying the names of clients on the phone. But through characteristic, but unavoidable expressions it doesn't need much cunning to guess the names. - Sometimes I wriggle, having the receiver close to my ear, full of restlessness, around the telephone on my tiptoes, but still can't prevent to reveal secrets.
Through that, my business decisions certainly get unsure, my voice starts shaking. What is Harras doing while I am on the telephone? If I really wanted to exaggerate - but you often have to, to make things clear -, I could say: Harras doesn't need a telephone, he uses mine, he shifted his sofa near the wall and listens, but I have to - when it rings - run to the telephone, receive clients' wishes, make difficult decisions, perform great prepared speeches - but before all during the whole time involuntarily report to Harras through the wall.
Maybe he doesn't even wait until the end of the call, but rises after the bit of conversation, which informed him enough about the case, scurries habitual through the city and before I even dropped the receiver he might already be busy working against me.

An Imperial Message (transl. by Ian Johnston)

        The Emperor—so they say—has sent a message, directly from his death bed, to you alone, his pathetic subject, a tiny shadow which has taken refuge at the furthest distance from the imperial sun. He ordered the herald to kneel down beside his bed and whispered the message in his ear. He thought it was so important that he had the herald speak it back to him. He confirmed the accuracy of verbal message by nodding his head. And in front of the entire crowd of those witnessing his death—all the obstructing walls have been broken down, and all the great ones of his empire are standing in a circle on the broad and high soaring flights of stairs—in front of all of them he dispatched his herald. The messenger started off at once, a powerful, tireless man. Sticking one arm out and then another, he makes his way through the crowd. If he runs into resistence, he points to his breast where there is a sign of the sun. So he moves forwards easily, unlike anyone else. But the crowd is so huge; its dwelling places are infinite. If there were an open field, how he would fly along, and soon you would hear the marvellous pounding of his fist on your door. But instead of that, how futile are all his efforts. He is still forcing his way through the private rooms of the innermost palace. Never will he win his way through. And if he did manage that, nothing would have been achieved. He would have to fight his way down the steps, and, if he managed to do that, nothing would have been achieved. He would have to stride through the courtyards, and after the courtyards through the second palace encircling the first, and, then again, through stairs and courtyards, and then, once again, a palace, and so on for thousands of years. And if he finally burst through the outermost door—but that can never, never happen—the royal capital city, the centre of the world, is still there in front of him, piled high and full of sediment. No one pushes his way through here, certainly not someone with a message from a dead man. But you sit at your window and dream of that message when evening comes.

Up in the Gallery (transl. by Ian Johnston)

        If some frail tubercular lady circus rider were to be driven in circles around and around the arena for months and months without interruption in front of a tireless public on a swaying horse by a merciless whip-wielding master of ceremonies, spinning on the horse, throwing kisses and swaying at the waist, and if this performance, amid the incessant roar of the orchestra and the ventilators, were to continue into the ever-expanding, gray future, accompanied by applause, which died down and then swelled up again, from hands which were really steam hammers, perhaps then a young visitor to the gallery might rush down the long stair case through all the levels, burst into the ring, and cry “Stop!” through the fanfares of the constantly adjusting orchestra.

        But since things are not like that—since a beautiful woman, in white and red, flies in through curtains which proud men in livery open in front of her, since the director, devotedly seeking her eyes, breathes in her direction, behaving like an animal, and, as a precaution, lifts her up on the dapple-gray horse, as if she were his grand daughter, the one he loved more than anything else, as she starts a dangerous journey, but he cannot decide to give the signal with his whip and finally, controlling himself, gives it a crack, runs right beside the horse with his mouth open, follows the rider’s leaps with a sharp gaze, hardly capable of comprehending her skill, tries to warn her by calling out in English, furiously castigating the grooms holding hoops, telling them to pay the most scrupulous attention, and begs the orchestra, with upraised arms, to be quiet before the great jump, finally lifts the small woman down from the trembling horse, kisses her on both cheeks, considers no public tribute adequate, while she herself, leaning on him, high on the tips of her toes, with dust swirling around her, arms outstretched and head thrown back, wants to share her luck with the entire circus—since this is how things are, the visitor to the gallery puts his face on the railing and, sinking into the final march as if into a difficult dream, weeps, without realizing it.

Unhappiness (transl. Claudia Furrer)

        When it had already become unbearable – by an evening in November – and I was running along over the narrow carpet in my room as on a racetrack, frightened by the sight of the lights in the street turned around again and was given a new goal in the depths of the room, at the bottom of the mirror, and I cried out, just to hear the scream which is answered by nothing, and from which nothing takes the strength of the scream, which therefore rises up, without any counterpoise, and cannot cease even when it grows silent; a door was opened in the wall so hastily, since haste was indeed necessary, and even the wagon-horses down on the pavement reared, like crazed horses in a battle, their throats exposed.

        As a small ghost, a child scurried out of the completely dark corridor, in which the lamp was not yet burning, and stood still on his toes, on an imperceptibly shaking floorboard. Immediately blinded by the twilight of the room he wanted to hide his face in his hands, but calmed down unexpectedly with a look at the window, before whose cross-bar the rising haze from the streetlights finally kept low under the darkness. With the right elbow he supported himself in front of the open door by the wall and let the draught from outside caress the joints of his feet, also the neck, also along the temples.

I watched a little bit, then I said “Good evening” and took my coat from the fire-screen because I did not want to stand there so half-naked. I kept my mouth open for a while, so that the excitement may leave through my mouth. There was bad saliva in me, and in my face the eyelashes were twitching, in short, it only wanted this nevertheless expected visit.

The child was still standing by the wall in the same place, he pressed the right hand against the wall and, all red-cheeked, could not get enough of this, that the whitewashed wall was coarse-grained and rubbing the finger-tips. I said: “Do you really want to come to my place? Is it not a mistake? Nothing easier than a mistake in this big house. My name is Soandso, I live on the third floor. So, am I the one you wanted to visit?”

“Silence, silence!” the child said over his shoulder, “everything is just right.”

“Then come further into the room, I would like to close the door.”

“I just have closed the door. Do not go to trouble. Calm down at any rate.”

“Do not mention trouble. But there are many people living in this corridor, naturally all of them are acquaintances; most of them are now returning from their businesses; if they hear talk in my room they just assume the right to come in and see what is going on. That’s just the way it is. These people have left behind their daily work; who would they submit to in the provisional freedom of the evening! You also know that, by the way. Let me close the door.”

“Well then, so what? What’s the matter with you? For aught I care all the house might come in. And once again: I have already closed the door, why, do you think only you can close the door? I have even locked it with the key.”

“Then it’s alright. That’s all I ask for. You did not even have to lock it with the key. And now make yourself comfortable, as you are here now anyway. You are my guest. Trust me completely. Spread yourself without fear. I will force you neither to stay nor to leave. Do I have to say that in the first place? Don’t you know me better?”

“No. You really didn’t have to say that. Even more, you should not have said it. I am a child; why go to all the trouble for me?”

“It’s not that bad. Of course, a child. But you are not so very small. You are really already grown-up. If you were a girl you might not just lock yourself in a room with me.”

“We don’t have to worry about that. I just wanted to say: The fact that I know you so well protects me little, it only saves you the effort of telling me lies. Nevertheless you are making compliments. Don’t, I’m telling you, don’t. Add to this that I don’t know you everywhere and always, especially in this darkness. It would be much better if you let the lights be put on. No, rather not. Yet, I will bear in mind that you have already threatened me.”

“What? I have threatened you? But I beg your pardon. Why, I am so glad you are finally here. I say ‘finally’ because it is already so late. I don’t quite understand why you came this late. So it is possible that I spoke confusedly in my gladness, and that you understood it like that. I confess ten times that I spoke like that, yes I have threatened you with everything you want. – Only no fight, for heaven’s sake! – But how could you believe it? How could you offend me like that? Why do you want with all your power to spoil this short moment of your presence? A stranger would be more obliging than you.”

“I believe that; that is no wisdom. As much as a stranger can be obliged to you I already am by nature. You also know that, so why this woefulness? Tell me you want to play-act and I’m going right now.”

“Really? You dare even to tell me that? You are a little too bold. After all, you are still in my room. You are rubbing your fingers like crazy on my wall. My room, my wall! And besides, what you are saying is ridiculous, not only insolent. You say your nature obliges you to talk to me in this way. Really? Your nature obliges you? That’s obliging of your nature. Your nature is mine, and when I am friendly to you by nature you mustn’t do otherwise.”

“Is this friendly?”

“I’m talking about earlier.”

“Do you know how I will be later?”

“I know nothing.”

And I went over to the bedside-table on which I lit a candle. I didn’t use to have gas or electric light in my room at that time. Then I sat for a while at the table, until I grew tired of this, too, put on the overcoat, took the hat from the settee and blew out the candle. Going out I became entangled with a leg of the armchair.

On the stairs I met a tenant from the same floor.

“You are already leaving again, you scamp?” he asked, resting on his legs spread out over two steps.

“What am I to do?” I said, “now I have had a ghost in my room.”

“You say that with the same discontent as if you had found a hair in your soup.”

“You are joking. But mark my words, a ghost is a ghost.”

“Very true. But what about it if you don’t even believe in ghosts?”

“Why, do you think I believe in ghosts? But how does my not-believing help me?”

“Very easy. You just don’t have to be afraid anymore when a ghost really comes to you.”

“Yes, but this is just the subordinate fear. The substantial fear is the fear from the cause of the apparition. And this fear stays. This one is downright tremendously in me.” In my nervousness I began to search through all my pockets.

“But since you were not afraid of the apparition itself you could have asked it quietly for the cause of it!”

“You have obviously never talked with a ghost. Why, you can never get any clear information from them. It’s a to and fro. These ghosts seem to be in doubt as to their existence even more than we are, which, considering their frailty, is no wonder.”

“But I have heard you can feed them up.”

“You are well informed. You can do that. But who would do such a thing?”

“Why not? If it’s a female ghost, for example,” he said and rose up on the upper step.

“Oh, I see,” I said, “but even then it will not stand for it.”

I recollected myself. My acquaintance was already so high up that in order to see me he had to bend forward under a curvature of the staircase. “But still,” I cried, “if you take away my ghost up there it is over between the two of us, forever.”

“But that was only a joke,” he said and drew back his head.

“Then it’s alright,” I said and could have quietly gone for a walk, now. But because I felt ever so much forsaken, I rather went up and laid me down to sleep.