What if Kafka was right, what if Max Brod should have heeded the following deathbed request:
“Dearest Max, my last request: Everything I leave behind me … in the way of diaries, manuscripts, letters (my own and others’), sketches, and so on, [is] to be burned unread.”
Let us not assume, rather selfishly, that Kafka was kidding or was not himself, let us attempt to defend and therefore respect his wish.
Why burn his work unread?
First Reason: In no way was Franz’s writing intended to be public. It is a deeply personal and private writing, almost an extension of his diary and letter writing. Reading it to the public often made him laugh—not because the content was funny but because reading it to the public seemed so inappropriate.
Second Reason: His writing communicates one man’s perception of the absurdity and meaninglessness of life in Germany, possibly of life in general. Much of his work reflects his personal, professional experience of the onerous, impersonal and labyrinthine German bureaucratic and legal system. While his writing may testify to one man’s ability to keep his imagination alive, it is hardly a celebration of the imagination, nor does it provide useful insights into human behaviour, and—finally—since it is neither hope or happiness inspiring perhaps we can agree that it is not particularly recommendable to the public.
Third Reason: For Franz, writing was as much a torment as a pleasure. Bouts of creativity kept him up late at night, alienated him from his wife, weakened his already delicate constitution and was no help in his struggle with tuberculosis. Why would he wish it on others?
Fourth Reason: His major works were left unfinished on account of the demands of his professional life, domestic duties and his poor health. Possibly, he felt that even his finished works were not truly finished works, that is, perhaps he sensed that they did not fulfill his authorial potential.
In light of these reasons to respect Franz’s wish, how do we respond to Harold Bloom, who not only ignores Franz’s wish (as I have done) but heaps further disrespect on him by claiming the following, “Despite all his denials and beautiful evasions, [Kafka's writing] quite simply is Jewish writing”? Bloom’s statement is both bold and reductive. No one can deny the influence of Judaism on Franz, but to say his work is “simply” Jewish might underestimate the influence of the man’s German education and his professional work as a German bureaucrat and lawyer. The absence of metaphor, attention to mundane details and the nameless characters and placeless places in Franz’s works hardly attest to a Judaic influence; these qualities echo the impersonal world of bureaucracy. Indeed, since I have worked with government bureaucrats—the influence is simply unmistakable.
In conclusion, disregarding Franz’s wish to belong to no one seems both perverse and flattering. That said, the time may yet come when we will honour his brave self-assessment and respect his noble wish.
