Kafkannated: #93

Don't call Kafka crazy...or at least don't refer him to the green couch, because he won't go, according to aphorism number 93:

No psychology ever again!

Bravo. No more psychology. I'm happy you don't need it. Then again, given that you are celebrated for writing a book about a man that turns into a cockroach, maybe you shouldn't be writing it off so quickly.

Oh, and I should note that I've been attending psycho-therapy to deal with having to read these "aphorisms." But I will endure any pain, bear any burden, pay any price to see you and your aphorisms be ridiculed. And since I don't know of any other warriors on this divine crusade, I must keep on. Down with psychology, and down with you Kafka.

Kafkannated: 46 & 45

Kafka may have thought he would not be pilloried on the DT, but how wrong he was. I have not forgotten about him and his aphorisms...and this post is my witness.

46: The German word sein signifies both "to be there" and "to belong to Him."

Uh huh. And if I was German, perhaps everyone in my knitting club would have a great nosh about just how wild it is that the words we use often have meanings we don't intend and don't your remember the time the Romish immigrant with the laundry store down the street kept saying "business" but pronounced it "beezneez," so when she said in her broken English "Let's get down on business," my husband laughed so hard his hernia down there got so bad he had to have surgery. Of course, it I was German, that wouldn't make any sense (everything, that is).

45: The more horses you put to, the faster your progress--not of course in the removal of the cornerstone from the foundations, which is impossible, but in the tearing of the harness, and your resultant riding cheerfully off into space.

Okay, all this makes me think is that the guys who ride the Clydesdales got drunk and uppity and tried to a coup at the Budweiser brewery, which was so unexpected the entire world went *pop* and vanished except for the horses and the two inebriates. Why do I think that? Because Kafka is so deeeeeeep, man.

Ridiculous.

Kafkannated: No. 58

It's time for our daily dose of the Zaphorisms (if you're curious as to why this is a daily feature, poke down the blog a day or two, where all is explained). Today's special? No. 58.
The way to tell fewest lies is to tell fewest lies, not to give oneself fewest opportunities of telling lies. Thank heaven for Franz Kafka, what would we do without him? "The way to tell fewest lies is to tell fewest lies." Ah! I see! It's been staring me in the face this whole time! For years I've been walking around with a polygraph permanently attached, giving a constant readout of my veracity to any in the vicinity (there has to be some way to get those words closer together). If only I had read the big K, I would have known that instead of having my manservant rap me over the head any time falsities tumbled off my lips, I could just not tell them. Oh, thank you Franz, thank you. I can take off the wires and spare my head from Rabadash's lumps.

(Bonus points in the ongoing DT Challenge for anyone who can tell me who my fictional manservant is named after...)

Kafkannated

The essential philosophical writings of one of the twentieth century's most influential writers are now gathered into a single volume with an introduction and afterword by the celebrated writer and Kafka scholar Roberto Calasso.

So begins the jacket description of The Zürau Aphorisms, by Franz Kafka. I say that's a bunch of hooey. Or better yet huey, as in Huey Lewis. Moreover, I think anyone who has ever bothered to crack the cover of Kaf's Zaphs (as they are derisively known) would agree with me. The aphorisms are "freshly translated," culled from Kaf's original notebooks and laid out as he had done. The result, visually, is quite pleasing, and it's an attractive little volume. Until you start reading, that is.

I took a look at this book (to paraphrase LeVar Burton) for two reasons: a) it looks nice and readable, and b) it was free. As a bonus, I kinda hoped I might be able to casually drop snobby statements at cocktail parties: "You'd like another drink, as well? Well, I guess we're all shooting to reach Kafka's number 5...oh, I'm sorry, I've been reading Zürau. No. 5 of the aphorisms is 'From a certain point on, there is no more turning back. That is the point that must be reached.' Sounds to me like the point of being sauced. Hey hey!"

As a matter of fact, I think I will use that line at a cocktail party. Watch out, socialites and local soaks.

But, I will also add Kafka as a feature here on the Doughty Traveler, to spare you the pain of reading this tripe...well, actually to inflict upon you the pain of reading this tripe, albeit leavened by my bitter criticisms of it. I could start with the saying just listed, but who are we kidding? Kafka, that clever little saying is nothing more than a crappy version of the lyrics to an Andrew Lloyd Webber song. Except it's much easier to sing "past the point of no return," than "Frooooom a certain point, there is nooooooooo more turning baaaack."

So, let's offer up another aphorism for skewering...ah, No. 15:

Like a path in autumn: no sooner is it cleared than it is once again littered with falling leaves.

Zür-wow, Franz. You font of profundity. Oh, the agony of sweeping the walk, that perennial torment of the later months that inspires such despair in the soul. Raking leaves, what an exercise in futility, how it conjures up that despair of the soul occasioned by laboring in vain. Congratulations, FK, for that piece of polenta prose (no offense to polenta-lovers).