Looking for Kafka in Prague

We read The Metamorphosis in the first year of high school. We read it in Portuguese, for Literature class, and our Portuguese teacher was one of the most off-putting people I have ever met in real life. 
Simultaneously, he was the blandest and most arbitrary teacher. We could never figure out what his purpose in life was supposed to be. But the year we had him was a year of great books –– besides Metamorphosis, the assigned reading was 1984, an Italo Calvino book, and Oedipus Rex. Normally, we were forced to read overwrought novels by nineteenth-century Portuguese authors. This was part of the ever-growing high-school conspiracy of getting students to hate reading so that they choose to study STEM and become productive members of society. 
But Carlos had something hardly ever found in literature teachers: taste. 
He was also, nonetheless, inexhaustibly dull. Though I know he looked like a turtle, or someone you could describe as turtlesome –– I cannot visualize his face. That is probably because no one ever paid any attention to him whatsoever. In his class, friendships were bound through conversations and games of tic-tac-toe. We used to play that game in which players write words in a number of categories such as films, places, animals, etc., starting with a given letter. Whoever finishes first yells “Stop!” and the others have to stop where they are. Hence, the game is called “Stop.” 
I don’t know the word in English for “Stop,” though I know it probably isn’t “stop.” 
Anyway, in Carlos’ class, there were incessant screams of “Stop,” to which he seemed elegantly indifferent. As long as we weren’t playing games on our phones, he was complicit in our underground disregard. He seemed to support analog ways to pass the time. 
Because there was something about him that automatically repelled students’ curiosity, Carlos developed some rhetoric ticks that were immensely appreciated –– by me, at least. He would say the exact same thing in the exact same intonation every day: Okay, little folks, okay? 
I think “little folks” is the best translation, but it doesn’t really capture the texture of the word “galerinha,” the diminutive form of “galera,” a slang word that is mostly used ironically nowadays. One could think of it as a gang, perhaps. In the diminutive form: a ganglet. 
Carlos, the turtlesome educator to the ganglet. For someone so utterly null, he needs a lot of new words to define him. 
So that was two years of uncharismatic catchphrases –– he had this one where he told a student he didn’t like to go take a shit. Actually, again; a shitlet. Though he didn’t want him in the class, he also did not want to write him up –– so the boy was ordered a shitlet be taken by him. 
In the third year of high school, we found out Carlos left the state to be a carpet salesman. That sounds like the lame explanation we are given when a character is hurriedly written out of a show because the actor has been accused of sexual harassment. Yet, this is what actually happened. Someone looked him up on Facebook.
My mother hates Alice in Wonderland and Salvador Dalí, but she still likes Kafka. Of course, there’s a reason. When we were reading The Metamorphosis, Carlos would constantly remind us of how the genius of the book lies in the fact that none of the characters treat the whole thing as if it were magic. The ancillary characters see Gregor Samsa’s transformation as unfortunate, sure, perhaps even rare, but never as impossible. They all act like it’s something that happens, sadly. Like an illness. 
I’m not sure if that is the genius of the book, but of course, I said it was when I took the test. I did well on that test, as a matter of fact, which to me was always important in all the unhealthiest senses. 
Whose dream is it to be a carpet salesman anyway? I hope he hasn’t turned into an insect by now.

This was all to say, we have a shared history concerning Kafka, Bianca, and I. So, when in Prague, we were excited to see a sign that read “Kafka House,” pointing down a mysterious flight of stairs. We thought this might have been where he lived. 
Soon, we realized this was not his house but his neighbor’s; his house existed no longer. On a happier note, however, they had some really cool ruins from 1209, which were discovered when the city was trying to demolish the houses. I, a known ruin slut, thought since we were already there and all. 
We needed to ask, though, why they had called it “Kafka House.” They assured us it wasn’t false advertising: this was an exhibition in four parts, all of which had been inspired by Kafka one way or another. 

Image 10 (left): “Stairway to Nowhere:” the description to this “part” of the exhibition assured us these stairs, which were found on the excavation, did not appear to lead anywhere. The black on top of the image is simply tape, placed there to create the illusion of infinitude. According to the description, these stairs had *never* been used –– which I imagine gave them a level of platonic validation other stairs could only ever dream of. 
Because I am an utter pain in the ass, whenever I am complaining about what passes for art, I always think in such terms. The only thing, the discourse goes, that is different between a chair you sit on and a chair in a museum is that the chair in the museum is serving no purpose whatsoever –– isolated and practically platonic, suspended and exempt of meaning like the definition of “chair” in a dictionary. 
Chair: something you sit on. Chair: do not sit. 
I am not talking of historical, really old chairs that might break if you use them; they have served their purpose and are now rightly shown off as relics. The social evil I speak of is that of those museums that show nothing but painfully conceptual art: chairs, paper balls, white canvases, etc. 
All these probably have a thesis behind them, explaining that the artist is exploring the hermeneutic process by “challenging” the interlocutor; questioning the ideal of “purity” in society; questioning the capitalist concept that things need to be used; exploring the socio-historic implications of the elitist piece of furniture we call “chair;” using it to express the need for marginalized peoples to be given a “seat at the table” . . .
If there is one thing I have learned about expressing oneself, it’s that keeping things from your audience is a waste of time. Just say what you mean or mean to mean. 
And there lies the problem, doesn’t it? Meaning. Those guys want the meaning of their stuff to be too conceptual, and too generic. In the end, a chair will either represent “the evils of sixteenth-century colonialism” or, well, the chair itself. 
Both instances are my most feared aesthetic crimes: over-specification and generalization. A work of art whose only merit is being in the context of a museum exhibition is just an academic con. Proof: the fact that the only people who are moved by blank canvases are those who understand why a canvas is blank.
Anyway, this place in Prague was pretentious, albeit in a different way, in an endearing way. This place was pretentious in an –– there’s no other word –– unpretentious way. It’s almost like it couldn’t help how misguided it was. It was utterly blinded by not having read Umberto Eco’s essay on super-interpretation. 
I should explain, but I don’t know how to. Let us just say, there was a screening room in which several short films were being played. Every single one of them was bad. But bad in the way that poetry by high schoolers is bad –– it makes you cringe, yet you don’t want to criticize it.
Thankfully, I took photos of the much-treasured pamphlet that explained what was happening on screen in each of the films. Here is the breakdown of the one called “Panties,” plus my comments and corrections you didn’t ask for. The event happened in exactly the same way as is depicted in the film: 

Four students of DAMU (Theatre Academy of Performing Arts). Two girls and two boys. 
Why can’t there be a grammatical conclusion to these sentences? I swear, people set scenes in prose like they’re writing a script.

They were poisoned by the fumes of a gas stove. An event of morbid proportions that is not spoken of and remains persistently silent. 
Again, why the involuntary full stops? Connect your goddamn sentences! A simple “and” would do!

Accident? NO!
Love the enthusiasm here.

Accident: an event that does not exist by itself without a thread of context. 
Does anything, though? 

Truth: (an) Accident is an event in which we just don’t know the cause of its occurrence. 
I mean, that is not true. Like, in no way is that true. 

And what then is the truth? 
That’s quite a mood to be in. 

Truth is a statement in line with reality. 
If you say so. 

But what is the reality? 
Oh, honey, putting “the” in front of everything is such a Portuguese-speaker way to mess up. What happened? 

An objective reality (matter) that exists independently of human consciousness. 
That escalated into Kantian philosophy very quickly. What does it have to do with the gas stove, though? 

The spark of hope in the frosty dark depths of the universe flashes intensely. 
What? If objective reality is outside of human consciousness , then how do you know about it, mate? How do you know the frosty dark depths of the universe? And, if it’s a frosty place, how come the spark is so intense? 

When it is true that matter exists independently of human consciousness. 
Are you planning on making it happen?

The opposite is also true: human consciousness 4D is not dependent on 3D matter. 
The manifestation of the consciousness of physicalists long gone must be itching right now. 

A distracted photographer forgets to secure the lid of a suitcase with fuses and drops its content on the stairs. 
Do suitcases have lids? This is a legitimate question. 

He beaks the Metz 404 flash. 
I think this is just a typo, therefore the only justified mistake so far. 

The photographer is coming to MECHANIKA flash repair shop. 
When is this happening? And if he’s coming, he’s not arrived, so why are you there? Did you race him to the shop? 

The repairman shakes his head. He has never seen such a problem before. A drop of water lands on the counter. 
How poetic. 

There is a wet stain on the ceiling. An old woman, living in the apartment located one floor up, had a stroke and collapsed, hitting and overturning a bucket full of water, splashing the contents all over the floor. 
When? Now? Then why did you change the verb tense? Even if it had happened just now –– this is a clear opportunity to show off your knowledge of present perfect. She’s had a stroke. Or had had a stroke, maybe. 

It’s not a violent death. The officers are putting a coffin into a black funeral car in front of the house. 
Okay, so, “had had” it is. 

A doctor on the streets outside the house drinks from a bottle. He tilts his head and notices something interesting in the first-floor window of the opposite house. There’s a pretty girl in a t-shirt sitting on the windowsill. The doctor tells the others: “Hey, she has no panties [on], can you see?” The others are also looking in that direction. There is a debate in the group: has she or hasn’t she got panties? 
Classy.

A big employee of the funeral service takes a small employee on his shoulders. She does not have panties! 
I feel like she does, she’s just not wearing any. 

The debate is resolved, and the situation is transformed into blissful happiness, a celebration of youth feeling the biological joy of life. 
Of course, the biological joy of life! Love feeling that familiar emotion!

The girl is sitting in the window of the house, which belongs to the Theatre Academy (DAMU). Young students have rehearsal rooms there. 
Oh my god, everything is connected! Accident? NO! Truth: there is no such thing as an accident. 

Hi, I’m Bia, and I enjoy tearing other people’s stories apart. Some would say I am overly critical of others. But if you are not critical of others, how will you learn to become critical of yourself? And, most importantly, what will you make fun of? What are you going to laugh about? I am not sure I want to stop laughing at other people’s mistakes –– it keeps me from making them myself. 
No to mention that yes, this was a terrible text (and the film made even less sense), but it wasn’t even the worst one in that room. We spent an entire hour there laughing our asses off. 
This is the kind of spontaneous discovery traveling is all about, the eerily strange house you enter suspiciously that ends up providing you with an experience you will never ever forget. We might not have left with the impression the people behind that exhibit had in mind (their banner said it was about all things unexplained by science, and those who liked maths should just walk away), but they still made one hell of an impression on us.
After that, we decided to visit the actual Kafka Museum. Just, you know, for good measure. So we crossed the bridge (the famous one which Bianca wanted to make sure we crossed) in order to get to the Kafka Museum, which it turns out was near the Prague Castle. 
On the way there, I lost my glove; singular. It was the third glove I lost altogether, and it almost makes you no longer want to invest in a lasting hand–glove relationship. The famous bridge was called the Charles Bridge I think, and there were plenty of seagulls all around it, flying and nesting and swimming and desecrating holy statues, standing atop their heads in a defying, nonchalant way. 

Image 12 (right): An indifferent seagull stands on the Virgin Mary’s head, putting itself symbolically above her in the realm of sacred things. There were many instances of this –– not only on this bridge, but throughout our trip, which has provided me with quite a portfolio surrounding this motif. 
Once we arrived at the true Kafka place, we were welcomed by two statues whose shared moment of urination comprised a bizarre fountain. Through their stone urethras came the water, babbling calmly in a winter afternoon, and the statues made eye contact, indicating the unashamed nature of their friendship, untainted by toxic masculinity.
Unfortunately, I do not have a photo of that, as I was too busy shooting a video, which did capture the feeling better. I should tell you, nonetheless, that there were no seagulls around that fountain, once again proving their preference toward statues of sacred status. 
The seagulls could not demoralize those statues any further even if they tried.  

In March 2019, a month prior to my writing this, Brazilian president Bolsonaro’s then-minister-of-education (the one who hates world-renowned pedagogue Paulo Freire) mistook world-renowned writer Franz Kafka for the Middle-Eastern minced meat skewer, “kafta,” a popular meal in Brazil given our history of Syrian and Lebanese immigration. Both are very good, yet I suspect in rather different ways. If you want to get really pedantic, I suppose a meal could be some kind of nonverbal text, but this is not a mistake a minister of education should make. 

Not to mention, he totally ruined what I had planned for this section of the book, which would have featured a food critic talking about Kafta to someone who thought he was thinking about Kafka, or vice-versa. I’d been planning on writing this since someone I know, who I will not expose here but who has never been minister of education and who must have been fourteen at the time, made that same mistake and then promptly corrected himself. 
Also, if we are being honest, we were at a Middle-Eastern restaurant, and it is far more dignifying, in my opinion, to say “Kafka” when you mean “kafta” than the opposite, which is what Weintraub did. 
But as usual Brazilian politics sucks the fun out of everything, and I took too long, and the story was written for me. I remember talking to my Grandpa about this story as he drove me home on a Wednesday night. On Wednesdays I have dinner at my grandparents’, who are sure to be reading this- what’s up? We laughed a lot, though I’m not sure he recalls that conversation. 
The museum was, fortunately, about Kafka, not kafta. However, in a city like Prague, there certainly must be a kafta museum somewhere, hopefully attempting to bank on Kafka. It would certainly be an interesting expedition: from what Wikipedia tells me, there is quite a variety of kaftas –– a kafta “family.” Recipes for it have a history ranging from Greece to India, featuring lamb, beef, pork, as well as vegetarian versions from potatoes and bananas. 
Etymologically, kafta is a variation of Farsi kofta, which is also the word in English for it. (I realize, now, that Microsoft Word is completely okay with it.) However, I will keep using “kafta” for “kofta” because that is what Middle-Eastern immigrants tend to call it in Brazil. Just another example of how a country’s immigration patterns are as much a part of its culture as anything else. It seems to me that in Brazil, kafta is served exclusively on skewers, unlike the arbitrary meatballs depicted on this Wikipedia page. 
Moreover, whoever wrote the section on Lebanese kafta not only called it “kafta” but made no attempt to explain why they did so (as the Palestinian section had done), leading me to believe thisauthor was a bit resentful that the designated English word for the dish comprised displayed what he thought of as the wrong vowel. 
The hypothetical Prague Museum of Kafta would, naturally, keep its “Kafka”-like pronunciation of “kafta” in order to attract well-meaning though utterly ignorant tourists looking for Kafka memorabilia. Instead, there would be elaborate models of kaftas from all over the world on exhibition. Because, for some reason, wax figure museums seem to be in every corner of Prague, the model kaftas should be made of it, too, for real food would likely rot in a day or so. Of course, they could hire people to prepare different kinds of kafta every day, but I wonder then if it wouldn’t be more lucrative to open up a restaurant. After all, aren’t restaurants kind of like museums? There is quite a lot to learn from food. 
Strangely enough, in my view, gastronomy is the art in the most direct parallel with literature. Now, I can’t cook to save my life, but I do love eating –– mostly, I love tasting. This is why I can never eat the same thing two days in a row, and why I deliberately look out for weird food. 
The analogy between food and literature is quite clear, I think. Both generate a sequence of textures, both are keen on causing a progression of reactions as opposed to one instinctive one, and both have been known to mix components that do not usually go together in order to find harmony in contrast. One offers us our literal “tastes” whereas the other offers our abstract yet often conceivable “tastes.” 
Yet Kafka does not quite taste like kafta. It tastes more like freshly brewed espresso with a lemon slice. And some vanilla whipped cream on the side, if you can’t handle the bitterness. Perhaps those fried beetle skewers they have in China. I am told they taste like normal chips. And now, I am hungry. 

The Kafta museum was a nice place, getting the most out of what it had. Unfortunately, it wasn’t much: most of the originals I’d been hoping to see were in another museum; the ones there only facsimiles. It is however always somewhat magical to see a writer’s handwriting, and I had a good time, though I’m not sure that Bianca did. 
Furthermore, we found out some surprising facts about Kafka. For instance, did you know that Franz was kind of a manwhore? He strung a poor woman along for years and years before finally calling off their engagement. The museum had a whole room dedicated to “The Loves of Franz Kafka,” which I guess was a little bit Gossip Girl. But I don’t blame them, as they didn’t have much to work with. And who doesn’t love Gossip Girl? 
Although the captions at this museum were considerably better articulated than those we had seen at the other, false Kafka museum, they were still delightfully odd. And, mind you, I’m not making fun of the Czech Republic, as museum captions are even worse in Brazil, and not even in a funny way (rather, in a Google-translate way). 
One of the first captions starts with: Franz Kafka was born into a myth called Prague. 
A bit dramatic if you ask me, but it is nice to know whoever wrote this loves his or her city so much. I cannot say I would not be inclined to say that about my home. Yet this formulation also raises interesting questions about Czech written language; perhaps they were writing like this in English because it did not sound odd in Czech.
There were many commas and hardly any periods. At one point the blurb said, “Imagine a childhood where the I is an enigma,” and that was too Unbearable Lightness of Being for me. 
I suspect, nonetheless, that those captions were written by at least two different people, as those accompanying the wide selection of Kafka’s first editions were so nicely done. I was rather moved. One of the captions declares that “literature is at its most potent when it disjoints the powerful fictions that govern men’s lives. A powerful fiction is a discourse which time has converted into unquestionable truth […] Yes, the office thrusts its root into the fantastic.”
Most people would say literature is either escapism or a fictional illustration –– an allegory of reality. My understanding of fiction, however, has always been an approximation of that description –– something that manages to depict the absurdity of everyday life, how bizarre our reality really is. Fiction, to me, has always been the best way to tell or at least search for the truth, because there is so little truth in the unnatural systems in which we are ingrained. 
Whoever wrote that blurb really gets it. 
Do I wish the manuscripts were at the Kafka museum? Of course, but I doubt even the City of Prague Museum has the most impressive Kafka collection. Most of Kafka’s (mostly unfinished, never-before-seen) manuscripts are currently in possession of one Ruth Wiesler, the daughter of Kafka’s friend Joseph Brod’s secretary. 
Here’s what went down –– Kafka asked Brod, whose letters were, in fact, largely displayed in the Kafka museum, to burn his manuscripts upon his death. Brod, however, did no such thing, thankfully. He instead published much of Kafka’s work and took the manuscripts with him when he fled the Czech Republic to British Palestine. Having had no children, he left his estate to his loyal secretary, Esther Hoffe. Esther auctioned a couple things in the collection, though there seemed to be no real interest back then. Right now, however, the Brod estate is caught up in an international dispute among the state of Israel, Esther’s daughter Ruth, and Germany. 
Though the Israeli government had previously declined to acquire some of the manuscripts when offered, now it aims to seize Wiesler’s collection without compensation, arguing that Kafka’s works are part of Jewish heritage. Germany, on the other hand, seems to think Kafka’s works are part of German heritage. 
I would be inclined to give them to Germany were it not for the fact that it is not a good look for them to claim a Jewish writer. Not to mention they already bought the full manuscript of The Castle from Esther. Though German was Kafka’s first language and Germany his home for a while, he was not seen as part of the German group. Kafka’s, in fact, could not identify with either community; Jewish or German: he was one of the many German-speaking Jews who lived in Prague, but one of the only ones who spoke Czech. From what we know, he had no intention of ever leaving for the Holy Land, thinking the idea rather unrealistic as the center of intellectual life was around him. 
Plenty of people are not aware that German was Kafka’s first language. Most people are confused about Kafka altogether. Where was he from? I think he came from otherness. 
Now, I do sympathize with Ruth Wiesler. If I had those manuscripts, I too would not want to give them away –– I would let people see them and study them, perhaps let museums show them, but I would not give them up. Unless, of course, they aren’t any good, and that is why Brod never published them in the first place –– while I suppose it is possible since most writers’ unpolished work is worse than their masterpieces, Kafka’s leftovers are sure to be a lesser writer’s wildest dream. 
It could simply be a matter of Kafka versus Kafka, though: just as any great author’s unfinished drafts, it doesn’t really match the genius of a masterpiece. But here again Kafka’s legacy is unprecedented: isn’t his masterpiece an unfinished draft, after all? This entire situation is rather fitting, most have said. Franz Kafka’s works stuck in a series of meaningless courtroom proceedings? How wonderfully Kafkaesque! I hate that word. Especially because people use it quite deliberately –– and people who have never read Kafka, at that, which you can tell by how they are using it. Much of what those idiots refer to as “Kafkaesque” is, in fact, “Orwellian,” and vice-versa. 
It seems like this has been annoying me, as there is somehow an entire page of my journal dedicated to differentiating the two. Enjoy my plain literary frustration (and feel free to add on):

I often think about Ruth Wiesel and her sister, Eva Hoffe, who died last year and was also heavily involved in the Kafka dispute. The situation is, indeed, Kafkaesque, though that is one of the few instances in which using this adjective is not only correct but inevitable. In all other subjects, please refrain from saying that word. “Kafkaesque” is one of the words intellectuals invented in order to expose pseudo-intellectuals. It’s true; they told me. 
In any case, I can’t help but think that Franz Kafka, who wanted his manuscripts burned, would have found satisfaction in this situation.
If it’s destined to become part of a country’s cultural archive, then why not let it stay in Prague, where most of these works were written? It seems like the logical solution. after all. Do Israel and Germany even  accommodate not one but two Kafka Museums? And an upcoming Kafta museum? No, I think not. 

ξ

Brazilian author Beatriz Seelaender has had her stories and essays published on websites like Psychopomp, Inverted Syntax, The Collapsar, Soft Cartel, and many others –– in addition to a column for Maudlin House. In print, her work has been featured in magazines such as High Shelf, AZURE, Cagibi, and The Gateway Review. "A Kidney Caught in Quicksand," a story published by Grub Street in 2017, earned Seelaender recognition from the Columbia Scholastic Press Association in the categories of experimental fiction and humor writing. In 2019, Seelaender won Hidden River Arts’ Sandy Run Novella Award.