Kafka

While on the subject of Czech novelists, let's talk about Kafka. For much of his life, Kafka struggled with anxiety, depression, loneliness and self-doubt. This, after all, is a man whose friend asked him, "So, outside of this manifestation of the world as we know it, is there hope?" To which Kafka smiled, "Oh, hope enough, endless hope, – just not for us."

But in his diaries and letters, Kafka writes about his feelings – including his most hopeless, dismal feelings – so candidly that I for one find them paradoxically hopeful, at times even darkly humorous. These entries from his diary – written in 1915, when Kafka was 31 – remind me of the final stages of writing my PhD thesis.

January 20: The end of writing. When will it take me up again?

January 29: Again tried to write, virtually useless.

January 30: The old incapacity. Interrupted my writing for barely ten days and already cast out. Once again prodigious efforts stand before me. You have to dive down, as it were, and sink more rapidly than that which sinks in advance of you.

February 7: Complete standstill. Unending torments.

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But to balance it out, there's the Twitter account dedicated to The Sunny Side of Franz Kafka. Kafka feeling hopeful; Kafka in love; Kafka content, perhaps even happy. Sunshine breaking through the clouds, more joyful in some ways than an unrelentingly sunny day.

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I thought I had linked to Terrible real estate agent photos on this blog before, but apparently not; that omission is now rectified. The photos are incredible, and some of the captions border on genius. Anyway, I mention them now because one of their posts has a Kafka reference (it's also on Instagram if you prefer).