depths, descends no further than into a solidly built basement.
Kafka, too, did not portray anything but the reality of his own life. He presented himself as an animal, or he lay down on his bed in his cleverly constructed murdering machine to punish himself for his guilt. He felt guilty about his inability to love, or at least to love the way he wanted to. He was unable to get close to his father or to come together with a woman. He knew that in his longing for honesty he resembled a flier and his life a flight under an infinite sky, where a flier is always lonely and longs in vain for human contact. The longer he flies the more his soul is weighed down by guilt and forced down towards the ground. The flier can jettison his soul and continue his flight without it – or crash. He crashed, but for a moment at least he managed to rise from the ashes in order, second by second, movement by movement, to describe his fall.
Like everyone who hangs on for a moment above the abyss, or who has risen from the ashes and realises how tenuous his net is, Kafka was purged of anger and hate just as his language was of superfluous words. The author is already standing on the edge of the black hole, yet he still longs to look into another’s eyes in truth and in love, to speak to him in a language which his fall has cleansed of all hatreds and of all vanity.
Anyone longing to become a writer, for even a few moments of his life, will vainly weave fantastic events unless he has experienced that fall during which he doesn’t know where or whether it will come to an end, and unless his longing for human contact awakens in him the strength to rise, purged, from the ashes.
A tension was growing in me, tearing up my thoughts. I needed to do something – to talk, to shout, to cry, to write something, at least to chalk up on the wall the names of those I shall never see again.
I was passing a baker’s shop from which the smell of sweet rolls wafted out. These rolls were baked only at this bakery, a little way from the stone bridge, a little way from our palace. The last time I was in there to buy some was the day before I started street-sweeping. Then, as I entered the bakery, I was racked by longing, I was afraid that the time when I was granted the grace of human contact was coming to an end, and I saw only the edge of the precipice before me. My greatest fear was that I had dragged her to that abyss with me.
At the news stand I bought a jerkish evening paper to see if they’d noticed Dad’s death. I pushed the paper into my pocket and leaned against the stone parapet. Below me, above a little ornamental balcony, was the picture of the Virgin Mary which was said to have been carried here on the waves of a great flood. By my side stood Brokoff’s Turk, with his many-buttoned doublet and with a dog guarding his Christian prisoners, above him the three founders of the Order of the Holy Trinity. Observe, darling, how most of the life is in the dog and in the Turk; animals and heathens have no prescribed gestures, they’re alive, they aren’t saints. Saintliness doesn’t belong to life, it was invented by various cripples who were unable, or afraid, to live and therefore wanted to torture those who knew how to live.
The sun was bright on the roofs of the houses and the almost bare branches of the horse-chestnuts cast a filigree of shadows on the ground. From the bridge came the discontinuous click of footfalls. I thought I could even hear the hum of the weir.
I tore myself away from the parapet. Time was moving on and I had to find a funeral speaker. I cast one last glance down into the neighbourhood where we had sometimes walked together to the nearby park, and just then I saw her. I couldn’t, from my height, make out her face clearly, but I recognised her hurried, life-hungry way of walking. I looked after her, I followed her with my eyes as she passed under the arch of the bridge. I could have let her lose herself again in the distance from which she’d appeared, but I ran down the stairs, caught up with her and uttered her name.
She stopped. For a while she stared at me as if I were an apparition. ‘Where have you sprung from?’ she asked, the blood rushing into her face.
I tried to explain that I’d got a drug for someone but that that person had vanished from the surface of the earth, in fact not even his former woman friend knew where I might find him.
‘Yes,’ she agreed, ‘one instant a person’s here, and the next instant it’s as if he’d never existed!’ She looked at me. How many reproaches did she have prepared for this moment? Or was she, on the contrary, about to persuade me that I’d made a mistake, that I’d betrayed myself?
‘What about your Dad?’ she asked instead. ‘I prayed for him,’ she said when I told her, and simultaneously her eyes embraced and gently kissed me.
Suddenly I felt the touch of time, the time on the far side of the thin wall. She was sitting with me in the hospital waiting room, then we walked out, snow was falling.
I quickly asked about her daughter and about her work.
Just like me, she said, I was more interested in her work than in her. But she wasn’t doing anything at the moment. She’d discovered the joys of laziness. Sometimes she’d read the cards for friends or she’d botch up some figure from her dreams. Some of them still bore my likeness.
We walked along the little streets where we used to walk so often, and as always she talked to me as we walked. In the summer she’d made the acquaintance of an old woman herbalist and had got a lot of recipes from her. For days on end she’d collected and dried herbs – besides, what was she to do with her time when I hadn’t been in touch even once? If I was ever in pain or if my soul felt heavy I might phone her: she could mix me a tisane – I obviously wasn’t: interested in anything else.
We stopped at the edge of the park. I still had to find a funeral speaker. ‘You’ve never ceased to exist for me!’
She could have asked, as she’d done before, what good that was to her, or what use, or she could have complained about the sorrow I’d caused her, about how I’d hurt her. But she didn’t wish to torment me at that moment. She only said: ‘That’s good!’ And she added: ‘Maybe our souls will meet somewhere. We’ll meet in some future life. Provided you don’t find an excuse at the last moment.’ We briefly embraced and kissed goodbye, and she walked away at her hurried pace.
I couldn’t move. I didn’t even tell her that I’d never intended to hurt her, nor did I ask her if she understood that I hadn’t done anything against her, that it was just that I was unable to return to her in this halfway manner, to be a little and to not be a little, I can only honestly be or honestly not be – like herself.
She stopped at the corner. She looked back, and when she saw me at the spot where she’d left me her hand rose up like the wing of a featherless little bird and from the distance touched my forehead.
At last I moved.
On the path that went to the bank of the C ertovka stream a few figures were busying themselves in their familiar orange vests. With slow, seemingly weary movements, the movements I knew so well, they were sweeping the withered leaves into small heaps.
Down there we stood and kissed in a long embrace.
A fine thing! A fine thing!
It occurred to me that I put on that orange vest for a time because I was longing for a cleansing. Man longs for a cleansing but instead he starts cleaning up his surroundings. But until man cleanses himself he’s wasting his time cleaning up the world around him.
In the middle of the swept path lay the brownish lobed leaf of a horse-chestnut. Perhaps they’d overlooked it or perhaps it had just sailed down from above. I picked it up and for a while studied its wrinkled veins. The leaf trembled in my fingers as if it were alive.
I was still full of that unexpected meeting.
People search for images of paradise and cannot find anything other than objects from this world.
But paradise cannot be fixed in an image, for paradise is the state of meeting. With God, and also with humans. What matters, of course, is that the meeting should take place in cleanliness.
Paradise is, above all else, the state in which the soul feels clean.
I sat down on a bench and took the evening paper from my pocket. I scanned the big headlines, which repeated hundred-year-old untruths, and the lesser headlines, which dealt with yesterday. Needless to say, there was no mention of Dad.
Gently I took the pages apart, and with precise movements, which seemed to come to me automatically, I pleated them into an elaborate aeroplane.
I walked to the river, spread my legs, and aimed the nose of my paper flying machine obliquely at the sky. It rose up, perhaps assisted by the updraught from the water or perhaps just because, thanks to Dad’s instruction, I had made it particularly well, but it was quite a while before it abandoned its upward course, and I, following it with my eyes, saw the blue of the sky and a few seagulls and above them a white cloud gilded by the sun. Then my glider began to lose height and circling down it settled on the water. I watched it slowly and irretrievably floating
