Philip Boehm

Franz Kafka

A new translation of Kafka's letters to his Czech translator, Milena Jesenska, includes materials previously unpublished as well as some of her letters and essays

Letters to Milena

Briefe an Milena

Franz Kafka's letters to his one-time muse, Milena Jesenska - an intimate window into the desires and hopes of the twentieth-century's most prophetic and important writer Kafka first made the acquaintance of Milena Jesenska in 1920 when she was translating his early short prose into Czech, and their relationship quickly developed into a deep attachment. Such was his feeling for her that Kafka showed her his diaries and, in doing so, laid bare his heart and his conscience. While at times Milena's 'genius for living' gave Kafka new life, it ultimately exhausted him, and their relationship was to last little over two years. In 1924 Kafka died in a sanatorium near Vienna, and Milena died in 1944 at the hands of the Nazis, leaving these letters as a moving record of their relationship.

aybüke

A man is lying on his death-bed and in the independence gained by the proximity of death, he says: ‘I have spent my life fighting the desire to end it.’ Then a pupil mocks his teacher, who talks of nothing but death: ‘You’re always talking about death and yet you do not die.’ ‘And yet I will die. I’m just singing my last song. One man’s song is longer, another man’s is shorter. At most, however, they differ by only a few words.’

The thought of death makes you anxious? I’m just terribly afraid of pain. That’s a bad sign. To want death but not pain is a bad sign.

‘Imperfection as a couple’ was actually a misunderstanding in your letter. I didn’t mean to say anything more than: I am living in my dirt, that’s my business. But dragging you down into it is an entirely different matter, not only as a transgression against you, that’s incidental. I don’t believe a transgression against another person could disturb my sleep, insofar as it only concerns the other person. So it isn’t that. Rather the terrible thing is that you make me so much more aware of my dirt and—above all—that this awareness makes salvation so much more difficult for me—no, so much more impossible (it’s impossible in any case, but here the impossibility increases). This makes my forehead break out in a fearful sweat; that it could be any fault of yours, Milena, is out of the question.

I’m not saying goodbye. There isn’t any goodbye, unless gravity, which is lying in wait for me, pulls me down entirely. But how could it, since you are alive.

Something like: when one is alone, imperfection must be endured every minute of the day; a couple, however, does not have to put up with it. Aren’t our eyes made to be torn out, and our hearts for the same purpose? At the same time it’s really not that bad; that’s an exaggeration and a lie, everything is exaggeration, the only truth is longing, which cannot be exaggerated. But even the truth of longing is not so much its own truth; it’s really an expression of everything else, which is a lie. This sounds crazy and distorted, but it’s true.

Moreover, perhaps it isn’t love when I say you are what I love the most—you are the knife I turn inside myself, this is love.

I remembered who I was, and saw that your eyes were no longer deceived; I had the nightmare (of feeling at home in a place one doesn’t belong), but for me this nightmare was real. I had to return to the darkness, I couldn’t stand the sun, I was desperate, truly like an animal gone astray; I started running as fast as I could and still could not escape the thought: ‘If only I could take her with me!’ and the counterthought: ‘But can there be any darkness where she resides?’

You ask how I’m getting along; there’s your answer.

Robinson had to sign on, you see, had to make his dangerous voyage, had to suffer shipwreck and many other things—I would only have to lose you and would already be Robinson. But I’d be more Robinson than he. He still had the island and Friday and many various things and finally the ship that took him away and practically turned everything into a dream. I wouldn’t have a thing, not even my name, since I’ve given that to you as well.

I won’t attempt to answer the first paragraph of your letter, I still don’t even know the notorious first paragraph of the prior letter. Those are very complicated things which can only be solved in conversation between mother and child; perhaps they can only be solved there because they can’t possibly come up. I won’t attempt to do so because the pain is lurking in my temples. Did Cupid’s arrow pierce my temples instead of my heart?

I am dirty, Milena, infinitely dirty, this is why I scream so much about purity. No one sings as purely as those who inhabit the deepest hell—what we take to be the song of angels is their song.

This is bad but nothing crucial, nothing actually decisive in heaven and on Earth has happened, it really is just ‘playing with a ball,’ as you call it. It’s as if Eve had indeed picked the apple (sometimes I think I understand the Fall like no one else), but just to show it to Adam—because she liked it. It was the biting that was decisive; of course playing with the apple also wasn’t allowed, but neither was it prohibited.

I don’t understand your asking for forgiveness. If it’s over it goes without saying that I forgive you. I was only unrelenting as long as it was going on, and then you didn’t care. How could I not forgive you for something if it’s over! How confused your head must be to even think such a thing.

And now be grateful to me. I have happily overcome the temptation to add something crazy in these last lines (something crazy and jealous).

My body, often quiet for years, would then again be shaken by this longing for some very particular, trivial, disgusting thing, something slightly repulsive, embarrassing, obscene, which I always found even in the best cases—some insignificant odor, a little bit of sulphur, a little bit of hell.

Last night I committed a murder for your sake: a wild dream, bad, bad night. I hardly remember anything more about it. [...] 

I don’t blame Max. Of course, whatever may have been in his letter, it was wrong: nothing, not even the best of people, shall come between us. This is also why I committed a murder last night.

And now, Milena, on top of this you are turning away from me, not for long, I know, but remember a human can’t last for long without a heartbeat, and as long as you are turned away how can my heart go on beating?

I can shirk off and work less than anyone (I do); I can make a mess of things (I do), while still making myself important (I do); I can calmly accept the most special treatment imaginable as my due: but to lie just so I can suddenly leave—as a free man, since I’m just an employee after all—to go where ‘nothing else’ is sending me except the natural beating of my heart—I just can’t lie like that.

Raiza Zaldiarizki

Yours. (now, I'm even losing my name–it was getting shorter and shorter all the time and is now: Yours)

Giants have their weaknesses as well; I believe even Hercules fainted once. With my teeth clenched, however, and with your eyes before me I can endure anything: distance, anxiety, worry, letterlessness.

—it sometimes seems to me that instead of ever living together, we will just be able to lie down next to one another, comfortable and content, in order to die. But whatever happens it will be close to you.

—but all other life is a disgrace and makes me sick. I used to think I couldn’t stand living, couldn’t stand people, and I was very ashamed of myself; but now you are confirming that it wasn’t life which seemed unbearable to me.

—no matter what they say about you in their pretentious wisdom, their bestial dullness (although animals aren’t that dull-witted), their devilish kindness, their murderous love—I, I, Milena will know to the end of my days that you will do the right thing whatever you decide, whether you remain in Vienna or come here or stay hovering between Prague and Vienna or now do one thing now the other. What in the world would I be doing with you if I didn’t know that.

I won’t say a thing, just seat you in the armchair (you claim you haven’t done enough nice things for me, but is there anything nicer, any greater honor you can show me than simply being with me and allowing me to sit in front of you?). So now I seat you in the chair, unable to grasp the scope of my fortune with words eyes hands and my poor heart, my happiness that you are here and really mine.

And when you go to bed tonight, as a good night wish from me, take in—all in one stream—everything I am and have: all of which is blissfully happy to rest in you.

(There’s something very loathsome, apart from the arrogance, in my telling you this, but I’m doing so out of fear for you. What wouldn’t I do out of fear for you. Look what a strange new type of fear.)

Bish this the same guy who wrote that depressing ass diary?

Azizah Jihan

I feel like Kafka wrote these letters at his most tender and tormented—like he’s in love, on the verge of a breakdown, or both—no in-between. 

Rien

In no other work does Franz Kafka reveal himself as in Letters to Milena, which begins as a business correspondence but soon develops into a passionate but doomed epistolary love affair. Kafka's Czech translator, Milena Jesenská, was a gifter and charismatic twenty-three-year-old who was uniquely able to recognize Kafka's complex genius and his even more complex character. For thirty-six-year-old Kafka, she was "a living fire, such as I have never seen." It was to Milena that he revealed his most intimate self and, eventually, entrusted his diaries for safekeeping.

em 摇摇

now i really wish we could get Milena’s side of the story.

nadyra

I loved it! Made me apriciate Franz Kafka even more. 

Martina

Selin Igten

‘I can't explain to you or to anybody what it's like inside me. How could I begin to explain; I can't even explain it to myself. But even this is not the main thing; the main thing is obvious: it is impossible to live like a human being around me; you see this and yet you don't want to believe it?’

‘I'm very sorry about the flowers you received--so sorry I can't even decipher what kind of flowers they were. And now they're in your room. If I really were your wardrobe I'd suddenly shove myself out of the room in broad daylight and wait.’

Laura Rodrigues de Pina

Acho que poucas leituras na minha vida serão tão prazeirosas e dolorosas na minha vida, nunca havia experimentado sentimento tão agridoce a me identificar nas paginas de um livro.

Franz Kafka's Letters to Milena are an opportunity to understand the author behind some well known works. He has a rather romantic, philosophical way of writing. The greatest surprise was the ending, which provided some of Milena's works. Her essay on marriage contains a modern, unconventional view of this subject for its time. It was a pleasure to read this book. 

Nina Alexandra Bacrau

Lettere a Milena. Ediz. critica

gio☕

“Cara signora Milena”, così Kafka ha cominciato gran parte delle sue lettere. Dunque è così che desidero iniziare io la mia.

Cara signora Milena,
Caro signor Kafka (a lei ultimo mi rivolgo in maniera particolare, giacché non esisterebbe alcuna lettera a Milena senza lei, e senza ovviamente Milena),
queste lettere mi hanno stregata, rapita, fatta innamorare. Queste lettere sono state mie compagne notturne, mie compagne di sogni. Sono stata incatenata alle sue parole, signor Kafka, come mi è successo con pochi altri libri. Credo che il mio cuore abbia ceduto, a un certo punto, incapace di sostenere oltre il peso della bellezza dell’amore. E credo d’essermi innamorata di lei, signor Kafka, tanto quanto, credo, lei si sia innamorato della sua Milena, solo che io, a differenza sua, mi ritrovo incapace, ora, di scriverle come lei ha scritto alla sua amata.
Non mi sono mai ritrovata tanto vicina a qualcuno; non mi sono mai ritrovata tanto simile a qualcuno. Perché noi, signor Kafka, io e lei, siamo dannatamente simili nel profondo dell’animo, legati dalla medesima concezione dell’amore, del sentimento dell’amore. Lei è stato in grado, con queste sue lettere, di farmi dire tutto ciò che mi porto dentro e che mai ho avuto la forza di portare all’esterno del mio intimo essere. Lei ha parlato per me, e di questo le sono infinitamente grata. Il mio cuore ha danzato tra le parole di queste lettere rivolte a lei, signora Milena; ho sofferto con lei, Kafka, ho gioito assieme a lei, ho amato, vissuto, desiderato di morire, di rinascere, di partire e tornare indietro, sempre insieme a lei, che ha riempito d’amore le mio notti vuote.
E io so, cara signora Milena e caro signor Kafka, che queste lettere saranno a me care per tutta la vita. Perché queste lettere sono state il coltello col quale ho frugato e continuerò a frugare in me stessa. Mi sono guardata meglio, dall’interno, e mi sono lasciata accarezzare dalle sue mani, Kafka, che mi pettinavano i capelli; mi sono beata del lieve peso del suo capo sul mio grembo, della morsa stretta e delicata insieme delle nostre dita intrecciate, della dolcezza e adorazione che non è stato capace di celare dietro il suo sguardo. Mi sono innamorata follemente dell’amore che trapela da queste vostre lettere. Vi ho visti vicini, lontani, uniti, separati in eterno. E ho poi rivisto Praga, quella città in cui desideravo da tempo tornare, ma non sapevo come. Finalmente sono tornata a casa, ad una delle mie tante case sparse per questo mondo.
Cara signora Milena, questa lettera non andrà perduta, né strappata, né bruciata.
Caro signor Kafka, desidero solo poter continuare a leggere queste sue lettere per l’eternità; al momento, ciò è l’unica cosa di cui ho bisogno, perché ora, domani e per sempre, ho bisogno d’amore.
Ho provato troppe emozioni troppo intensamente per poterle racontare in una semplice lettera. Certe cose, mi avete insegnato, possono essere raccontate solo di persona. Ma poiché noi non c’incontreremo mai, le mie emozioni, condivise con entrambi voi - con lei, signor Kafka, più di tutti -, rimaranno con me per sempre, ricordandomi di queste lettere che mi hanno segnata nel profondo.

Vostra,
G

Vi ringrazio per avermi fatto incominciare magnificamente questo nuovo anno.

Mo'men Alhoot

وأخيرًا انتهيت من هذا الكتاب وانتهى كل شئ معه!!
(ممكن تقروا ال review الكامل على Instagram)

I love this book very much & I think it’s made me obsessed with letters. Kafka’s writing, even informally, is so pretty and intense and lovely :)

Milenaya Mektuplar

Eylül Görmüş

Söylenecek çok şey var, ama benim için en önemlisi şu: bu kitaba dair sağda solda “büyük bir aşk kitabı” denmesine itiraz ediyorum. Aşk meselesi benim için ikincil hatta üçüncül, dördüncül planda oldu diyebilirim. Bu kitapta aşk var mı, var; Milena’nın Kafka’ya duyduğunun aşkın bir çeşidi olduğunu seziyorum, Kafka’nın Milena’ya duyduğu aşk mıdır peki? Ondan emin olamadım. Ama sonuçta bence bu önemsiz: aşk, bu iki insanın kendileriyle ve dünyayla kurdukları ilişkiyi zenginleştirmek, didiklemek, kurcalamak, çözümlemek (ve bazen de karmaşıklaştırmak) için araçsallaştırdığı bir şey gibi geldi bana. Ve aklıma Attila İlhan’ın şu çok sevdiğim satırları geldi: “Hayatta kimse kimseyi anlayamaz, kimse kimsenin yerini tutamaz; aşk dediğimiz, ya vahim bir yanlış anlaşılmadır, ya kötü bir hayal kurma tarzı: iki kişinin ikisi de, öbürünün yerine hayal kurmaya kalkıştığından, sukut-u hayaller eksik olmaz! Sen dediğime kulak ver; kendimizden başkasını sevemiyoruz; sevdiğimiz, şahsiyetimizin dışlaştırılmış, bir başkasının üzerinde somutlaştırılmış hayali; o başkası da kendisini üçüncü bir şahıs üzerinde dışlaştırır, somutlaştırır: arada ahenk kurulamaz, nasıl kurulsun, sevdiğimizle sandığımız farklı!” Neyse, sonuçta naçizane tavsiyem, bu kitabı aşk meselesinden çıkarıp okumak gerektiği olacak. O zaman çok fazla, çok fazla şey bulmak mümkün içinde. Korkuya dair, insan olmaya dair, üretmeye dair. Kendimizle kurduğumuz ve kuramadığımız ilişkilere dair. Son not: Milena’nın Max Brod’a yazdığı birkaç mektup bile enfesti. Keşke Kafka’ya yazdıkları da kalsaymış da okuyabilseymişiz, besbelli ki olağanüstü bir kadınmış kendisi.

Letters to Milena

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