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Thursday, October 17, 2019

Kafka, Anti-Semite

As published at Unz Review and TruthSeeker, 10/17/19:






A Saigon McDonald’s is hardly the ideal place to muse about Kafka, but that’s where I am, because I crave ketchup this morning, and I have just enough free time to pose as a writer. Running ragged, I spent this past week hosting two Korean salesmen. They’re in Vietnam for Metalex, a trade convention of machine tool manufacturers.

In a dozen interviews going back two decades, I’ve always cited Kafka and Borges as key influences. From each, I learnt about the ludicrous dignity of futile pursuits, the terrors of random injustice and how the weather in a sentence can suddenly shift, even several times. I encountered both masters at 19 years old. Since my parents were not readers, I had no serious literature at home, growing up.

Of course, they’re very different. Compared to Borges, Kafka is much more pared down and tactile, without that erudite surface. He’s more folksy, archetypal or even cartoonish.

Embarrassed and exasperated, an aging bachelor is depicted as “having to carry one’s supper home in one’s hand,” and to “stand there with a palpable body and a real head, a real forehead, that is, for smiting on with one’s hand.”

Psychological states are often depicted as physical conditions. In his first letter to Felice Bauer, this is how Kafka describes their budding relationship, “Now that the door between us is beginning to move, or at least we are both holding the handle, surely I can, in fact I even must, say it. Oh, the moods I get into, Fräulein Bauer!”

A door, a forehead.

In “Josephine the Singer, or the Mouse Folk,” the listening audience feels this communal comfort, “Here in the brief intervals between their struggles our people dream, it is as if the limbs of each were loosened, as if the harried individual once in a while could relax and stretch himself at ease in the great, warm bed of the community.”

Writing to Felice, Kafka talks about biting onto a thought, “The night before last, or the one before that, I dreamed continually about teeth; they were not orderly teeth in a mouth, but a mass of teeth fitted together, exactly as in children’s jigsaw puzzles, and the whole lot, guided by my jaw, were in some kind of sliding motion. I mustered all my strength to express something which, above all else, was very close to my heart; the movement of these teeth, the gaps between them, their grinding, the sensation when guiding them—all this was in some way closely related to some thought, some decision, a hope, a possibility, which I was trying to grasp, hold on to, and realize, by means of this continual biting.”

As one of the 20th century’s most admired writers, Kafka has been discussed from every angle, so what can I possibly add? I’m bringing him up because there’s an inadequately interpreted story, “Jackals and Arabs,” that’s very pertinent to this moment, and our understanding of it.

A visitor “from the North” comes to Palestine. There, he’s approached by talking jackals who try to get him to kill Arabs with a pair of rusty scissors. Surrounded by jackals, the visitor is held in place by two young ones. With their teeth “well in,” they grasp him by his coat and shirt.

Naturally, the European demands to be released, to which an old jackal replies, “They will, of course, if that is your wish. But it will take a little time, for they have got their teeth well in, as is our custom, and must first loosen their jaws bit by bit.” So that’s how even a friend and potential benefactor is treated.

This violent detainment is actually “a mark of honor,” for the biting jackals are “trainbearers.” Old jackal, “We are poor creatures, we have nothing but our teeth; whatever we want to do, good or bad, we can tackle it only with our teeth.”

Entangled with Arabs in a “very old quarrel,” jackals wish to be “troubled no more by Arabs; room to breathe; a skyline cleansed of them,” but they can’t get rid Arabs on their own, so must enlist outside help. Howling in unison, a kind of melody from afar, they plead to the European, “Sir, we want you to end this quarrel that divides the world.”

Very curious, this local, desert quarrel that embroils and divides the world.

Chasing the jackals away, a laughing Arab explains to the European, “So long as Arabs exist, that pair of scissors goes wandering through the desert and will wander with us to the end of our days. Every European is offered it for the great work; every European is just the man that Fate has chosen for them. They have the most lunatic hopes, these beasts; they’re just fools, utter fools.”

Critics have interpreted the Arabs in this story as representing the spirit, natural law, Kafka’s father or Gentiles. The jackals symbolize matter, rebellious humanity, Kafka himself or Jews. The narrator is sometimes deciphered as the Messiah.

Eating a sausage muffin in a Saigon McDonald’s, dumbshit me think the Arabs are simply Arabs, the European “man from the North” is, well, a European, and the jackals are obviously Jews.

Far from being utter fools, jackals have gotten Europeans to mass murder Arabs for decades, and this genocide won’t be done until the horizon is purged of the Jews’ enemies. “So we shall draw blood from them and the quarrel will be over.”

Kafka paints these jackals most unflatteringly, “They all began to pant more quickly; the air pumped out of their lungs although they were standing still; a rank smell which at times I had to set my teeth to endure streamed from their open jaws.”

Though actual jackals are omnivores that hunt in packs, Kafka’s are strictly carrion eaters, for they complain of the Arabs, “They kill animals for food, and carrion they despise.”

Though they keep stressing their need for cleanliness, they devour cadavers, and in this story feast on a dead camel, a particularly unclean animal, according to Jews. These jackals just want be left alone to drain carcasses and pick bones clean, for that, to them, is cleanliness. “Cleanliness, nothing but cleanliness is what we want.”

Slithering and swooning in the putrid flesh and blood, “They had forgotten the Arabs, forgotten their hatred, the all-obliterating immediate presence of the stinking carrion bewitched them.”

Writing to Milena Jesenská, Kafka explains the Jewish bite, “Their insecure position, insecure within themselves, insecure among people, would above all explain why Jews believe they possess only whatever they hold in their hands or grip between their teeth.”

Kafka must have been quite an anti-Semite to portray Jews so nastily. He probably hated Jews so much because he didn’t know any. Ignorant, Kafka judged Jews only from Marlowe, Shakespeare and Luther, etc. A proto Nazi, Kafka preemptively justified the six million deaths of the Holocaust, and that’s why his books must be burnt tomorrow, and his two admittedly beautiful statues in Prague blown up. Moreover, sculptors David Cerny and Jaroslav Rona must be prosecuted for glorifying such a trumped up asshole. Kafka outtrumps Trump.

To continue our multicultural long march and holistic healing process, Kafka’s ghost must be deplatformed.





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6 comments:

Anonymous said...

You should the book, "You Gentiles" by Maurice Samuel.

Maybe you'll recognize the bigger picturem, and agendas, straight from the horse's mouth.

Swza said...

"the ludicrous dignity of futile pursuits"
Can you expand on this?

Linh Dinh said...

Hi Swza,

I was thinking of "First Sorrow," "Hunger Artist" and "Pierre Menard," but also many lives. Now, for example, we see Assange reduced to an animal, with the public indifferent.


Linh

Swza said...

Thanks, I see now.

In regards to Assange you are correct with the rest mostly hostile towards him.

Linh Dinh said...

Hi Swza,

Assange's stances towards Israel and 9/11 make me rather ambivalent about him, but this does not excuse the US and UK's treatment of the man. There is a theory that he is actually their asset, and this is all theater. Another possibility is that they have turned on their puppet. I really don't know.


Linh

Lutz Barz said...

I have two second hand books of Kafka's diaries up to around -- a few years before he succumbed to his lung problems. He writes he's sitting in this sanatorium, talking a decent, even educated gentleman and for some reason the Jews crop up in the conversation. The nice man turns livid, rabid, starts spewing invectives esp as he finds out somehow this Kafka is Jewish and therefore to be despised. Then stalks off. Kafka is phlegmatic as well as a little perplexed - writes - {I am adverbing here - I don't get it. I haven't said a thing. I don't even feel Jewish] or words to such effect. Or worse - me that is no Kafka. He went to the theatre in Prague where they saw plays in Yiddish - which is not unusual because Prague is really a Germanic Kultur Stadt with Czech peasants who slowly became urbanised. Yiddish really is -Schlampendeutsch - or for the anglos: pidgin english. Kafka felt himself Central European and urban. Religion race did not exist. His writings show this. It is the Other who goes off his head in this instance. Which makes Kafka such a good observer.

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About Me

Born in Vietnam in 1963, I lived mostly in the US from 1975 until 2018, but have returned to Vietnam, where I live in remote Ea Kly. I've also lived in Italy, England and Germany. I'm the author of a non-fiction book, Postcards from the End of America (2017), a novel, Love Like Hate (2010), two books of stories, Fake House (2000) and Blood and Soap (2004), and six collections of poems, with a Collected Poems apparently cancelled by Chax Press from external pressure. I've been anthologized in Best American Poetry 2000, 2004, 2007, Great American Prose Poems from Poe to the Present, Postmodern American Poetry: a Norton Anthology (vol. 2) and Flash Fiction International: Very Short Stories From Around the World, etc. I'm also editor of Night, Again: Contemporary Fiction from Vietnam (1996) and The Deluge: New Vietnamese Poetry (2013). My writing has been translated into Japanese, Italian, Spanish, French, Dutch, German, Portuguese, Korean, Arabic, Icelandic and Finnish, and I've been invited to read in Tokyo, London, Cambridge, Brighton, Paris, Berlin, Leipzig, Halle, Reykjavik, Toronto, Singapore and all over the US. I've also published widely in Vietnamese.