Franz Kafka

Happy 133rd birthday, Herr Kafka!

[miguel1984]

A kafkaesque birthday would be like a friend's friend party, where you don't know almost anyone and can't leave because you do not know the neighborhood, feel kind of lost and do not really understand how you got there in the first place.

[bendk]

Quote Originally Posted by miguel1984

A kafkaesque birthday would be like a friend's friend party, where you don't know almost anyone and can't leave because you do not know the neighborhood, feel kind of lost and do not really understand how you got there in the first place.

Sounds like an entertaining story idea. "Young Franz Goes to a Birthday Party".

Quote Originally Posted by bendk

Quote Originally Posted by miguel1984 A kafkaesque birthday would be like a friend's friend party, where you don't know almost anyone and can't leave because you do not know the neighborhood, feel kind of lost and do not really understand how you got there in the first place. Sounds like an entertaining story idea. "Young Franz Goes to a Birthday Party".

"When young Franz ate his cake he was bewildered as to why it tasted utterly salty instead of sweet; and, later, when he opened his birthday presents, all of the boxes were empty. Nor would the guests leave his house, even when it was his bedtime. His friends asserted that they were not playing a joke on him. "

[bendk]

A theory of ghosts in general, and an interaction with Kafka's ghost by Derrida.

I will have to track down the paper he wrote on Kafka.

Derrida On - YouTube

[bendk]

This is an interesting Kafkaesque story by Steve Rasnic Tem. It would also fit in nicely with Ligotti's corporate horror stories.

Tem made a list of his favorite short horror stories once. I can't remember where I read it, but what I do remember that his favorite horror story was: "A Country Doctor" by Franz Kafka. Another story that made the list was "The Last Feast of Harlequin" by Ligotti.

At the Bureau
by Steve Rasnic Tem

I’ve been the administrator of these offices for twenty-five years now. I wish my employees were as steady. Most of them last only six months or so before they start complaining of boredom. It’s next to impossible to find good help. But I’ve always been content here. My wife doesn’t understand how I could remain with the job this long. She says it’s a dead end; I’m at the top of my pay scale, there’ll be no further promotions, or increase in responsibilities. I’ve no place to go but down, she says. Her complaints about my job always lead to complaints about the marriage itself, of course. No children. Few friends. All the magic’s gone, she says. But I’ve always been content.

When I started in the office we handled building permits. After a few years we were switched to peddling, parade, demolition licenses. Two years ago it was dog licenses’. Last year they switched us to nothing but fishing permits. Not too many people fish these days; the streams are too polluted. Last month I sold one permit. None the two months before. They plan to change our function again, I’m told, but a final decision apparently hasn’t been made. I really don’t care, as long as my offices continue to run smoothly. A photograph of my wife taken the day of our marriage has sat on my desk the full twenty-five years, watching over me. At least she doesn’t visit the office. I’m grateful for that.

Last week they reopened the offices next door. About time, I thought; the space had been vacant for five years. Ours was the last office still occupied in the old City Building. I was afraid maybe we too would be moved. But I haven’t been able as yet to determine just what it is exactly they do next door. They’ve a small staff, just one lone man at a telephone, I think. No one comes in or out of the office all day, until five, when he goes home.

I feel it’s my business to find out what he does over there, and what it is he wants from me. A few days ago I looked up from my newspaper and saw a shadow on the frosted glass of our front door. Imagine my irritation when I rushed out into the hallway only to see his door just closing. I walked over there, intending to knock, and ask him what it was he wanted, but I saw his shadow within the office, bent over his desk. For some reason this stopped me, and I returned to my own office.
The next day the same thing happened. Then the day after that. I then refused to leave my desk. I wouldn’t chase a shadow; he would not use me in such a fashion. I soon discovered that when I didn’t go to the door, the shadow remained in my frosted glass all day long. He was standing outside my door all day long, every day.

Once there were two shadows. That brought me to my feet immediately. But when I jerked the door open I discovered two city janitors, sent to scrape off the words “Fish Permits” from my sign, “Bureau Of Fish Permits.” When I asked them what the sign was to be changed to, they told me they hadn’t received those instructions yet. Typical, I thought; nor had I been told.
Of course, after the two janitors had left, the single shadow was back again. It was there until five.

The next morning I walked over to his office door. The lights were out; I was early. I had hoped that the sign painters had labeled his activity for me, but his sign had not yet been filled in. “Bureau Of …” There were a few black streaks where the paint had been scraped away years ago, bare fragments of the letters that I couldn’t decipher.
I’m not a man given to emotion. But the next day I lost my temper. I saw the shadow before the office door and I exploded. I ordered him away from my door at the top of my voice. When three hours had passed and he still hadn’t left, I began to weep. I pleaded with him. But he was still there.

The next day I moaned. I shouted obscenities. But he was always there.

Perhaps my wife is right; I’m not very decisive, I don’t like to make waves. But it’s been days. He is always there.
Today I discovered the key to another empty office adjacent to mine. It fits a door between the two offices. I can go from my office to this vacant office without being seen from the hallway. At last, I can catch this crazy man in the act. I sit quietly at my desk, pretending to read the newspaper. He hasn’t moved for hours, except to occasionally peer closer at the frosted glass in my door, simulating binoculars with his two hands to his eyes. I take off my coat and put it on the back of my chair. A strategically placed flower pot will give the impression of my head. I crawl over to the door to the vacant office, open it as quietly as possible, and slip through. Cobwebs trace the outlines of the furniture. Files are scattered everywhere, some of the papers beginning to mold. The remains of someone’s lunch are drying on one desk. I have to wonder at the city’s janitorial division.

Unaccountably, I worry over the grocery list my wife gave me, now lying on my desk. I wonder if I should go back after it. Why? It bothers me terribly, the list unattended, unguarded on my desk. But I must push on. I step over a scattered pile of newspapers by the main desk, and reach the doorway leading into the hall.
I leap through the doorway with one mighty swing, prepared to shout the rude man down, in the middle of his act. The hall is empty. I am suddenly tired. I walk slowly to the man’s office door, the door to the other bureau. I stand waiting. I can see his shadow through the office door. He sits at his desk, apparently reading a newspaper. I step closer, forming my hands into imaginary binoculars. I press against the glass, right below the phrase, “Bureau Of,” lettered in bold, black characters.
He orders me away from his door. He weeps. He pleads. Now he is shouting obscenities.

I’ve been here for days.