When a man’s breast feels like a cage from which all the dark birds have flown – he is free, he is light. And he longs to have his vultures back again. He wants his customary struggles, his nameless, empty works, his anger, his afflictions and his sins.
Saul Bellow, Herzog
Kafka endevoured to be honest in his writing, in his profession and his love. At the same time he realized, or at least suspected, that a person who wants to live honestly chooses torture and renunciation, a monastic life devoted to a single god, and his sacrifices everything for it. He could not, at the same time be and honest writer and an honest lover, let alone a husband, even though he longed to be both. For a very brief instant he was deluded into believing that he could manage both, and that was he wrote most of his works. Every time, however, he saw through the illusion, he froze up, and stopped motionless in torment. He’d then either lay his manuscript aside and never return to it, or sever all his ties and ask his lovers to leave him.
Only fools – with whom our revolutionary and non-monastic age abounds – believe they can combine anything with anything else, have a little of everything, take a small step back and still create something, experience something complete. These fools reassure each other, they even reward each other with decorations which are just as dishonest as they are themselves.
I too have behaved foolishly in my life in order to relieve my own torture. I have been unable either to love honestly or to walk away or to devote myself entirely to my work. Perhaps I have wasted everything I’ve ever longed for in my life, and on top of it I have betrayed the people I wanted to love.