A Bitter and Cold Account of a Gradual Death
The Literature Service of Iran Book News Agency (IBNA) – Hooshmand Mashayekhi: “He has written… in the meantime, he has finished his story….” Never! The story never ends. Nothing ever ends; the poisonous sting of an inevitable continuation always pierces one’s soul. A burning heat surges through one’s body, a hot, wild fever. “…His fever has not subsided, and his voice remains hoarse and scratchy…” A delirious voice echoes in one’s head and ears. A terrifying voice that constantly reminds one of the inevitability of words, the phantom of the ominous story. “He has written that there is almost no night he doesn’t dream of Dora. Although every morning only a faint memory of that dream remains in his mind… He has written that Dora is always present in his dreams and is his good nurse, if he sleeps at all… because most nights he is awake until morning.” Night never ends; morning is a vague pause that fades into the majesty of darkness. Like the day Dora is; a day that doesn’t last.
Perhaps the story falls from the womb of despair onto the brick; a chronic despair that molds itself into one’s memories in the guise of “The Splendor of Life.” Night is the main character of the tales that assault Franz’s weak windows, and “The Splendor of Life” is an inverted narrative of the excitement of these frightened fingertips. Love and youth surge in the not-so-intricate lines of the story, but the darkness and ambiguity of Kafka’s world are as clear as day even on nights of union and intimacy. Much like the frankness and boldness of an image that unfolds amidst the shadows around “The Castle” with Frieda the waitress, the lover of K.’s boss, on a night both eerie, lustful, and repulsive.
“The Splendor of Life” is a bitter and cold account of a gradual death and the fading away of a vague voice that disappears in swallowed breaths. A hoarse song that turns into a howl, a “chirping” of Josephine. “The Splendor of Life,” contrary to the warm and calm appearance born from Dora’s love, depicts the loneliness and isolation of an insect struggling in a cold, damp corner of a room in Berlin to live the last seconds of its useless life; under the protection of the warm hands of a lover who is restless at the sound of insects. Life after World War I has invaded Berlin and is pulling itself up through the veins of the ailing Franz, but no spark will reach his sad eyes. The sorrow of a late-arriving Dora and an inevitable regret place a hand around his neck. It was better that he had convinced her that separation and isolation were their undisputed destiny. Night engulfs the city’s world. Nothing is left to the end of the last story. Although there will be no end. Kafka transforms into a giant insect and makes a ridiculous croaking sound at the dinner table before his sorrowful mother’s eyes. It must be worth it. Life surges in his weary eyes, even when Mrs. Hermann, the persistent and grim landlady, grabs his collar every day and asks about the presence of the delicate and gentle Dora; the kind Dora who lived in Kafka’s sad eyes. Franz merely smiles; meaning, does the futility of the world disappear with this faint gesture from his tension, his hoarse breaths, his deathly chirping?
This story is known by heart by dear Dora. Dora has warm hands and a calm face, playing with Franz’s thin hair, with the furry hands of this dear insect, holding his claws and taking him to the illuminated nights of Berlin. Hope flows in young Dora’s body like fresh blood, penetrating Franz’s pale face through her hands and mouth. Now he sits at his desk in a dimly lit corner and continues his story. No, the story is born of hope and finds its way in the night of despair, growing tall against the futility of the world: perhaps from this simple, faint relationship, something without struggle exists, a corner of a wall that you lean on for certainty. Just like Dora who leaves Franz and looks towards the window at her beloved Kafka’s smelly clothes. “The most beautiful moments for Dora are when both are in the room, each engaged in their own work… nights when Franz writes next to her.” Although “in those first weeks, she was terrified of Franz’s work… each time she saw him hunched over and withdrawn, ascetic yet carefree…” Even though she understood nothing of those strange stories of singing mice, or giant insects, or ancient doors and brazen nights of unfamiliar cafes, or strangers who crawl into one’s bed in the mornings. It’s better that she has nothing to do with the deadly frankness of the stories, with the horror and bewilderment of cold, nightmare-like images. When night falls, when the terror of the world stretches from the window crack like an amorphous mass and gets lost in the insane silence outside, his dear Dora has already fallen asleep.
Dora was the flesh of life for Kafka’s hungry and sick teeth to endure in his ascetic darkness and isolation. The splendor of life is a nightmare that happens in wakefulness. That’s why the fever and thirst never end. Dora is cool and refreshing but does not quench. Alcohol is injected into Franz’s inflamed veins, but it is of no use. Arsenic also has no effect. Nothing eases this suffering, sunken soul. Now even his dear Dora is fading. She is melting before his eyes. She is collapsing. But he does not stop struggling; he writes about drinking, about a thirst that sets his soul and liver on fire. “He has written about thirst on almost all papers.” He is immersed in the dream of drinking. He is feverish and restless. “It’s as if he’s made of nothing but fear.” Fear of darkness or terror of the frankness of light that blinds his eyes. Writing begins from darkness, from blindness.
*All quotes are from the book “The Splendor of Life” written by Michael Kumpfmüller and translated by Mohammad Hemmati. This novel has been published by Nashr-e No.
