The Fall From Grace of Age 30 And Josef K

  MAR.22.2013 

Josef K, the protagonist of Franz Kafka's The Trial was 30-year-old when he was arrested.  My professor, who taught us the novel as part of the course “the Existentialist Novel” in the mid-1970s, told us that Kafka probably chose this age because 30 symbolized stability and respectability. “People in their 30s” he argued “have already reached the pinnacle of their career.”  We, his students, all in our early 20s, accepted this is as a fact, for us, thirty was almost old age.

Ever since that day I have watched age 30 gradually falling from grace. It started with my own private biography. When my husband turned 30 his position in life was very far from being stable. He has just finished his PhD and was on his way to get his first teaching job. Three years later when I turned 30, I already had 2 very young girls, but my career has not even started.  In comparison to K.’s position (before his arrest of course) our family was very far behind.

Please keep reading in The Times Of Israel
http://blogs.timesofisrael.com/the-fall-from-grace-of-age-30-and-josef-k/

Kafka's Wish And The End Of Red Room

Kafka’s wish, that all the writing which he had ever produced would be destroyed after his death, was not respected due to the disobedience of his friend and admirer Max Brod. Since he  did not burn his writing himself, Kafka  lost control over  the destiny of his work.

This is an early example of the impossibility to control our personal information, and it is very pertinent to today’s cyber world. I don’t mean to suggest that Kafka’s writing is in anyway similar to other information which we could find on the net today, but in essence the inability to determine what will happen with one’s writing  is the same.

A lot has been written about the footsteps which we leave behind when we use the internet. Those trails are the data used by different interests or sellers when they offer us their services and products.

However, until  the last couple of weeks,   I never stopped to think about my control over my personal information,  or in other words, my writing: conference papers,  literary translations, and a biweekly blog, among others.

My chosen site was Red Room, its motto:  “where the writers are,” indicated its focus, and it was no surprise that at least most of the users, were like me, people who write. It was a lively and busy community where members wrote and got responses, where special  events, like Mother’s  Day or Thanksgiving were celebrated with special blogs. In addition, it had a genuine atmosphere of good-will  which promoted friendships.

And then, out of the blue, in the beginning of  July the Red Room community got the announcement that the site would  be closed in 5 days, there was no explanation why.

  It was a big shock, somehow due to lack of experience in the digital world, I never saw it coming. I thought that Red Room would last forever, and  was convinced that my material there would be always secure. I never expected anything to change.  Upon hearing the news I felt deceived, it was as though someone whom I grew to love and respect turned out to be a married man with another family.

Now when the shock has somewhat dissipated, I wonder about my blindness, how come I never thought to ask questions about the fortitude of that site. Before I invest money in a company I read about it to check whether it is a sound  investment (and still I could be wrong). How come it didn’t occur to me to do the same here, in the site where I invested all my energy and time?

And I am sure that I was not the only one; there were many other writers in Red Room and I never read any one raising a question about the business aspect of the site. I know that I was there to enjoy Red Room, it was a safe environment and I felt good in that happy bubble and never wanted to know about the world outside.

As I went through my blog posts copying and pasting them into Word document, in order to save them,  I felt sad. It was because it was the end of an era and also  because I knew that my “age of innocence”  was over.  From now on I  have  to take responsibility for my information, as much as I can.

It was too easy to leave it in the competent hands of the site owners,  but  eventually they had to take care of themselves.

I need to grow up and do the same

Kafka And The Art Of Glossing Over A Blunder

 AUG.23.2013 

Back when we were at university, a time when life was simpler, my husband  and I spent 2 months hitchhiking through Europe. Since I studied art history, Italy was our natural destination. We were a young and clean looking couple and never waited long for a ride. Drivers were extremely kind to us and always wanted to talk. For example, on the way to the tiny republic of San Marino, a woman slightly older than us gave us a ride. We started a conversation and she invited us to stay the night at her house. She said that she too had been traveling, and people had invited her to the their houses.

Another place which I wanted to visit was Riva Del Garda. In addition to art history I also studied literature, and the town Riva on Lake Garda is the setting for Kafka’s short story "The Hunter Gracchus.” On the way there we got a ride from a distinguished looking Italian gentleman, in his late forties. Perhaps he was younger but to us he seemed very old. He told us that he was a lawyer and asked what we studied. Upon hearing that I studied literature he said that he loved to read. Tzvi, looking for something to talk about, said “my wife is going to Riva del Garda because of a short story,” "Who is the author?" he asked me "Franz Kafka and the story is 'The Hunter Gracchus.'” "I have never heard of Kafka." he said. We felt very bad, as we were his guests and our job was to entertain him so he would feel happy that he had given us a ride. Suddenly I heard my husband  saying “Ah Kafka, he is a minor Jewish author, only Jewish people have heard of him."

We were relieved to step out of the car. After that unfortunate exchange we were quite worried that we would say anything which would make our driver uncomfortable.

When we went to see the lake in the late afternoon, I could imagine Gracchus’s lost boat getting into Riva del Garda. Gracchus the hunter insists that he has been dead for hundreds of years, but he is the protagonist and the narrator of this short story and his restless and endless death seems very much like life.

Throughout the years I have read this story many times without seeming to understand this exercise in futility any better. My memory of the story is mixed up with images of a hazy afternoon on the lake in Riva, the park by the lake, the driver who became anxious because he didn’t know who Kafka was, and poor Gracchus who is still looking for a port.

When I looked for some information about the story I came across this statement by Karen Bernardo, “Gracchus's role as a dead man in the world of the living ironically parallels Kafka's position as a Jew in a Christian and anti-Semitic society. He is an outsider, and there is nothing to be done about it.”

So now I have finally figured out the convoluted connection between Gracchus, Riva del Garda, a young Israeli couple and “a minor Jewish author.”

  

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