WHY #KAFKA DID NOT GET MARRIED.

More from Kafka's Letter to His Father:

Of course you could say quite a bit about my attempts to marry, and you did. You were unable to show a great deal of respect for my decisions since I broke off my engagement with F[elice Bauer] twice and twice renewed it again, when I dragged you and mother needlessly to my engagement party in Berlin, etc. All that is true, and how did it come about?

The basic idea behind my attempts to marry was sound: to form a household, to become independent, an idea which is agreeable to you but in reality works like the game children play, in which one holds on to the other and even presses his hand, calling out: "Go then, go already, what’s keeping you?" In our case there is a complicating factor: you truly meant the exhortation “Go already!” At the same time and without being aware of it, you held me fast or rather you held me down because of who you are.

Kafka's father wrongly thought he had acted impulsively in taking up with Dora Dymant.You thought I could decide to marry in one fell swoop, just because of a blouse [Dora was wearing] – I who was so anxious, hesitant, and suspicious. If he had married either woman, it would have been the result of a rational decision. 

Neither of the girls disappointed me, although I disappointed both. My judgment concerning them is exactly the same today as it was then when I wanted to marry them. Why, then, did I not marry? There were several roadblocks, as is always the case, but life consists in surmounting those roadblocks.  The main roadblock, however, had nothing to do with the women specifically. Apparently it had to do with my mind, my inability to face marriage, which manifests itself in this form: from the moment I decide to get married, I can’t sleep. My head is glowing hot day and night. I can’t stand to live like that. I am undecided and in despair.  This is not caused by actual worries. Although worries are a constituent part of my melancholy and pedantic mind, they are not the decisive element. Yet, like worms in a corpse, they complete the destructive work. The decisive element is something else: the general pressure caused by anxiety, weakness, and lack of self-respect.

(Source: Letter to my Father, text on www.kafka.org; my translation)

TEACHING IN A #ONE-ROOM SCHOOL. #AMREADING MILLIE MORTON, GRACE.

Teaching in a one-room school

Millie Morton’s biography of her mother is, as the subtitle says, about: A teacher’s life, one-room schools, and a century of change in Ontario.

Here a few features of teaching in the early 20^th century:

THE STRAP: a black strip of heavy leather about two inches wide, eighteen inches long, and a quarter of an inch thick. One of Grace’s teachers had a terrible temper and used the strap often, especially on a boy named Roger. Since he wasn’t a willing victim, she had to chase him around the room and catch him before landing sharp whacks on his hands.

KEEPING THE SCHOOL CLEAN: When Grace was interviewed for a job, the trustees explained: We pay one of the pupils to sweep the floor each day and light a fire in the stove. The caretaker cleans the school on a regular basis, but after concerts, we’d like you to be responsible for the cleaning.

A LETTER OF RECOMMENDATION: Miss Grace Dayman has given splendid satisfaction. She takes a great interest in all children and children’s work, gaining the respect and love of them al. The Inspector also reports that “Teacher gets splendid results, has a pleasant classroom manner, and that discipline is excellent.” She also takes a very active part in all church and Sunday school work and is a good example in any community. 

For more info on the book: https://milliemorton.wordpress.com/

THE FUNNY SIDE OF #WIDOWHOOD. OR: DO I HAVE A WARPED SENSE OF HUMOUR?

Rugelach - the ultimate comfort food for #widows

Here are some things that made me laugh, maybe inappropriately:

The things my book group members in L.A. sent to comfort me:

• A plant labelled “durable” – it better be, I’ve got a brown thumb!
• A video of Caroline Rhea— to remind me that men are a pain? So why miss him?
• A pillow – just one! To remind me why I miss him?
• Smoked salmon, bagels, bean-and-barley soup, rugelach – to fatten me up? Their concern is totally misplaced, but it was nice to see my kitchen look like a Jewish deli counter.

My four-year-old grandson’s reaction to my explanation of death: “Oh man!” (said in the tone  men use when speaking of a lost Blue Jays game – genuine regret at what was lost and what could have been)

The plaque on the urn of my husband’s ashes with his name misspelled

 – but they can’t fool me, I know who he is.

#AMREADING RITA KUCZYNSKI, WALLFLOWER: A LIFE ON THE GERMAN BORDER

This is an intellectual autobiography by a woman who grew up in East Berlin.

She was born in 1943, a furlough child, that is, conceived when he father was on furlough as a kind of souvenir in case he died in the war.

After graduating from high school, she studied philosophy while working the nightshift at a lightbulb factory: I had found for myself a manageable balance between work on the production line and existential philosophy, and things inside me were pretty much on the right track.

What was her goal in studying philosophy? I was looking for God in the form of an absolute, a pure theory. It would be big enough to be able to withstand the contradictions of the present and those of the past…to pave the path with reason!

Eventually she realized that the department of philosophy was a breeding ground for apparatchiks. Students were interested primarily in learning the political philosophy of the East German regime. They were admitted even if the applicant’s academic qualifications were substandard. They were replaced by the criterion of political reliability…The foremost concern here was the formulation of political argumentation strategies.

Kuczynski was repeatedly rejected for party membership because she was seen as too critical. A well-meaning friend counselled her: One could not say such things in that way. I had to learn to say what I wanted to say in a way that did not leave me open to attack.

I live in a democratic society. In Canada, critiquing the powers that be will not land a person in jail. Our society has subtler ways of punishing people who have not learned to say what they want to say in a politically correct way. 

THE UPSIDE OF WIDOWHOOD. RE-LIVE THE PAST WITH VINTAGE PLAYBOY MAGAZINES.

Bandaid hoarder? Post-its hoarder?

Is there an upside to widowhood? Yes, if you were married to a hoarder, you can now start throwing out food that was best before 2005, moldy clothes stashed in a crate in a dark basement corner, fourteen pairs of men’s shoes acquired in Argentina ca 1985 and suitable for a tango dancer, also 226 ties, one with dancing polar bears.

BTW someone should come up with classes in “tie craft”. Where is Martha Stewart when we need her?

I was about to throw out 8 boxes of photos but was suddenly hit by a wave of nostalgia for my handsome husband, even though I’m not photogenic myself and always look like a hag beside him. But I did throw out my father-in-law’s home movies of Christmas cheer in which we all look like does caught in the headlights of a car.

I hope I can sell all the drill guns, saws, screwdrivers sets, and wrenches I have in quadruplicate, and it looks like I’ll never have to buy another roll of duct tape or another paint tray.

Did I mention the cans of paint on the shelves? There is one with a hardened residue of mauve to match the mauve walls we had in the bathroom ca. 1995. There is also a can of spray paint to repair scratches on the red Jeep we had 1996-1999. Actually there was never an occasion to fix scratches. We totaled the car.

Cleaning the basement can be a history lesson. Playboy magazines anyone? I have two dozen from the 60s, slightly water damaged. Or is that drool?

Then there are the stacks of course notes –  including one in Fortran from the time when computers were the size of a room and had to be fed punched cards. Not to forget the drawer of old cell phones which amounts to a history of hand-held devices.

After you’ve thrown out everything, the house will feel empty.

Not a good punch line? I know. There isn’t a good punchline for death.