Kafka Was the Rage_ A Greenwich Village Memoir - Anatole Broyard [37]
He dropped his hand. He put it into his pocket to immobilize it. No, he said. No, you can’t.
We lapsed into a tender silence in which I went on silently arguing with him. He had talked himself into believing he had leukemia. He had overresearched the subject, like the review. Of course I was arguing with myself as much as with him.
All right, Saul, I said. I won’t quarrel with you, because neither of us knows what we’re talking about. But just remember this—no diagnosis is final or exhaustive. Whatever you have, there’s a treatment for it. This is not the Middle Ages. The tragic sense of life is all well and good, but your mother’s right—you think too much. Thinking is a form of hypochondria.
He laughed. Yes, he said, you and my mother. He gazed out over the lake as if he expected to see her rowing there. My mother thinks that literature is killing me, that Kafka, Lawrence, and Céline have undermined my resistance. She thinks I have brain fever, like Kirillov or Raskolnikov. Whatever happened to brain fever?
It really is absurd, he said—that old chestnut, the absurd. Look at me—he slapped his arms and legs—why, I’ve hardly used this body. It’s the shoddy manufacture of the times—I’m practically new and obsolete already. My mother keeps turning to me, waiting for me to explain this absurdity away. I’m such a good explainer. He frowned; he shook his head at his mother. Her will, he said, is a terrible force.
I opened my mouth without knowing what I was going to say and he put his fingers over my lips. It was an astonishingly intimate thing for him to do, like a kiss. You know, he said, I feel so smart. All at once, I understand everything. For example, I see now that the world is a more beautiful place than I had supposed. Look at this park—I’ve never noticed it. If I had my life to live over again, I’d read more Wordsworth.
He hooked his arms over the back of the bench and crossed his legs. He was settling down into himself. It was clear that he wanted to do the talking, so I sat back and listened. The facts could wait; I could argue with him later. He seemed comfortable now, in full flood, like his old self. I was already thinking in terms of his old self.
Another thing I’ve realized, he said, is that it’s harder for a Jew to die. Forgive me for falling back on the chosen, but there’s a certain truth in the old boast. It’s harder for us because we expect more; we need more. How irresponsible, how careless it is to die so soon. It’s such an unintelligent thing to do. We become doctors to prevent death, lawyers to outlaw it, writers to rage against it. But if you’re not Jewish, it’s different. It may not be quite so bad, so costly. You can die gracefully, athletically, with a thin-lipped smile and a straight nose. A blond death, a swan dive, a cool immersion. You can die without an accent, without dentalizing.
He paused, listening to the echo of this little speech. He seemed pleased with himself. Words, words, words, he said, that’s the only medicine. With an abrupt gesture, he pulled on the knitted cap. My thinking cap, he said. I’ve got to get back and work on the review. Deadlines!
We got up and walked out of the park. We hadn’t gone very far. He slapped me on the back. You’re a starcher, he said, skinny but strong. You can fight them off, the Kafkas. Hit them in the kishkas. And remember to read the nature poets—a pastoral a day keeps the doctor away. Don’t be so proud of your anxiety.
I was going to walk him home, but he insisted on taking me to the subway. We stood at the top of the stairs and our eyes met for the last time. His were filled with an immense kindness. I apologize, he said, for bossing you around. You see how it is. I can’t tell this particular story—I can only edit it.
Saul, I said, I’m confused. I can’t think.
Me neither, he said. As Tolstoy remarked when he was dying, I don’t understand what I’m supposed to do.
Listen, I said, I’ll come back tomorrow. We’ll try to sort it out.
He didn’t answer. He was looking down the subway steps, which he would never descend again. We stood