Spurious - Lars Iyer [4]
It would be different if either of us had literary talent, W. says. Do I think I have literary talent?, he asks me. W. knows he doesn’t have literary talent, he says. But he doesn’t think I know. Admittedly, I never said I had literary talent. But I don’t deny it enough. Anyway, it’s very clear: I don’t have literary talent, W. says. And just so I know, I haven’t got any philosophical talent either, he says. Does he have any philosophical talent? He has more than I do, he says. Just a little bit more, but that’s already something.
His IQ’s higher than mine, W. says. Just a little bit, but that’s what separates us, man from ape. And he’s from a higher class than me, W. says.—‘I have manners. You have no manners. And you’re continually touching yourself. Look at you: you’re doing it now!’ I take my hand out of my shirt.—‘Why do you like touching your chest so much? Does it arouse you? Keep your hands on the table where I can see them. Read your book’.
For a long time, W. thought he might become Kafka. He was all W. read. Constantly, again and again, everything by him and everything about him, and he speaks lovingly of discovering the brightly coloured Schocken editions of Kafka.
It was one of those old Victorian libraries, he says, such as could be found in the towns and cities of the West Midlands. He probably hadn’t read all the books in the children’s section, he says, but there was nothing left that seemed worth reading. He asked a librarian for a ticket for the adult section of the library and, even though he was relatively young (he imagines himself being twelve or thirteen, but he was probably older), they allowed him one.
It was the brightness of the dust jackets that drew him in, W. says. They were fluorescent orange, he said, a bright and baffling colour. And when he opened the book, it was as if he had crossed over a threshold, as though there were another light streaming from its pages, a splendour that has fascinated him ever since.
For a long time, W. says, he saw little difference between Kafka and himself. Imagine it—a boy from Wolverhampton who thought he was a Jew from Prague! How is it possible for a human being to write like that?: yes, that was always W.’s question before Kafka.
How was it possible? W. stopped writing after his undergraduate years. He’d write all the time, but he realised he would never be Kafka. W. gave his notebooks and writings to a girlfriend.—‘I didn’t keep a scrap’, he says, as German teenagers gather round us in the Augustinerplatz, playing early Depeche Mode on a ghetto blaster.
In the shops in Freiburg, they wipe the door handles after we leave and rearrange the books we looked at. What is it about us? Are we that disgusting?
We wanted to gaze at the great editions. At the collected works of Schelling, published by Vorlesung. At those of Nietzsche, edited by Colli and Montinari. W. wanted to look for Cohen’s books, which are out of print in several languages. But the shop assistants were suspicious. Our German was deficient. Our questions went awry.
Tired of the city, we catch the train to Titisee and hire a pedallo to paddle out onto the lake. Feet on the dashboard, the blue bowl of the sky above us, we discuss the fate of Max Brod, who spent all his life writing commentaries and exegeses of Kafka’s work, and the fate of Kafka, which seems altogether more dark and mysterious precisely because of Brod’s commentaries and exegeses.
We discuss the inadequacy of political thought in tackling the question of political economy, and the failure of philosophical thought to pose, really pose, the question of what matters most …
Above all, we bewail the fact that the great disasters about to befall us barely leave a trace on the intellectual reflection of our time. It’s as if we were going to live forever, but the real thinker, we agree, knows, without melodrama, that thought is fragile and already touched by death.
Isn’t that what the convalescing Rosenzweig knew as he assembled The Star of Redemption in his barracks in Freiburg? It took him seven months,