The Phenomenon of Melpomene

The Phenomenon of Melpomene

(An Explanatory Note)

Recognizing the inevitability of what is happening, I write this note—perhaps my last work, if I may call it that. In it, I will outline the events that have forever divided us.

I’ll start with illness, as it was during this process that my writing abilities developed. Undoubtedly, I had previously made up stories that I recorded on paper, but this happened very rarely, and my texts lacked either plausibility or meaning.

The ailment appeared suddenly. Where and how did I contract it? My inner musings on this topic saddened me, rather prompting me to create a new narrative. There, in allegorical form, I expressed my feelings. I do not dare to judge, but it seems it turned out rather well.

At that time, I did not know not only the beginning of the plot prepared for me, but also its ending.

Soon after, an unusual idea arose—the greatest of all that had ever been born in my mind. I planned to write a novel. This major work should finally present me to the world as a full-fledged author. A few friends—my only supporters who acknowledged my literary achievements—approved of this endeavor. Inspired by their support, I was ready to begin working on the first chapter... only fate had completely different plans.

Rudely interrupting the son’s reflections about the plot of a big project, my father barged into the room.
- "How dare you lie to me!" he thundered from the threshold.

For a time, I tried to escape his despotic control in another city. As always, it didn’t work out: codependency triumphed again.
- "What are you talking about, Dad?" I asked, though I suspected what my formidable relative meant.
- "You are sick!"
- "I know..."
- "Why didn’t I know this?! I would still be in the dark if I hadn’t noticed the blood in the sink you forgot to wash away! So, that’s what your 'usual cough' amounts to!... Instead of wasting your time on foolish scribbling, you should take care of your health! Or perhaps, your life isn’t precious to you?"
- "My life and my calling is writing prose."
- "Nonsense! You once said that poetry was your path. And what of it? You couldn’t finish a single poem!"
- "Short stories come easier to me. I’ve published two or three and hope..."

My father did not wait to hear more.
- "Two or three!" he exclaimed. "Get ready right now—you’re going to the doctor!"
- "Dad, please..."

But my father silently turned around and left.
I tried to collect my thoughts and return to my unfinished activity—but it didn’t happen.
- "How long must I wait?" sounded a deep, dissatisfied voice from the corridor.

The doctor received us without an appointment: my father, like any Jew, had both money and connections, which often cannot exist without sufficient financial means.
After examining me, the doctor asked in amazement:
- "Why didn’t you come to us sooner?"
- "Creativity got in the way," my father responded sarcastically.
- "You write?"
- "He writes," the parent nodded toward me.
- "Oh," the physician drew out. "Are there any successes?"
I found myself at a loss for words.
- "Well," the doctor broke the silence. “It's a complicated case, but we will cure you. You’re incredibly lucky that the necessary equipment was finally delivered from America just yesterday.”
- "There it is," I whispered, thinking of my own matter.
- "Excuse me?"
- "The title for my novel!"

My father cast a discontented, almost fierce look at me. I noticed it and understood that trouble was inevitable.

My premonition and experience accurately predicted the future once again.
No sooner had my father and I returned home than I found myself in the center of a whirlpool of moralizing and reproaches. I did not want to abandon writing—even for a short time, even for the sake of caring for myself—but I had neither the desire nor the right to contradict.

Deciding that I would manage to extract a couple of free hours for my calling somehow, I agreed to treatment. Perhaps I would have to write at night, but I saw no other way out.

In a relatively short time, by modern medical standards, I was cured of an ailment that just days ago had been considered fatal—thanks to intravenous therapy. On one hand, I was quite grateful to the doctors; on the other, lately I had written not a single line: I was too exhausted to engage in creativity, and the hospital environment offered no inspiration. Essentially, I spent most of the day undergoing tests and treatment.

And then something occurred that was as dreadful as it was unavoidable. Unfortunately, the correct realization came to me far too late.
That day, my father, pleased with the treatment results, went to the hospital to express gratitude to the medical staff. He brought along half a dozen bottles of expensive alcohol. I, with his permission, stayed home—to regain my strength. Overjoyed, I sat down at the table, pulled out a clean sheet of paper, took up a pen… and suddenly experienced a revelation: I would never again write a single artistic line! Not a word. Not a letter or symbol… An utterly clear feeling pierced through me: it entered through my head and exited through my heels, like lightning. A powerful electric shock struck me, mercilessly incinerating my muse—and with her, all aspirations and ideas, all the meaningfulness of life!

I kept picking up the pen and then putting it down again. On the blank sheet, now astonishingly resembling my empty existence, not even a blot appeared.

- "Dad, what have you done!"
Two people, a therapist and a guest, were chatting amiably when I burst into the office and shouted these words.
- "What happened?" my father asked darkly, instantly erasing the friendly smile he had given to the doctor.
- "You killed her! You both killed her!"
- "Who?" the puzzled doctor questioned.

Tears welled up in my eyes, and I struggled to utter the name sacred to me:
- "Melpomene!"
- "I don't understand anything," the doctor shook his head. "We cured you of tuberculosis..."
- "It wasn’t him! I fell ill with talent! I became ill, and you—both of you—mercilessly dealt with it!"
- "Tests indicate that your diagnosis is definitely tuberculosis," the doctor confidently countered.
- "Son, leave; don’t embarrass yourself," my father hissed through clenched teeth.
- "Hope is gone," I spoke, hearing nothing, "and it’s unbearable to live in complete loneliness and inactivity, to live without Melpomene!"
- "What nonsense are you talking!" my father exploded, when his already tiny patience ran dry. "What the hell is Melpomene?! At least you can live! The doctors gave you a happy future! And at work, I will be damned if they let you go; they even raised your salary! God willing, you will become a person, you will find a suitable woman, and you will reproduce with her and raise children—that’s the true calling of every person! Not some sick fantasies!"
- "Maybe they’re sick…" My voice cracked: the emptiness that had settled in my chest consumed emotions and ambitions completely. I managed to overcome myself—with difficulty, but I succeeded—and my indifferent speech continued for some reason: "But those are my fantasies… part of me… forever lost… From now on, I’m alone, and I can’t leave… Prague… or…"

The thought slipped away; the doctor decided to end it in his own way:
- "We saved you from imminent death. You should be finding no rest out of joy, not hurling accusations at your own father! I do not understand your dissatisfaction, Herr Kafka…"

That’s how it all was. Thus, I bid farewell to you, dear readers.

Signed,
Franz Kafka,
Prague,
June 4, 1924