All the time he sat with me, and I still cannot make even the roughest estimate of how long that was, there was a thought that pestered me, although I could not formulate it precisely enough to bring it up. It hinged on a rather banal comparison. In retrospect I can only say that I was thinking about the fact that our quiet communion, our inability to talk to each other, was something akin to an irrefutable proof that socialism out there did not make any difference, and that consequently the very interchangeability of our lives testifies to his futility, or mine, for that matter. The only thing I actually told him was that it was curious that I bought a complete collection of his stories precisely today, and how I agreed with Camus, who once said that all of his art consisted in compelling the reader to reread him. I must admit now that this latter remark was rather unnecessary. He did not reply, quite naturally, but I knew he either appreciated my remarks, or at least he was not annoyed by them.

I hasten to record all this before my first impressions vanish forever, precisely because I want to make sure that it is fully understood that I was not astonished by his visit. Quite the opposite. I felt it was entirely appropriate, regardless of our common knowledge that he left us many years ago. The very fact that we did not have much to say reminded me of my father—that is, of our long silent hours at home, when an occasional exchange had always been extremely practical in character, while my mother always enticed me to be clever and to display my erudition. I am not making a comparison between him and my father, however. That would be too farfetched, and maybe even irresponsible. I am unwillingly comparing the two kinds of silence, or two kinds of unwillingness to talk with those who do not deserve to be deceived.

Addendum (August 27, 1998)

Whenever I chance upon this note I feel somewhat uncomfortable because of its uncertain status. Is it a factual record of something that has actually happened, spooky as it may have been, or is it a fanciful account of a burning desire, a demented wish searching for an outlet? The problem is not in the writing, but in the experience underlying it. Of course, I did not sit with Kafka. I did not see him in my presence. Still, I felt him. I felt him within me. To the best of my recollection, this note was written during a period of intense interest in Kafka himself, not only in his writings. In the end, after hours with a formidable book of his, I experienced exactly what I reported. Because there are no adequate words to describe this special communion, this peculiar form of contact between two people, the language of my note is a dash too physical for comfort. But that is its only fault. In all other respects it is a factual report of an encounter with something outside language, the organon of thought.