August 6, 1913
Letters to Felice
At last the sight of your dear handwriting again. The postcards from Hamburg have not arrived; could you have addressed them indistinctly and illegibly? Today’s postcard, for instance, reads Niklasstr. No. 6, and an error of this kind could cause me great grief.
We need not mention my parents again; their audible warnings are over and done with. But I can discover no definite advice from you with regard to my letter to your father, rather three contradictory suggestions. However, I don’t want advice; instead I shall mail the letter to your father (but to your father only; I have only just mentioned your mother, I can’t find the proper form of addressing my letter to both your parents) as soon as I have your reply to my latest heart trouble. Today, for instance, I haven’t slept at all, but not a wink; I heard the clock strike almost every quarter; meanwhile I dozed and some thought or other—which concerned you, I don’t remember what it was—kept forcing its way into my dozing like a shuttle, incessantly, monotonously, and at great speed.
In my helplessness in the middle of the night I virtually suffered an attack of madness; the images became uncontrollable, everything flew apart until, in my extremity, the notion of a Napoleonic field marshal’s black hat came to my rescue, descending on my consciousness and holding it together by force. My heart was beating quite magnificently at the time, and although the window was wide open and the night rather cool I threw off the blanket. And strangely enough, although in the night it had seemed out of the question that I should go to the office, I did not feel particularly ill in the morning, apart from a pain in and around the heart. And when I got your postcard and the letter at the office (so the letter written on Monday afternoon arrived on Wednesday morning), I felt even better.—It is typical of my thoroughly shaky condition that I should feel quite different from one day to the next, needless to say on the foundation of a continuously unsatisfactory basic condition.
What do you mean by my idea about your visit to Prague having been nothing but foolishness? Honestly, Felice, this is simply not true. Of course you would have to be invited by my parents, but with this done your visit would really be the simplest thing in the world. And so lovely besides, which is the decisive factor.
I have been most fortunate about my vacation. Originally I meant to travel for a fortnight, and spend the other fortnight at a sanatorium. But since it became absolutely essential for me to spend the entire time in a sanatorium, I chose one at Pegli near Genoa; this, owing to the proximity of Genoa, would have meant both travel and sanatorium. But now I hear that the season at this particular sanatorium doesn’t start until October 1st, and I have to take my holiday in September. So I shall probably have to go to the San[atorium] Hartungen at Riva, on Lake Garda.1 Pity!
I must tell you more about Max’s domestic arrangements, otherwise you may misunderstand me.
Listen, photography is very much the fashion at seaside resorts; I should like to see you sitting in a beach chair, for instance, or in the sand; couldn’t I be sent a photograph?
Franz
Give my regards to Frl. Danziger; we don’t know each other, but she lives next to the person dearest to me, isn’t this connection enough? And what a firm handwriting she has!
Kafka had spent his vacation in September 1909 together with Max and Otto Brod in Riva on Lake Garda.