Franz Kafka planned to write an autobiography but never did, although much of his published work reflects his life, in some cases quite closely. This book, exquisitely pieced together from letters and diaries by editor Nahum Glatzer, likely provides a truer and more revealing window into Kafka's head than a proper autobiography would have. He never knew these words would someday be published, and that alone makes this volume more of an intimate read. I did not get far in each sitting with this book, as I was constantly copying quotes down into my notebook. So many of his words hit me hard. Every once in a while I tune in deep to a certain writer and this happened to me with Kafka recently. I'd read several of his books before and he was always in the back of my mind as a writer I wanted to revisit. I knew that he kept diaries that had later been published, and I sensed through reading his fiction that I would like to read some of his more personal writing. I was not wrong. I am now sad that I've finished reading this book, as I found it to be a comfort in daily life. Every day I discovered new ways to relate to Kafka. Like he did, I live largely inside my own head, which can be both a terrible and an exciting existence. And like I do, he always kept room for loneliness in his life, “rush[ing] toward being alone as rivers rush toward the sea.” Reading his words, often depressing though they are, offered a warm sad comfort similar to the one I feel while listening to certain songs. The idea of a not wholly unwelcome sadness may seem alien to some, but I know there are others that understand.

What I found fascinating was the disconnect between how Kafka portrayed himself in his diaries and letters, and how the few people whose other viewpoints are presented in the book saw him, in particular two of the women he was involved with, Milena Jesenská and Dora Diamant. Even more interesting was how differently from each other the two of them saw him. It made me think about how so many of us are maybe quietly dying inside, while outwardly holding it together with tight smiles and easy laughs. After all, telling the people in your life how you really feel inside is not such a simple task to accomplish, nor one that everyone feels comfortable undertaking, especially when the reaction of others is in question. Dealing in the superficial makes everyday life so much more bearable. Or does it.

Kafka believed that the tuberculosis that ultimately killed him came from his mind: he writes to Milena Jesenská that “the disease of the lung is nothing but an overflowing of my mental illness.” He thought that since he'd spent so long imagining his own death, that his physical disease was merely a manifestation of that obsession. While it's possible that Kafka was prone to hyperbole, even in his own diaries, I doubt that he exaggerated his existential turmoil much beyond satisfying his own writerly need to find the precise words to describe it, which is something that many people who suffer from such similar struggles aren't able to easily do (once again, the superficial wins out, e.g. answering 'fine' to 'how are you' versus answering 'the alarm trumpets of nothingness'). But what measurable effect Kafka's own inner darkness ultimately had on his physical health, though, is impossible to say.

I plan to one day read the full volumes of Kafka's diaries, and perhaps some of the volumes of his letters, but for now this was an extremely satisfying condensed amalgamation of the two. I will be thinking about this book for a long time, as well as rereading the quotes I wrote down in my notebook, one of which I would like to share now. While it is bleak, and it's unknown whether Kafka is speaking of himself here, the words resonated strongly with me, and I believe this diary entry to be a powerful and accurate snapshot of how Kafka saw himself near the end of his short life:

Anyone who cannot come to terms with his life while he is alive needs one hand to ward off a little his despair over his fate—he has little success in this—but with his other hand he can note down what he sees among the ruins, for he sees different (and more) things than do the others; after all, dead as he is in his own lifetime, he is the real survivor. ( )