“Conversations with Kafka” by Gustav Janouch
They say that this book is a scam. First published in 1951, it is presented as a non-fiction memoir by Gustav Janouch, which supposedly recounted his conversations with Franz Kafka in Prague between 1920-1922 during the time when Janouch was an aspiring teenage poet and Kafka worked with his father at the insurance company.
In the memoir, as a favour for his workmate Kafka is said to agree to be a mentor for Janouch, even though in real life Kafka never once mentioned about this kid in his diary or letter correspondences with his best friend Max Brod, fiancee Milena, his sister Ottla, or long letters to Robert Klopstock. But nevertheless, here we are in the book, where the two is claimed to often talk long conversations while walking in the streets of Prague. The conversations revolve around writing, literature, poetry, philosophy, religion, work, technology, and general life advice.
Skeptics inmediately saw the loophole, where they argued that this long conversation format while walking cannot possibly be rewritten verbatim 3 decades later from memory, because it looks too literary and too neatly structured. Meanwhile, renowned Kafka biographers and scholars have also pointed out various factual errors in this memoir, with chronological contradictions and instances where Janouch looks completely fabricate quotes years after Kafka’s death. One prominent Kafka biographer, Harmut Binder, even conducted extensive archival research comparing Janouch’s claims in the book against Kafka’s actual calendar and office schedules, and found that plenty of the specific meetings between Kafka and Janouch could not have physically taken place.
Moreover, Kafka is also portrayed in the memoir as someone who likes to speak in long, polished, aphoristic monologues; while in reality Kafka was known more to be a quiet person who is hesitant, self-doubting, and highly self-critical. Indeed, this book is trying to make Kafka looks like a prophetic sage like Socrates and Janouch of course as the ever studious Plato.
And if you think things are already weird as it is, in 1968 Janouch published a massively expanded 2nd edition of this book, which doubled the book’s length, after he said he had mysteriously rediscovered 17 long-lost notebooks. In this 2nd edition, Janouch introduced complex political, philosophical, and religious dictums that were all attributed to Kafka, with a degree of 1940s hindsights that the real Kafka couldn’t have had in the early 1920s.
In other words, Janouch is accused of inserting his own political views into Kafka’s image, views that include Janouch’s own trauma of World War 2 and the Holocaust, which is then horrifyingly quoted by some as a primary source of Kafka’s real political views. Even literary analysts have pointed out that the “Kafka” in the 1968 edition is quoting books that Kafka himself had not read at the time.
So why bother reading this book at all? Because it is said that some critics admit that Janouch got Kafka’s tone right, that the Kafka in these pages is gentle, deeply melancholic, hyper-sensitive, and quietly brilliant. And the memoir also gives us the atmospheric sense of what it felt like to walk through the foggy streets of Prague while talking with him. Isn’t it the dream? Furthermore, the book is also packed with beautiful quotes about life, art, and suffering that feel profoundly true to Kafka’s philosophy, and yes including those who he blatantly fabricated. And there’s arguably no better seal of approval in Kafka’s world than Max Brod’s own glowing introduction for the 1st edition (1951) of this book, where Brod vouched for Janouch’s credibility.
Sold? No? Yeah, I’m not buying it either. I find it hard to read a book that looks so blatantly fabricated and feel inauthentic, because this doesn’t look like the Kafka that has a bleak worldview and wrote some of the darkest existentialist novels, or the Kafka that is so private that he asked Max Brod to burn all of his unfinished manuscripts when he dies in 1924. Instead, Janouch claimed to have recorded an unwritten philosophy of life that Kafka expressed only to him in their private conversations, which looks awfully like the high-energy wit of Socrates. And then sold it to a post-war public that is in a need of moral clarity.
You know what’s the worst kind of slander? The ones done to a dead man, because he cannot defend himself. This literary fabrication, which apparently was Janouch’s only famous work, is among the worst I’ve ever read.