Franz Kafka
Meditazione

"In the end, as the sky turned dark, it even starts to rain." Yes, Francuzzo's never-ending obsession with "raining on the wet" filled us with aspiration, we who thirst for the indistinguishable.

More than modern, what Kafka puts into writing is eternal. He leads us "finally towards human concord." There's an inevitability of the absolute that leaves us stunned by the purity of seeing the invisible that surrounds us, from the man from Prague. The materiality of the proposed immaterial is unfathomable with mere literary analysis tools: "Only when I enter my room am I a bit thoughtful, yet without finding, as I climbed the stairs, anything that seems worth pondering" (from Coming Home).

Let's say that writing for Franz is a means to communicate unknown things that heavily influence our existence, and the communication is astonishingly effective because it arises from a lack of duality. Kafka writes only for himself, and without the reflection of a deceitful convention of exchanging ideas, the reader lacks the justificatory foothold of a possible conspiracy of confessions: "The Nobodies... it is clear that they are all in tails" (from The Mountain Outing).

This is a great gift that may seem merciless in not granting "hope," but this is precisely the absent strength of Kafka: uncovering the conquest of Paradise's boredom where solitude is absolute, where this tabula rasa is synonymous with truth, where reality is no longer measured by the clock hands. The absolute speed of the "everything happens" immobility: "Therefore the best solution is still to accept everything... that is, to suppress with one's own hand what remains of life as a ghost, that is, to multiply the ultimate tomb-like peace and allow nothing else to exist outside of it" (from Resolutions).

And Franz sees... Only he sees the things that influence life, "oblique in the air" he has psychic vision, he has surpassed the vanity of the inner master, he has evolved the essence of halting thoughts on command. He constantly lives in non-thought and communicates with the outside while remaining in his beyond: "I evaluate my past concerning my future, but I find them both excellent, I cannot give preference to either, and I must blame only the injustice of Providence, which favors me thus" (from Coming Home).

The claim of the user who, in the fruit of a canonical reading, would like to "understand" where these "tales" are going, is tender in its ingenuity. It is hard to accept a will to power (of Kafka) that develops towards disappearance. Here we quickly adapt to constructing existential clichés, educated catalogings, scattered anxieties that justify to us things we are still unable to understand, so deeply we are in the possessions.

The world of the "jackdaw" (kavka in Czech) is the real world where he tells all that is beyond the distorted facade of material representation: "I have powerfully assumed the negative of my time that is certainly very close to me and that I have no right to fight, but, in a way, to represent... I am an end or a beginning."

A sun eclipsed for us, but for him constantly luminous, where he is Virgil for himself and guides himself in the lower astral, moreover having the faculty to liberate entities trapped in the limbo of terrestrial desires and guide them towards that tunnel of liberation from material attachment: "Uncovered! I said, giving him a light tap on the shoulder" (from Unmasking of a Trickster).

The continuous observation of the nonexistence of free will finds confirmation in the unwavering choice not to let his visualizations of reality be known to the outside, in the strongly emphasized recommendation to his friend Max Brod to burn all his papers at the moment of his bodily departure. The unprecedented courage of Brod's disobedience makes us participants in a revelation light-years ahead of the, at the time, novel inquisitorial Freudian psychoanalysis, where the scope of the Kafkaesque message is still in becoming today, given the radical questioning of the life system in which we are still immersed.

The osmosis with the path indicated by Franz towards harmony necessarily passes through personal journeys not exactly "rosy and flowery." In the unfolding of his writings, those who encounter this estranging flow feel indeed that the ground is missing under their feet, no means are given to benefit from identifying aids, one can approach this solitude only with their own solitude: "Anyway, I shouted, if you take away my ghost which is upstairs, it's over between us, forever.
But I was only joking, he said, pulling back his head.
Then it's okay, I said, and at that point, I could indeed have gone for a peaceful walk. But since I felt so alone, I preferred to go upstairs and sleep" (from Being Unhappy).

There is an astral chronicle of the immediate surrounding us and in which we live and Kafka manages to narrate this suspension which in essence cannot be communicated. In the perception he manages to do it, this is the monstrous matter, the pornopsychic obscenity produced tears away the veil of maya, the uncovering of these invisible but existing and fundamental truths remains unbearable to the majority: everyone recognizes the truth, but few can accept it.

Perhaps this is why the Bohemian, "der Deutsch spricht" (a mluví také česky), did not want to disclose his writings. Was the time unripe to propose such alienating power? Was his reticence and modesty aimed at safeguarding something particular? "I wanted to reach the city to the south, of which it was said in our country: There are certain people there! Think, they do not sleep!
And why not?
Because they are mad.
The mad are never tired?
How could they be tired, the mad?" (from Children on the Main Road).

In fact, Franz's turning vegetarian marked even more a dissociation from a reality that deceived itself with an egoic representation of ephemeral triumphs built on decaying altars. Franz Kafka is so in the harmonic afterlife of reality that he has also surpassed the step of transition in its ruins, where he no longer contemplates humiliation as a source of renewal and growth, lacking in him any form of consideration: "There is nothing, on deep reflection, that induces one to want to be first in a race" (from Reflections for Riders).

An unacceptable but indispensable void, where the horror of having to start all over "differently" peeks through, but where resonates the awareness of admitting that only this is the way out of the "cave." The pathetic tear of self-serving in a condition of misery à la "I am small and black" is swept away by a sacred asepticism in not pitying a human condition that is completely at the mercy of the parasitic astral whisperers.

We are in the presence of a true Esotericist who in his athanor eschews the golden craving to burn with divine transcendence where, aware of being a brother of the sharing of the 108 years, which closed in 1908 (and reopened in 2016), as we were saying, where he gives the last tail flick with an unexpected contribution to Spiritism which at the time was in vogue, where in our days the "invisible" issues are increasingly addressed towards the psychic identification of induced thoughts and investigated in questioning the origin of thoughts we believe ours: "My bubble walks with me. I see only what it sees... There is someone who decides everything I do... and it is not me" (Post Nebbia).

Things impossible to write, and he exposed them... I believe he didn't want them to be known, too strong, too incredible, too... It is unknown literature, uncommentable, except by an animic parallelism of those consciously connected with unity. And the dedication to Felice Bauer on the first copy of the book "... to conquer you with these memories of old unhappy times," they ignite catharsis on the overcoming of the superman where a "macula non est in te" reigns sovereign in the yearned absence conquered.

"Eleven books of "Meditation" have been sold by André (Prague bookshop). Ten I bought. I'd really like to know who has the eleventh."

FRANZ KAFKA