“There are signs of a growing awareness in our society that only a mother’s own growth and vitality, not a depressing sense of duty, enable her to have warm and respectful affection for her child. Men who take this awareness to be an invention of the women’s movement need only look back a bit into the past. Goethe’s mother, for one, wrote her son letters that show clearly how natural and spontaneous love and respect for one’s child can be. Not a single unauthentic word is to be found here, no mention of sacrifice or fulfilling one’s duty. Julie Kafka, in contrast, writes Brod that she would be ready to sacrifice her life’s blood for the happiness of each of her children. Holderlin’s mother writes in a similar hypocritical vein. But after all, how much blood does a mother have? And what is the child supposed to do with this blood, when all he needs is a sympathetic ear? Her son’s unstilled and desperate hunger for authenticity and understanding, a theme which, by the way, pervades the six hundred pages of Letters to Felice, is expressed in the dream referred to earlier: in place of his mother a crowd of people “with expectant and attentive ear” have gathered for the express purpose of listening to him. And he is permitted to go on reading, whole nights on end, until they have understood him. But since his doubts and the tormenting force of his early experiences are just as strong as his hopes, it is Flaubert he chooses to read aloud. In case his audience, despite his tremendous effort, should not understand what he is attempting to communicate to them, then it is Flaubert whom they do not understand—Flaubert, to whom he feels very close but who, after all, is not he. To expose himself to the risk of meeting with indifference and incomprehension would be even more painful and would leave him with the tormenting feeling of nakedness and shame. For a child is ashamed if he has sought in vain for understanding; then he feels like a beggar who, after long hesitation and a great inner struggle, finally brings himself to stretch out his hand, only to be unnoticed by the passers-by. That, too, is part of the human condition—for children to be ashamed of their needs while adults are not even conscious of turning a deaf ear and often haven’t the vaguest idea of what is going on right beside them in their child’s soul, at least not if their own childhood is emotionally inaccessible to them. Kafka was described by his nursemaid as an “obedient” and “good” child who had a quiet disposition.”
— Alice Miller, Thou Shalt Not Be Aware: Society’s Betrayal of the Child
