💌 Kafka, the Wardrobe and the Sunday Dress 💌
But on a better subject: Do you know when you were most beautifully dressed in Vienna, absolutely, absurdly beautifully dressed? There can’t be any argument about it: on Sunday.
By the way, why am I a human being, with all the torments this extremely vague and horribly responsible condition entails? Why am I not, for example, the happy wardrobe in your room, which has you in full view whenever you’re sitting in your chair or at your desk or when you’re lying down or sleeping (all blessings upon your sleep!)? Why am I not that? Because I would break down with grief if I had seen your misery during these last days, or even if—you should leave Vienna.
Milena, industrious one, your room is undergoing a change in my mind; the desk and the whole place really didn’t look much like work before, but now it does, and so convincingly that I can feel this work; in your room it must be magnificently hot and cool and happy. Only the wardrobe remains as ponderous as always and sometimes the lock is broken and it doesn’t yield a thing, desperately staying shut, and in particular it refuses to give up the dress you wore on “Sunday”; if you should ever set up house again we’ll throw it out.
Yes, the wardrobe. It will probably be the object of our first and last fight. I’ll say: “We’re throwing it out.” You’ll say: “It’s staying.” I’ll say: “Choose between it and me.” You’ll say: “Just a second. Frank and Schrank, * they rhyme. I’ll take the Schrank.” “Fine,” I’ll say and slowly walk down the stairs (which?) and—if I still haven’t found the Danube Canal, I’ll be living happily ever after.
And incidentally I’m all in favor of the wardrobe—you just shouldn’t wear the dress. You’ll wear it out and what will be left for me then?
And I trust you didn’t read my dumb jokes aloud to your wardrobe? You know I love almost everything in your room to the point of swooning.
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