Saturday Pomes & Words, 27/07/2024
How to feel better, a delicious Kafkaesque pastiche for writers
Click here for the previous Pomes & Words.
I had intended to publish this one over a month ago, because it was the centenary of the death of Franz Kafka. The story you are about to read, ‘How to feel better’, is essentially a kind of ironic semi-affectionate piss-take. It is also a story for writers. Most of whom will understand the feelings involved in wanting to have something published and anticipating the so-called gatekeepers of the publishing industry. So I thought I would imagine putting Kafka into that situation, and this story is the result.
I’ve said elsewhere in these Pomes & Words that during my youth I was quite into Kafka, and found his writing inspiring. Mainly because it justified literary freedom. That’s to say you don’t have to worry about form or narrative sometimes, especially when you are writing little sketches and vignettes. Every young writer should carry a notebook and pen around with them and simply write whatever comes into your head (especially in the event of boring university lectures). After a while of this, you get used to your own style. This is largely what I was doing for my first two years at university. Hence my offbeat juvenilia, of which this one is another example.
Nowadays of course they call these things flash fiction (or even microfiction), neither terms I like. Sketches and vignettes for me. So most of what I wrote in those days took that form. There were a few exceptions, however, and this is one of them - it’s just a few words shy of 3,000. If a sketch is, say, maximum 1,000 words (although more like 500), and a vignette is up to 2000, then beyond that you are doing short stories, which give you enough freedom to build up characters and background and narrative and all the rest of it.
One thing, however, which you’ll get here is the disobeying of form. Long paragraphs with dialogue included in them, I mean. Every time you have a line break you insert a pause. Without that, it’s much more swift. Another example of this is A Ghost, from a previous Pomes & Words.
Anyhow, the previous intro I had in my head was much better than this one. That’s ironic. If you want a little help with visualisation (of the main character) then you only need to recall this well-known picture of Kafka:
I hope you enjoy this one, especially if you’re a writer. I think it’s highly amusing and even hilarious in places, and there’s a little delicious cognitive dissonance at the end. If you know Kafka you’ll appreciate it even more I am sure. Although it is a little parody, there is a genuine measure of affection to it.
Whether I would call it a fairytale or magical realism or postmodern I really don’t know. Kafkaesque, for sure. Pastiche, likewise.
I was still doing the lower case ‘i’ by the way. Before you ask. I had to be quirky somehow. You’ll be relieved to hear i don’t bother with that anymore.
Just go with it. It’ll be a lot easier.
How to feel better
i had written a short story and wished, hoped even, for it to be published somehow, so others might read it also. But it was not for some egotistical desire to turn others to my way of thinking – and that is something i must stress – it was more of a simple desire to be known and noticed, a craving for attention, as an enigma rather than a source of truth or wisdom. i had sent the story, along with a letter, to a publisher. i had addressed the letter to ‘the person who speculates on the merits of potential new work for publishing’, as i was uncertain of the name of this person. The letter read, ‘Dear sir/madam, first of all i must apologise for the way in which this letter was addressed, but i was uncertain as to exactly to whom i should address it. Enclosed you will find a short story i have written, with a wish for it to be considered for publishing. i would be very grateful if you could read it and then write back to me with your reaction decision. i must also apologise for the fact that it is written in my own handwriting and not typed. i imagine that it may be one requirement that all submitted work should be typed, but i am afraid that i am a poor man and simply cannot afford to hire a typist, let alone buy a typewriter. i hope you can excuse this, and that you are able to read it adequately, for i think my handwriting is not difficult to decipher, and is indeed fairly simple. Also, yet i do not, above all, wish to be overly persuasive or in the last bit pushy, i would be very appreciative if the script could be read more than once. i feel this is necessary because there are, in the vast majority of my work, several different angles and interpretations, and that because of this it should be read more than once. i have felt that this may be an advantage to my work, for, after all, the beauty of Kafka’s stories, for example, lies in their rereadability; indeed, one is often compelled to do so. However i have probably dragged this letter on too much already, and so i will end it now, and ask again for you to read my story, and give me your reaction to it (my address is at the top of the page. in the corner). Yours hopefully and sincerely, K.’
Several waiting days later, i received a reply, which read, ‘Dear K., thank you so very much for submitting your story, and letter. i have read the story several times already and i have arrived at the opinion that it is entirely wonderful. You are indeed a most original and enigmatic writer, with a hidden wisdom inside you that begs to be acknowledged. Your style of writing is both unapologetic, direct, and colourful leaving no trace of stolen influences. it is entirely original. i would be most grateful if you could give me your own permission to publish the story, or it will be to the disappointment of the literary world. Please write back or use the number at the top of the page, in the corner, which will get you through to my secretary, who will arrange an appointment for you to see me to arrange everything. Many best wishes, yours totally sincerely, W. Johnson.’
When i read this i smiled for a moment, and then i was suddenly overcome by a fear that perhaps the whole thing was a cruel practical joke, that perhaps Mr. Johnson simply wished to relieve his boredom, and that he was not at all sincere, and not the least bit interested in my story, and that he thought it was entirely unoriginal, meaningless and dull and did not even merit the merest speculation of consideration. But, i told myself, there was only one way to find out, and so i cautiously used the number i had been given, and was much relieved when a voice answered, and then identified itself as ‘Mr. Johnson’s secretary, can i help you?’. ‘Hello,’ i replied, ‘it’s K. here. i was sent a letter -’ ‘Ah, yes, K.,’ said the secretary authoritatively, ‘i’m to arrange an appointment for you to see Mr. Johnson.’ Before i could say ‘yes’, or suggest Thursday afternoon, she said firmly, ‘Wednesday lunchtime at twelve. is that manageable by you?’ as if i was incapable of organising my own life. ‘Yes, that’s fine,’ i answered. ‘Fine,’ she said, ‘Wednesday at noon then,’ gave me an address and hung up, rather too promptly for my liking. indeed, she did nothing to dispel my suspicions.
Wednesday arrived not too late, and i went to the address (which turned out to be the offices of Johnson, predictably enough, though i was, throughout the way there, quite paranoid that the address was something entirely different; or at worst imaginary). i walked up an old, almost antique flight of wooden stairs and entered the reception area, which was a large square room, rather too much like a doctor’s waiting room for comfort, which was bare except for a row of seats at an edge of the room, opposite a desk at the other, behind which sat an unnervingly plain middle-aged woman who was obviously the secretary i had spoken to previously. i nervously approached her and exclaimed, ‘i’m K. i’ve got an appointment -’ ‘Yes, K.,’ she said, in her uncomfortably familiar authoritative tone, ‘if you’d like to take a seat, i’ll inform Mr. Johnson of your presence.’ i sat down. it was then i noticed a door in the adjacent wall, opposite the staircase entrance, the plaque on which stated ‘W. Johnson’.
i waited. Ten minutes passed in an uncomfortable silence but for the imposingly irritating clatter of the secretary’s typing. She sat directly opposite me, behind her desk, her whole body constantly static but for the incessant rapid fiddling of her fingers on the keys of the typewriter. i observed her as inconspicuously as i could. She had a permanent scorn-like expression on her face, made worse by the low resting position of her glasses on the bridge of her nose. She looked much like a headmistress at a very strict school. Many times i thought i saw her eyes look up from her lowered head in my direction, as if to check on my behaviour. So strong was this sensation of being a naughty schoolboy awaiting punishment that i was surprised not to be standing in the corner of the room, facing the wall. Even so i was leaning forward with my hands between my knees pressed close together, a hunched up gnome of security, rhythmically rocking back and forth, like a horse. i wondered what the secretary was typing about me. What impression she had of me. That perhaps she was not just employed as a secretary, but also fulfilled a secret occupation as a judge, deciding my worth with her experienced glare. For i was sure that she was writing about me, and probably forming the opinion that i was a useless writer, and well beyond the notion of literary consideration.
i had to something. i stood up and started to walk towards her. She immediately stopped her typing and abruptly asked, with a slight judicial tilt of her head, ‘Yes?’. ‘Am i allowed to smoke a cigarette in here?’ ‘Yes,’ she stated, then, just as suddenly as she had stopped, resumed her typing. i sat back down again. i lit a cigarette. i was now sitting forward once again, but this time with my right leg crossed over my left, with my left hand trapped between my thighs. i leaned on my right elbow, the only movement i made was the regular hand to mouth then back down to rest on my knee again. Another ten minutes passed.
And then, just as i had finished my smoking, the whole situation was volcanically disturbed by the opening of the door marked ‘W. Johnson’ out of which erupted an average looking middle-aged man in a white shirt and black trousers, an unkempt tie hanging uselessly flaccidly loose around his neck, who i presumed to be Mr. W. Johnson himself. The sudden outburst made me jump. Quite high in fact. Mr. Johnson looked at me, was about to say something to his secretary then looked at me again, mouth hanging open, then finally managed to revert his attention to the secretary. He asked her ‘is K. here yet?’. The response of the secretary to this was a nodding of the head in my direction. She had not stopped her typing throughout this occurrence, and indeed seemed totally unmoved by it. Mr. Johnson looked at me then bent down, hands on desk, face close to the secretary’s, and whispered to her, obviously not intending it to be heard by me, but i did hear, ‘That’s not K. That’s just a boy. Where is he?’ ‘That’s K., sitting there sir.’ Again she pointed her head at me, still looking like the guilty schoolboy, all hunched up and repentant.
Johnson turned to me. ‘K.!’ he exclaimed jubilantly, as if i was a long-lost brother he had not seen for years, ‘Hello, how are you? i’m William Johnson.’ He took my hand and shook it forcefully. ‘But you can call me Bill! Come into my office.’ i followed him into his office, closing the door behind me. ‘Take a seat,’ he said, ‘take a seat.’ i sat down. There was an unnaturally symmetrical feel to this room. i imagined a line through the middle, along which came, in this order, door, seat (on which i was now sitting), desk, seat (on which Johnson was now sitting), window. Johnson’s seat was one of those revolving ones. Every now and then he would twist back and forth on it smiling to himself and chewing a pencil. This made me quite nervous, as i had resumed the huddled position i took while in the reception area, and was not in the mood for a room in which there was constant movement.
He sat there staring at me a while and smiling. He never stopped smiling. it was an obnoxious broad smile, like he was in the midst of a great prank, for his own sadistic self amusement. Then he abruptly burst out, ‘Sorry. i’m just surprised and taken aback. You’re nothing like the person i expected you to be.’ ‘Funny that,’ i said, ‘because you’re nothing like the person i expected you to be.’ There was definitely an air of mischief about him. ‘Yes, it’s strange isn’t it, that however much one knows about a person, they never turn out as expected when one meets them. Well,’ he continued, ‘how about a drink?’ i asked for coffee. He had none, but poured himself a glass of whisky. ‘i mean, you’re so young for a start. From your letter and the way you write i’d expected someone much older, and wiser.’ i ignored the insult. He went on, ‘i really did love your story. So colourful and amusing. Like i said in the letter it was very original. i was so excited to meet you, having seen the wonder of your work. And here you are! Oh damn!’ he exclaimed, ‘i should’ve asked you to bring some more of your work with you, i just can’t wait to read it! Oh well, never mind, another time, eh?!’ He twisted on his chair again, still smiling, drinking whisky. ‘Let’s go out for lunch,’ he proposed. ‘Actually, the reason i said come at this time was just for that, so we could discuss everything over lunch. i’ve had this whole thing visualised in my head you see. So, where would you like to eat? i’m buying. i know this great pub round the corner, it does great lunches. Shall we go?’ i said, ‘Yes that would be a good idea.’ For i longed to get out of this building, it was very unsettling and uncomfortable.
Without getting his jacket Johnson stood up and led me out of the door, through the reception area (‘we’re just going out to lunch Miss Jones’), down the stairs and out of the front door. We walked down the street. ‘This is strange isn’t it?’ said Johnson, still smiling. ‘One would never expect the two of us to be on our way to a business lunch. We look more like a father and son.’ This was certainly true – a middle-aged man and a boy, barely out of his teens, did not look like likely business partners. At last we arrived at the pub on the corner. ‘You sit down while i get some drinks and a menu. What’ll you have?’ he asked. ‘Coffee please,’ i replied, and found a table in a corner, well enough away from everyone else for me to feel much more at ease. i glanced around the bar, observing everyone, as is my wont. However, there was not much to observe – this was obviously a favourite place for businessmen in suits to come and have their lunch. Johnson returned, with the drinks and a menu. i was almost delighted to find that they did serve coffee in this place. We looked at the menu. After a while a woman, obviously a failed secretary, which explained her present occupation, still in the business sector but just a little lower down the corporate ladder as it were, came over with an apron on and a pad of paper. We ordered, she took the menu then left, returning some ten minutes later with our food.
Johnson was still smiling, even when eating. And neither did his eating stop him from talking. ‘i’m still not recovered from your not being at all how i expected,’ he said. ‘So, tell me about yourself. What do you write about?’ At last! i thought, a subject i wanted to talk about. ‘i just write how i feel, i suppose,’ i explained, ‘and how i feel about certain things, certain people, certain occurrences.’ i like to observe other people and the way they live – i’m a very detached person – and then i write up my observations. And without any prior intentions it just happens that they turn out to be quite poignant, as it were. And a lot of my stories come from situations i daydream about while lying sleepless in bed.’ Johnson must’ve thought i was entirely pretentious, although he disguised it very well – if he did think it was unnoticeable. ‘is that why you like Kafka?’ he asked, almost sincere, ‘He was an insomniac too wasn’t he?’ ‘Yes,’ i replied, ‘he was. But he always says what he sets out to say, which i suppose is one reason why i like his stories. i don’t read much else, i don’t like to be impurified with other writers’ styles, i’m quite easily influenced.’ i was probably boring Johnson senseless by this point, though he kept nodding his head in dumb agreement while eating a piece of chicken with his now greasy fingers.
‘i do love your writing,’ he munched, ‘you amaze me somewhat. You’re so young and yet you seem to know so much, you understand so much of the world, and the lives of other people. i know you’re destined to become a great and respected writer, though entirely enigmatic. And i’m just honoured and i feel so lucky to be able to witness your rise to prominence, and even be a part of it, and, may i say, instrumental in the whole thing. i like the way you have hardly any respect for language, or the rules of language, i feel you are a very anarchic person. i should really inform the police and the government before you do some real damage!’ This terrified me – i really believed he was serious, despite his smiling.
By this time we had both finished our eating, and our plates had been taken away by the same woman who had brought them to us, complete with bitter resenting frown. i felt the time was at hand, for we had not conducted any real business yet. ‘Could we discuss the publishing details now?’ i said, in the manner in which a child asks an overbearing strict mother if she could buy her an ice cream. At that point Johnson stopped smiling. ‘Ah,’ he said, ‘Actually i’ve a small confession to make. Actually, it’s a pretty big confession!’ he laughed evilly to himself, then, noticing that i was not similarly amused, stopped laughing and continued. ‘i’m afraid your story is not going to be published. Well, not by me anyway.’ He laughed again, just as cruelly. ‘it was entirely unoriginal and meaningless and boring and totally devoid of imagination or colour. You are an entirely talentless individual. i have just been using you for my own amusement, to relieve the boredom of my work, it gets so dull at the office. And yes, my secretary was in on it too, and she was entirely riveted by the whole thing. i hope i haven’t disrupted your life too much by this, or shattered any hopes or ambitions you may have had. Actually that’s also a lie – i don’t really care. This has all been entirely amusing. i’ve been deceiving you completely all this time! Sorry!’ he laughed again.
i stared at him, waiting for his laughter to die down a little. ‘Actually,’ i then said, ‘it is you who are deceived. i have been using you, for inspiration, to give me material on which to write a story. i hope you don’t mind.’ But he was still smiling, for he knew, as i did, that it was only i who was deceived, for the story had already been written (as you the reader can see), and none of this made me feel any better at all.
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