Century - long Love in Prague

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After Lin Xuenie uttered those words, not only was she stunned, but even Kafka, who was reading the letter to her, froze.

In that era of Europe, gentlemen clearly no longer casually kissed a lady’s hand.

Though they still had the very intimate cheek-kissing greeting, kissing on the lips was definitely not the same thing!

Not to mention, the handsome writer Kafka’s most passionate confession in his unsent letter to the mysterious Eastern girl before him was merely the phrase “kiss your lovely lips”—prefaced with “in my imagination, and just this once.”

Thus, the moment Lin Xuenie blurted out those words, not only did she belatedly scream internally that this wasn’t right!

Even Franz Kafka, who was sitting against the tree trunk beside where she lay, fell silent.

After Kafka, as a young man, fell silent, it was the girl Lin Xuenie’s turn to feel awkward!

So she abruptly sat up from where she had been lying and snatched the letter from Kafka’s hand.

Kafka seemed to want to take the letter back from Lin Xuenie.

But alas, the moment the girl got hold of the letter, she turned her back to him.

Before turning away, she even glanced at Kafka, her cheeks flushed from the sun, lending her a genuinely bashful air. That look clearly stunned the young man she had turned to, who then broke into a smile.

After turning away, Lin Xuenie first skimmed the last paragraph of the letter, thinking she could understand it at a glance.

But Kafka’s handwriting made it impossible for her to do so easily!

Her earlier confidence instantly evaporated, and she even brought the letter closer, straining to decipher Kafka’s script.

Yet she still struggled!

It was at this moment that the young man behind her seemed to have realized something and once again spoke those words:

“Because the last line of the letter must say—my request: Allow me, only in my imagination, and just this once…”

“I was just saying—allow you, only in your imagination, and just this once, to k-kiss… my lovely lips!”

Before Kafka could finish his sentence, Lin Xuenie, now understanding what he had actually written, preemptively cut in with these words.

But even someone like Lin Xuenie, who could admire herself in the train bathroom mirror for ages, still found it unbearably embarrassing to say “my lovely lips”a second time!

If it wouldn’t have made her look completely deranged, she might have started digging a hole right then and there to bury herself in it!

But thankfully—thankfully—the person sitting behind her was Franz Kafka, who, once separated from the written word, became terribly awkward in conversation. This ensured she wouldn’t hear any teasing she didn’t want at a moment like this!

Even so, Lin Xuenie had no idea how to continue after this!

Calm down, calm down. All of this is just my delusion, Lin Xuenie told herself as she tried to steady her breathing.

But the moment this thought formed, she panicked and hurriedly banished it from her mind!

This was, of course, because her psychologist, Professor Bernloher—whom she had paid a hundred euros—had warned her that to worsen her hysteria, she must wholeheartedly believe that all of this was real!

It was just as Lin Xuenie was tangled in these thoughts that she heard the person behind her call her name.

Then, when she turned her head, he leaned in and kissed her—not on the lips, but on her eyelid.

Oh no. This is really, really bad.

Fireworks exploded in Lin Xuenie’s head!

And every firework that shot into the sky and burst apart formed the same sentence: My dearest, dearest Franz kissed me!

What’s more, the words were written in German!

Feeling utterly lightheaded, Lin Xuenie hastily gathered up all the letters Kafka had written to her, then smiled even more brilliantly than the fireworks in her mind and declared:

“I’ll write you back! And then I’ll put the letters in the little mailbox in front of your house!”

As she spoke, she even took the initiative to grab Kafka’s thin, bony hand—so slender that she could practically feel the bones pressing against her palm—and said, “Let’s go! You’ll walk me back, and then you can go home and wait for my reply.”

As the two walked toward the Charles Bridge, Kafka, after a long silence, finally spoke:

“Would you allow me to address you informally?”

“Of course! Haven’t you noticed I’ve never once used the formal ‘you’ with you?”

After Lin Xuenie answered without hesitation, the writer—who rarely expressed himself among people—ventured:

“Perhaps we still don’t know each other well enough. I usually start work at eight in the morning. Then I stay in the office until two, or sometimes two-twenty, in the afternoon.

After returning home, I’ll eat something simple, then nap until dinnertime. After dinner, I’ll do some exercises, then go out for a walk.

When it’s close to midnight, I sit at my desk and begin writing. I usually write until past three in the morning. Sometimes I write until four or five, even six.”

If you didn’t truly know this young man, you wouldn’t realize just how much courage it took for him to say these things to you.

And you wouldn’t understand the true message he was trying to convey, hidden between those words.

But Lin Xuenie was his ultimate fangirl—the kind who could finish his half-formed sentences even while sitting back-to-back with him on a café sofa!

Having read his heartbreaking letter to his father many times, Lin Xuenie carefully sensed the emotions behind his words, tightened her grip on his hand, and asked as they walked forward:

“Your family doesn’t approve of your lifestyle?”

“Yes.”

“They’re right.”Lin Xuenie said this with certainty, and just as the light of hope in Kafka’s eyes dimmed again, she continued: “But you’re also right to insist on living this way.”

Then, she turned to Kafka with an encouraging smile and said:

“They don’t approve because they care about you more than your work. They want to see you healthy, spirited, and happy.

But you insist on this lifestyle because you care about your work more than your health, more than your body.

Every writer has the time that suits them best for writing, Franz. Of course, this doesn’t matter to mediocrities, but for you, it must be important.

*Anyone who’s read your work would understand why you insist on writing during those hours—when your mind brims with strange thoughts, when it’s easiest to lose yourself in imagination.”

“They… care about me? Love me? Even when his words are always full of humiliation?”*

By the time Kafka asked this, the two had reached the approach to the Charles Bridge on the Old Town side.

Lin Xuenie gave a firm answer to his question and, before leaving with those precious letters, gave him a gentle hug.

“Of course they love you. Maybe not in the way you wish, maybe without noticing your tender heart—but you shouldn’t doubt that.”

With that, Lin Xuenie waved the letters in her hand at Kafka, then turned and walked onto the Charles Bridge—toward the era that belonged to her.

---

2018, Charles University, Karolinum Campus.

“I believe that to truly understand the emotions Kafka expresses in ‘The Judgment,’ one must read his ‘Letter to His Father.’

Though these two works were written years apart,

the feelings Kafka reveals toward his father remain unchanged. I’d even argue that ‘Letter to His Father’ can serve as an annotation to ‘The Judgment.’”

This was a class for Germanic studies students, and the topic of the day was Kafka’s short story “The Judgment.”

In this novella, the protagonist returns home to visit his father and shares the news of his impending marriage to his fiancée.

Throughout the narrative, the author reveals the protagonist’s complicated feelings toward his father, peeling back layers of the past.

After the aging yet still giant-like father delivers a death sentence upon the protagonist, the protagonist ultimately dies—just like that.

Now, during the post-lecture discussion, a black-haired, dark-eyed Chinese girl, Lin Xuenie, raised her hand and spoke.

“In ‘Letter to His Father,’ Kafka, feeling past his prime and slowly aging, recalls an incident from his childhood—when he was no older than five. Out of mischief, he kept pestering his father for water.

His father sternly threatened him to stop making noise. But when that didn’t work, the elder Kafka picked him up, carried him to the balcony, and left him standing there alone in just his shirt—for a long, long time.”

“Kafka wrote: ‘Of course, I obeyed after that.’ But years later, he still couldn’t forget that scene—his father, like a giant,

the final court that judged him, advancing without reason, delivering his sentence as if he were utterly insignificant.

And in ‘The Judgment,’ he expresses this same emotion outright: No matter how hard the protagonist strives for a new life, his father effortlessly negates everything—even his existence.”

The professor praised Lin Xuenie’s analysis without reservation.

With class nearly over, the professor assigned the day’s homework:

“By reading Kafka’s letters to different people and his diaries, we can better understand the deeper layers of meaning in this Expressionist master’s works.

So now, I want each of you to choose one of Kafka’s letters and imagine you are the recipient—his father, mother, sister, friend, or lover—then write a suitable reply.”

Role-playing as someone close to Kafka and writing a historically appropriate reply sounded like a fascinating assignment.

And indeed, it sparked lively discussion among the students.

Since this was the last class of the afternoon, no one was rushing off to another lecture, giving them more time to chat.

“I think I’ll write as Ottla, Kafka’s favorite younger sister. On the united front against their father, Ottla was far more successful than Kafka. Once I find that angle, the rest will come easily.”

A girl with curly brown hair twirled a lock around her pen, sounding confident.

Another girl added: “I’ll take on Milena Jesenská’s role. There’s so much human contradiction in her.

She translated Kafka’s works and understood his inner world better than anyone. She preserved every letter he ever wrote to her—yet she never chose to be with him in the end.”*

Hearing this, Lin Xuenie, who had been packing her things, paused. She seemed about to say something—

But after just “I—”, a lively voice cut her off.

“I’m gonna be Kafka’s father! Old man Kafka! Replying to that unsent ‘Letter to His Father’!”

The moment these words left his mouth, the boy was met with merciless ridicule from his classmates.

But he wasn’t discouraged.

Instead, he slung an arm around the necks of two boys trying to leave, dragging them back, and declared like a speechmaker:

“Kafka’s dad is super easy to play!

Just reject all of Kafka’s ideas, randomly insult every friend he’s ever had, then scold him for being weak and unreasonable—done!”*

“George, have you actually read Kafka’s ‘Letter to His Father’?”* One of the boys—a curly-haired brunet—sighed, while the other, in a striped shirt, agreed: “If you’d read it, you’d know that approach won’t work.”

The classroom erupted in laughter again.

Then, a girl sitting beside Lin Xuenie spoke up:

“Question one: Between Felice and Milena, who did Kafka love more? Question two: Why?”