Life and work

Part of the reason why Kafka struggled against the world of the senses – the world of family, sex, marriage and community – is that he saw writing as his supreme spiritual vocation, for which all else had to be sacrificed:

‘It is easy to recognize a concentration in me of all my forces on writing. When it became clear in my organism that writing was the most productive direction for my being to take, everything rushed in that direction and left empty all those abilities which were directed towards the joy of sex, eating, drinking, philosophical reflection and above all music. I atrophied in all these directions.’

In a letter to Felice’s father explaining why he couldn’t marry her, he wrote:

‘My whole being is directed towards literature; I have followed this direction unswervingly until my thirtieth year, and the moment I abandon it I cease to live. Everything I am, and am not, is a result of this. I am taciturn, unsociable, morose, selfish, a hypochondriac, and actually in poor health. Fundamentally I deplore none of this: it is the earthly reflection of a higher necessity … I live within my family, among the kindest, most affectionate people – and am more strange than a stranger … I lack all sense of family life.’

Like Kafka, Rilke often felt caught between writing and life, but moved more naturally towards unifying them. He saw his writing as springing from daily life, inseparable from it. In a letter, he wrote that:

‘Ultimately, each of us experiences only one conflict in life which constantly reappears under a different guise – mine is to reconcile life with work, in the purest sense; and where it is a question of the infinitely incommensurable work of the artist, the two directions stand opposed. Many people have helped themselves by taking life easily, by snatching what they needed from it apart from the conflict, or by turning life’s values into an intoxication whose wretched enthusiasms they hurriedly flung into art; others have no alternative but to withdraw from life – asceticism – and this way is of course much cleaner and truer than that rapacious cheating of life for the sake of art. But for me even asceticism cannot be considered. Since in the last analysis my productivity proceeds from the plainest adoration of life, from the daily, inexhaustible wonder of it (how could I have been productive otherwise?), I would see it as a lie to reject any one of the currents that flow towards me; in the end every such rejection must express itself in your art – however much art may gain potentially from it – as a certain hardness, and there take its revenge: for who can be open and affirmative on such sensitive ground if he has a mistrustful, restrictive and anxious attitude towards life!’

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