_kafka

Der Geier

Es war ein Geier, der hackte in meine Füße. Stiefel und Strümpfe hatte er schon aufgerissen, nun hackte er schon in die Füße selbst. Immer schlug er zu, flog dann unruhig mehrmals um mich und setzte dann die Arbeit fort. Es kam ein Herr vorüber, sah ein Weilchen zu und fragte dann, warum ich den Geier dulde. »Ich bin ja wehrlos«, sagte ich, »er kam und fing zu hacken an, da wollte ich ihn natürlich wegtreiben, versuchte ihn sogar zu würgen, aber ein solches Tier hat große Kräfte, auch wollte er mir schon ins Gesicht springen, da opferte ich lieber die Füße. Nun sind sie schon fast zerrissen.« »Daß Sie sich so quälen lassen«, sagte der Herr, »ein Schuß und der Geier ist erledigt.« »Ist das so?« fragte ich, »und wollen Sie das besorgen?« »Gern«, sagte der Herr, »ich muß nur nach Hause gehn und mein Gewehr holen. Können Sie noch eine halbe Stunde warten?« »Das weiß ich nicht«, sagte ich und stand eine Weile starr vor Schmerz, dann sagte ich: »Bitte, versuchen Sie es für jeden Fall.« »Gut«, sagte der Herr, »ich werde mich beeilen.« Der Geier hatte während des Gespräches ruhig zugehört und die Blicke zwischen mir und dem Herrn wandern lassen. Jetzt sah ich, daß er alles verstanden hatte, er flog auf, weit beugte er sich zurück, um genug Schwung zu bekommen und stieß dann wie ein Speerwerfer den Schnabel durch meinen Mund tief in mich. Zurückfallend fühlte ich befreit, wie er in meinem alle Tiefen füllenden, alle Ufer überfließenden Blut unrettbar ertrank.

Der Geier (Franz Kafka, 1920)

"Up in the Gallery" (German: "Auf der Galerie") is a short piece of fiction written by Franz Kafka. It was created between November 1916 and February 1917 and published in the collection „Ein Landarzt“ (A Country Doctor) in 1919. The story offers two versions of a scene in which a young man watches a circus ringmaster and a woman on horseback. (Wikipedia)

The picture shows a section of: At The Circus Fernando, The Rider
by Henri Toulouse-Lautrec (1888)

Public domain translation by Ian Johnston (November 2003)                     


Up in the Gallery

If some frail tubercular lady circus rider 
were to be driven in circles around and around 
the arena for months and months 
without interruption 
in front of a tireless public 
on a swaying horse 
by a merciless whip-wielding 
master of ceremonies, 
spinning on the horse, 
throwing kisses and swaying at the waist, 
and if this performance, 
amid the incessant roar 
of the orchestra and the ventilators, 
were to continue into 
the ever-expanding, gray future, 
accompanied by applause, 
which died down and then swelled up again, 
from hands which were really steam hammers, 
perhaps then a young visitor to the gallery 
might rush down the long stair case 
through all the levels, 
burst into the ring, and cry “Stop!” 
through the fanfares 
of the constantly adjusting orchestra.


But since things are not like that,
(Since things are not like that…rep.)         

since a beautiful woman, in white and red, 
flies in through curtains 
which proud men in livery open in front of her, 
since the director, 
devotedly seeking her eyes, 
breathes in her direction, 
behaving like an animal, and, as a precaution, 
lifts her up on the dapple-gray horse, 
as if she were his grand daughter, 
the one he loved more 
than anything else,
as she starts a dangerous journey, 
but he cannot decide to give the signal with his whip 
and finally, 
controlling himself, gives it a crack, 
runs right beside the horse with his mouth open, 
follows the rider's leaps with a sharp gaze, 
hardly capable of comprehending her skill, 
tries to warn her by calling out in English, 
furiously castigating the grooms holding hoops, 
telling them to pay the most scrupulous attention, 
and begs the orchestra, with upraised arms,
to be quiet before the great jump, 
finally lifts the small woman down from the trembling horse, 
kisses her on both cheeks, 
considers no public tribute adequate, 
while she herself, leaning on him, 
high on the tips of her toes, 
with dust swirling around her, 
arms outstretched and head thrown back, 
wants to share her luck with the entire circus—
since this is how things are, 
the visitor to the gallery puts his face on the railing and, 
sinking into the final march as if into a difficult dream, weeps, 
without realizing it.  (rep.)

Up In The Gallery (Kafka, 1919)

Music: Gebr.K
Guitars, Synthis, Bass: JayK
Vocals: Xian3
Text edition: Xian3
Lyrics: Franz Kafka

Homecoming is a narrative in the form of a parable from the estate of Franz Kafka. The narrative, which is only twenty sentences long, begins with the words: "I have returned" and occasionally appears under this title, was written down by Kafka in 1920 in a quarto notebook.



I have returned, 
I have passed under the arch and am looking around. 
It’s my father’s old yard. The puddle in the middle. Old, useless tools, jumbled together, 
block the way to the attic stairs. 
The cat lurks on the banister. 
A torn piece of cloth, once twisted around 
a stick in a game, 
flutters in the breeze. 

I have arrived. 
Who is going to receive me? 
Who is waiting behind the kitchen door? 
Smoke is rising from the chimney, 
coffee is being made for diner.

Do you feel you belong, do you feel at home? 
I don’t know, I feel most uncertain.
 
My father’s house it is, 
but each object stands cold beside the next, 
as though preoccupied with its own affairs,
which I have partly forgotten, partly never known.
What use can I be to them, what do I mean to them, even though 
I am the son of my father, 
the old farmer? 
And I don’t dare knock at the kitchen door, 
I only listen from a distance,

I only listen from a distance, 
standing up, in such a way 
that I cannot be taken by surprise as an eavesdropper. 
And since I am listening from a distance, 
I hear nothing but a faint striking of the clock 
passing over from childhood days,

but perhaps I only think I hear it. 
Whatever else is going on in the kitchen 
is the secret of those sitting there, 
a secret they are keeping from me. 
The longer one hesitates before the door, 
the more estranged one becomes. 
What would happen if someone were to open the door now 
and ask me a question? 
Would not I myself then behave like the one 
who wants to keep his secret?”

I have returned („Homecoming“, F.Kafka 1920) feat. Xian3

musical sketchbook
DIY, low skill, low fidelity

_kafka

xian3