Kafka experts - pls help me recognize this piece...

Kiki: thats great translation! really fluent. when did you translate this? hope you didnt do this for me? :bigear:

i could have mixed up the name or something, but im sure i wasnt confused about the story itself: man getting lost in the country, man and woman who are being unkind to him, etc... the man wrote it somewhere! id bet my best pair of underwear on this one.

his language is indeed rather easy. when i begun studying german i started with his "erzaelungen" stories, which was wonderful to start with. its funny how some of his translators (you can see this a lot in hebrew, specially the older ones) translate him into a very "high" language, as though if hes considered genious, he must have written this way. is german your first language? what do you mean about being direct and sad in english? more than in german?

Camilo: well i'm really in trouble, your right. about the diaries: the unfinished fragments which ive read *inside* the diaries, when he used the diaries as a place for starting things, writing experiments - i'm not talking about the "diarish" diary - they all dont seem to me more "dry" than his other writing. i really liked the fragments ive found in there, and didnt find them different from the other things he wrote in the same time or even published - depends on the period of the entry, of course.

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by egtail

Kiki: thats great translation! really fluent. when did you translate this? hope you didnt do this for me? :bigear:

i could have mixed up the name or something, but im sure i wasnt confused about the story itself: man getting lost in the country, man and woman who are being unkind to him, etc... the man wrote it somewhere! id bet my best pair of underwear on this one.

his language is indeed rather easy. when i begun studying german i started with his "erzaelungen" stories, which was wonderful to start with. its funny how some of his translators (you can see this a lot in hebrew, specially the older ones) translate him into a very "high" language, as though if hes considered genious, he must have written this way. is german your first language? what do you mean about being direct and sad in english? more than in german?

---

I kind of did do it especially for you, but I enjoy that kind of thing and have the time for it. I might do the whole thing now and send it off to Gutenberg, if they want it. I have the ambition to become a translator but someone needs to give you a chance. Without qualification, though, one gets nowhere. So, if Gutenberg wants it (copyright free!) then I at least have my name on it. :)

But I was really chuffed with what you said about that text. It really boosts my confidence :hurray:.

German is not my first language. It is Dutch. Though I learned German in school (from 15 to 18 years of age) and then I went to study it in uni (I dropped out though). Now, I live in Germany, which has unfortunately not made a great big difference my ability :(. I am waiting until I have children, then there is more to talk with Germans as I'll have to get out more :D.

As my language is Dutch, normal German seems a little archaic to me, like what you said about Hebrew probably. It sounds like an older and more poetic version of my language and a lot nicer than a German would probably consider Kafka's language. Though very understandable. Translating it, I really felt how direct and modern his German was as my English is WAY better than my German.

I recently read Die Verwandlung (in German) and it struck me how dry, businesslike his language was. Reading over my translation for this, I realised it even more. I am not sure why they would translate him in an archaic manner...

@OP,

It somehow reminded me of The Stoker, but that's probably not what you're looking for.

kiki - it was definitely a good job - i thought it was taken from somewhere. it was also really quick for a rather long thing. did you try translating anything else of him? maybe you should try something that wasnt yet translated - it there such a thing? i was surprised to see that in hebrew, though its a language that likes him, many of his good things (not his novels, but many good fragments) cant be found.
i dropped out from german as well - but thats only cause i dropped out of the whole thing - otherways id keep my german!

satan - whats 'the stoker'? where can it be found?

and the good news - with a bit of help from a friend IVE FOUND IT! its from the late volume of the diaries. :party:

here in german: http://www.kafka.org/index.php?h9

(you can search it, it begins: "Ich kam einmal im Sommer gegen Abend in ein Dorf in dem ich noch nie gewesen war...")

here in english:

11 June. TEMPTATION IN THE VILLAGE

One summer, towards evening, I arrived in a village where I had never been before. It struck me how broad and open were the paths. Everywhere one saw tall old trees in front of the farmhouses. It had been raining, the air was fresh, everything pleased me. I tried to indicate this by the manner in which I greeted the people standing in front of the gates; their replies were friendly even if somewhat aloof. I thought it would be nice to spend the night here if I could find an inn.

I was just walking past the high ivy-covered wall of a farm when a small door opened in the wall, three faces peered out, vanished, and the door closed again. "Strange," I said aloud, turning to one side as if I had someone with me. And, as if to embarrass me, there in fact stood a tall man next to me with neither hat nor coat, wearing a black knitted vest and smoking a pipe. I quickly recovered myself and said, as though I had already known that he was there: "The door! Did you see the way that little door opened?" "Yes," the man said, "but what's strange in that? It was the tenant farmer's children. They heard your footsteps and looked out to see who was walking by here so late in the evening." "The explanation is a simple one, of course," I said with a smile. things to seem queer to a stranger. Thank you." And I went on. "It's easy for

But the man followed me. I wasn't really surprised by that, the man could be going the same way; yet there was no reason for us to walk one behind the other and not side by side. I turned and said, "Is this the right way to the inn?" The man stopped and said, "We don't have an inn, or rather we have one but it can't be lived in. It belongs to the community and, years ago now, after no one had applied for the management of it, it was turned over to an old cripple whom the community already had to provide for. With his wife he now manages the inn, but in such a way that you can hardly pass by the door, the smell coming out of it is so strong. The floor of the parlor is slippery with dirt. A wretched way of doing things, a disgrace to the village, a disgrace to the community." I wanted to contradict the man; his appearance provoked me to it, this thin face with yellowish, leathery, bony cheeks and black wrinkles spreading over all of it at every movement of his jaws. "Well," I said, expressing no further surprise at this state of affairs, and then went on: "I'll stop there anyway, since I have made up my mind to spend the night here." "Very well," the man quickly said, "but this is the path you must take to reach the inn," and he pointed in the direction I had come from. "Walk to the next corner and then turn right. You'll see the inn sign at once. That's it." I thanked him for the information and now walked past him again while he regarded me very closely. I had no way of guarding against the possibility that he had given me wrong directions, but was determined not to be put out of countenance either by his forcing me to march past him now, or by the fact that he had with such remarkable abruptness abandoned his attempts to warn me against the inn. Somebody else could direct me to the inn as well, and if it were dirty, why then for once I would simply sleep in dirt, if only to satisfy my stubbornness. Moreover, I did not have much of a choice; it was already dark, the roads were muddy from the rain, and it was a long way to the next village. By now the man was behind me and I intended not to trouble myself with him any further when I heard a woman's voice speak to him. I turned. Out of the darkness under a group of plane trees stepped a tall, erect woman. Her skirts shone a yellowish-brown color, over her head and shoulders was a black coarse-knit shawl. "Come home now, won't you?" she said to the man; "why aren't you coming?" "I'm coming," he said; "only wait a little while. I want to see what that man is going to do. He's a stranger. He's hanging around here for no reason at all. Look at him." He spoke of me as if I were deaf or did not understand his language. Now to be sure it did not much matter to me what he said, but it would naturally be unpleasant for me were he to spread false reports about me in the village, no matter of what kind. For this reason I said to the woman: "I'm looking for the inn, that's all. Your husband has no right to speak of me that way and perhaps give you a wrong impression of me." But the woman hardly looked at me and went over to her husband (I had been correct in thinking him her husband; there was such a direct, self-evident relationship between the two), and put her hand on his shoulder: "If there is anything you want, speak to my husband, not to me." "But I don't want anything," I said, irritated by the manner in which I was being treated; "I mind my business, you mind yours. That's all I ask." The woman tossed her head; that much I was able to make out in the dark, but not the expression in her eyes. Apparently she wanted to say something in reply, but her husband said, "Keep still!" and she was silent. Our encounter now seemed definitely at an end; I turned, about to go on, when someone called out, "Sir!" It was probably addressed to me. For a moment I could not tell where the voice came from, but then I saw a young man sitting above me on the farmyard wall, his legs dangling down and knees bumping together, who insolently said to me: "I have just heard that you want to spend the night in the village. You won't find liveable quarters anywhere except here on this farm." "On this farm?" I asked, and involuntarily"I was furious about it later"cast a questioning glance at the man and wife, who still stood there pressed against each other watching me. "That's right," he said, with the same arrogance in his reply that there was in all his behavior. �Are there beds to be had here?� I asked again, to make sure and to force the man back into his role of landlord. �Yes,� he said, already averting his glance from me a little, �beds for the night are furnished here, not to everyone, but only to those to whom they are offered.� �I accept,� I said, �but will naturally pay for the bed, just as I would at the inn.� �Please,� said the man, who had already been looking over my head for a long time, �we shall not take advantage of you.� He sat above like a master, I stood down below like a petty servant; I had a great desire to stir him up a little by throwing a stone up at him. Instead I said, �Then please open the door for me.� �It's not locked,� he said. �It's not locked,� I grumbled in reply, almost without knowing it, opened the door, and walked in. I happened to look up at the top of the wall immediately afterwards; the man was no longer there, in spite of its height he had apparently jumped down from the wall and was perhaps discussing something with the man and wife. Let them discuss it, what could happen to me, a young man with barely three gulden in cash and the rest of whose property consisted of not much more than a clean shirt in his rucksack and a revolver in his trouser pocket. Besides, the people did not look at all as if they would rob anyone. But what else could they want of me? It was the usual sort of neglected garden found on large farms, though the solid stone wall would have led one to expect more. In the tall grass, at regular intervals, stood cherry trees with fallen blossoms. In the distance one could see the farmhouse, a one-story rambling structure. It was already growing quite dark; I was a late guest; if the man on the wall had lied to me in any way, I might find myself in an unpleasant situation. On my way to the house I met no one, but when a few steps away from the house I saw, in the room into which the open door gave, two tall old people side by side, a man and wife their faces towards thc door, eating some sort of porridge out of a bowl. I could not make anything out very clearly in the darkness but now and then something on the man's coat sparkled like gold, it was probably his buttons or perhaps his watch chain. I greeted them and then said, not crossing the threshold for the moment: �I happened to be looking in the village for a place to spend the night when a young man sitting on your garden wall told me it was possible to rent a room for the night here on the farm.� The two old people had put their spoons into the porridge, leaned back on their bench, and looked at me in silence. There was none too great hospitality in their demeanor. I therefore added, �I hope the information given me was correct and that I haven't needlessly disturbed you.� I said this very loudly, for they might perhaps have been hard of hearing. �Come nearer,� said the man after a little pause. I obeyed him only because he was so old, otherwise I should naturally have had to insist that he give a direct answer to my direct question. At any rate, as I entered I said, �If putting me up causes you even the slightest difficulty, feel free to tell me so; I don't absolutely insist on it. I can go to the inn, it wouldn't matter to me at all.� �He talks so much,� the woman said in a low voice. It could only have been intended as an insult, thus it was with insults that they met my courtesy; yet she was an old woman, I could not say anything in my defense. And my very defenselessness was perhaps the reason why this remark to which I dared not retort had so much greater an effect on me than it deserved. I felt there was some justification for a reproach of some sort, not because I had talked too much, for as a matter of fact I had said only what was absolutely necessary, but because of other reasons that touched my existence very closely. I said nothing further, insisted on no reply, saw a bench in a dark corner near by, walked over, and sat down. The old couple resumed their eating, a girl came in from the next room and placed a lighted candle on the table. Now one saw even less than before, everything merged in the darkness, only the tiny flame flickered above the slightly bowed heads of the two old people. Several children came running in from the garden, one fell headlong and cried, the others stopped running and now stood dispersed about the room; the old man said, �Go to sleep, children.� They gathered in a group at once, the one who had been crying was only sobbing now, one boy near me plucked at my coat as if he meant that I was to come along; since I wanted to go to sleep too, I got up and, adult though I was, went silently from the room in the midst of the children as they loudly chorused good night. The friendly little boy took me by the hand and made it easier for me to find my way in the dark. Very soon we came to a ladder, climbed up it, and were in the attic. Through a small open skylight in the roof one could just then see the thin crescent of the moon; it was delightful to step under the skylight�my head almost reached up to it�and to breathe the mild yet cool air. Straw was piled on the floor against one wall; there was enough room for me to sleep too. The children�there were two boys and three girls�kept laughing while they undressed; I had thrown myself down in my clothes on the straw, I was among strangers, after all, and they were under no obligation to take me in. For a little while, propped up on my elbows, I watched the half-naked children playing in a corner. But then I felt so tired that I put my head on my rucksack, stretched out my arms, let my eyes travel along the roof beams a while longer, and fell asleep. In my first sleep I thought I could still hear one boy shout, �Watch out, he's coming!� whereupon the noise of the hurried tripping of the children running to their beds penetrated my already receding consciousness. I had surely slept only a very short time, for when I awoke the moonlight still fell almost unchanged through the window on the same part of the floor. I did not know why I had awakened�my sleep had been dreamless and deep. Then near me, at about the height of my ear, I saw a very small bushy dog, one of those repulsive little lap dogs with disproportionately large heads encircled by curly hair, whose eyes and muzzle are loosely set into their heads like ornaments made out of some kind of lifeless horny substance. What was a city dog like this doing in the village! What was it that made it roam the house at night? Why did it stand next to my ear? I hissed at it to make it go away; perhaps it was the children's pet and had simply strayed to my side. It was frightened by my hissing but did not run away, only turned around, then stood there on its crooked little legs and I could see its stunted (especially by contrast with its large head) little body. Since it continued to stand there quietly, I tried to go back to sleep, but could not; over and over again in the space immediately before my closed eyes I could see the dog rocking back and forth with its protruding eyes. It was unbearable, I could not stand the animal near me; I rose and picked it up in my arms to carry it outside. But though it had been apathetic until then, it now began to defend itself and tried to seize me with its claws. Thus I was forced to hold its little paws fast too�an easy matter, of course; I was able to hold all four in one hand. �So, my pet,� I said to the excited little head with its trembling curls, and went into the dark with it, looking for the door. Only now did it strike me how silent the little dog was, it neither barked nor squeaked, though I could feel its blood pounding wildly through its arteries. After a few steps�the dog had claimed all my attention and made me careless�greatly to my annoyance, I stumbled over one of the sleeping children. It was now very dark in the attic, only a little light still came through the skylight. The child sighed, I stood still for a moment, dared not move even my toe away lest any change waken the child still more. It was too late; suddenly, all around me, I saw the children rising up in their white shifts as though by agreement, as though on command. It was not my fault; I had made only one child wake up, though it had not really been an awakening at all, only a slight disturbance that a child should have easily slept through. But now they were awake. �What do you want, children?� I asked. �Go back to sleep.� �You're carrying something,� one of the boys said, and all five children searched my person. �Yes,� I said; I had nothing to hide, if the children wanted to take the dog out, so much the better. �I'm taking this dog outside. It was keeping me from sleeping. Do you know whose it is?� �Mrs. Cruster's,� at least that's what I thought I made of their confused, indistinct drowsy shouts which were intended not for me but only for each other. �Who is Mrs. Cruster?� I asked, but got no further answer from the excited children. One of them took the dog, which had now become entirely still, from my arm and hurried away with it; the rest followed. I did not want to remain here alone, also my sleepiness had left me by now; for a moment I hesitated, it seemed to me that I was meddling too much in the affairs of this house where no one had shown any great confidence in me; but finally I ran after the children. I heard the pattering of their feet a short distance ahead of me, but often stumbled in the pitch darkness on the unfamiliar way and once even bumped my head painfully against the wall. We came into the room in which I had first met the old people; it was empty, through the door that was still standing open one could see the moonlit garden. �Go outside,� I said to myself, �the night is warm and bright, you can continue your journey or even spend the night in the open. After all, it is so ridiculous to run about after the children here.� But I ran nevertheless; I still had a hat, stick, and rucksack up in the attic. But how the children ran! With their shifts flying they leaped through the moonlit room in two bounds, as I distinctly saw. It occurred to me that I was giving adequate thanks for the lack of hospitality shown me in this house by frightening the children, causing a race through the house and myself making a great din instead of sleeping (the sound of the children's bare feet could hardly be heard above the tread of my heavy boots)�and I had not the faintest notion of what would come of all this.

Suddenly a bright light appeared. In front of us, in a room with several windows opened wide, a delicate-looking woman sat at a table writing by the light of a tall, splendid table lamp. �Children!� she called out in astonishment; she hadn't seen me yet, I stayed back in the shadow outside the door. The children put the dog on the table; they obviously loved the woman very much, kept trying to look into her eyes, one girl seized her hand and caressed it; she made no objection, was scarcely aware of it. The dog stood before her on the sheet of letter paper on which she had just been writing and stretched out its quivering little tongue toward her, the tongue could be plainly seen a short distance in front of the lampshade. The children now begged to be allowed to remain and tried to wheedle the woman's consent. The woman was undecided, got up, stretched her arms, and pointed to the single bed and the hard floor. Thc children refused to give it any importance and lay down on the floor wherever they happened to be, to try it; for a while everything was quiet. Her hands folded in her lap, the woman looked down with a smile at the children. Now and then one raised its head, but when it saw the others still lying down, lay back again. One evening I returned home to my room from the office somewhat later than usual�an acquaintance had detained me below at the house entrance for a long time�opened the door (my thoughts were still engrossed by our conversation, which had consisted chiefly of gossip about people's social standing), hung my overcoat on the hook, and was about to cross over to the washstand when I heard a strange, spasmodic breathing. I looked up and, on top of the stove that stood deep in the gloom of a comer, saw something alive. Yellowish glittering eyes stared at me; large round woman's breasts rested on the shelf of the stove, on either side beneath the unrecognizable face; the creature seemed to consist entirely of a mass of soft white flesh; a thick yellowish tail hung down beside the stove, its tip ceaselessly passing back and forth over the cracks of the tiles. The first thing I did was to cross over with long strides and sunken head�nonsense! I kept repeating like a prayer�to the door that led to my landlady's rooms. Only later I realized that I had entered without knocking. Miss Hefter� It was about midnight. Five men held me, behind them a sixth had his hand raised to grab me. �Let go,� I cried, and whirled in a circle, making them all fall back. I felt some sort of law at work, had known that this last effort of mine would be successful, saw all the men reeling back with raised arms, realized that in a moment they would all throw themselves on me together, turned towards the house entrance�I was standing only a short distance from it�lifted the latch (it sprang open of itself, as it were, with extraordinary rapidity), and escaped up the dark stairs.

Thanks for the compliment. I was thinking of Project Gutenberg, because they can only publish texts that are out of copyright. In that, they might have problems with certain translations of Kafka... It depends when his works were translated, but some of them are probably too late to be out of copyright.

The Stoker is called Der Heizer in German and it is a short story that also forms the first chapter of Amerika/Der Verschollene.

Look here for Wikipedia Deutsch:

http://de.wikipedia.org/wiki/Der_Heizer

There is also an English article on it.

I am glad you found it.

I'll certainly have a look for the German text (I prefer to read in the original).

:)

@kiki: Thanks for explaining that one.

@egtail: I read that story in a Kafka's short-story collection (Penguin paperback). Regrettably, I have yet to read Amerika.

haha, sorry, I just came across that looking on Wikipedia...

You might be reffering to the fragment without a name, found in Kafka's diaries, generally regarded as a sketch predating The Castle, with a similar theme. It is about someone who arrives at a village, but everyone is unfriendly and act in a strange way. It is, if i remember correctly, around 10 pages long.