An Odd Couple: Franz Kafka and Max Brod
Inside the relationship that saved Kafka's work from obscurity
Last time, I mentioned Kafka’s relationship with Oskar Pollak, which started during high school and continued into university. When Pollak relocated to Italy, Max Brod took up the mantle. Yet, Kafka corresponded with Pollak for a while longer, discussing his recent readings, such as Marcus Aurelius’s Meditations. In a letter dated 10th Jan. 1904, Kafka pointed out his impression that the Roman Emperor was actually rather under stress despite his stoic appearance. Kafka was also reading the works of Christian Friedrich Hebbel—a writer I must admit I know nothing about; but Kafka must have been deeply impressed by Hebbel’s writings, as it was at this time that he wrote the now-famous line to Pollak: ‘A book must be the axe for the frozen sea inside us’.
So, Franz Kafka and Max Brod… Talk about an odd couple! They are sort of like Hamlet and Horatio, Don Quijote and Sancho, or like Gustave Flaubert and Maxime Du Camp, if you prefer…
They first crossed paths in 1902. Kafka, aged 19, was starting his second year at Charles University in Prague, while Brod, a year his junior, was already carving out a reputation as a prodigious intellect, delivering lectures on an array of topics, such as the one on Schopenhauer and Nietzsche—where, as I mentioned in my previous note, he branded Nietzsche a ‘swindler’, to which Kafka objected, sparking an intense discussion that eventually blossomed into a close bond.
In reality, they were polar opposites. Kafka appeared as just another socially awkward law student, lost in his own mind, battling self-doubt, while Brod was a vivacious polymath, widely known across the student circles—a self-assured impresario-in-waiting who flirted with literature, philosophy, and the ladies. And yet, something about Kafka attracted him, like a moth to a flame, or perhaps a cockroach to a... you catch my drift.
But, despite their differences, Kafka and Brod became inseparable and ‘met daily, sometimes even twice a day’1. They walked back home together after lectures and, later, from their respective clerical posts at the insurance firms. Kafka would keep Brod waiting by the Powder Tower in Prague, as he always arrived late.
Brod introduced Kafka into Prague’s intellectual and artistic circles, giving him access to emerging writers, critics, and thinkers such as Emil Utitz, Felix Weltsch, Hugo Bergman, Oskar Baum, the Fanta salon run by Berta Fanta, and other philosophical literary circles. However, Kafka felt uncomfortable in these settings and tended to withdraw into himself, remaining silent and seldom engaging in dialogue. He preferred individual interactions with a small group of close classmates. Kafka’s formal demeanour often made him seem distant and detached, making it difficult to decipher his personality. Yet, Brod could access a facet of Kafka’s character that remained concealed from most people. He later wrote in his biography:
I have experienced over and over again that admirers of Kafka who know him only from his books have a completely false picture of him. They think he must have made a sad, even desperate impression in company too. The opposite is the case. One felt well when one was with him. The richness of his thoughts, which he generally uttered in a cheerful tone, made him, to put it on the lowest level, one of the most amusing of men I ever met, in spite of his shyness, in spite of his quietness.2
Their connection, it seems, was fostered mainly by their mutual love of literature and philosophy. Kafka’s letters to Brod provide a fascinating insight into their shared intellectual pursuits, with discussions spanning an eclectic range of authors: Plato (yes, Protagoras in the original Greek, no less!), Goethe, Balzac, Flaubert, Gogol, and even new voices like Hermann Hesse and Thomas Mann (especially his recently published novella Tonio Kröger—it’s no surprise that Mann’s depiction of the artist as an exile from the real world would resonate with Kafka). Brod and Kafka weren’t merely avid readers; they were actively engaged in the intellectual currents of their time, embracing many political ideas, such as anarchism, Marxism, and Zionism, but also artistic movements, from Art Nouveau and Jugendstil to the fin de siècle decadent movement, and even indulging in the exploration of erotic literature and art.
Kafka and Brod weren’t all about stuffy discussions and intellectual pursuits, though. Kafka, in particular, had a playful side, evident in his letters. He shared puzzling and funny stories—like one about a man with a mysterious box (letter to Pollak, 10th Jan. 1904) or another about a dog teasing a mole (letter to Brod, 28th Aug. 1904). These whimsical tales hint at the future emergence of Kafka’s enigmatic literary style. His letters also reveal (only in passing at this stage) his sexual adventures, encounters with prostitutes and one-night stands3, which seem to mirror his complex views on intimacy and desire.
On that note, it’s equally intriguing to consider the silence in Kafka’s letters—the things left unsaid, casually brushed aside, or hinted at without explicit elaboration. For instance, Kafka’s letters gloss over another significant aspect of his life, which becomes evident through the postcards he sent Brod from spa towns and sanatoriums while on summer vacation. Early on, Kafka was uncomfortable in his own skin, prompting him to focus on enhancing his physical well-being. He embraced Lebensreform (life-reform), a naturopathic movement advocating natural healing and healthy living. This philosophy led him to embrace vegetarianism, adhere to strict exercise regimes, and dedicate himself to outdoor pursuits. As Reiner Stach points out:
Anyone who put aside the conventional medical stance and instead adopted what would later be called a “holistic” approach to one’s own body entered into an ideological universe in which the most basic life functions were deemed optimizable: how a person slept, breathed, spoke, chewed, digested, sat, stood, or walked—all this could and had to be improved, that is, brought into line with the demands of nature.4
Such inclinations seem ahead of their time, hinting at contemporary concerns about fitness, wellness, and alternative medicine. However, Kafka’s zeal for naturopathy could also be interpreted as a sign of his resistance against his father’s conventional and stern lifestyle. Hermann Kafka, a hearty meat eater, struggled to understand his son’s distaste for animal flesh and his excessive preoccupation with health and well-being:
The idea that this fortification could be achieved by eating lettuce, nuts, almonds, stewed fruit, and sour milk made no sense to Hermann Kafka, who believed that meat was the substance of a meal and the best of all foods. [...] A diet that offered nothing but side dishes struck him as ridiculous, and anyone who would willingly forgo the pleasures of eating meat was ridiculous as well.5
This lifestyle clash highlights, once more, the stark disparity between Kafka and his father, a theme that would profoundly influence his later literary creations.
Kafka also kept his literary projects secret from his friend. He was already drafting “Description of a Struggle” and “Wedding Preparations in the Country” but never breathed a word of it to Brod until much later. This silence reveals, once again, Kafka’s deep-seated insecurities regarding his writing abilities and his terror of criticism and dismissal. It also underscores the curious degree of confidence he invested in Brod, entrusting him with his innermost feelings and insecurities yet, at first, withholding his creative endeavours from him.
Both novellas, “Description of a Struggle” and “Wedding Preparations in the Country”, received little or no attention during Kafka’s lifetime and still remain relatively neglected and underrated. However, Kafka dedicated a significant portion of his student years to these texts, which warrant closer examination. In my next post, I’ll try to unpack “Description’of a Struggle” before shifting to “Wedding Preparations in the Country” in a few weeks. If you’d like to read these works in advance, you can find them in the Complete Stories collection (located near the beginning).
Over the years, Brod came to regard Kafka with quasi-religious awe, which may explain why he could not bring himself to burn Kafka’s unpublished works upon his death in 1924, despite his friend’s explicit instructions to do so. Brod recognised the value in Kafka’s scribblings and unfinished fragments and devoted the rest of his life to collecting, editing, and publishing them. And so, novels such as The Trial and The Castle were not only saved from the flames but elevated to the zenith of the literary pantheon.
Brod’s own book, Franz Kafka, A Biography, draws upon a freestyle combination of fond memories, accounts of contemporaries, Kafka’s prolific writings, and his personal reflections. Yet, in Brod’s narrative, Kafka emerges as a near-saintly figure, far beyond mere literary aspirations. Brod writes:
That was why when one was with him one had the impression strongly that nothing vulgar or “common” existed at all. Saints and founders of religions are said to have affected people similarly—and going about with Kafka has convinced me that such reports are based on real experience. The category of sacredness (and not really that of literature), is the only right category under which Kafka’s life and work can be viewed.6
Perhaps Brod felt compelled to counterbalance Kafka’s self-doubts by promoting an overly positive perception of him. Although, to be fair, without Brod’s efforts, Kafka’s literary standing might have remained obscure, Brod’s zealous advocacy of his friend was a double-edged sword. By positioning himself as the pre-eminent authority on Kafka, Brod shaped his friend’s legacy to fit his own philosophical and religious beliefs, much to the dismay of other scholars and critics. As Stach notes:
Walter Benjamin's reaction was far more caustic; he considered Brod’s religious interpretations misleading and wrote a review of the biography at Gershom Scholem’s suggestion. Benjamin’s scathing critique was aimed primarily at Brod’s lack of distance from his subject; he faulted Brod for harmonizing Kafka’s texts and attempting to discredit any other possible interpretations, even future ones.7
That being said, Brod’s and Kafka’s friendship was a union of opposites that left a profound mark on both men. Kafka discovered in Brod a confidant, an advocate, and a kindred soul; Brod, through Kafka, found his raison d'être—to share his friend’s singular brilliance with the world. Without Brod, the name of Franz Kafka would probably have faded into oblivion or non-existence. Yet, without Kafka, Brod might never have discovered his true vocation. Together, they forged one of the most peculiar and fruitful writer / literary agent partnerships of the twentieth century.
I wish to conclude with an intriguing TV interview featuring Brod discussing his relationship with Kafka. Imagine: had Kafka survived tuberculosis and the Nazis, TV interviews with him might have been plausible, too!
Notice Brod’s accent, too. Kafka’s manner of speaking was probably very similar—a peculiar mixture of southern German intonations, mostly resembling Bavarian or Austrian. For those of you native/fluent in German, I reckon you could provide a more accurate insight into Brod’s distinctive speech patterns. If so, please share. And for everyone else, what do you make of this strange Kafka/Brod couple? Post your thoughts below!
Max Brod, Franz Kafka, A Biography, p. 62.
Ibid., pp. 39-40.
Reiner Stach, The Early Years, loc. 4494.
Ibid., loc. 5089.
Ibid., loc. 5169.
Brod, op. cit., p. 49.
Stach, op. cit., 4205.
I'm very excited to have found your Kafka project. Yours is the first account I actually feel bad that I'm not currently able to pay. Perhaps that will change in the future, but I appreciate what you're doing. I will be back to read more.
In reference to the specifics, this brings me back to thoughts I've had regarding the salon of Gertrude Stein, the impact of Ezra Pound, and the resurrection of Moby Dick by Raymond Weaver. So often, great literature had a second, quiet genius in the wings, but I've spent my life believing in the myth of the artist alone, his work a singular accomplishment. Such foolishness.