When you gave me a copy of your so-called story ‘In the Penal Colony’ last year, I refused to accept it and you were offended. From what I have heard of it, it is a ridiculous and provocative account of a machine which tortures and tattoos individuals. Your preoccupation with such things is deeply unhealthy, but even this preoccupation, I would guess, you ascribe to me. The reason I would not accept your story is that my policy is to stick to my principle of living calmly within our society while believing that our future lies with a new Germany in an empire of German-speaking peoples, which will forever replace these superstitious and outmoded peoples who surround us. That is my dream. But you choose always to stick your fingers into wounds. That is your nature.

In the meanwhile, that section of your letter to me in which you artfully imagine my response in fact sums up very accurately what I think about your complaints and self-justification. I quote our own words: ‘all this does is confirm for me that my reproaches were justified — all of them. But I should have added that you were insincere, a sycophant and a parasite and this letter, if I am not mistaken, is further evidence of your parasitic attitude to me’.

Your father,
Hermann Kafka 

The Song Before It Is Sung, by Justin Cartwright, is published by Bloomsbury.

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