Waning Kafka-esque

“Do not despair,” said Kafka. “Not even over the fact that you do not despair.”

There’s a lot Kafka said that I don’t understand. And this, too, I’m probably not getting. But in the context of my own concerns as a songwriter, it stirs up dizzying contemplations.

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I’ve always been a Kafka fan. Still am, but it’s changed. As a younger man, I was attracted to the disheartening appearance of the Void, looming and sucking all the meaning out of the joys of youth. Between getting my driver’s license, learning to play rock-n-roll, road-tripping, falling in love, tree-climbing, and general partying, there was always The Void, and its ghastly presence that woke me up every night at 3:30 a.m. (Which is why I usually tried to stay up past then.)

Unpleasant to say the least, but I also found it to be yet another object of curiosity. Franz Kafka, the mysteriously desperate Czech writer from the mists of old Europe, made a compelling imaginary companion.

That’s when a certain bad habit began, common to us artist-wannabe’s. Indulgence. Everybody said Kafka was a genius, and Kafka was a sad, pitiful, miserable son-of-a-bitch. So, in order to be a creative genius, I thought I had to be a miserable son-of-a-bitch. In a way, it’s a little bit true. Between Pollyanna and Cassandra—both are insufferable—most of us would rather be Cassandra; she is at least interesting.

The thing is, an artist’s temperament may involve a darker perspective. When you’re young, it motivates. Expressions of despair can be cathartic, stimulating. But these expressions should play out into an array of emotions and insights, provide relief so you can get on with life and the business of honing your craft. They shouldn”t stagnate and harden into a cynical personality disorder. But after a while, you saddle yourself with an addiction to negative thinking.

It’s common for artists to be wound up with anxiety, self-doubt, insecurity. The question is, what do you do about it? Therapy, medication, cowboy-up and get over it. Whatever it takes. Above all, you mustn’t confuse ordinary frustrations with the logistics of the profession for real despair.

As time goes by, you commiserate with your friend Kafka, but the friendship lacks the spark it once had. There’s no resolution, no relief. You just keep hanging out with this dismal guy who seems more and more like a sick giant cockroach.

On the question of therapy and medication, time and again, we artists refuse, saying, “If I am happy all the time, I won’t be creative.” This goes in line with another observation: young artists especially, gravitate towards darker themes, almost as a pretense, in imitation of the sad dark artists they admire. (And this, in turn, goes in line with another, simpler, observation. Grumpy people seem smarter than happy people,, don’t they? We always treat the mean, sarcastic, caustic, articulate dark person as the smart one.)

I see young students intent on emulating the darkness in their artists heroes, as they first muse over certain unpleasant realities of life in Western Civilization. But I sense that they’re not really paying attention. Most of these artists were having a rather good time, most of the time. Sure, Hemingway came to a bad end, and there are some bleak passages. But what about all that life-affirming vitality in 90% of his writing—the bullfighting, the fishing, the romance. Jim Morrison (a dubious example in the first place) might have been awfully compelling in the apocalyptic “The End.” But face it, The Doors were basically a bluesy bar band fronted by a Sinatra-style vocalist doubling as a would-be poet. Their stuff mostly about having a good time.

The list of dark-themed artists goes on: Kerouac, Burroughs, Camus, Hendrix, Lennon. The happy fact is that they were all about living. Their very acts of creativity were essentially affirming.

And this is what I’m wondering about. As you get older. “despair” is no longer a profound existential epiphany, but merely a crippling emotional disposition, something like a brain injury. The solutions appear quite down to earth. Therapy is good. Maybe medication. Maybe some light religion, exercise, diet, quit smoking, etc. Then a new problem arises: what faces you when despair is gone? It’s hard to give up an old friend. Especially such a genius like Kafka. Without him, will you be able to write?

The answer is: most likely, you’ll be able to write a whole lot better. And if not, it’s probably because you weren’t any good in the first place.

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