Maiselova, the main thoroughfare in Prague's Jewish Quarter, is attached to Staromestské Námestí by an unassuming and ostensibly unimportant little square. There are many such squares in this city—the kind that can be crossed in a few dozen steps, with streets that tributary off at the edges. Usually, the names of these squares are denoted with a characteristic red and blue street sign, bearing one of those wonderful Slavic names—full of háceks and consonant clusters. But this square is slightly different. Yes, there is the red and blue porcelain. And indeed, it bears a name—a name that is not particularly Czech-sounding. Who could he be? A foreign dignitary who took a liking to Prague? Or perhaps a personage exhumed from the dusty annals of urban record-keeping when an extra name was wanting for an extra square. There, on a façade at the Maiselova corner, is a clue to his identity. It is a concave piece of metal, thick and almost black in color, curving out and away from the wall to which it is affixed. It seems to be peeling away at its edges, as if trying to fall off the wall. The bending slab partially encloses the small figure of a head, also of metal, that is suspended in front. It is a countenance that is narrowed, gaunt, unhealthily thin. It is a face that is dominated by the eyes—orb-shaped containers either empty to the utmost or full to overflow. The man might have reasoned, with resignation in the face of horrifying truth, that those two states are essentially the same. Surely, it is the eyes that give him away. And how fitting, for few were able to see as Kafka did.

Standing only a few blocks from the little square is a statue in bronze by the Czech sculptor, Jaroslav Róna. It depicts a man, his attire accented by a Homburg hat, sitting upon the shoulders of a massive, headless creature. With neither face nor arms, the creature upon which he balances is hardly an entity. It exists solely to lift the man above the ground, affording him an enhanced view of the goings-on below. There is the shade of a smile about the man's lips, but the expression is angled by sadness. His right arm is bent at the elbow, and his forefinger extends outward. Kafka is pointing. Perhaps he points at 27 Dusní Street, the address he occupied for much of his life. Or maybe he just points at Prague, the city he occupied for his life's entirety. In 2004, eighty years after his death, Franz Kafka earned a statue in Prague. Perched on the creature's shoulders, his vantage point is more encompassing, more perspectival than ours. Once more, the key seems to lie in Kafka's eye—and it is his mind's eye that the statue makes into metaphor here.

To Róna's great credit, he has recognized that the truest tribute to Kafka is a tribute to his powers of vision. If others had glimpsed even a fraction of what he saw, perhaps they were able to ignore it better—and be the happier for it. Kafka wou ld not and could not ignore the schizophrenia of human existence. Take for example the nightmarish jumble of images that is "A Country Doctor." This is the reality that Kafka describes in his diaries: "The world will present itself to you for its unmasking, it can do no other, in ecstasy it will writhe at your feet." This is the source of wonder in his art and anguish in his life: he saw too much. He made the clarity of his vision livable by evacuating onto paper. His writings are the catharsis of his sight, and, for his readers, the ultimate testament to its quality.

And as we venture through Old Prague, considering Kafka's powers of sight, how supremely ironic that the city itself—and the entire country—has such difficulty in viewing him. Seeing was problematic for Kafka as well, but in this instance, the Czechs are plain myopic. That is something Kafka never was, for in spite of his own fractured identity, he ultimately recognized the value of his work. Why else would he request that his writings all be burned and then bequeath them to Max Brod? A taste for the dramatic perhaps. Knowing his best friend's character, Kafka knew full well that Brod would do nothing of the kind. But the nation's most widely-read author abroad remains an obscurity on native soil. The Czechs don't know what to do with him. He was a German Jew from the Austrian Empire—he was not a real Czech, they say. There is no national holiday in his honor. And the throngs of tourists that infiltrate Prague pass unknowingly through tiny Franz Kafka Square.

Perhaps it is better this way, and perhaps a more fitting tribute: only those few with sharp enough vision are able to notice how strongly Kafka resonates in this city. It is true that among many of Prague's intellectuals, Kafka has been canonized. They are able to see Kafka in Hrabal and even Hašek, two of the nation's most beloved literary sons. But is it not the whole nation's responsibility to treasure its treasure? The country has been grappling with its own identity issues of late: the pros and cons of EU membership, the influx of foreigners, changing demographics, and the developing concept of Central Europe are all impacting the Czech Republic. The notion of what it means to be Czech must expand and stretch. And how much can national character accommodate before it tears apart? In a half-historical, half-psychoanalytic light, perhaps this is not the right time for Kafka tributes on a grand scale. His tormented struggle with identity might just hit too close to home. Then again, doesn't that make him more Czech now than ever? That, at least, is how I see it.

 

Richard Solash is an English concentrator and member of the class of 2007. He studied literature in Prague during the fall 2005 semester.