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Crows That Fly Into My Path

Writer's picture: Liza Opatrny BothaLiza Opatrny Botha

In Memory of Franz Kafka


The more I learn about birds, the more I like crows. They are one of those birds that some consider unlucky, yet others hold greatly symbolic and favourable. I have read that crows are smart enough to recognise people if they see them often. I see crows during my morning runs, and I’m sure they are the same ones every time, cheering me on. It brings me so much pleasure. I always thought that “kafka” is the Czech word for crow. It seemed fitting for Franz Kafka to have a name that meant this bird. Alas, it’s not a direct transplantation. Kafka translates to jackdaw, a smaller member of the crow family. Close enough. 


This month, we commemorate 100 years since the death of Franz Kafka (July 3, 1883- June 3, 1924). He is arguably one of the most well-known writers of the 20th century. You’ve probably heard of The Metamorphosis even if you haven’t read his work. You know, the story of a travelling salesman who wakes up as a bug one morning. The first time I learnt about Kafka’s work was in the summer of 2007, soon after I moved to Prague. At this time, I was attracted to everything Bohemian. I remember walking down the cobble-stoned streets of Mála Strana to visit The Franz Kafka Museum. It was fairly new and beautifully curated with stylised animations. I bought an English copy of The Metamorphosis and found it easy to read, but much harder to interpret. Kafka’s descriptive passages pulled me into the reality of Gregor Samsa, the main character. This novella ponders the nature of isolation and transformation. After Gregor Samsa turned into a bug, nobody could understand him, any longer. His family found his new alien body repulsive, and he was left, very much alone. During my euphoric first summer in Prague, I would never have guessed that Gregor and I would soon have much in common. 


I am at a place where I can reflect warmly on my 17-year relationship with Prague. I tell people how beautiful and interesting the city is. I think about all the friends I made, the things I have seen, and how both my children were born there. It is even easier to reminisce on the wonders of a place when you don’t live there. Memory is a strange thing. When we last visited Prague, I looked through a few of my old journals and found a very angry poem. Memories flooded back and I could feel despair and loneliness running through my veins. Had I written this? It reminded me of how during this blue period of my life, otherwise known as my first European winter, I started writing poems again. It was a quick way to expel all these deep, dark emotions. Feelings, stirred up by pretty much the same terrors that Greg Samsa faced: alienation, isolation and transformation. I was the giant cockroach crawling down the cobble-stoned streets of Prague. The romance had gone, reality had settled in and all was left cold and grey.


It is helpful and comforting, to be able to look at writers who have written about their experiences with these emotions. As a teenager, I would sit alone in my room for hours and listen to music. Albums like Throwing Copper by Live and Mellon Collie and The Infinite Sadness by Smashing Pumpkins gave me hope that beautiful things could come from sadness and isolation. This kind of art is the instrument that helps us get through transitions. We ride the waves of those who were brave enough to share their experiences of the storm. They give us the materials to draw from. And perhaps, to develop from.


Years before I got to know Franz Kafka, I was attracted to a book entitled Kafka on the Shore by a Japanese author Haruki Murakami. I must have heard about Franz Kafka, and the name probably rang a bell. I read it soon after it was published and fell in love with Murakami’s writing style.  I would describe his work as unique and surrealistic, much like Franz Kafka’s. Little did I know that they had a connection. I mean, Murakami named his character after Kafka; of course, they had a connection. I now know that Murakami is greatly influenced by Kafka’s work. In 2006, Murakami visited Prague to receive an award from the Franz Kafka Society for his novel Kafka on the Shore. Then I discovered something that made my heart flutter.


In 2013, the New York Times published a short story by Murakami entitled Samsa in Love. Yes, Samsa as in Gregor Samsa from The Metamorphosis. Murakami had written a sequel for poor Gregor, and it was one with a happy ending. Just like Franz Kafka’s writing pulled me in, Murakami’s description made his character real and relatable. Samsa in Love deals with the concepts of being an outcast, not feeling comfortable in your body, and acceptance.  The story is open to infinite interpretations and it left me feeling curious and happy. Isn’t it extremely satisfying when pieces all fit together so wonderfully?




So back to the crows I see walking on the paths of the English Garden here in Munich. I believe that they all know me pretty well by now. They wait for me to pass them in the mornings, sometimes flying into my path just for fun. They have the coolest walk and loudest caw. Every time I run past one, I can’t help thinking of Franz Kafka and Haruki Murakami, even if it’s only for a second.



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