Cafe Imperial

Finally made it to the library at the Institute today. I called up Jesenska's translations from 1920 of Kafka's stories, in different issues of a couple of literary magazines from the time. I didn't realize that the first magazine she published them in was a very pronounced socialist periodical. Also, her first translation - of "The Stoker" (that was also the first chapter of his novel, Amerika) took up the whole magazine, with a note from the editor at the end, asking his reader's forgiveness but saying that the work was so great it deserved it. A fairly brave opinion in 1920 when no Czech-speaking Czechs had heard of Kafka - this was the first translation ever into any language of any of his work.

I was also reading a hilarious biography of Jesenska, "The Myth of Milena" by an Austrian-Czech (I think) ranter. She's actually quite right in trying to debunk all the romantic tosh surrounding Jesenska and her love affair with Kafka, but she just rants and says its wrong, producing none or dubious proof, but it's gripping reading. Like there's someone with a bullhorn to your ear, but there's a certain rhythm to their shouting. There are no chapter breaks, and you get the sense that she just typed it all in one frenzy.

I had lunch at the Cafe Imperial, which has been totally spiffed up. Gone are the stale doughnuts and the frayed velveteen curtains. The Art Deco architecture is back on view, really stunning it has to be said, and the waiters - straight out of Hrabal's I Served the King of England - jette-ed around the tables, courteous white-aproned praetorians. When I asked for a coffee after a wolfed-down risotto, I got a silver tray with my espresso, an elegant tiny glass of water, steamed milk and a tiny poppy seed cake.

It's kind of how I imagined a Viennese coffehouse to be. Except, after the bookseller, I'd been too afraid to go in.