We know what genius is, says W. aphoristically, but we know we're not geniuses. It's a gift, he says, but it's also a curse. We can recognise genius in others, but we don't have it ourselves.
Max Brod, so unselfish in his promotion of Kafka (and Janacek), yet so given to a vague and general pathos – to amorphous stirrings wholly alien to the precision of Kafka (and Janacek) – has always served as both our warning and example. What could he understand of Kafka (or Janacek)? Weren't his interpretative books – which did so much to popularise the work of his friend – at every turn, a betrayal of Kafka (or, for that matter, Janacek)?
But then again, didn't Kafka (and to a much lesser extent, Janacek) depend upon his friendship and his support? Didn't Kafka (and perhaps Janacek, though we're not sure), lean on his friend in times of despair and solitude?
We too, W. and decided long ago, must give our lives in the service of others. We too must write interpretative essays on the work of others more intelligent and gifted than we will ever be. We too must do our best to offer support and solace to others despite the fact that we will always misunderstand their genius, and only bother them with our enthusaism.
Lars Iyer's Blog 