Everything begins when you understand that you, and you above all, are Max Brod: this, for W., is the founding principle. That you (whoever you are) are Max Brod, and everyone else (whoever they might be) is Franz Kafka. Which is to say, you will never understand anyone else and are endlessly guilty before them, and that even with the greatest effort of loyalty, you will betray them at every turn.
Do I have a real sense of that?, W. wonders. Do I really know I am Max Brod rather than Franz Kafka? He doubts it, he says, which is why I never know the extent of my usurpation. For I'm a usurper, says W.; I've stolen his place and the place of everyone. Who haven't I betrayed? What crime haven't I committed?
Still, says W., his burden is to take on my wrongdoings as though they were his own. It's all his fault, says W., even though it's all my fault. This is because he is certain he is Max Brod, while I still think I'm Franz Kafka.
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