FRANZ KAFKA Short Story ELEVEN SONS Full ENGLISH TEXT online
Franz Kafka
Eleven Sons
( In German: Elf Söhne )
(1916)
From Book: Ein Landarzt
(1920)
Short story by Franz Kafka
Full text translated into English
German Literature
A short story by Franz Kafka
Eleven Sons (in German: Elf Söhne, Elf Sons) is a short story by Franz Kafka written in 1916 and published in 1920 as part of the Book Ein Landarzt. The short story “Eleven Sons” by Franz Kafka describes the complaint of a dissatisfied father of the eleven children of him.
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Franz Kafka All the stories > here
Franz Kafka
Eleven Sons
(Dt: Elf Söhne)
(1916)
A short story by Franz Kafka
Full text translated into English
I have eleven sons.
The first is outwardly very unappealing, but serious and clever; nevertheless, I do not have the highest appreciation of him, although I love him as much as the others. His way of thinking seems too simple to me. He does not look right nor left, nor into the distance; in his little circle of thoughts, he runs constantly around, or he rotates, rather.
The second is handsome, slim, well-built; it is a delight to see him in fencing posture. He is also wise, but also worldly wise; he has seen a lot, therefore it seems that the character of his country is impressed in him no less than within the folks back home. But this advantage is certainly not only due to his traveling, it belongs rather to the inimitable nature of this child, who is recognized by anyone who wants to imitate his dives into the water and the somersaults, impetuous yet well controlled. Until the end of the springboard the courage and desire is for the imitators enough, but then, instead of jumping, they raise their arms apologetically. And despite all this (I should really be happy about such a child) my relationship with him is not untarnished. His left eye is a little smaller than the right, winking much; a little fault, certainly, making his face even more daring than it would otherwise be, and no one will disapprove of this smaller twinkling eye, in view of the unapproachable independence of his temper. I, the father, do it. Of course it’s not this physical fault that hurts me, but a somehow corresponding small irregularity of his mind, a sort of poison erring in his blood, some inability, only visible to me, marks his life all around. On the other hand, this is precisely what makes him my true son, because his fault is at the same time the very fault of our whole family, and in this son is just more evident.
The third son is also handsome, but it’s not the handsomeness that I like. It is the handsomeness of the singer: the curved mouth; the dreamy eye; the head which requires, to work, a drapery behind; the chest swells too much; slightly colliding hands that fall too easily, the legs stand out because they can not bear him. And besides: the tone of his voice is not full; for a moment it deceives the connoisseur’s ear, but then it is shortlived. Although everything would tempt to make this son flaunting, I hold him preferably in secret; he does not impose himself, not because he knows his own flaws, but rather out of innocence. He also feels that he does not belong to our times; as if he belonged to my family, but also to another, forever lost, he is often listless and nothing can cheer him up.
My fourth son is perhaps the friendliest of all. A true child of his time, everybody understands him, he shares common ground with everyone, and all try to nod to him. Perhaps by this general recognition he gains some lightness, and his movements some freedom, his judgment is lighthearted. Some of his sayings you want to repeat often, but only some, because all in all he suffers of too great easiness. He is like a man who jumps off admirably, swallowing the air, but ends bleakly in barren dust, a nothingness. Such thoughts embitter me at the sight of this child.
The fifth son is kind and good; promised a lot less than he thought; he was so insignificant that in his presence one felt alone; it has yet brought to some renown. If you asked me how this is done, I could barely answer. Perhaps, innocence penetrates effortlessly through the raging elements in this world, and he’s innocent. Perhaps too innocent. Friendly to everyone. Perhaps too friendly. I confess: I will not be comfortable if you praise him before me. This is to say, it is somewhat too easy to praise someone who is obviously so praiseworthy, like my son.
My sixth son seems, at least at first glance, the most profound of all. Crestfallen and yet garrulous. Therefore, one does not easily come to him. Being subject to falling, he falls into invincible sadness; he attains the overweight, so he preserves it by chatter. But I’m not talking to him from some absent-minded passion; in broad day he often fights his way through his thoughts like in a dream. Without being sick – rather, it has a very good health – he stumbles sometimes, particularly at dusk, but does not need help, he does not fall. Perhaps it is his own physical development to blame, for he is much too big for his age. This makes him unattractive as a whole, despite strikingly beautiful details, such as his hands and feet. Not pretty is also his forehead; somewhat shriveled both in the skin and in the bone formation.
The seventh son belongs to me more than all the others. The world does not understand him enough; his special kind of humor is not understood. I do not overesteem him; I know he is barely sufficient; had the world no other fault than not to appreciate him, then it would still be spotless. But within the family, I would never want to miss this son. Both restlessness and reverence for tradition he brings, and both he add together, at least to my mind, to an incontestable whole. Of this whole he knows, to some extent, what to do; the wheel of the future he will not put in motion, but his disposition is so encouraging, so full of hope; I wish he had children, and they children again. Unfortunately, this desire does not seem to be likely fulfilled. In a somehow understandable, but equally undesirable, complacency, which is, however, in great contrast to the general judgment, he goes about alone, not caring about girls, and is still never losing his good mood.
My eighth son is my problem child, and I do not actually know the reason for this. He looks at me strange, and I feel a close fatherly bond with him. Time has worked well its way, but before I would sometimes feel a shiver when thinking about him. He goes his own way; he has broken all the ties with me; and certainly with his strong head, his small athletic body – only his legs were rather weak as a boy, but they might have in the meantime strenghtened – gets away as he pleases. I often felt like calling him, to ask him how he is really doing, why he secluded so much from his father, and what he actually meant, but now he’s so far and so much time has already passed; now it may as well remain as it is. I hear that he is the only one amongst my sons to wear a beard; which is obviously not too good for such a small man.
My ninth son is very elegant and has that particular sweet look, according to women. So sweet that he can even seduce at times, but I know that a wet sponge is sufficient to wipe out all that unearthly splendor. What is special about this boy, however, is that he does not at all intend to seduce; to him it would be enough to lie his all life on the sofa, direct his look at the ceiling, or even more let it rest under the eyelids. Is such a favorite position of his, he likes to talk and not badly; profusely and vividly; but only within narrow limits; if he goes beyond them, which can not be avoided in such narrowness, his speech is completely empty. One would wink at him, if only hoped that such sleepy look could notice it.
My tenth son is regarded as an insincere character. I do not want to either quite deny, nor quite confirm this fault. What is certain is that whoever sees him coming by, in such solemnity that is well above his age, in an always firmly closed frock coat, in the old, but impeccably polished, black hat, his impassible face, the slightly protruding chin, the eyelids gravely bulging over his eyes, two fingers sometimes put to his mouth – one who sees him must think: there is a boundless hypocrite! But, now you just hear him speak! Knowledgeable; full of wisdom; of few words; responding with mischievous vivaciousness to questions; in astonishing, evident and joyful conformity with the whole world; a conformity that necessarily tightens the neck and can lift the body. Many who thought themselves very clever and, for this reason, felt repelled by his appearance, he has by his word strongly attracted. But there are also people, indifferent at his appearance, to whom his words appear hypocritical. I, as a father, do not want to decide here, but I must admit that the latter judgement is in any case as noteworthy as the former.
My eleventh son is tender, probably the weakest among my sons; but deceptive in his weakness; he can be strong and determined at times, even though his weakness is somehow foundamental. However, it is not a shameful weakness, rather something that only appears on our world as a weakness. It is not then, for example, also the readiness to set to fly a weakness, because it is indeed wavering and uncertain and fluttery? Something like this shows my son. The father, of course, is not happy about such features; they obviously contribute to the destruction of the family. Sometimes he looks at me as if to say: “I’ll take you with me, Father.” Then I think: “You’re the last person I trust myself.” And his eyes again seem to say again: “At least, may I then be the last.”
These are the eleven sons.
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Franz Kafka – Eleven Sons
Dt: Elf Söhne (1916)
Short story by Franz Kafka
From Book: Ein Landarzt (1920)
Full text translated into English
Franz Kafka Eleven Sons Original text in German > here
Franz Kafka All the stories > here
Franz Kafka
Franz Kafka (3 July 1883 – 3 June 1924) was a German-speaking Bohemian Jewish novelist and short story writer, widely regarded as one of the major figures of 20th-century literature. His work, which fuses elements of realism and the fantastic, typically features isolated protagonists faced by bizarre or surrealistic predicaments and incomprehensible social-bureaucratic powers, and has been interpreted as exploring themes of alienation, existential anxiety, guilt, and absurdity. His best known works include “Die Verwandlung” (“The Metamorphosis”), Der Process (The Trial), and Das Schloss (The Castle). The term Kafkaesque has entered the English language to describe situations like those in his writing. (from: wikipedia)
