Schelesen

Dearest Father,

You asked me recently why I claim to be afraid of you. I did not know, as usual, how to answer, partly for the very reason that I am afraid of you, partly because an explanation of my fear would require more details than I could even begin to make coherent in speech. And if I now try to answer in writing, it will be nowhere near complete, because even in writing, my fear and it's consequences raise a barrier between us and because of the magnitude of material far exceeds my memory and my understanding.

To you, the matter always seemed very simple, at least in as far as you spoke about it in front of me and, indiscriminately, in front of many others. To you, it seemed like this: you had worked hard your whole life, sacrificed everything for your children, particularly me, as a result I live "like a lord," had complete freedom to study whatever I wanted, knew where my next meal was coming from and therefore had no reason to worry about anything; for you, this asked no gratitude, you know how children show their gratitude, but at least some kind of cooperation, a sign of sympathy; instead, I would always hide away from you in my room, buried in books, with crazy friends, and eccentric ideas; we never spoke openly, I never came up to you in the synagogue, I never visited you in Franzensbad, nor otherwise had any sense of family, I never took interest in business or your other concerns, I saddled you with the factory and left in the lurch, I encouraged Ottla's obstinacy and while I have never to this day lifted a finger to help you (I never even buy you the occasional theater ticket), I do all I can for perfect strangers. If you summarize your judgement of me, it is clear that you do not actually reproach me with anything really indecent or malicious (with the exception, perhaps, of my latest marriage plans), but rather with coldness, alienation, ingratitude. And, what is more, you reproach me as if it were differently with one simple change of direction, while you are not in the slightest to blame, except perhaps for having been too good to me.

This, your usual analysis, I agree with only insofar as I also believe you to be entirely blameless for our estrangement. But I too am equally and utterly blameless. If I could bring you to acknowledge this, then--although anew life would not be possible, for that we are both much to old--there could yet be a sort of peace, not an end to your unrelenting reproaches, but at least a mitigation of them.