The Man Called K

Rather than a "synopsis," this is more of a "foreword."

I have always been reluctant to face the legacy of my dear friend: those manuscripts, the pages about a man named K searching for the world he once knew, a world with "light," with "trees," and with "dreams" and "memories." Seven years passed in a daze. The pages had long since yellowed, but my fixation on organizing the manuscripts had not faded with time. Instead, it had taken root in my mind, growing deeper and deeper, almost to the point of torment.

At last, during these listless days, I found the courage to pick up that "past" once more. To my surprise, as I read the manuscript covered in hurried handwriting, I sensed not only "his breath" but also something "great," something "inherited," something "inevitable." Of course, I know my own learning is shallow, and I also know I am no Max Brod. So, without his permission, I have taken the liberty of sharing this novel, titled K, with you, and leave it to you to judge. But time has passed, and the manuscript has inevitably suffered some damage. I have filled in the missing sections myself. My abilities are limited, so they may not quite match the tone of the original. I ask your forgiveness.