Franz Kafka, �The Complete Stories�
I forgot to mention with that last Stephen King review that there was one more factor that brought my decision to read it at that time — By this time, I was a little overloaded on war coverage and felt I could use a break by reading something light and fluffy, even if it was a horror novel.
I remember 10 days after the invasion started, NPR ran a special for people who were �shell shocked� by war coverage. People called in, giving suggestions and personal anecdotes on what they did to escape the onslaught of coverage.
�It�s been ten days, you monkeys!� I screamed at the radio. �Ten days, and you already can�t handle it? You spoon fed, sugar coated, crybabies! Turning off the television to plant a garden isn�t going to change the reality of the situation, and ignoring it only allows those in power to continue! AHHHHHHHH!!!�
But another ten days into the skirmish, I knew what they felt like. I was listening to NPR in the morning, reading the paper in the afternoon, reading alternative coverage over the Internet in the early evening, and finished it off with The Daily Show late at night. The Stephen King book was supposed to be an escape. But as it turned out, by the time I was finished I would have rather have been reading about Iraq.
While in the middle of Baghdad.
So going from Stephen King to Kafka, doesn�t really seem like a proper jump if I�m looking for something light, right?
Right. But what the hell.
Actually, when I started this book, I was tickled. The first short story (really nothing more than a short parable), had dialogue lifted word for word from the Martin Scorsece film, After Hours. (The scene where Griffin Dunne is trying to get past the bouncer for the punk rock club, since you asked.)
I thought that was great, like I had figured out a secret nod of appreciation. Soon after came another reading of �The Metamorphosis,� which I�ve already read, but certainly didn�t mind reading again. But then something happened.
It is reported that Kafka, on his deathbed, told his friend that he wished for the majority of his writings to be destroyed. His friend, Max Brod, nodded politely and told him it would be done, never intending to carry out with his promise.
Just once, I wish people would do what they�re fucking told.
Philosophy majors and goths like to read and quote a lot from Kafka. It figures, because the two fit together. Both types think of themselves as tragic intellectuals, and they�re all depressed. So was Kafka, which becomes more apparent with each new story.
Kafka seemed to want to be anything else but Kafka, and so he writes a lot about transformation. The obvious allusion goes to The Metamorphosis, but he also wrote about people turning into dogs, apes, and jackals. You start to realize that Franz was not a happy camper.
And so it gets drearier and drearier, almost painful to go through. And at this point I suddenly spotted something unusual. In the middle of one story, at the end of a paragraph, brackets appear saying, �Four Pages Missing.�
What the fuck? And then it happens again. And again. Sometimes it�s only a page, other times it�s a paragraph, but there are suddenly all these holes in the plot. I mentioned this to Linda, from Lincoln Avenue Books.
�So,� she said, �you�re saying �The Complete Stories� are actually incomplete?�
I hate it when somebody thinks of a better joke than me.
