Hypochondriac, insomniac, food faddist, cripplingly indecisive, terrified by life, obsessed with death, Franz Kafka turned, as best he was able, his neuroses into art. Kafka doesn’t make for very comforting reading at bedtime, either.
Distinctly not a jolly way to start the day. So much torture, description of wounds, disorientation, sadomasochism, unexplained cruelty, appearance of rodents, beetles, vultures, and other grotesque creatures-all set out against a background of utter hopelessness. I, for different reasons, have been having a difficult time reading Franz Kafka with my morning tea and toast. Edmund Wilson claimed that the only book he could not read while eating his breakfast was by the Marquis de Sade.
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