You're wondering whether it works aren't you? as, well, Kafka doesn't naturally spring to mind at the first sign of stress or disturbance. That may be true (for you), but don't knock it till you try it I say, though you may feel more inclined if you're vaguely familiar with the man and his works. If you are familiar with him you may be thinking: he's never struck me as all that calming. Try; go back to Kafka.
Actually, I haven't known him all that long and yet wish I'd known him longer. I knew of him but didn't think he was for me until approximately three years ago; what a fool I felt when I discovered he was!
What a waste of years! But maybe I wasn't ready...
Why hadn't I listened to prods? My uncle being one, a baptismal font of literature – the unusual and the classic, among others unrelated to me, some of whom don't even know I exist on the page or in person. Though I realise now, a few seconds after I've said it and put down it here, that it's wrong to state I hadn't listened; I just hadn't acted, or to be more accurate still had been unable to, because I have non-negotiable conditions with typesets. Get a Kindle, NO! That's advice I WILL ignore forever and a day, and the very worst kind to give to someone who likes tangible objects. A subject I've touched on before, and could touch on again but I won't.
So, returning to my point, as yet only partially made, Kafka was systematically dismissed because I couldn't find a translation of his works in a copy that suited my exacting eye. The print was too small; it was too dense, like being lost in a forest and made dizzy by trees that all look alike and stand too closely together. Entertaining the thought of engulfing myself in such pages was exhausting, and therefore the idea quickly departed like a ladybird for home who believes its house is on fire.
I eventually gave in with Amerika/The Man Who Disappeared, and rattled through it, mostly with a finger underlining the words as I read to keep my place and my focus. The transition to enjoying Kafka, as others have found, occurred, yet though I wanted more I didn't want to repeat that exact same experience. It was too taxing and lessened the immersion one usually feels when aligned with somebody else's creation. I had been unable to totally abandon myself to it as I would have liked and as I know would have happened had my eyes being doing all the work and not been combined with finger-reading. That finger is indispensable when you're learning, but can and should be dispensed with when you're a seasoned pro, because it does if you hit a sweet spot tend to speed reading up, almost akin to being a passenger on a fast train whizzing through countrified stations, and yet you don't (as a passenger or a reader) want to reach your end destination quicker.
All good things, particularly in the reading of stories, must however come to that stop, where you'll alight, feeling wiser, amused or perplexed, your heart plummeting until it feels as though it's in the soles of your feet and not in your chest where it should be. And as I've alluded to where Kafka's concerned that's certainly true, and yet with much regret I had to turn my back on him.
My opposition to tight print was such that it made him inaccessible, then last year a suitable text magically became available. This collection of his works had as large a typeface as feasible with space around the stories so they could breathe, just as Kafka had at one time expressed. The reading of it for that alone was sublime, while the pieces it contained were acute and surprising. And Metamorphosis, I've now had the good fortune to realise, is genius; but sadly, The Trial and The Castle I'll still have to forego because in their cases not even an underlining finger will suffice.
Picture credit: The Railway Platform, L S Lowry
