Kafka

I, like most other students, was introduced to Franz Kafka in middle school. Predictably, my ninth grade class read the supposed easiest and most well known of his works- The Metamorphosis. While I marveled at the utter ridiculousness of the plot (unprecedented in my present literary canon) and was throughly entertained by the story, I did not truly grasp the nuances of Kafka's writing. Instead I praised the work for its simple, yielding explanation amongst the more obviously complex pieces of fiction we were given far too early as students. Years later as a freshman in college, I picked Metamorphosis up once again. Though my second reading proved to be more fruitful in drawing meaning and forming a few not altogether dumb conclusions, once again an aspect of the work eluded me. I had read several literary critics notes on Kafka's humor and subtle irony, but did not find myself laughing aloud while I read as these venerable critics promised. Once again, his work was beyond me. While this realization of my limitations as a reader of such an interesting and multidimensional writer was surely progress of some kind, at the time it seemed merely frustrating and I was content to shelve Kafka with the other authors I did not care to revisit.

After spending some time in Prague, however, I found it nearly impossible to avoid him for very long. The city is obsessed with Kafka. Bars and restaurants bare his name, mugs and t-shirts are decorated with his portrait, and guided tours of "Kafka's Prague" are offered. Right off of Old Town Square, sits the Franz Kafka cafe, where for an exorbitant change, you can sip a cappuccino in the author's old residence. (They do not care to mention that building that the Kafka family originally lived in was torn down and reconstructed when the Jewish Ghetto was rebuilt.) Once near the Jewish Quarter, his presence is unescapable. Plaques announce that this apartment or that building was once, briefly inhabited by the author and a bronze statue cast in his honor stands adjacent to the Spanish Synagogue. Since within these few blocks Kafka lived most of his life, the area is constantly crowded with devoted readers eager to retrace his steps and perhaps glimpse his view of the city. However, Kafka's presence is not confined within this perimeter, but extends throughout the whole of Prague. The belated author now constitutes his own (and quite profitable) sector in Prague's tourism industry. Nearly every museum (including those that have nothing to do with Kafka) and souvenir shop throughout the city sells poster, calendars, and key chains on which his face is printed. Kafka's image has become a commodity of tourism. His striking appearance is easily recognized by tourists (for they also read him when they were young) and, more importantly, is distinguished as famous, and therefore talented, Czech author. He is a clear, and perhaps the most communicated, representation of Czech culture. They very fact that the Franz Kafka museum is as popular and frequented as the Prague Castle underscores just how deep the Czech Republic's love affair with the author is. 

In such an environment, I returned once again to Kafka's limited but dense collection of work. Though I was aware of the cliche of reading Kafka in Prague and somewhat bothered I'd been motivated to do so by obvious mechanisms of tourism, I began with his short stories: "The Hunger Artists," "The Cathedral," and "Passers-by on a Tram." Against my best wishes, I liked it. Perhaps because I read them outside of class and therefor attached to them no expectations or academic agenda, but I was able to truly enjoy and explore the works. For the first time, I appreciated Kafka and could begin to grasp the obsession shared by the Czech Republic and visiting foreign fans. Bolstered by my altered perspective, I approached The Trial, Letter to Father, and excerpts from America, which were assigned in two of my classes, hopeful that my relationship with the author would continue to grow. And it did. I loved The Trial's psychological exploration of Joseph K. and relished the auto-biographical nature of Letter to Father. I began not only to understand Kafka's work, but his own relationship to his writing. 

With this new appreciation for Kafka, I forgave those many and relentless fans who had pestered me for years to rediscover the author. I could finally understand the appeal of Kafka, and thus could not resent their enthusiasm, nor that of the Czech Republic- surely proud to have been the motherland for such an acclaimed and beloved writer. Despite my altered perspective however, the city's obsession with and commodification of Kafka still strikes me as cheap and tactless. Now that Kafka's image holds some personal significance to me, the way in which Prague manipulates, mass-produces, and sells the image of the write seems nearly sacrilegious. His country, his city, and his life-long neighborhood sell his image at a cheap price to tourists eager to experience Czech culture. Tourists blindly consume this reproduction, ignorant of the author's work or supplied with a superficial and faded understanding learned in middle school. The more and more Kafka culture is produced and consumed in Prague, the less the masses will look seriously and hard at his work. To "know" Kafka now, one must simply have a drink at a cafe, sign up for a tour, or pay entrance to a museum. The reading and understanding of his short stories and novels is no longer at the heart of the culture. Which is a shame, because as I can attest, they are wonderful.