kafka in my basement

[a response to a discussion of an interesting case and possible special diagnoses, with the inevitable reflection upon the afflicted's own condition.

best read as a chaser to U Chicago essay, which is not to be found in this archive. you're going to have to ask the afflicted if you want to read it.]

We read Metamorphosis as a lament to industrialized society. The class drew parallels between our lives’ and Gregor’s and Franz’s; everyone more or less agreed that, yes, we are all cockroaches, whether or not we are willing to see it. As such, we - perhaps not students of Niskayuna High School in particular, but rather modern human beings in general - are trapped, isolated, and estranged by the modern capitalist world.

I, for my own part, believe that the environment and existential problems described in Metamorphosis are unique to Kafka. When I say unique, I mean unique. Few people in the world experience the same level of involuntary singularity as he, and few people in the world will ever conceive themselves to be cockroaches. Existentialist dread is a funny thing, because if one refuses to recognize its presence, it tends not to effect one. Franz Kafka was a thinking man, moreso, I believe, than you or I or anyone else will ever be thinking people, due to his environment and his (by now somewhat obvious) creative genius and imagination. Such is the curse of such a mind, and of such cruel circumstances - circumstances that appear and reappear in all of Kafka’s work. I have never sincerely felt as if I were a helpless puppet being moved to satisfy some nameless power’s schadenfreude (or cold indifference), and I think to take this story’s atmosphere as anything less extreme and emotional is to dull the axelike nature of this piece of literature.

But regardless, the class agrees that society is making insects of us. We discussed this at length. It seemed to be obvious. So what are we going to do about it?

The problem with my worldview and Kafka’s is that I see injustice and I want to change it, I need to change it, I steadfastly believe that I can change it. Kafka’s fatalistic viewpoint fascinates me because it is so radically different from my own, but I will never quite be able to see the view from Kafka’s haunted eyes - or, perhaps, I will not allow myself to.

I, unlike Kafka and perhaps unlike most of the class, will not resign myself to a life of itchy white spots and apples rotting in my back. I will not let the “modern world” make my human communications into unintelligible clicks and mumbles. The system is in place, but it can only oppress the willing; come to that, it doesn’t need to be oppressive at all. It embitters me to no end that people are content to gripe about things which they make no move to change.

I imagine you are sitting somewhere, smirking as you read this, perhaps thinking that I, like pre-Metamorphosis Gregor Samsa, only delude myself into believing I have control, that I am just a horrible vermin who sees a human in the mirror. Well, bah. Yes, that’s right. Bah. I know full well that Kafka’s skittering about in my basement. I just choose to view him as an amusement, a novelty, a fascinating history and distant fiction.

Existential angst is in the eye of the beholder. If I don’t see it, then I haven’t got it. I feel as if I have a purpose and the means with which to pursue its fulfillment, and that is enough for now. Disillusionment happens, but it shouldn’t happen to seventeen-year-olds. Not now. Not yet.

So skitter on, Kafka, on your spindly little legs. Skitter on.