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My niece dislikes Kafka and considers his short story, “The Metamorphosis” weird if not totally unconvincing. The thing that really bothers her about it most of all isn’t that its protagonist Gregor Samsa becomes an insect but rather that he does not seem to be even bothered by it. That he accepts it as a matter-of-fact. And then he dies. End of story—so what? Not even the 50 plus pages devoted to analysis of the story’s symbolism, biographical essays about the author and study guide question right after the story itself can make her reconsider her opinion. It seems to only irritate her further.
Of course, being a dutiful uncle, I tried to explain to her to why I thought Kafka was great, offering a somewhat coherent if a bit colorful discourse on why that story in particular is nothing short of brilliant. Being a good niece, she listened and seemed to be trying her best to evaluate the points I was raising. She even asked me a few questions and seemed generally interested when I tried to explain Kafka’s background, his life in Prague, his German-speaking Jewish family, his relationship with own family which he once wrote his fiancé dwindled to “hardly more than twenty words a day to my mother…(and) little more than a daily greeting to my father.” Still, her view didn’t change. She just didn’t like it and wasn’t about to change her opinion despite appreciating the things I said. (That actually impressed me, I admit. Not only was she sure of herself but she wasn’t arrogant about it. Definitely an improvement.)
She likes Shakespeare though, in particular A Midsummer’s Night’s Dream, and the Percy Jackson series of books. Who wouldn’t? “They’re fun and fantastic and really good.” If anything, her visible glee relating even just the plot and her favorite scenes was enough—no extended discussion necessary. If ever, that should come after and perhaps only augment your liking what you read in the first place.
Back in college, if asked, I also considered Midsummer’s to be my favorite. These days, I gotta confess that I don’t like it as much anymore; in fact, I now prefer the tragedies, namely Macbeth and Richard III. I read them before but it’s only in the past several years that I’ve fully come to appreciate them.
In Alan Bennett’s play, The History Boys, a teacher tells one of his pupils that that’s what makes reading so affecting. It comes at that point when something you thought or felt that was so unique to you (and only you) you see written down by someone long dead, written long before you were born—there, on the page, so exactly expressed in words.
I tell my niece this and she tells me that maybe she will also like Macbeth or even Kafka when she gets older. Never mind literature. The moment she says this, I start to pray she never does.
