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The idea that there exists such thing as a “must read�� book is one of the great fallacies diluting literature. To judge a reader unfavourably because a certain book is not on his or her shelf, rather than to praise and learn from the idiosyncratic choices to be found there instead, is to wish for a literature of bland homogeneity. To label a book “must read�� is to condemn it to being misunderstood. And when that book is by the strange, reclusive, haunted black-humourist Franz Kafka, and is given to students to pour over with grave seriousness for hints of political allegory or prophecy, the misunderstanding is so pronounced as to be, in itself, “Kafkaesque��.

All those young heads bowed over Metamorphosis, trying their damnedest to see in this giant bug the wisdom of the sage, when the sage himself must surely have been shaking his own head in disbelief at the balls-out irreverence of it, maybe even wondering, “Is it too ridiculous?�� It’s as if some high official had ordained that a sacred text be read and reported on by all those seeking admission to the Castle, but when the applicants receive that text they find in it the trivial rantings of a madman. So, desperately, unwilling to crack a smile lest the Castle feel itself mocked, they eke out some tenuous thread of analysis and miss the sacredness, AKA the humour.

In speaking of Kafka, Milan Kundera quotes Czech poet Jan Skacel:

Poets don’t invent poems
The poem is somewhere behind
It’s been there for a long time
The poet merely discovers it

He goes on to say:

Indeed, if instead of seeking “the poem�� hidden “somewhere behind�� the poet “engages�� himself to the service of a truth known from the outset... he has renounced the mission of poetry. And it matters little whether the preconceived truth is called revolution or dissidence, Christian faith or atheism, whether it is more justified or less justified; a poet who serves any truth other than the truth to be discovered (which is dazzlement) is a false poet.

At his best, Franz Kafka served this “truth to be discovered��, this “dazzlement��, as devoutly as any writer I know of. This is his legacy: freedom. Or what Kundera calls “radical autonomy��. When occasionally, to the delight of the scholars, he bogs himself down in allegory (“In the Penal Colony��, “Investigations of a Dog��, to some extent “A Hunger Artist��), he fritters away his gift on grand ideals. But when in a moment of sheer wilful abandon his imagination takes over and propels him �� like the country doctor unable to control his horses �� into the unknown, he is unassailable. “A Country Doctor�� is five of the most kaleidoscopic and dizzying pages in history: the horses�� faces lolling like cardboard cutouts in the bedroom window at the end are Kafka’s own rebellious muses laughing at him as he curls up in bed with his wound. His Hunter Gracchus is a journeyer from beyond, washed up by mistake in the quotidian world. “The Knock at the Manor Gate��, “The Test��, “The Helmsman�� �� everywhere there are things in flux on either side of the boundary of dreams. Unfinished stories abound, because Kafka does not do “finished��. Even the near-perfect Metamorphosis ends with a non-ending, and frequently his neatest stories are his most facile. Kafka’s gift is an inspired one, and inspiration, as we know, doesn’t necessarily wait around while we add the finishing touches. These fragments are seeds, or bombs, and their author a wily rebel possessed by the Imp of the Perverse, unsure himself whether he is a gardener or a terrorist. Just, whatever you do, don’t “study�� them. Live these stories or leave them alone. More dead readings will only clutter our view of them.

Fact: Kafka is funny.
Fact: He’s not for everyone.
Fact: He writes to the dictates of his heart, not to preach politics or predict the future.

And if you don’t get him, no-one but the most pretentious snob is going to judge you for it.

There are no “must read�� books.

“The Vulture��

A vulture was hacking at my feet. It had already torn my boots and stockings to shreds, now it was hacking at the feet themselves. Again and again it struck at them, then circled several times restlessly around me, then returned to continue its work. A gentleman passed by, looked on for a while, then asked me why I suffered the vulture. “I’m helpless,�� I said. “When it came and began to attack me, I of course tried to drive it away, even to strangle it, but these animals are very strong, it was about to spring at my face, but I preferred to sacrifice my feet. Now they are almost torn to bits.�� “Fancy letting yourself be tortured like this,�� said the gentleman, “I’ve only got to go home and get my gun. Could you wait another half-hour?�� “I’m not sure about that,�� said I, and stood for a moment rigid with pain. Then I said, “Do try it in any case, please.�� “Very well,�� said the gentleman, “I’ll be as quick as I can.�� During this conversation the vulture had been calmly listening, letting its eye rove between me and the gentleman. Now I realized that it had understood everything; it took wing, leaning far back to gain impetus, and then, like a javelin thrower, thrust its beak through my mouth, deep into me. Falling back, I was relieved to feel him drowning irretrievably in my blood, which was filling every depth, flooding every shore.