Kafkannated

The essential philosophical writings of one of the twentieth century's most influential writers are now gathered into a single volume with an introduction and afterword by the celebrated writer and Kafka scholar Roberto Calasso.

So begins the jacket description of The Zürau Aphorisms, by Franz Kafka. I say that's a bunch of hooey. Or better yet huey, as in Huey Lewis. Moreover, I think anyone who has ever bothered to crack the cover of Kaf's Zaphs (as they are derisively known) would agree with me. The aphorisms are "freshly translated," culled from Kaf's original notebooks and laid out as he had done. The result, visually, is quite pleasing, and it's an attractive little volume. Until you start reading, that is.

I took a look at this book (to paraphrase LeVar Burton) for two reasons: a) it looks nice and readable, and b) it was free. As a bonus, I kinda hoped I might be able to casually drop snobby statements at cocktail parties: "You'd like another drink, as well? Well, I guess we're all shooting to reach Kafka's number 5...oh, I'm sorry, I've been reading Zürau. No. 5 of the aphorisms is 'From a certain point on, there is no more turning back. That is the point that must be reached.' Sounds to me like the point of being sauced. Hey hey!"

As a matter of fact, I think I will use that line at a cocktail party. Watch out, socialites and local soaks.

But, I will also add Kafka as a feature here on the Doughty Traveler, to spare you the pain of reading this tripe...well, actually to inflict upon you the pain of reading this tripe, albeit leavened by my bitter criticisms of it. I could start with the saying just listed, but who are we kidding? Kafka, that clever little saying is nothing more than a crappy version of the lyrics to an Andrew Lloyd Webber song. Except it's much easier to sing "past the point of no return," than "Frooooom a certain point, there is nooooooooo more turning baaaack."

So, let's offer up another aphorism for skewering...ah, No. 15:

Like a path in autumn: no sooner is it cleared than it is once again littered with falling leaves.

Zür-wow, Franz. You font of profundity. Oh, the agony of sweeping the walk, that perennial torment of the later months that inspires such despair in the soul. Raking leaves, what an exercise in futility, how it conjures up that despair of the soul occasioned by laboring in vain. Congratulations, FK, for that piece of polenta prose (no offense to polenta-lovers).