A collective of bibliophiles talking about books. Book Fox (vulpes libris): small bibliovorous mammal of overactive imagination and uncommonly large bookshop expenses. Habitat: anywhere the rustle of pages can be heard.
Before I go any further, I should apologize to anyone who’s arrived here expecting a profound and incisive examination of the enigma that is Franz Kafka and All His Works. Those are waters into which I have no intention of stepping – well, not very far, anyway. What follows is more along the lines of “How I almost got the hang of Kafka, courtesy of third party intervention.”
For many years my mantra has been “Life is too short ever to read any more Kafka”. I place the blame for this thoroughly philistine sentiment squarely at the feet of an enthusiastic young student teacher from – as I recall – Pittsburgh who arrived at my south of England grammar school one summer on an exchange programme and proceeded to bore for his country on the subject of Franz-bloody-Kafka (as he came to be none-too-affectionately known in the 4th Form). We were supposed to be studying Dickens, Shakespeare and George Eliot at the time, and to this day I can’t think for the life of me how Kafka got dragged into it.
In any event, the net result was a lifelong loathing of Franz K and a vague feeling that I was missing out on something.
I strongly suspect that being a grammar school girl from a safe, comfortable middle class family severely damages your ability to ‘get’ Kafka. You have a social conscience of course, but it’s a carefully educated one and generally of the “Oh I say. That’s not fair. Anyone got a petition I can sign?” variety. Your exposure to the brutal realities of many people’s lives – grinding poverty, totalitarian regimes, faceless bureaucracy, social immobility, the law’s delay – is both limited and for the most part theoretical. I don’t think it’s a coincidence that all of the most fervent Kafka devotees I’ve ever come across have been male, intense and from backgrounds very different to my own cosseted one.
For those who are unfamiliar with Kafka’s novella The Metamorphosis, its storyline is both very simple and deeply weird. Gregor Samsa is a hard-working travelling salesman and the sole provider for his feckless family. He wakes up one morning and discovers that he has turned overnight into a giant insect … or something. And here you hit the first problem. Kafka wrote in German. The word he used was Ungeziefer which means ‘vermin’ or more literally ‘an inedible/unclean creature’. Most Kafka translators, taking their cue from the subsequent description of Gregor’s condition, use the word ‘bug’ or ‘insect’, but Kafka himself apparently meant it to be unclear exactly what Gregor had turned into, knowing that what we can imagine is very often infinitely worse than anything we can be shown.
With Gregor unable to work, the family starts to fall apart; they have to shift for themselves, finding employment and taking in lodgers. The mother can’t bring herself to see her son in his transformed state, so for a while the sister cares for him but eventually the presence of the messy eater in the back room becomes an intolerable and resented burden; there’s a huge family row and it all inevitably ends unhappily for Gregor.
Kafka left no waymarkers to help us interprethis enigmatic work, and huge swathes of forest have been consumed by the mountain of criticism, interpretation and analysis which has sprung up over the intervening years, and which, if read with close attention, amounts to very little more than “Your guess is as good as mine”.
Turning The Metamorphosis into a stage play was, on the face of it, an act of insanity. It therefore makes a certain amount of sense that it was Steven Berkoff who tried it – which is not to say I think he’s crazy – just utterly fearless. He’s also a man who, in his own writing, says exactly what he thinks – making him the polar opposite of Kafka.
As with all of Berkoff’s plays and theatrical adaptations, the stage setting is minimal and precisely described. There are no props apart from three stools; everything else is mimed. The Samsas’ house is indicated only by scaffolding, which spans the stage in the shape of a giant insect. Gregor, in his back room, is continually visible to the audience at the back of the stage, on a raised and ramped platform.
Kafka tells most of the story through Gregor’s eyes and accordingly so does Berkoff. Throughout the play we – the audience – see Gregor even when his family cannot and we alone are privy to his thoughts and feelings.
Playing Gregor requires an extraordinary degree of physical strength and agility because Berkoff, who originally took on the role himself, has him assuming the form of an insect – climbing the scaffolding, hanging from the walls and ceiling. In doing so, he gives form and shape to Kafka’s bizarre vision, and Gregor – and his predicament – become much more real and tragic as a result. Instead of being a figment of a writer’s unsettling imagination, he’s flesh and blood and his subsequent rejection, disintegration and resignation are painful to witness.
Gregor’s transformation cuts him off from human contact. His family have no idea how much, if anything, he understands – how much of ‘Gregor’ is left in the creature in their back room. We know, however, exactly how much of the man remains in the Ungeziefer. And that, for me, is where Berkoff triumphs. I never engaged with Kafka’s novella at all. Reading it was an academic exercise, not an emotional one. Berkoff’s stage adaptation not only gives Gregor a human face it also unearths the unexpected humour in the story. Kafka and his friends apparently thought the tale was riotously funny – a quality it seems to have lost over the years (possibly because of the all the po-faced analysis it’s suffered). Berkoff, almost miraculously, rediscovers it.
I’m not going to say that I’ve learned to love Kafka because of this adaptation, but it has sent me back to the original with fresh eyes. I’m prepared to have another go – and that’s a major achievement in itself.
This version of The Metamorphosis was published – in conjunction with Steven Berkoff’s adaptations of The Trial and In the Penal Colony – by Amer Lane Press Ltd. 2003 reprint. ISBN: 0-906399-84-X. 142pp.
So much for autumn; just as I was going gratefully into jumpers and long boots again, the sun’s decided to blaze and I’m forced to retreat into the shade like the Scots-Irish vampire I am. Still, this week has plenty of reading for those who, like me, need to stay indoors and spare their pale-blue complexions.
On Monday, eternal student Kirsty Jane Falconer (previously known as Kirsty M) discloses the results of a thoroughly unscientific straw poll about the best-known prefect of Judaea.
On Wednesday, Kate reads Don’t Panic I’m Islamic and discovers astounding new things about Arabic drag.
And on Friday: Starved of sunshine,* starved of Sicily, and in need of his shining humanity, Hilary turns to Carlo Levi and Words Are Stones. Impressions of Sicily.