/lit/ - Literature

Is this author unironically too high IQ for an average pleb? I've finished some of his works and I have no idea what I've just read. It's like I had a fever dream and it still lingers. Do I need to be German or/and Jewish to understand him?

>>13325119
I only read Jewish authors nowadays. That way I don't contribute to systematic privilege or oppression but avoid the pitfall of having to read anything by low IQ groups. You can go ahead and fellate me now.

Was he autistic?

Why is he so fucking cute lads?

Why does everything I read about him say that he’s schizoid when clearly he’s avoidant? Also are there any other avoidant authors?

>Before the law sits a gatekeeper. To this gatekeeper comes a man from the country who asks to gain entry into the law. But the gatekeeper says that he cannot grant him entry at the moment. The man thinks about it and then asks if he will be allowed to come in later on. “It is possible,” says the gatekeeper, “but not now.” At the moment the gate to the law stands open, as always, and the gatekeeper walks to the side, so the man bends over in order to see through the gate into the inside. When the gatekeeper notices that, he laughs and says: “If it tempts you so much, try it in spite of my prohibition. But take note: I am powerful. And I am only the most lowly gatekeeper. But from room to room stand gatekeepers, each more powerful than the other. I can’t endure even one glimpse of the third.” The man from the country has not expected such difficulties: the law should always be accessible for everyone, he thinks, but as he now looks more closely at the gatekeeper in his fur coat, at his large pointed nose and his long, thin, black Tartar’s beard, he decides that it would be better to wait until he gets permission to go inside. The gatekeeper gives him a stool and allows him to sit down at the side in front of the gate. There he sits for days and years. He makes many attempts to be let in, and he wears the gatekeeper out with his requests. The gatekeeper often interrogates him briefly, questioning him about his homeland and many other things, but they are indifferent questions, the kind great men put, and at the end he always tells him once more that he cannot let him inside yet. The man, who has equipped himself with many things for his journey, spends everything, no matter how valuable, to win over the gatekeeper. The latter takes it all but, as he does so, says, “I am taking this only so that you do not think you have failed to do anything.” During the many years the man observes the gatekeeper almost continuously. He forgets the other gatekeepers, and this one seems to him the only obstacle for entry into the law. He curses the unlucky circumstance, in the first years thoughtlessly and out loud, later, as he grows old, he still mumbles to himself. He becomes childish and, since in the long years studying the gatekeeper he has come to know the fleas in his fur collar, he even asks the fleas to help him persuade the gatekeeper. Finally his eyesight grows weak, and he does not know whether things are really darker around him or whether his eyes are merely deceiving him. But he recognizes now in the darkness an illumination which breaks inextinguishably out of the gateway to the law. Now he no longer has much time to live. Before his death he gathers in his head all his experiences of the entire time up into one question which he has not yet put to the gatekeeper. He waves to him, since he can no longer lift up his stiffening body.

Was he proto neet?

The tiger
He failed to destroy his chage
No
NO
The tiger is still locked up

>never did a single thing to help another person, only focused on his own self-centered artistic ambitions and writing his diary
>wrote and complained about his father, a strict but fair disciplinarian, a much better father than many others, ruining his name for the rest of time by having works published crying about him
>told his friend Mac Brod not to publish his works, knowing that he would publish them anyways, solely as a publicity stunt in order to increase his own mystique as a “mysterious genius writer”
>worked an easy part time job from 8:30-2:30, but still complained about not having time to write and “the horrors of bureacracy”
>had a horrible sleep schedule, taking a long nap after work and sleeping at 3am virtually every day
>jacked off to bestiality and hedgehog porn
>blamed all of his unhappiness on “the horrors of modern existence” and “the fundamental guilt of humanity”

Why do we take this loser seriously again?

Ok fine, I’ll admit it. I don’t “get” Kafka. I don’t understand what the hell he’s writing about. It’s like when I read his stuff, I know that there must be something deeper to it than “this guy turned into a bug, whoaoooao” but I don’t see it.
How the fuck do you understand what his stories are about?

Wtf I thought jews were supposed to be bad?

>My guiding principle is this: Guilt is never to be doubted
>We are sinful not only because we have eaten of the Tree of Knowledge, but also because we have not yet eaten of the Tree of Life. The state in which we are is sinful, irrespective of guilt.

I can guarantee that his feeling of the “deep existential fundamental sin and guilt of mankind” would go away if he stopped jacking off to hedgehog porn and did a single thing to help out other people instead of vainly trying to “express himself” through art all the time.

I just read The Metamorphosis and I identified with Gregor a bit too strongly. The lack of any sort of solution or hope honestly frightened me. I read it quickly so perhaps I missed a lot of the core elements. The ending, though even Kafka didn't like it, was in my opinion not that bad. The burden of Gregor being lifted and them going on with, not only their usual lives but an even better life than before, perhaps frightened me the most. I was wondering what the rest of /lit/ thought about this story.
Apologies if I sound like a pseud.

>Maybe time’s just a construct of human perception. An illusion created by…
>He was interrupted by the beeping of his clock, and lost all train of thought.
What did Kafka mean by this?

What was his fucking problem? Was he mentally ill? His daddy issues are all over his writing.

Is there a bigger pseud?

Best Kafka story?

I read The Hunger Artist and hated it. Are all of his stories this stupid?

Thoughts on Franz Kafka?

>finish the metamorphosis and the trial, both were great and captivating
>read the castle
Holy shit, this book was so fucking dull. I barely got 100 pages in before giving up on it. How can it be so bad compared to his other works?

>>10850200
>heh... step aside kid

What are some prominent Jewish authors whose Jewish background has clearly shaped their work? Pic related would be an obvious example.

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 round 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. "One shot and that's the end of the vulture."

"Really ?" I said. "And would you do that?"

"With pleasure," 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, leaned 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.