Feh. I fell asleep Sunday evening while reading a post-Freudian analysis of The Metamorphosis, and awoke from troubled dreams
to find myself transformed into a monstrous vermin confused and angst-ridden. More disturbing than the novella are the mutton-headed approaches to its interpretation. Ah, if only my beloved sister Grete would soothe my fevered existence with some half-rotted vegetables and a tune on her violin. . .
My great shuddering horror of roaches had always defeated my previous attempts to finish the story— a testament, of course, to Kafka’s descriptive powers. On Easter Sunday, I started reading with no grasp of how appropriate Kafka’s tale of transfiguration would be. Indeed, some critics believe that the title is properly translated as The Transubstantiation, and that Gregor’s transformation is the inevitable converse of a Messianic transfiguration.
Yeah, well, thas as may be. I can only say that it does not strike me as any weirder than the usual Easter pageantry of rabbits and eggs. Given my fondness for syncretism, I should be writing a big bunny post, but I am boggled by the sheer absurdity of the subject matter. Where to start: Saxon goddesses, eggrolling, or the bizarre horror of a modern American childhood?