Consider the Lobster: And Other Essays Read Free Page B

funniness in class involves suggesting to students that much of his humor is actually sort of unsubtle—or rather anti-subtle. The claim is that Kafka’s funniness depends on some kind of radical literalization of truths we tend to treat as metaphorical. I opine to them that some of our most profound collective intuitions seem to be expressible only as figures of speech, that that’s why we call these figures of speech expressions . With respect to “The Metamorphosis,” then, I might invite students to consider what is really being expressed when we refer to someone as creepy or gross or say that he is forced to take shit as part of his job. Or to reread “In the Penal Colony” in light of expressions like tongue-lashing or tore him a new asshole or the gnomic “By middle age, everyone’s got the face they deserve.” Or to approach “A Hunger Artist” in terms of tropes like starved for attention or love-starved or the double entendre in the term self-denial, or even as innocent a factoid as that the etymological root of anorexia happens to be the Greek word for longing.
    The students usually end up engaged here, which is great; but the teacher still sort of writhes with guilt, because the comedy-as-literalization-of-metaphor tactic doesn’t begin to countenance the deeper alchemy by which Kafka’s comedy is always also tragedy, and this tragedy always also an immense and reverent joy. This usually leads to an excruciating hour during which I backpedal and hedge and warn students that, for all their wit and exformative voltage, Kafka’s stories are not fundamentally jokes, and that the rather simple and lugubrious gallows humor that marks so many of Kafka’s personal statements—stuff like “There is hope, but not for us”—is not what his stories have got going on.
    What Kafka’s stories have, rather, is a grotesque, gorgeous, and thoroughly modern complexity, an ambivalence that becomes the multivalent Both/And logic of the, quote, “unconscious,” which I personally think is just a fancy word for soul. Kafka’s humor—not only not neurotic but anti -neurotic, heroically sane—is, finally, a religious humor, but religious in the manner of Kierkegaard and Rilke and the Psalms, a harrowing spirituality against which even Ms. O’Connor’s bloody grace seems a little bit easy, the souls at stake pre-made.
    And it is this, I think, that makes Kafka’s wit inaccessible to children whom our culture has trained to see jokes as entertainment and entertainment as reassurance. 3 It’s not that students don’t “get” Kafka’s humor but that we’ve taught them to see humor as something you get —the same way we’ve taught them that a self is something you just have . No wonder they cannot appreciate the really central Kafka joke: that the horrific struggle to establish a human self results in a self whose humanity is inseparable from that horrific struggle. That our endless and impossible journey toward home is in fact our home. It’s hard to put into words, up at the blackboard, believe me. You can tell them that maybe it’s good they don’t “get” Kafka. You can ask them to imagine his stories as all about a kind of door. To envision us approaching and pounding on this door, increasingly hard, pounding and pounding, not just wanting admission but needing it; we don’t know what it is but we can feel it, this total desperation to enter, pounding and ramming and kicking. That, finally, the door opens … and it opens outward —we’ve been inside what we wanted all along. Das ist komisch.
    1999

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