Greutatea sufocantă a absurdului social. Să mă întrebe cineva de ce am dat 5 stele (vă rog!). -Nu ştiu! E ceva întru totul inexplicabil. Când am citit "Procesul" am simţit ceva confuz, o stare în genul simboliştilor, dar să spun ce şi cum: nu pot. E ca şi cum ai vedea filmele lui Ingmar Bergman sau Andrei Tarkovski: te mişcă profund, dar cu toate astea nu poţi spune nimic despre ele.

"Ca un câine!"

Sometimes when book bothers me, I read more by the same auther to develope my sense of the author's style and personality. This book, however, did the opposite, after finishing it I had the same thought, "this is brillian but why does the author write such fantastical situations." I finally "get" this guys genius after I read a quote in a book I am reading now that says, "all good fiction does not necessarily depict reality as much as it uncovers truth." FINALLY, I got it. I get Kafka and can more readily supply the words that convey my appreciation of him. Through his fantastical depitions of the world he heightens the readers sense of what is and is not appropriate. It is almost like painting a scene of truth with strange vibrant and unnatural colors that stand out from the rest of the surroundings. Kafka's works really speak to the subconscious, especially in the way it resembles a dreaming state. It takes a little work if you insisit on translating and applying it to reality, but it is worthwhile.

Isn’t our Whole Life a Trial, in an existential sense?

If, like me, you walk a plain and decent path, the world is probably none too friendly toward you.

That’s understandable. And I think you should also know that should you plainly persist in it, you’ll probably be Put on Trial. Figuratively speaking.

Welcome to the Absurd.

But there’s also an UP side to that.

I think that anyone who has lived a highly idiosyncratic life, like Franz Kafka and my own totally colossally unsuperstar self, has in time developed a larger ideological container for their intellectual life.

Sorta like quantum mechanics does, for we have come to see the laws and customs of the world under that selfsame Aegis of Absurdity.

And that is the sense in which we appreciate the Rule of Law in this world. The law is itself idiosyncratic and accretive, but it WORKS.

Under quantum mechanics, if something works MOST of the time, we can allow that as a constant FOR US. Even if should we ourselves should be put in the dock.

But, allowing it to be a constant, can we learn to Love it, as being in itself in a state of Absolute momentary transcendence over an Absurd physical universe?

Even if that transcendence means our death?

For that’s the vision Kafka seems to have attained as his life drew to a close...

That’s - or so I believe - Kafka’s premise in this novel. If a thing works most of the time, that’s normal - and good in a practical sense.

And that’s a start. Even though we’re implicated in the machinery of Law, the Law’s Good.

And we ALL have to take the Fire as punishment - now - or later.

Don’t laugh. I’m serious.

I could be wrong, but this seems to be the one novel the great hag-ridden Franz Kafka completed. I believe that that’s for a good reason.

OK. Many of you may not know this, but at one point in his later Diary, Kafka wrote the words (as best as I can remember and can now paraphrase):

‘If you disagree with the rules of the world, the world is invariably Right.’

He wrote those words to mark a critical split in his personal path that, as I believe, he had finally and irrevocably decided to take. It would give him Closure. And pain.

Except now, in the Pain - was Hope.

And it’s not just that the law is just a rule to follow, not that it’s wrong-headed but nevertheless our duty, not that it’s dumb but the best people can manage - no.

The law of the world is right. That’s the Real Way of the World. And the universe, in fact.

It’s just, you may say, that we are in a world that’s Absurd. But actually, then we’re of no importance, suddenly. Remember that feeling?

That’s called waking up.

Anyone for Hegel? For this is just Hegel rehashed. But a Hegel Redux for postmodernists!

But it’s surely more than that... on a personal level. Because it’s the result of a long personal struggle with Angst.

We know the Law’s something Kafka’s imperious Dad really believed in, and something he felt it was young Franzl’s duty to believe, too.

So Kafka senior pounded it into his son’s soul.

You see that in spades in that famous story in which his Dad tells him to jump off the long end of a short pier. And he does.

Why, in the name of all that’s right and proper?

That’s just the way it is. My way or the highway, kid!

And so Franz wrote, and wrote, and WROTE - to let the steam out. As you and I do too.

Finally, here, he couldn’t argue with his superego anymore. He was finally gonna take the straight and narrow path. Cause it was so right, it was absurd.

And that’s what K learned when he came of age. We are NOTHING to the universe.

Did he go ballistic as a result?

You bet! That’s the Meaning of the Absurd, which all of us must face. Every day of our lives!

For the Trial IS our daily workaday grind. You can’t Pooh-Pooh your coming of age again.

We are accused; we are belittled; we are slandered behind our back. And we go on. We NEED our job. We get enraged. But we go on...

It’s built into our lives. It’s a total disconnect - like COVID-19, it’s a great Grand Canyon that makes a huge gap in our minds between subjectivity and objectivity.

When we’re at home, we try to relax. We let loose on the phone; we harangue our tormentors in our dreams; we get even. But that’s not what Kafka meant.

We HATE the conditions that are laid out for our life.

Auden memorably says our pet dogs often “wish their Tall Conditions (us) Dead” - just as we often see daggers in our minds when we see our absurdly condition-imposing leaders.

But law is law. Can we learn, maybe, to follow it in spite of itself? For we’re really just:

Men and bits of paper.

Not one law at the office, and one law at home and on vacation.

No.

For Kafka now, The Soul is Answerable to the law of God. THAT was his Dad’s message. And this little realization was K’s first reluctant step towards Faith. One small step...

And his ultimate faith in the Law as Love.

A faith he finally starts to absorb in his last work, America.

Yes, the Self - in time and space - answers to the Law.

It hurts!

We kick and scream in pure anguish!

Agenbite of Inwit.

But like him, we DO as we are told. What option do we have?

But the Way that opens up to us in our books is really the same long and winding path that leads to the final reconciliation of Law and Love in the total transcendence of our pain.

Which Franz chose at the end.

Which I believe all started in this simple fork in the road:

Where we choose the Way of Obedience.

And in itself -

It’s a long and winding road.

I’ve seen that road
So many times before -
Don’t leave me standing here
Lead me to Your Door!

And He will open it to you.

But where it all starts, is in a place we all love to hate:

In His Law.

A Law that means our Death, and our Life.

His language was German, his religion was Judaism, and his passion was literature. Franz Kafka (1883-1924), who was to languish for years as an employee of a commercial insurance company that made him do acts he disapproved of, mostly when they were not under morality or simple humanity, spent his free time, often solitary, to write. Still, he wanted nothing to come to light of his work, a desire that, remarkably, fortunately, his friend, the poet Max Brod, would refuse to grant.
I was between fifteen and sixteen years old when I read The Trial. I have unforgettable memories of it simultaneously as a more or less accepted attraction for this writing which can frighten and disturb at the same time as it opens our eyes to the reality of relations between citizens and administrations. Connections, where the city will consistently be subservient, are humiliating in the face of administrative agents who regard their dialogists as anonymous pawns and draw their force on what they hold if they wish to access this information. Files that can reveal what they want to know about the people who come to present their requests. However, the novel's hero, Joseph K., is precisely in this situation of powerlessness and dependence. When learning that he is dealing with justice for facts, he does not know anything. He suffers heavily from being in this situation to becoming a daily victim of an obsession. The more worried as he considers himself innocent and has nothing to be ashamed of when he sees the gazes of people indifferent to his problem turning towards him, incredulous, even suspicious. Even when one has compassion for him, and even if some are ready to help him, they cannot do anything, coming up against a wall like him. It goes as far as the absurd, and it is indeed ridiculous. Yet, this fantastic has something objective. It describes the absurdity of our lives when we have reduced to being just a number in a confrontation with an administration, especially before the legal authorities. - that of a file handled among thousands, even millions of others, which reduces us to no longer being an object and no longer a subject, still less an active subject. Ultimately, we could tolerate an obedient issue. However, we still prefer a topic that is content to silently undergo what happens to him because it is the law and the "logic (illogical and unjust but unstoppable) of things.". Joseph K. refuses this state of affairs; he has his way of reacting, contesting, or rebelling (without making too many waves). Still, it is his concern to know which revolt is a subversive act in the eyes of authority and public opinion, as if it were futile. The one who rebels is embarrassed that he does not allow himself to stop by anything in this quest. The first step towards justification and rehabilitation attempts is to fight to forgive oneself and reestablish the truth and its honor, which ultimately is never entirely satisfied because justice is decidedly not of this world. Yes, Mr. Joseph K., therefore, stop asking to have access to your file and to consult it because we do not even know where it is: how do you want us to know that we know where to look for him since we do not know exactly where he ended up arriving. Just know that you charged and that it has happened. And besides, everyone knows what's the use of fighting, what's the use of raising mountains of files. It won't change anything.
I will not describe the end of this novel as a disturbing work that forces us to ask ourselves the right questions: are we not concerned, too, each on our own? Is this book realistic? Does he show us the "blind monster" to whom we hand over our identities in the oppressive stranglehold he maintains, individually and collectively?
Is there any adherence to a Dostoyevsky fatalism below? It's up to everyone to find the answer that they think is the most accurate.
The fact remains that this book, even if it seems unbearable, does not let you go: you finish reading it, and you come out of it troubled and forever marked.

The tortured bureaucratic world described in The Trial always strikes me as startlingly modern. I wondered

How The Trial might have started if Kafka had been an academic writing in 2010

K's latest conference paper had been rejected, and now he sat in front of his laptop and read through the referees' comments. One of them, evidently not a native speaker of English, had sent a page of well-meaning advice, though K was unsure whether he understood his recommendations. The second referee had only written three lines, in a dismissive tone that hurt K's feelings. K had an appointment with his thesis advisor later that day, and wondered whether it would appear more constructive to rewrite the paper for submission to another conference, or to say that he was drawing a line so that he could concentrate on his dissertation.

He was trying to decide between these two courses of action, neither of which greatly appealed to him, when his officemate arrived. Fräulein Müller, a pale, slightly-built, earnest girl with wispy brown hair, was writing an extremely dull dissertation on the discourse semantics of phone sex; K had never dared ask her why she had chosen this topic, which seemed singularly ill-adapted to her general demeanour. Today, she was also in a bad mood. She sat down and opened her own laptop without saying a word, and typed industriously. After about twenty minutes, she looked up and sighed.

"Problems?" asked K.

Fräulein Müller sighed again. Then, in an uninflected monotone, she read a crude and unimaginatively pornographic passage, to which K listened attentively. He was, as usual, embarrassed to discover that he had become sexually aroused; but Fräulein Müller never once allowed her eyes to stray from her screen, and K was fairly sure that his momentary excitement had passed unnoticed. She concluded, and opened a spreadsheet.

"Do you believe that she is actually touching herself here, or that she is merely saying that she would do so in her fantasy?" she asked tiredly.

K considered the matter. "I think it's only in the fantasy," he said after a while. "But I'm not sure. Maybe 60%."

Fräulein Müller filled in two boxes in her spreadsheet.

"Now, suppose that she had said `will' instead of `must' in the last sentence. Would your judgement still be the same?"

K asked her to read the sentence again. "I would say that made it more likely," he said, after further careful thought. "80%. I'm definitely not certain."

Fräulein Müller filled in two more boxes, and examined the new figures that appeared at the bottom of the sheet. "Not statistically significant," she said in a dejected tone. "I know I shouldn't keep checking all the time, but I can't help it. I need more data."

K had several times been on the point of asking Fräulein Müller where her examples came from, but was afraid that this might appear intrusive; he knew almost nothing about her private life. He suddenly realised that he was meant to be seeing his advisor in a quarter of an hour. Apologising awkwardly, he put on his coat and left. The walk across the campus was, however, shorter than he had remembered, and he arrived in good time. Professor Holz appeared surprised to see him, and K reminded him that they had agreed to meet.

K's advisor was thickset and completely bald, despite only being in his mid-forties. He had a second position at another university, and was rarely to be found in his office; normally K would have been glad to have cornered him and be able to ask for advice, but today he could not think of anything to say. He waited for Professor Holz to take the initiative. K's advisor seemed equally at a loss. He took off his rimless glasses, and polished them carefully before speaking.

"So, K," he began, typing as he did so. "I understand your paper was rejected."

K confirmed that this was indeed true.

"Well," continued Professor Holz, "I think we both agree about the nature of the problem."

K was in fact unsure what the professor was referring to; he knew though that he had reservations about the research direction K had chosen, and assumed that this was a veiled allusion to the objections he had raised at their last meeting. He cleared his throat in a way that could be interpreted as assent.

"I understand, however," said Holz, "that your collaboration with Fräulein Müller has been more successful."

K looked at his advisor carefully, trying to guess whether he was being ironic, but was unable to tell. He agreed hesitantly, trying to sound as noncommital as he could in case it was a trap. But the professor suddenly looked at his watch and rose, exclaiming that he had forgotten another meeting. He smiled apologetically to K as he escorted him from the room, and locked the door.

"I would appreciate a progress report before the end of the week," he said, as they stood in front of the elevator. "You have heard, of course, that the new funding cuts oblige us to reexamine our priorities."

This sounded vaguely familiar to K, who had however assumed that he was not one of the people affected.

"It's mainly a formality," said the professor. "None the less, I would like you to take it seriously and do a thorough job. It is particularly important that you describe your short-term objectives."

There were several questions that K urgently wished to ask, but at that moment the elevator arrived. The professor disappeared into it, saying something that K was unable to catch. He took the stairs down to street level, and walked slowly back to his office. Fräulein Müller now seemed much more animated, and suggested to K that they eat lunch together at the Italian restaurant they both liked.

"I'm sorry I was like that earlier," she said as they finished their spaghetti. "It's this horrible report. I'm so glad I've finally turned it in. I suppose you did yours days ago."

K waved his hand in a gesture of vague assent, though he was now starting to feel rather concerned.

"Oh good!" said Fräulein Müller, and smiled at him in a way that, for a moment, almost made her look attractive. "Then maybe I can ask you to give me some more linguistic judgements? I think the new batch of stories is better than usual."

K could think of no way to decline this offer; so, for the rest of the afternoon, he listened to Fräulein Müller and patiently answered her questions. Around 4 pm, he received an email reminding him that the progress report was due by the end of the following day. He attempted to think about it while simultaneously listening to Fräulein Müller, but this proved to be impossible. Twice, she interrupted him with a puzzled air, and pointed out inconsistencies in his answers. K was forced to give her his full attention.

When it was time to leave, he had still not begun the report. He tried to muster his ideas as he walked home, and had almost reached his apartment when he realised that he had forgotten his laptop at the office.

أجمل ما في الرواية الفكرة المبتكرة والتأويلات المختلفة للنص ودلالاتها على الواقع
الدولة عندما تتحول لأداة للإرهاب والفساد.. حيث في الإمكان اتهام البشر بأي شيء وكل شيء
الوجود الانساني والصراع الدائم في الحياة للوصول إلى غاية ما.. الحقيقة, العدالة..
وجاءت النهاية لتؤكد لا جدوى الفعل تجاه الأحداث العبثية التي تفرض سلطتها على الانسان

هر بار اثری از کافکا خوندم، تمام مدت حس دیدن یک خواب آزار دهنده رو داشتم! میگم خواب ، چون در خواب هیچ چیزی برای آدم عجیب نیست و آدم خیلی راحت با مخمصه ها و موقعیت های عجیبی که درش گرفتار شده کنار میاد و خودش رو با وضع موجود هماهنگ میکنه. شخصیت های داستانهای کافکا هم همینطور هستن! با اینکه در دنیای رئال زندگی می کنن، خیلی راحت با وضعیت های عجیبی که براشون پیش میاد کنار میان...
(سامسا تبدیل به سوسک میشه و با همون شرایط حتی سعی میکنه سر کار بره)
یا(ک به یکباره و بدون هیچ دلیلی محکوم میشه ، به دادگاهی احضار میشه که در اون حتی نمیتونه صاف بایسته چون متناسب با قد آدم ساخته نشده ، با آدمایی با رفتارها و طرز فکرها و واکنشهای غیرمعمول مواجه میشه و قاضی هایی که مشخص نیست مبنای عدالتشون چیه....
اما این حیرانی ای که گریبان من خواننده رو میگیره خیلی در فکر و گفتار شخصیت های داستان دیده نمیشه...
خواننده هر لحظه با علامت سوال های بزرگ و بزرگتری مواجه میشه و در انتها هم همونطور حیران و سرگشته باقی میمونه که چراااااا؟!

"the Court wants nothing from you. It receives you when you come and dismisses you when you go"

Τελικά για τι μιλάει αυτό το βιβλίο? Ή μάλλον αν υποθέσουμε πως ένα βιβλίο μπορεί να έχει 10 διαφορετικές ερμηνείες, ανάλογα με τον αναγνωστη, τι να είχε στο μυαλό του ο Κάφκα όταν το έγραφε? Λοιποοοοον, δε θα πω πολλά για την πλοκή αυτού του έργου, καθώς λίγο πολύ ακόμη και όσοι δεν έχουν διαβάσει το συγκεκριμένο ή άλλο έργο του συγγραφεα(όπως εγώ), γνωρίζουν τι γίνεται.. Θα πω όμως ότι το βιβλίο μου θύμισε πάρα πολύ τον "ξένο" του καμυ. Ένα απλό στορυ που σχεδόν  μέχρι τα 3/4 του δεν πολύ καταλαβαίνεις γιατί γίνονται όσα γίνονται,η όλη υπόθεση μοιάζει σαν να παρακολουθείς ένα θεατρικό έργο που όλοι ξέρουν κάτι που μόνο ο πρωταγωνιστής δε βλέπει... Κυρίως και τα 2 αυτά έργα διέπονται από έναν απόλυτο παραλογισμό, όπως άλλωστε και η ίδια η ζωή. Κι ενώ έχεις διανύσει περίπου τα 3/4 του βιβλίου και λες χμμμ οκ, τίποτα ιδιαίτερο, προς τι όλος ο χαμός κλπ, εκεί έρχεται το penultimate κεφάλαιο με τίτλο "στον καθεδρικό" και σε στέλνει αδιάβαστο. Και μετά έρχεται το τελευταίο κεφάλαιο και σου φέρνει και κάποια δάκρυα στα μάτια με αυτες τις τρεις  λέξεις ("σαν το σκυλί"). Και μετά τελειώνεις το βιβλίο και αρχίζεις και σκέφτεσαι ότι ωχ, μάλλον αυτή η πρώτη ανάγνωση που έκανα και κυριολεκτικά και μεταφορικά ήταν μάλλον τελείως ανεπαρκής,. Κι εκεί ξαναδιαβαζεις αυτό το αριστουργηματικο προτελευταίο κεφάλαιο και σου έρχεται μια άλλη "μετάφραση" των όσων διάβασες κι άλλη κι άλλη.. Και μη τα πολυλογώ τον ξένο τον έχω διαβάσει κάπου 5 φορές, για άλλες τόσες λογικά πάει κι αυτό εδώ..
Υ.γ. Παρόλο που γενικά βρήκα ευφυέστατο το βιβλίο τόσο για την κεντρική ιδέα, όσο και για το ότι φτάνεις σχεδόν στο φιναλε για να ανακαλύψεις ότι τελικά τα πράγματα είναι πολυδιάστατα, ωστόσο δε μπορώ να αγνοήσω το γεγονός ότι ένα πολύ μεγάλο μέρος του βιβλίου με κούρασε με στοιχεία που θεωρώ ότι δεν ήταν απαραίτητα, αντιθέτως αν έλειπαν θα έκαναν ακόμη πιο ενδιαφέρον το αποτέλεσμα.
3.5 αστέρια.

Durante el tiempo que leí esta obra no pude evitar sentirme muy similar al protagonista Josef K: en parte confundido, y en parte absorto. Teniendo muchas preguntas cuyas respuestas no llegaban y no dejándome de sorprender por lo que fuera a ocurrir a lo largo de la historia.

Habiendo leído hace un par de años La metamorfosis, y recientemente (el año pasado) En la colonia penitenciaria y Un artista del hambre, lo que vi en esta novela me lo esperaba, mas no por eso fue menor la experiencia al haberme maravillado y haber superado esas expectativas iniciales.

Sí, es una lectura que asfixia en varias partes, sobre todo a la mitad de la historia, ya que había momentos en que tenía que parar y descansar porque de lo contrario no hubiera entendido nada y me habría forzado sobremanera.

Afortunadamente, Kafka elige con maestría cada palabra, y cada idea se muestra con un lenguaje nada complicado de seguir o entender, y así te envuelve, te atrapa, y evita que abandones en algún punto la lectura.

Desde el tan espectacular inicio: “Alguien tenía que haber calumniado a Josef K, pues fue detenido una mañana sin haber hecho nada malo.” hasta su final que me dejó frío y con una sensación de vacío, estoy ante la obra del autor que más me ha gustado en cuanto a estructura, y la que más emociones afloró en mí. Si bien refiriéndome a historia me gusta más La metamorfosis, encontrar en El proceso toda una odisea del protagonista, ir viviendo con él cada etapa crucial desde el momento de su detención hasta la parte culminante, es algo que vale mucho la pena. En pocas palabras, es una obra imprescindible.

Para terminar, hay dos capítulos que ya los tengo como tatuados en mi mente. El primero, El azotador, fue sin duda mi favorito y uno de los que más me dejaron con el ojo cuadrado.
El segundo, La catedral, y es que el relato del sacerdote lo vale completamente. Y aquí no pude evitar recordar aquel capítulo de Moby Dick, El sermón, donde el padre Mapple da su discurso e Ismael se encuentra como oyente; es posible que no tenga nada que ver, excepto por el hecho de que ambos ocurren en un recinto religioso, hay un sacerdote y una historia narrada de por medio, pero la sensación que me dejó en ambos casos fue muy similar.

Creo que ya he dicho demasiado, espero se animen a leer a este eminente autor y disfruten de esta gran obra.

On his thirtieth birthday, bank employee Josef K. is arrested for an unknown crime and prosecuted on certain Sundays by an unknown agency.

Yeah, that's a pretty vague teaser but how else do you drag someone into The Trial?

On the surface, The Trial is an absurd legal drama that nicely illustrates how inept bureaucracy can be. However, my little gray cells tell me that's just the tip of the iceberg. The Trial seems to be about how incomprehensible and absurd life can be at times. I don't think it's a coincidence that The Trial kicks off on Josef K.'s 30th birthday.

Kafka's writing is stripped down but still powerful. Aside from The Metamorphosis, the tone reminds me a bit of G.K. Chesteron's The Napoleon of Notting Hill. The book feels like a Monty Python sketch at times. I caught myself grinning on occasion and not really sure if that was the appropriate reaction.

The Trial isn't just about Josef's trial, it's also about the trial the trial becomes in Josef's life. And isn't life just one big trial anyway?

The Trial. 4 out 5 stars. Case closed.

I’m going to be in the minority but despite the dreamlike, slow train crash quality of the book I didn’t end up liking the reading experience at all.
Correctly presenting a matter and incorrectly interpreting the same matter do not completely exclude each other

After liking The Metamorphosis earlier this year I feel the same way about The Trial as when I tried to read the The Castle as a teenager: baffled, alienated and unsatisfied. I think it is clear this book was not ready for publication. Not to say that the themes of The Trial, an individual being crushed by an impersonal and uncaring bureaucracy and the light veneer of civilization and support from society, are not interesting and important.
I read this book while in Prague, while returning by train from a day trip to Therezin, the concentration camp where almost 100.000 jews from Czechia died 20 years after the death of Franz Kafka, and his work feels like a foreshadowing of these events.

The Trial is an alienating and weird book, and not just for the reader. Bank employee Josef K. is woken one day and told he is being arrested. Not that he needs to go to prison or is told for what he is incriminated, and after these events he tries, ever more unsuccessful, to live on despite this blade of Damocles. It is interesting that Kafka studied law and worked a year as legal clerk; his depiction of the courts Josef K. is embroiled in is far from flattering. The way everyone tries to interpret the courts foreshadows Moscow watching during the Cold War. Lawyers say that there is progress in the case of Josef K. but can't detail what the pogress is or where the trial is in terms of phases. The legal, semi-mystical description of a lawyers work in the longest chapter fits the quintessential bullshit job from Bullshit Jobs: A Theory, including grandiose bureaucracies and protocols involved and no clear relation to the outcome.

Josef K. himself starts of rejecting the power of the court (housed in the an attic in an inconspicuous rent apartment) and delivering a scathing speech to the president of the court. But when his uncle steps in he starts to slip away more and more, in a way that sometimes struck me as if Josef had a depression of mental issues.
The offhand way Josef treats women, and how they all like him and are crazy for him apparently, is irritating. Later on he is very unsympathetic and pompous to merchant Block and Leni.
One can admire the brutal honesty of how K., with all his character flaws, is depicted but I can well imagine why his uncle concludes he is unhelpable.
Because even though his predicament is wholly unclear he certainly does not seem to productively or prudently engage his circumstances. Procrastination and indecision, but also explosions of ill thought out actions, in response to the uncertainty the trial brings define Josef K.'s course of action.

The pages are so densely filled, without spaces that this compounded my feeling of being fatigued by Josef K. his story. Sometimes I did try to engage myself with the question how the justice clerks end up in S&M gear in the closet of his work at the bank. But as in one of the last scenes, where K. wanders through a mysteriously darkening Sint Vitrus church (where the way the priest was uncovered to be from the court reminded me immensely of the grand Budapest Hotel movie from Wes Anderson), Kafka does not seem to care to explain these surrealistic scenes.

Clearly his style influenced many, while reading the book I thought of Haruki Murakami, Jonathan Safran Foer, Arnon Grunberg, who all employ a similar humour filled, absurd style. But I found this book hard to get through and missing an internal consistency (or maybe just some kind of editing), to really let me appreciate the chilling concepts Kafka takes on in The Trial.

Bro got some bitches