ephemerry
Keishi Ayasato does it again with his brilliant story-telling abilities! The intrigue is heightened after two of the main triad of main characters (Kaito and Hina) sacrifice their lives to save the world and Elizabeth is left in the aftermath to carry the torch. This volume was exciting from beginning to end with Ayasato's unusually beautiful light novel prose! Jeanne and Izabella confess their love to one another, most anime-related series only tease same-sex relationships like these, so I was shocked when it became fully canon. A new “torture princess” is introduced (“Alice”) who is even more twisted than Elizabeth's former rival, Jeanne, and has a “Made in Abyss”-like relationship with her papa, Carroll, a mysterious magician with a plague doctor mask!
This book reads like an anecdotal children's tale, very similar to “The Little Prince” (Antoine de Saint-Exupéry) in a sense that the young protagonist goes to avant-garde locations to help protect the integrity of literature. The main character is a hikikomori (in Japanese culture, it is a term used for someone who socially isolates themselves) and after the death of his grandfather, he helps with the business and skips class to read books all day. When a mysterious talking-cat appears, claiming that the boy is the shop's new proprietor, he is whisked away to alternate realities which people try to pervert the sanctity of reading.
I grew of with book-centric fantasy stories like “Wishbone”, “Reading Rainbow”, and “The Pagemaster” so I have a specific, nostalgic fondness for these kind of stories. While the narrative could be seen as a bit preachy at times, I like stories with a kind of youthful idealism. Like for example, many people think that the TV anime version of “Galaxy Express 999” was too hammer-you-over-the-head with the moral lessons, but I like things like that, perhaps it's because of my upbringing in a very strictly Christian household.
I think the sentiment that the cat speaks when he says that that every human being is born with empathy may not be true all of the time, but unless a person has a brain condition (i.e. sociopathy and psychopathy), I think that most children are born with a strong sense of compassion and empathy. Believing that empathy is the natural mode of feeling makes a healthier society, rather than claiming that being an “empath” is a special ability. I think it depends on how much of your childhood memories you can retain before the world hurts you. Overall, a very refreshing and simple read.
One of my favorite authors, his prose is brilliant and beautiful and has a classic literary quality that not many modern books do. The Ebony Tower is a novella collection. As many great artists do, there is a continuation of Fowles's authorial fixations: twins, Greece, Machiavellian elites, beautiful yet troubled women, and Jungian archetypes. “Poor Koko” story was one of my favorites, it reminded me of a South Korean short film called “Cut” (dir. Park Chan-wook of Oldboy fame), both have a wealthy man's estate broken into and are psychologically tormented rather than robbed. In “Poor Koko”, the burglar seems to try to torment the protagonist on account of his wealth, whereas in “Cut”, the criminal is a deranged stagehand who is envious that the protagonist got a role in the film that they're working on.
“The Enigma” is another great story about a man who goes missing mysteriously with no prior motive and has a seemingly spotless reputation. The detective questions the victim's family, associates, and is only able to get a grain of truth from the man's son's one-time fling (someone completely unrelated to his personal life, or so it seems). It was interesting psychological galavant, it was difficult to tell if they were acting shading on behalf of the disappearance or because of an inflated sense of pride, like the wife completely denying the possibility of an affair and the children trying to uphold their father's reputation. It was interesting! The last tale that I liked was “Cloud”, a surreal bourgeois picnic drinking from the hands of eternal life; a social soliloquy of sheer beauty and melancholy.
After wanting to read this for a few years... it was not what I expected! I was originally introduced to this series from watching Rintarō's adaptation and it seemed much more of a horror thriller with supernatural elements... rather than a more Greek tragedy with contemporary horror elements. The writing reminded me a lot of “Saint Seiya”... but if the target demographic were girls instead of young men.
Something that I kind of miss, that would be considered bad character writing now, is how unaffected characters were by witnessing death in old series; the heroine is just unaffected and resilient, and that's weirdly refreshing. It's kind of strange that she is inhabited by a proto-Sailor Moon-like alter-ego that is Deimos's ex-lover/sister?? My favorite arc in the first volume is the short where it is revealed that Princess Kaguya was actually a werewolf, that was an interesting twist on the legend. Overall, “Deimos no Hanayome” seems to have been a big influence on other series, like the ever-iconic “Glass no Kamen”.
This volume of the light novel perfectly distills the essence of the series: Haruhi's wistful capriciousness (which can be both overbearing and refreshing at times), a diverging timeline plot that intersects with Kyon's adolescent growing pains, intrigue into Itsuki's association with the inter-dimensional organizations, Kyon woefully realizing that his infatuation Mikuru is hopeless because of her position as a time-traveller, and Yuki being the unflappable straight-man throughout.
This volume was packed with all of the elements that initially drew me to the series to begin with, down to the je ne sais quoi towards the crucial recognition of the transpiring events at the end. The last paragraph was even masterfully written, comparing Haruhi's sparkling eyes to the “Pleiades constellation” as a way of opening our hearts up to the thought of a brand new adventure; a great quality that the Haruhi series has is the feeling of wonderment. Each character got a little bit of spotlight in this chapter, even though Kyon compared Yuki to a “Jawa” in Star Wars and the main conflict is centered around Mikuru, each character's contribution felt natural; each of the summertime events felt both nostalgic to high school, while having an air of unpredictability with the outcome.
I also liked that Haruhi wanted to find the Genroku-era treasure, not for the profit, but just to bury it again. It was also revealed in this story that Tsuruya's family has their own mountain and thus, probably has Shutarō Mendō levels of wealth!
The forest outside really is filled with autumn, or,
I really love snow, because the world becomes peaceful, or,
The cherry blossoms have bloomed. I really want some dango, or,
I'll write these thoughts based on the seasons, but I'm running out of ideas.
“And so I thought, I might as well wing it.”
“Wing what?”
“‘The third child's born, and it's a girl'. Or, ‘it's been a week since I moved to Germany. The beer's nice'. Or stuff like that.”
“HAHAHA!”
I guess I struck a laughter chord in her, as she's laughing out loud.
“Sensei, sensei. What about this? A girl younger than me caught my secret, and is blackmailing me.”
“Alright, using that for the 10th volume.”
“HAHAHAHA!”
“I had imagined a kind, ugly, intuitive man looking up and saying ‘Ah!' in an encouraging way, as if he could see something I couldn't, and then I would find words to tell him how I was so scared, as if I were being stuffed farther and farther into a black, airless sack with no way out.
Then he would lean back in his chair and match the tips of his fingers together in a little steeple and tell me why I couldn't sleep and why I couldn't read and why I couldn't eat and why everything people did seemed so silly, because they only died in the end.
And then, I thought, he would help me, step by step, to be myself again.
But Doctor Gordon wasn't like that at all. He was young and good-looking, and I could see right away he was conceited.”
“No fight could have been half as terrible as this dance. It was so emphatically a fallen sport—a something, once innocent, delivered over to all devilry—a healthy pastime changed into a means of angering the blood, bewildering the senses, and steeling the heart. Such grace as was visable in it, made it the uglier, showing how warped and perverted all good by nature were become. The maidenly bosom bared to this, the pretty almost-child head thus distracted, the delicate foot mincing in this slough of blood and dirt, were types of the disjointed time.”
“And that would be a problem, huh? Based on what you've said, if the movie ends half-heartedly, this messed up reality will become our new reality. We have to force Haruhi to accept a conclusion in her mind, and that conclusion must conform to reality. And we're the ones who have to come up with such a conclusion. Haruhi doesn't think, and even if she were to, the result would always be chaos. If that's that case, we might as well do the thinking for her. Still, why do I have to rack my brain for such a reason? Anybody out there who can shoulder this curse for me?”
“‘So are you allergic or something?'
‘No, that's not the problem... Um, cats can disappear, you know? So, they make me kind of sad,' [Yuigahama] confessed, very unlike her usual chipper self. Her eyes were timid and sad. Her pace slowed, and I naturally slowed to match her. ‘I used to live in an apartment complex. Back then, there was a fad of secretly keeping a pet cat.'
‘First I've heard of a fad like that.'
‘Kids living in apartments go through phases! You can't keep pets in an apartment, you know? So you can take in a stray cat and hide it from your parents. But at some point, it disappeared...' She giggled evasively.
So that's why she didn't like them. I wonder how losing the cat had affected her at that age. She'd treasured it so much, bonded with it and gotten close, but even so, it had disappeared. Maybe wondering why it had run off had made her resent it. She might have even felt betrayed. But she probably knew by now that cats leave their owners when they sense they're about to die. Now that she was older, I wondered how Yuigahama looked back on the parting. Maybe she regretted it.”
“Of course, I do not pretend certain moments of that evening were not painful for me; nor do I claim I would so easily have made the sort of declaration I did concerning the past had circumstances not impressed upon me the prudence of doing so. Having said this, I must say I find it hard to understand how any man who values his self-respect would wish to avoid responsibility for his past deeds; it may not always be an easy thing, but there is certainly a satisfaction and dignity to be gained in coming to terms with the mistakes one has made in the course of one's life. In any case, there is surely no great shame in mistakes made in the best of faith. It is surely a thing far more shameful to be unable or unwilling to acknowledge them.”
Like eternally hopeful children they said farewell to their homes; the desire once more to labor on the wall of the nation became irresistible. They set off earlier than they needed; half the village accompanied them for long distances. Groups of people with banners and streamers waving were all on the roads; never before had they seen how great and rich and worthy of love their country was. Every fellow countryman was a brother for whom one was building a wall of protection, and who would return life-long thanks for it with all he had and did. Unity! Unity! Shoulder to shoulder, a ring of brothers, a current of blood no longer confined within the narrow circulation of one's body, but sweetly rolling and yet ever returning throughout the endless leagues of China.
—excerpt from the Willa and Edwin Muir translation of “The Great Wall of China”
Like, Kafka's other story “The Hunter Gracchus,” “The Great Wall of China” is also split into two segments, both combined into one single book on GoodReads; so, I will be reviewing both the original story, “The Great Wall of China,” and its afterthought, “The News of the Building of the Wall: A Fragment.” Both of these were published posthumously and were Kafka's candid, autobiographical takes on the event, as well as how it was received in the West.
It seems to be a flurry, a stream of consciousness, that is to say, a partial criticism of the stagnation in public consciousness and in other parts, an admiration for the culture. The building of a wall is more relevant than ever, with the last election United States election cycle, and Kafka points out the fallacy of such things, by saying in regards to the protection of China's nation: “the essential responsibility for it lies with government, which in the most ancient empire in the world has not succeeded in developing, or has neglected to develop, the institution of an empire to such precision that its workings extend directly and unceasingly to the farthest frontiers of the land.”
So, in laymen's terms: If there is a well-instituted, governmental system — there should be no need for a wall.
He also holds the people responsible for the mistake and states that because there is lack of unity and faith among the civvies, that their lack to help sustain the empire is the reason why a wall was even deemed necessary. Circling back to the United States juxtaposition, I think the same can be said, I think the lack optimism and motivation from the past administrations, was what ultimately lead to the proposition of the wall. As a country, we are unable to come to a moral consensus, and therefore, we leave ourselves open and unfortified to nonnative enemies, who often exploit the fact that our country's ethos strives for a diversity of opinion.
The last memoir, was a short essay, talking about the West's delusional view of China's wall. Kafka tells the story from his childhood and says that his father was infatuated with the beauty of the wall, so therefore, he was mortified when he discovered that the wall was not an artistic expression, but in fact, a Trojan horse, used as an excuse to protect the Emperor from foreign invaders! I thought that the way the media and China (with its citizens) practically disillusioned the WHOLE world into backing the fallacious venture was a powerful conclusion to an, otherwise, solecistic story.
“My father was holding me by the hand, something he was fond of doing to the end of his days, and running his hand up and down his very long, very thin pipe, as though it were a flute. With his sparse, rigid beard raised in the air, he was enjoying his pipe, while gazing upwards across the river. As a result of the pigtail, object of the children's veneration, sank lower, rustling faintly on the gold-embroidered silk of his holiday gown. At the moment, a bark drew up before us, the boatman beckoned to my father to come down the embankment, while he himself climbed up towards him. They met halfway, the boatman whispered something in my father's ear, in order to come quite close he had embraced him. I could not understand what they said, I only saw that my father didn't seem to believe the news, that the boatman tried to insist upon its truth, that when my father still refused to believe it the boatman, with the passion of sailors, almost tore the garment from his dress to prove the truth, whereupon my father fell silent and and the boatman jumped noisily into the bark and sailed away.”
—excerpt from the Tania and James Stern translation of “The News of the Building of the Wall: A Fragment”
A man in a top hat tied with a band of black crêpe now descended one of the very narrow and steep lanes that lead to the harbor. He glanced around vigilantly, everything seemed to distress him, his mouth twisted at the sight of some offal in a corner. Fruit skins were lying on the steps of the monument; he swept them off in passing with his stick. He wrapped at the house door, at the same time taking his top hat from his head with his black-gloved hand. The door was opened at once, and some fifty little boys appeared in the long entry hall, and bowed to him.
—excerpt from the Willa and Edwin Muir translation of “The Hunter Gracchus”
The mysterious Gracchus, is a character that is, essentially, a vagabond of stoicism. Although, this story and its sequel are very short, the serial creates the sense of a magisterial man that is boundless in his travels. It seems that on GoodReads, both the original story and the following tale (“A Fragment”) are combined under the same entry, so I suppose that I will review both of them together.
Most of the continuity of the short stories are contained within the conversations between the titular character, Gracchus, and the inquisitive Burgomaster, a yokel that has never dared to venture outside the confines of his seaside town. Gracchus speaks of his travels and travails, until he finally reveals that he is no longer living, but is, in fact, a wandering spirit.
It is revealed in the last two paragraphs of “A Fragment” that Gracchus died during a hunt, in a place called “The Black Forest,” and has been unable to reach a solid destination since then. It reminds me an anime film that I really like called Flying Phantom Ship (or Soratobu Yūreisen), with an undead, yet enigmatic captain. More than anything, I really enjoyed the intrigue and atmosphere, that emanated from the pages of this tale!
“Nobody will read what I say here, no one will come to help me; even if all the people were commanded to help me, every door and window would remain shut, everybody would take to bed and draw the bedclothes over his head, the whole earth would become an inn for the night. And there is sense in that, for nobody knows of me, and if anyone knew he would not know where I could be found, and if he knew where I could be found, he would not know how to deal with me, he would not know how to help me. The thought of helping me is an illness that has to be cured by taking to one's bed.”
—excerpt from the Willa and Edwin Muir translation of “The Hunter Gracchus”
STEWARD: He who blinks sees only complications. He who keeps his eyes open sees the eternal truth in the first hours as clearly as after a hundred years. Admittedly, in this case, a sad truth which in the next four days, however, may take a decisive turn for the better.
—excerpt from the Tania and James Stern translation of “The Warden of the Tomb”
This short story, written in the style of a play, it is a bit difficult to unpack. The steward to the royal family speaks with a graveyard warden and then takes umbrage with his shifty behavior, and propensity to watch others in silence. The steward refers to the man as a “screech-owl” — after waxing philosophical about the prospects of the prince, the appointed heir.
At the end of the story, the steward reports back to the princess. Which means, that he was receiving intel about the climate of the royal family, from the warden, for her benefit. It's a rather simple story, with some cryptic allusions, and I didn't really understand the point of it all. It's a mediocre story, especially compared to some of Kafka's other works!
I was in great perplexity; I had to start on an urgent journey; a seriously ill patient was waiting for me in a village ten miles off; a thick blizzard of snow filled all the spaces between him and me; I had a gig, a light gig with big wheels, exactly right for our country roads; muffled in furs, my bag of instruments in my hand, I was in the courtyard all ready for the journey; but there was no horse to be had, no horse. My own horse had died in the night, worn out by the fatigues of this icy winter; my servant girl was now running around the village trying to borrow a horse; but it was hopeless, I knew it, and I stood there forlornly, with the snow gathering more and more thickly upon me, more and more unable to move.
—excerpt from the Willa and Edwin Muir translation of “The Country Doctor”
There is a grim implication to this story; the sickly patient is young and perfectly fine, but it is implied that since the winter is so deadly, the man wants to die as a sacrifice, so that his family can feed off of his flesh. The fatal freezing-frost of winter is exemplified in the aforementioned paragraph, as the country doctor notes that his horse has died from the bitterly cold climate. The doctor doesn't provide a cure for the perceived ails of the young man, but instead, gives him instructions on how to take his own life.
Death by ax in a juncture, in the freezing forest, would make it easier for his family to consume his remains. The moribund description of the “sickly” man, the surrealistic comparison of his relatives to rose-red parasites, raising like tumors, out of his skin. What a strange, yet well-written story! And the conclusion, where the old doctor is at odds with his own existence! Great, little tale! It reminds me of the rabbit-sacrifice narrative, in the lore of Siddhārtha Gautama!
※ Bonus: There's a twenty-one minute, Japanese animation of the story, called: Inaka Isha! It's the most direct adaptation that I've seen of Franz Kafka's The Country Doctor, though it is framed in a more portentous, avant-garde art style than how it is described!
Blumfeld, on the other hand, is very contented. He leaves the room and the already deserted corridor has a soothing effect on him. He takes the wool out of his ears and is enchanted by the countless sounds of the waking hours. Few people are to be seen, it's still very early.
—excerpt from the Tania and James Stern translation of “Blumfeld, an Elderly Bachelor”
This story is a satirical look at a fogey, who is so obsessed with orderliness and control, so much so, that's he's essentially unable to experience the joy of people's company. As the aforementioned quote implies, the only time that old Blumfeld is able to take the wool out of his ears, is in his lonesome. His neuroticism is characterized by balls clacking together, I honestly imagined a Newton's Cradle at the description, of this whirring personification of his obsessive compulsive tendencies.
I have seen other reviews that have implied that Blumfed was finally able to loosen up, but I didn't get that impression from the final sentences, it's more so that the man's strictness is falsely perceived as aggression: “They obey at once, but not shamefaced or with lowered heads, rather they squeeze themselves stiffly past Blumfeld, staring him straight in the eye as though trying in this way to stop him from beating them. Yet they might have learned on principle that Blumfeld never beats anyone. But they are over-apprehensive, and without any tact keep trying to protect their real or imaginary rights.”
The final passage does not try to paint Blumfeld in a better light, rather it tries to underline his purpose. People who are seen as tyrants, often are necessary to keep order. The yīnyáng paradox elucidates the necessity for there to be a union of both sides, in order for peace to flourish openly. Perhaps, since old Blumfeld is a bachelor (as the title intimates), he is more of an authoritarian... without a feminine (chaotic) presence in his life, to serve as a counterbalance.
What would happen next? You would probably receive honorable mention, and that might perhaps benefit your profession too; people would say: ‘Our village schoolmasters have sharp eyes'; and this journal, if journals have a memory or a conscience, would be forced to make you a public apology; also some well-intentioned professor would be found to secure a scholarship for you; it's possible that they may even get you to come to the city, find a post for you in some school, and so give you a chance of using the scientific resources of a city so as to improve yourself. But if I am to be quite frank, I think they would content themselves with merely trying to do all of this.
—excerpt from the Willa and Edwin Muir translation of “The Village Schoolmaster”
Other reviews have taken the notion of the mole literally, but the mole in the story is figurative. What do moles do? They dig holes and bury themselves in them. This story is critique of academia, and thus, the mole is a metaphor for a scholar: one who cannot deduce any answer with 100% accuracy, and so, they bury themselves in knowledge and drudgery, as a means of escaping the reality of the unanswerable.
Mr. Kafka lays critiques on those who receive honors and accolades over quotients that are not yet solved. The “mole” or absorption in such a life, is used as a means of escapism, the same as some employ fiction. The schoolmaster in the story desperately tries to hide the mole, because acknowledging the mole would render his life pointless.
Slowly the lid of the Designer rose up and then clicked wide open. The teeth of the cogwheel showed themselves and rose higher, soon the whole wheel was visible, it was if some enormous force was squeezing the Designer so that there was no longer room left for the wheel, the wheel moved till it came to the very edge of the designer, fell down, rolled along the sand a little on its rim, and then lay flat. But a second wheel was already rising after it, followed by many others, large and small and indistinguishably minute, the same thing happened to all of them, at every moment one imagined the Designer must now really be empty, but another complex of numerous wheels was already rising out of sight, falling down, trundling along the sand, and lying flat. This phenomenon made the condemned man completely forget the explorer's command, the cogwheels fascinated him, he was always trying to catch one and at the same time urging the solider to help, but always drew back his hand in alarm, for another wheel always came hopping along which, at least on its first advance, scared him off.
—excerpt from the Willa and Edwin Muir translation of “In the Penal Colony”
Plain and simple: this story is about a dystopian machine that inscribes the sentence of offenders into their arm, and after a span of 12 hours, the poisonous ink kills said reprobate. While the premise itself is interesting, the delivery mostly consists of elongated psychobabble and emotional torment. Like the second-person perspective in Mr. Kafka's “The Metamorphosis,” this style is implemented in this story to seemingly make the reader feel as dizzy and confused, as the tortured inmate.
As you can imagine, while I understand the purpose of the stylization, it's not fun to read. It can often be long, winding, and mind-numbing... until the prisoner gets his break in the end, after the inscription is put upon him. As you can imagine this narrative explores: the flawed legal system, the ethics and human rights of detainees, and the horrors that can come of the death sentence.
All are valid points to write about, but the story was not enjoyable to read. Skimming through the pages felt like, I, myself was being psychologically tormented. And while that may have been the point, it was excruciating. For a 52 page, short story... it can be difficult to get through.
But when after a repetition of the same efforts he lay in his former position again, sighing, and watched his little legs struggling against each other more wildly than ever, if that were possible, and saw no way of bringing order into this arbitrary confusion, he told himself that it was impossible to stay in bed and the most sensible course was to risk everything for the smallest hope of getting away from it. At the same time he did not forget to remind himself occasionally that cool reflection, the coolest possible, was much better than desperate resolves. In such moments he focused his eyes as sharply as possible on the window, but, unfortunately, the prospect of the morning fog, which muffled even the other side of the narrow street, brought him little encouragement and comfort. “Seven ‘o clock already,” he said to himself when the alarm clock chimed again, “seven o'clock and such thick fog.” And for a little while he lay quiet, breathing lightly, as if expecting some repose to restore things to their real and normal condition.
—excerpt from the Willa and Edwin Muir translation of “The Metamorphosis”
Kafka's most referenced piece of literature is “The Metamorphosis” or “Die Verwandlung” —the surrealist, arthropod image of the beleaguered Gregor Samsa, has practically become an international, pop-culture icon. I have read many excerpts, before reading it, and seen many allusions to this short story, but I did not expect it to be nearly as strange, as it actually was.
This is my fourth venture into the strange speculations of Kafka, and this story, in particular, shocked me at the way it concluded. And, as a rampant consumer of media, that is a difficult thing to accomplish. The narrative is told from a second-person perspective, so there is a level of omniscience between what Gregor's family expects of him and what he thinks of himself. Throughout the span of 201 pages, the reader isn't sure whether to believe in the aberrant disgust for Gregor, or if Gregor is to be sympathized with. I have split interpretations on this.
Yet Gregor had not the slightest intention of frightening anyone, far less his sister. He had only begun to turn around in order to crawl back to his room, but it was certainly a startling operation to watch, since because of his disabled condition he could not execute the difficult turning movements except by lifting his head and then bracing it against the floor over and over again. He paused and looked around. His good intentions seemed to have been recognized; the alarm had only been momentary. Now that they were all watching him in melancholy silence. His mother lay in her chair, her legs stiffly outstretched and pressed together, her eyes closing foe sheer weariness; his mother and sister were sitting beside each other, his sister's arm around the old man's neck.
—excerpt from the Willa and Edwin Muir translation of “The Metamorphosis”
Interpretation #1
At the end of the story, the narrative takes mention of Gregor's sister having “blossomed into a pretty girl with a good figure.” This could have been the genesis of Gregor's predicament of “hardening” and thus clarifies the family's revulsion towards their offspring. The scene where the sister is suddenly disturbed, during her violin playing; it could have been, that Gregor's explanation of being “obtrusive,” was an allegory for getting an erection. When they find his “corpse” towards the end of the story, it could be a metaphor for him ejaculating, at last. Which then explains why he had moved out of his parents' house, by the end of the vignette!
“We must try to get rid of it,” his sister said now explicitly to her father, since her mother was coughing too much to hear a word, “it would be the death of both of you, I can see it coming. When one has to work as hard as we do, all of us, one can't stand this continual torment at home on top of it. At least, I can't stand it any longer.” And she burst into such a passion of sobbing that her tears dropped on her mother's face, where she wiped them off melancholically.
—excerpt from the Willa and Edwin Muir translation of “The Metamorphosis”
Interpretation #2
Gregor Samsa is his sister. This is the most logical conclusion, since the “metamorphosis” starts with Gregor and ends with his “zuster” (as the Germans would say). It is logical to think that the painful transformation ended with the “blossom[ing] into a pretty girl with a good figure.” There are mirroring phrases, that seem to indicate that both of them are the half of one another. Following those injunctions, we can assume that Samsa's sister is either intersex or a transgendered female. Her fits of annoyance can be from hitting puberty and being maligned from the realization of having a male phallus. Hence, the “we must try to get rid of it” quote above. The corpse of “Gregor Samsa” could elucidate the surgical removal of “her” penis. Thus, creating a sense of relief and normalcy to her household, and driving away the ruckus from neighbors and disturbed outsiders.
On one occasion, about a month after Gregor's metamorphosis, when there was surely no reason for her to be startled at his appearance, she came a little earlier than usual and found him gazing out of the window, quite motionless, and thus well placed to look like a bogey.”
—excerpt from the Willa and Edwin Muir translation of “The Metamorphosis”
Conclusively, this story is very dense in meaning, and there are probably more interpretations of it, then even I could come up with. It deserves the title of Kafka's most “prolific” work, that's for sure. I'm still at a loss of what exactly to think of it, though.
“You comedian!” Georg could not resist the retort, realized at once the harm done and, his eyes starting in his head, bit his tongue back, only too late, till the pain made his knees give.
—excerpt from the Willa and Edwin Muir translation of “The Judgement”
The shame and guilt imposed by ones' family can cause great grief. Put simply, that is the point of the story. The ending has no direct, moral catharsis. It isn't a conclusion, laden with high-minded irony, nor is it an exemplification of schadenfreude, where the reader experiences a bad person getting their comeuppance.
The lines are blurred, the idea of right and wrong are less black and white. The story is about a young man, who has decided to leave his ill father, in order to pursue the prospects of marriage. Little does he know that his wise old man already knows of his scheme to abandon him, and has devised a way to emotionally torment his son.
This eventually leads to the young man's suicide: by drowning, emblematic to the suffocating pangs of conscience that a pre-wed person feels; leaving behind their home and known familia, in the process. It's not certain whether this is supposed to be perceived as an allegorical death or literal. The father telling him to drown himself, might be a signifier to immerse himself in his new life. On the opposing interpretation, the old man holds onto a stopwatch, in the story, and refuses to part with it, he keeps fiddling with it. This is an indication of the fixation on the past and memories.
I have been pretty middle-of-the-road with Mr. Kafka's bibliography, so far, but this one really jumped out at me! Great story, an intensely meaningful double entendre!