So Friday afternoon mr. delagar buys a graphic novel life and works of Kafka.
Guess who spends Saturday afternoon reading it? And then has a Kafka-related nervous breakdown?
I didn't realize what she was reading until way too late, either. Came into the living room to find her curled in a knot on the white chair, deep into The Hunger Artist, a fierce line between her eyes.
"Good shit," I said, started. "What are you reading?"
"What's the panther mean?" she asked. "He's a metaphor, right?"
"Uh," I said. "Right."
"Did you read this other one?" she demanded. "The Penal Colony one?" She mispronounced penal colony. "About the machine? Why did the guy do that?"
"It's another metaphor...why are you reading Kafka?"
"He's in Pearls Before Swine. I wanted to know about him. Now I'm going to have Kafka dreams," she added, worriedly, rubbing her forehead.
"Boy, are you," I said. I was 23 when I read Kafa for the first time, and he made me nuts for a week. "Don't you want to read Farmer Boy? He...goes to the State Fair. Wins a blue ribbon for his pumpkin. And...shears some sheep. You like sheep."
"No. I like this."
16 hours ago