In fact, do not read Kafka even if you’re not depressed . . . because if you’re not, and you do, you soon will be.

I was thinking yesterday about my idyllic summer of 1991 in Prague, which is when — along with the incredible history, architecture, culture, food and beverages of Czechoslovakia (now Czechia, or simply the Czech Republic) — I first became interested in the writings of Franz Kafka, perhaps the most famous of all Czech writers.

I wondered at the time how anyone who only lived to the age of 40 could have sunk so deeply into despair as to produce such dark, often dystopian works of fiction as “The Metamorphosis” and “The Trial” . . . until I learned that his writing was most heavily influenced by Dostoevsky, Nietschze, and Poe — great writers all, but not exactly uplifting.

And today of all days — when many people are already suffering from an annual case of post-holiday letdown — I should have known better than to go searching for a quote from Kafka. But, perversely, I did it anyway. What I was looking for was actually something to do with thoughts of the future, in keeping with the approach of a new year. But what I found instead were these:

“I write differently from what I speak, I speak differently from what I think, I think differently from the way I ought to think, and so it all proceeds into deepest darkness.”

“I cannot make you understand. I cannot make anyone understand what is happening inside me. I cannot even explain it to myself.”

“I have spent all my life resisting the desire to end it.”

. . . and, just for kicks, his immortal:

“The Meaning of life is that it stops.”

While I hesitate to approach the end of the year on such a demoralizing note, it has, after all, been the shittiest of years; and so it’s probably a suitable choice . . . in a rather dystopian, Kafkaesque way.

Perhaps I’ll have something a little cheerier tomorrow . . . say, from Eleanor Roosevelt, or Erma Bombeck. In the meantime, I’m . . .

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
12/27/25