Not Franz Ferdinand, the other one

I've done it. On my second attempt I managed to struggle my way through Franz Kafka's The Castle. My 1971 reprinted copy looks like this as I picked it up for £2 at the university book stall a few years back. I think the worn cover and tinted pages give it that extra something, not least as they suit the age of the contents within.

It was recommended to me by a colleague in a job I had a couple of years back, and he said it was one of his favourite books as he could identify with it on those particularly challenging days at work. So, I bought it a while ago when the chance arose, tried reading it once with little success, and so it stayed amongst the rest of my tat for the day when I was ready. Three weeks ago that day came, and so I got stuck in once again. Last night I emerged victorious.

In a way it was similar to Catch 22 which I also found difficult to read at first, but gradually got into and eventually really enjoyed to the point that it is certainly one of my favourite books. The Castle however remains a fairly hard slog all the way through, although it seems to fullfil the reap-what-you-sow mentality and I feel as though I got quite a lot out of it.

The ending (of sorts) is rather unusual, but I was at least semi-prepared for this after reading the foreword explaining that the "addition material" making up chapters 18 through 20 were added by translators other that those who did the original German to English translation. So not only has the book been translated from another language, this translation was done several decades ago by two different groups of people using a mixture of an unfinished book with various fragments and deleted passages, which makes me think that reading a more modern translation, if available, might be worthwhile reading afterwards to get a different perspective on the same surreal story.

I'm glad I finished it in the end. I can't say it is fantastic, but I certainly did enjoy it and would encourage you as long as you appreciate the task at hand. My favourite part came at just the right time: I'd had my own particularly trying day at work, and that evening on the train home I found my own personal connection with the author...

'A letter from Klamm!' cried K. throwing back his head. 'Lights here!' he called to the assistants, who now pressed close to him on both sides holding up their lanterns. K. had to fold the large sheet in small compass to protect it from the wind while reading it. Then he read:

K. only looked up from the letter when the assistants, who read far more slowly than he, gave three loud cheers at the good news and waved their lanterns. 'Be quiet,' he said, and to Barnabas: 'There's been a misunderstanding.' Barnabas did not seem to comprehend. 'There's been a misunderstanding,' K. repeated, and the weariness he had felt in the afternoon came over him again.

- Franz Kafka, The Castle

That may mean nothing to you, dear reader, but for both K. and myself it represents something quite frighteningly real.