Why no Kafka?

t. j d salinger

>Rating authors out of ten like they're a common strumpet
Nuke the board and sterilize every poster under 25

Sure, I'm not saying he's the greatest writer ever--how that can be measured, you tell me--but to say he's babby-tier is not entirely just. Besides, you have to take into context that he wrote for only himself, which is quite admirable.

im that poster and i agree, ban all under 25s from this site.

0/10 shitpost :^(

im just fucking with you. everyone goes through an "omg kafka" phase, and it happens to be this usually occurs around 15-16. hes alright, but there are bigger and better books out there. camus and sartre are the same tbqh.

Whats up with his hairline?

Camus:

Mother died today. Or, maybe, yesterday; I can’t be sure. The telegram from the Home says: YOUR MOTHER PASSED AWAY. FUNERAL TOMORROW. DEEP SYMPATHY. Which leaves the matter doubtful; it could have been yesterday.

The Home for Aged Persons is at Marengo, some fifty miles from Algiers. With the two o’clock bus I should get there well before nightfall. Then I can spend the night there, keeping the usual vigil beside the body, and be back here by tomorrow evening. I have fixed up with my employer for two days’ leave; obviously, under the circumstances, he couldn’t refuse. Still, I had an idea he looked annoyed, and I said, without thinking: “Sorry, sir, but it’s not my fault, you know.”

Sartre:

SOMETHING has happened to me: I can't doubt that any more. It came as an illness does, not like an ordinary certainty, not like anything obvious. It installed itself cunningly, little by little; I felt a little strange, a little awkward, and that was all. Once it was established, it didn't move any more, it lay low and I was able to persuade myself that there was nothing wrong with me, that it was a false alarm. And now it has started blossoming.
I don't think the profession of historian fits a man for psychological analysis. In our work, we have to deal only with simple feelings to which we give generic names such as Ambition and Interest. Yet if I had an iota of self-knowledge, now is the time when I ought to use it.
There is something new, for example, about my hands, a certain way of picking up my pipe or my fork. Or else it is the fork which now has a certain way of getting itself picked up, I don't know. Just now, when I was on the point of coming into my room, I stopped short because I felt in my hand a cold object which attracted my attention by means of a sort of personality. I opened my hand and looked: I was simply holding the doorknob. This morning, at the library, when the Autodidact· came to say good-morning to me, it took me ten seconds to recognize him. I saw an unknown face which was barely a face. And then there was his hand, like a fat maggot in my hand. I let go of it straight away and the arm fell back limply.

Kafka:

It was late evening when K. arrived. The village lay deep in snow. There was nothing to be seen of Castle Mount, for mist and darkness surrounded it, and not the faintest glimmer of light showed where the great castle lay. K. stood on the wooden bridge leading from the road to the village for a long time, looking up at what seemed to be a void.

Then he went in search of somewhere to stay the night. People were still awake at the inn. The landlord had no room available, but although greatly surprised and confused by the arrival of a guest so late at night, he was willing to let K. sleep on a straw mattress in the saloon bar. K. agreed to that. Several of the local rustics were still sitting over their beer, but he didn’t feel like talking to anyone. He fetched the straw mattress down from the attic himself, and lay down near the stove. It was warm, the locals were silent, his weary eyes gave them a cursory inspection, and then he fell asleep.

Are you seriously telling me that you can't even see the differences in the quality of prose between those two meanderers and Kafka's precision?

i never compared them stylistically you dumbass

>never compared them stylistically

Then what the fuck are you reading Literature for? For content?

don't listen to them they don't know german or they only read metamorphosis

you should try not being a retard

There's a reason why he has this entire book published on him, comparing styles between translation:

theguardian.com/books/booksblog/2015/may/13/kafka-metamorphosis-translations

Kafka exists solely through his marriage of his themes and prose in an almost perfect way. The inertia is felt through the prose. That's why he's great.

You and all the 'babby-tier' retards out there lack even the slightest atom of critical ability.

>going off on a completely unrelated tangent and then sticking to it

diagnosis: autism

>appraises literary great as low tier without evidence or argumentation
>uses insults as diversion

You mean you?

Just stop... this is embarrassing.

There is no kafka because half of the threads on lit only speak about overrated authors like davey wallace and thomas pynecone. Kafka is one of the most important writers of the last century and most people outside of lit recognize him as such.