I brushed against Kafka's sense of isolation as I read this collection of his diary entries. The experience of reading this is alienating because there is no point of entry; the text and its author seem impenetrable. I was stuck outside, roaming a perimeter while he repeatedly disappeared in himself. But this reading experience is consistent with the themes found in his formally published work: anxiety, absurdity, and, of course, alienation. These entries date from 1910 to 1923, a year before the Czech writer died (probably from complications from tuberculosis) at age 40. I was stirred by his brief descriptions of social awkwardness and family tension. He was often frustrated with himself for not writing or for writing poorly. I do not think this work is all that readable; my attention would fade when he made random notations on dreams and story openings, which he often did.
Note:
Is this an invasion?
