Kafka Must Be Laughing From the Grave

I mentioned the other day that it was the 125th anniversary of Franz Kafka's birthday and that he had a much more humorous view of his work than do most of the high school and college teachers and professors who regularly hold forth on the literary enigma.

The Guardian is running a story about the secretary of Kafka's literary executor had horded parts of the writer's literary estate that the executor, Max Brod, had smuggled out of Prague before the Nazis could grab it. But she hadn't been forthcoming and had pretty much refused to let anyone see the material, including a publisher that had given her a five-figure sum in the 1980s to publish Brod's own diaries. The Israeli government has been after the documents as an important part of Jewish heritage, but even if they are made available, there may be some disappointments:

But authorities in Tel Aviv have warned that the papers, with their high sulphuric acid content, may have stood up poorly to conditions in Hoffe's damp flat in the centre of Tel Aviv and to the hordes of cats and dogs which she kept until two years ago when health inspectors intervened after neighbours complained about the stench.

It's not a man turning into a giant bug, but it's pretty funny, if your humor turns toward the charred.