It strikes me that, in our current times, Franz Kafka should come to mind.
In many ways, Kafka was one screwed up individual. Born in Prague in 1883 to middle class parents, Kafka was dominated by an ill-tempered father. Kafka believed his father had broken him, and his life bears out that there was something seriously wrong with his mental state. Questionable adolescent choices, failed loves and a severe distaste but dedication to a job he hated are only two of the things that make me wonder about the man’s mental stability.
None of that, however, kept him from writing, and The Trial is what popped into my head when I was considering literature as a subject. It’s been years since I read Kafka, but The Trial is one of two works stands out in my memory. Published after his death in 1925, it’s the story of one Josef K., “a man arrested and prosecuted by a remote, inaccessible authority, with the nature of his crime revealed neither to him nor to the reader.” Sound familiar?
The book was made into a movie by Orsen Wells in 1962. I may have to dig up a copy of that.
