The Metamorphosis is, beyond a doubt, Franz Kafka’s most famous short story: in it, we are taken on a dark and surreal journey that ends, in typical Kafkaesque manner, in death. It was my introduction to the author, back when I was 12 years old and in the midst of that pivotal decision to become a writer; it was actually because of Kafka, that I too wanted to write stories in which the central characters died. I enjoyed the story immensely, though I found myself rather disappointed by the fact that it’s not classified as science fiction. I enjoy the story immensely, now, though I’m constantly tempted to re-write it, using modern quote designations and punctuation. (I’m not interested in actually rewriting the story so much as re-formatting it so that it doesn’t look so intimidatingly clunky on the written page.) When I lived in Prague, I re-acquainted myself with Kafka’s work and searched the city for signs of vermin life. I found a few vermin, but they were the two-legged English-Stag-Party-football-hooligan sorts of creatures: exquisitely destructive and prone to shamelessly flamboyant displays of projectile vomiting: the English national sport as Pavl describes it. I didn’t see any cockroaches, though with the number of hedgehogs I’d seen, I suspected that the hedgehogs simply kept the insect population down. (Hedgehogs have no teeth, but that doesn’t stop them from being voracious insect/worm eaters.) As my search for insects proved largely fruitless, I contented myself with simply reading about one insect in particular…and in doing so, I discovered such wonders as the house in which Franz Kafka was born, the salon where he hung out with his buddy, Max (Einstein hung out there too, often playing the violin) and other marvels. I discovered The Sons a collection of short stories that Kafka described as being connected both inwardly and outwardly (they shared a “secret” as well, which was probably Kafka’s personal view that “family relationships” were, to put it mildly, a load of that fragrant, semi-firm stuff seen dropping out of the back end of a horse from time to time.) Indeed, the Sons stands as a profound and scathing condemnation of “family values,” as understood throughout the bulk of human history. This point is driven by the fact that The Metamorphosis is recognized as the first of the sons, and Kafka’s Letter to My Father closes off the book, though it was never really intended to included. Indeed, Letter to My Father could, in some ways, be seen as the letter Gregor Samsa should have written to his father, as it was his father who was ultimately responsible for poor Gregor’s death. (In the stories included in the Sons…father/son relationships always end with the son’s death. The Metamorphosis is the only story that takes a side trip into that other realm, before killing off the son.) As for this image, it’s a German Cockroach (German Cockroaches are from Morocco, go figure!) I found this particular specimen in a basement in Chicago. I immediately thought of Gregor Samsa when I saw it, and I took two quick pictures, this one, and one accompanying The Reconstructionist, a story posted at an earlier point in my gallery. Another version of this image also graces the story Not Kafka also in my gallery, and so I figured I’d post the original, un-tweaked version. There’s probably a lot more I can say about this image, but as I’ve written rather extensively already, I’ll just shut up. And as always, thank you for viewing, reading, and commenting, and I hope you’re all having a great week.