I don’t do well with Kafka, and this one was no exception. I’m not debating the quality or skill of execution, it’s just that Kafka makes me feel truly terrible in a way that I don’t care to introduce artificially if I can avoid it.
I remember sitting in school during breaks and reading this and suddenly feeling that my entire future could only be like this, that this was all there ever could be. Shudders.
For less depressing nihilism, Waiting for Godot is absurdist in a nice way. If you really need existentialist books, The Plague would work.