'Amerika' is Kafka's first novel, of the three unfinished ones salvaged by Max Brod. First started, is probably more accurate to say. Kafka retained it for many years never feeling entirely satisfied with it, yet never despairing of it either.
The writing, for me, is in no way inferior to Kafka's other works, though it's true to say that some of Kafka's trademark themes and methods are not fully developed: sinister overpowering officialdom - the bureaucratic, totalitarian nightmare; convoluted, protracted discourses and dialogues, reasoning against, and propelling forward, the illogical and the absurd.
Instead, 'Amerika', like the fabled country itself, offers a more positive outlook - a self-determinism quite in contrast to Kafka's other novels. At least to begin with. Inevitably, things don't proceed in the style of the American Dream exactly. But the ethic of individualism somehow survives. Whether that's ironical or not rather depends on your disposition. The novel halts in the midst of a bizarre domestic situation worthy of Pinter or Beckett theatre. Not without its humour and not entirely desperate. It's a familiar scene for Kafka readers: the ultimate agenda thwarted by the trappings and minutia of quotidian life: the search for a bottle of perfume, the getting of a breakfast.
The two fragments following the novel's conclusion, in my opinion, are not of the same quality as the novel itself, though they do, I suppose, offer a glimpse of what Kafka contemplated for later episodes.