Despite our need to rhapsodize about Kafka The Wounded Original, Anderson drags us back to earth and redirects our gaze to what he really was--a smart guy from an unpleasant home, stuck in a dead-end job he was good at but loathed---who one day as a teen sat on a hillside overlooking Prague and decided to write out "my inner dream-world." That inner life which, as such, reflected the turbulent first quarter of the 20th century, is universal and representative, and thus canonical. But it had its wellspring in the pamphlets, journals, theatre pieces, lectures, the junk science and the fads--and the clothes--that everyone else was viewing at the time.
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This absolutely brilliant little book meditates on a ridiculous and almost throwaway notion-that Kafka's dandyism (and subsequent aesthetic severity) weren't symptomatic so much as the core of all he was trying to be...and say. Exhaustively researched, thrillingly illustrated, Kafka's Clothes is about the smartest treatise on my favorite neurotic I've ever read--and believe me, I've read a LOT. I'm absolutely convinced of Anderson's thesis--he's got the playbills, the magazine illustrations, the diary entries to prove it. And you thought Frank poured over Milena Jasenska's fashion articles because he was in love! You silly!
Anderson's further assertion--that Kafka hid his influences by stripping his prose of all identifying tags--seems to point towards Blooms "Anxiety of Influence" writ large--or small, as the case may be. His arguments are compelling, probable--possible, even, given FK's self-involvement. Anyway, Anderson's clean prose leads the reader into an original look at art and its makers. Just about every Kafka biographer--and tons of academics--quote or gloss this book . If you have even a rudimentary knowledge of his life and work, you'll recognize the truth of Anderson's ideas, especially because he speaks German. It's worth every dime. Hey, remember Dora Diamant's quip that even when the two of them were starving during the Inflation in Berlin, Franz always wore hand-tailored suits? I've read her memoir of those months, and I always thought it was a throwaway comment, not jibing with my hero's ethos. Hmmm.