The Man Who Knew No Kafka

Earlier this week, as I stood on a street corner in Kew Gardens, a man said to me: "Hey, I think your yarmulke blew away." He pointed at a black plastic bag--a piece of trash.

It took me a full minute to accept what he'd said. Then, after imagining all the insults I could have hurled at him, I consoled myself by pitying the man. Prejudice hurts the prejudiced, I thought. Think of all he's missing out on. Think how sad it is that this man takes no pleasure from Kafka.

Then I thought, is there any pleasure in Kafka? He's one of my favorite authors--I've been reading him for over a decade and continue to value his insights and parables--but does he make me happy? I thought: Liking Kafka may require certain pathologies. Perhaps the anti-Semites are better off.

In pity, doubt, and confusion, my brain spun and half-strangled itself. A typically Jewish phenomenon, according to certain stereotypes. It was almost enough to make me tear this plastic bag off my head.