Google is telling me that it’s Franz Kafka’s birthday.
I first read The Metamorphosis in high school and I’ll be honest, I put it down in lieu of something else one day, and forgot about it. I went back to it eventually, read it through, and loved it.
Later the same year a stage production of The Metamorphosis came to a local theatre and me and my dad (who was the only other person I knew at the time who had read the story) went to see it. The stage was set up so that the room itself and all the props inside would rotate, giving the illusion that Samsa was sitting on the roof or the wall. His death had everyone in the audience spellbound and me and my dad came home raving about the whole thing.
Next came a lecture in a creative writing class where my teacher was filled with this intense enthusiasm about Kafka, and showed us the craftwork and skill that went into the story itself.
I haven’t read nearly as much Kafka as I should have, but the appreciation I can hold for a writer like him from one single read just goes to show why he’s one of the greats.
Happy 130th Birthday.