THE KAFKA STUDIES DEPARTMENT: Charles Rammelkamp discovers that Francis Levy’s generally bleak story lines can provoke a surprising amount of laughter
The Kafka Studies Department
Francis Levy
Heliotrope Books, 2024
ISBN: 978-1956474282
$27.00, 103 pages
“Pity is a funny thing. Though one of the noblest emotions, it is only the other side of the coin from disdain.” So Francis Levy observes in his wryly comic story, “Profit/Loss,” which involves a dynamic couple grimly assessing their schlub of a child, weighing him up on the scale of benefits vs. costs. So many of the thirty little vignettes that make up The Kafka Studies Department involve characters whom we pity but, face it, also disdain – including the characters in the title story. Chief among Levy’s characters is Spector, the protagonist of more than half the tales. (Spector, it turns out, as we learn in a story called “Out of Sight, Out of Mind,” was himself once part of the Kafka Studies Department.)
Just as the title suggests, Levy’s characters are misfits, loners, people who, if not exactly transformed into cockroaches, are filled with envy and disillusionment, longing and cynicism. The protagonist of “Happily Ever After,” for instance, is a principled literary writer who, though he feels contempt for popular culture, nevertheless scores a huge financial success with a small literary work that somehow gets picked up by a mass market paperback company. He is the victim of his own unlikely triumph, for though he vows to remain true to his literary ideals, he is seduced by the luxury that comes with his fame, hobnobbing with celebrities rather than serious literary types, and basking in the reflected glory. In the end, all he wants is approval.
Like a sort of latter-day J.D. Salinger, he comes to realize what has become of his ideals, and he rejects the literary world of New York, the glitzy glamour of Hollywood, and moves to Vermont, “where he married the local high school English teacher and lived happily ever after.” Somehow Levy makes you doubt the fairytale ending, his tongue firmly stuffed into his cheek. And yet, this is probably the happiest conclusion to any of the stories.
More often, the reader chokes on the irony of the titles. “Thrilled to Death,” one of the stories about the hapless Spector, is all about his marriage falling apart. He fantasizes about prostitutes, in his loneliness, but secretly knows the one he winds up with will be his executioner. But at least he will be “thrilled to death.” Right.
Many of the tales feel unresolved, plot-wise, at their conclusion, the message being, “you’ve made your bed, now lie in it,” or, “this is the mess you’ve gotten yourself into. Now live with it.” “Happily Ever After” is a good example of this, but so is “Critical Mass,” about two English women who live in New York and get along spectacularly, until they don’t. They move, separately, to Prague (Kafka’s hometown!), where at first they are thrilled to recognize each other on the street, only to tell themselves all the things they hate about one another. The story ends, “They both felt like strangers in life, more desperate than ever, with no outs, nowhere to turn, nothing to look forward to, nowhere to go.” No exit.
Or take “The Healer,” about a woman named Frieda who used to delight in seducing the husbands of her friends, until she went to “Sexaholics Anonymous.” For a while she seems to have become a saint, but the control she holds over others is malevolent. Her victims? “The suffering seemed a small price to pay for the exhilaration that came when it was your time to be part of Frieda’s court.” So much for being a healer. The irony continues in “The Awakening,” a story about a man whose mission is to awaken his torpid wife, so that she can take pleasure in her life. In the end, it backfires on him when she dumps him.
The character named Spector (and how can one not think of the misanthropic, murdering madman, Phil Spector?) dominates the final sixteen tales. The stories are generally about his failures with women. In “Breasts” he becomes obsessed with the perfect breasts of a character named Molly, who tolerates his fetish, until she doesn’t. In “A Splendid Dish,” Spector fantasizes about killing his wife, with whom he has become bored. He’d originally stolen her from a man named Richard Mayer, an enormously wealthy person whose estate shames Spector’s Gramercy Park studio. He’d made an ultimatum, me or him. “Spector’s domineering personality had descended over her like a dark cloud; she couldn’t escape it.” But then she does. With Mayer.
Spector’s wife leaves him in “Winter Light.” Longing for her, he comes home to find the apartment deserted, except for a single mattress. Spector is astounded by his wife’s thoroughness. “He marveled at the great job she had done, before breaking down in tears.”
Even in death the poor schmuck can’t get a break. In “The Afterlife,” he discovers that everything is the same. “The only difference was, it all went on for eternity.” The same petty jealousies, the same envy. The same self-pity. The same frustrations. “He would, for instance, still not be able to sleep with his mother and it was unlikely he would be invited to his analyst’s house for dinner.” Talk about over-rated! “The afterlife was the greatest disappointment of Spector’s life.”
The Kafka Studies Department includes over a dozen charming illustrations by Hallie Cohen, scenes from the stories. “The Night Man,” a tale about a lonely old fellow who tends the door to an apartment house in New York, where most of the tales take place, includes a line drawing of the canopied building entrance with the caption, “Being the night man was a lonely occupation.” “Breasts” has an illustration of an enormous eye with the caption, “Majorca was the last time Spector ever touched Molly’s breasts.” “The Kafka Studies Department” has an illustration of one of the characters, Martin, looking into a mirror. The caption reads: “Martin was your typical Kafka scholar. Painfully shy, with a receding posture…” The cover of The Kafka Studies Department similarly shows Martin gazing at his image in a mirror, only this time what he sees is a cockroach.
So yes, pity and contempt arm-wrestle throughout these stories, but the overriding response to these tales? Laughter! If they do not cause an outright guffaw, they always make you smile, even through their characters’ pain. Call it sympathy, or call it schadenfreude. Pity or disdain.
May 24 2025
THE KAFKA STUDIES DEPARTMENT
THE KAFKA STUDIES DEPARTMENT: Charles Rammelkamp discovers that Francis Levy’s generally bleak story lines can provoke a surprising amount of laughter
“Pity is a funny thing. Though one of the noblest emotions, it is only the other side of the coin from disdain.” So Francis Levy observes in his wryly comic story, “Profit/Loss,” which involves a dynamic couple grimly assessing their schlub of a child, weighing him up on the scale of benefits vs. costs. So many of the thirty little vignettes that make up The Kafka Studies Department involve characters whom we pity but, face it, also disdain – including the characters in the title story. Chief among Levy’s characters is Spector, the protagonist of more than half the tales. (Spector, it turns out, as we learn in a story called “Out of Sight, Out of Mind,” was himself once part of the Kafka Studies Department.)
Just as the title suggests, Levy’s characters are misfits, loners, people who, if not exactly transformed into cockroaches, are filled with envy and disillusionment, longing and cynicism. The protagonist of “Happily Ever After,” for instance, is a principled literary writer who, though he feels contempt for popular culture, nevertheless scores a huge financial success with a small literary work that somehow gets picked up by a mass market paperback company. He is the victim of his own unlikely triumph, for though he vows to remain true to his literary ideals, he is seduced by the luxury that comes with his fame, hobnobbing with celebrities rather than serious literary types, and basking in the reflected glory. In the end, all he wants is approval.
Like a sort of latter-day J.D. Salinger, he comes to realize what has become of his ideals, and he rejects the literary world of New York, the glitzy glamour of Hollywood, and moves to Vermont, “where he married the local high school English teacher and lived happily ever after.” Somehow Levy makes you doubt the fairytale ending, his tongue firmly stuffed into his cheek. And yet, this is probably the happiest conclusion to any of the stories.
More often, the reader chokes on the irony of the titles. “Thrilled to Death,” one of the stories about the hapless Spector, is all about his marriage falling apart. He fantasizes about prostitutes, in his loneliness, but secretly knows the one he winds up with will be his executioner. But at least he will be “thrilled to death.” Right.
Many of the tales feel unresolved, plot-wise, at their conclusion, the message being, “you’ve made your bed, now lie in it,” or, “this is the mess you’ve gotten yourself into. Now live with it.” “Happily Ever After” is a good example of this, but so is “Critical Mass,” about two English women who live in New York and get along spectacularly, until they don’t. They move, separately, to Prague (Kafka’s hometown!), where at first they are thrilled to recognize each other on the street, only to tell themselves all the things they hate about one another. The story ends, “They both felt like strangers in life, more desperate than ever, with no outs, nowhere to turn, nothing to look forward to, nowhere to go.” No exit.
Or take “The Healer,” about a woman named Frieda who used to delight in seducing the husbands of her friends, until she went to “Sexaholics Anonymous.” For a while she seems to have become a saint, but the control she holds over others is malevolent. Her victims? “The suffering seemed a small price to pay for the exhilaration that came when it was your time to be part of Frieda’s court.” So much for being a healer. The irony continues in “The Awakening,” a story about a man whose mission is to awaken his torpid wife, so that she can take pleasure in her life. In the end, it backfires on him when she dumps him.
The character named Spector (and how can one not think of the misanthropic, murdering madman, Phil Spector?) dominates the final sixteen tales. The stories are generally about his failures with women. In “Breasts” he becomes obsessed with the perfect breasts of a character named Molly, who tolerates his fetish, until she doesn’t. In “A Splendid Dish,” Spector fantasizes about killing his wife, with whom he has become bored. He’d originally stolen her from a man named Richard Mayer, an enormously wealthy person whose estate shames Spector’s Gramercy Park studio. He’d made an ultimatum, me or him. “Spector’s domineering personality had descended over her like a dark cloud; she couldn’t escape it.” But then she does. With Mayer.
Spector’s wife leaves him in “Winter Light.” Longing for her, he comes home to find the apartment deserted, except for a single mattress. Spector is astounded by his wife’s thoroughness. “He marveled at the great job she had done, before breaking down in tears.”
Even in death the poor schmuck can’t get a break. In “The Afterlife,” he discovers that everything is the same. “The only difference was, it all went on for eternity.” The same petty jealousies, the same envy. The same self-pity. The same frustrations. “He would, for instance, still not be able to sleep with his mother and it was unlikely he would be invited to his analyst’s house for dinner.” Talk about over-rated! “The afterlife was the greatest disappointment of Spector’s life.”
The Kafka Studies Department includes over a dozen charming illustrations by Hallie Cohen, scenes from the stories. “The Night Man,” a tale about a lonely old fellow who tends the door to an apartment house in New York, where most of the tales take place, includes a line drawing of the canopied building entrance with the caption, “Being the night man was a lonely occupation.” “Breasts” has an illustration of an enormous eye with the caption, “Majorca was the last time Spector ever touched Molly’s breasts.” “The Kafka Studies Department” has an illustration of one of the characters, Martin, looking into a mirror. The caption reads: “Martin was your typical Kafka scholar. Painfully shy, with a receding posture…” The cover of The Kafka Studies Department similarly shows Martin gazing at his image in a mirror, only this time what he sees is a cockroach.
So yes, pity and contempt arm-wrestle throughout these stories, but the overriding response to these tales? Laughter! If they do not cause an outright guffaw, they always make you smile, even through their characters’ pain. Call it sympathy, or call it schadenfreude. Pity or disdain.