The Kafka Chronicles

by Mark Amerika

Explores the relationship between style and substance, self and sexuality, and identity and difference

The Kafka Chronicles is an adventure into the psyche of an ultracontemporary twentysomething artist who is lost in an underworld of drugs and mental terrorism, where he encounters a cast of angry yet sensual Alkaloid Boy and Blue Sky, an inconspicuous and loving couple who find themselves subjected to constant government harassment; General Psyche and his sidekick Major Uptight, the military officers responsible for controlling the media upon briefing room during the Gulf War; King Bohemia, a guerilla-artist who hosts wild orgies; and, of course, Gregor Samsa, who wakes up one day and finds himself living in the eco-anarchy of postmodern America. The Kafka Chronicles ignites a hyper-language that explores the relationship between style and substance, self and sexuality, and identity and difference. Amerika's energetic prose uses all available tracks, mixes vocabularies, and samples genres. Taking its cue from the recent explosion of angst-driven rage found in the alternative rock music scene, this novel reveals the unsettled voice of America's next generation.

189 pages, Paperback

First published January 1, 1993

Reviews

[Simon · Rating 3 out of 5]

The Kafka Chronicles a novel by Mark Amerika.

I bought this more for the title than for knowing
anything about the author and I have to say I
wish I wasn't such a sucker for books with Kafka
in the title as this certainly isn't the Novel it
claims it is, it reads much more like a series of
long blogs and writing exercises that are mainly
unconnected to each other, some work some don't
but it isn't a novel at its best there are some
good dirty drug and sex stories Iris being about
the best bit of the book worth reading in parts
and others are just annoying.

[Zone Farmer · Rating 3 out of 5]

To be honest I checked this out on a whim at the library because I saw anarchy and a cheeky nome de plume. You pretty much get what you expected with the cover and title. The title itself relies on refference to make any sense, and even then it's still dreadfully pointless. This novel is filled with experimental prose, with a "pop music" emphasis on rhythm and form. Lots of word play. (mostly in the form of how many times can I feel like I'm using a pile of big words to make it feel like post-structuralist argon). The whole rhythm and style oozing with pop culture vibes. This whole book felt like going to art school, other than the lack of frankfort school mentions. Mark Ramrodds cultural capital down your throat (SI, organics, Bataille, performance art etc. etc.) while attempting to chastize of consumerism and conformity through the performance of raw ID sexuality and debasement. Sometimes aiken to Burroughs and other beatnik vibes, but it really feels like I'm a freshmen in college, hanging out with some one who refuses to read infinte jest but keeps talking about it. There were some great moments for sure in this book and it's a short little slab of transgressive text, but it relies heavily on really lame refferential tactics and seems to rest on an unaired out bed of priviledge written so intentionally uncompelling that it remains uncompelling. Verges heavily on that horrible 90's brand of irony that hurts to me. Over all though I had a lot of fun reading this.