Today, I am stepping out of my comfort zone (historical posts with a little Anna spice) to share something rather personal. Oh, God: I can see some of you yawning at the thought—as you should, perhaps, seeing as my life is not exactly the stuff of which novels are made. Well, okay, I once balanced …
Several years ago, I saw a stage version of Franz Kafka’s short story Metamorphosis. I’d read it before—my mother kept a steady stream of classics coming my way, and rated Kafka highly. The story left me itching all over, a disturbing mix of black humour and despair—most apt when telling the story of the young …
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