Franz Kafka’s work is an ageless classic, a piece of literature that transcends time. With each reread, his stories reveal new interpretations, hidden meanings, and fresh insights that spark feelings, thoughts, and compassion. Kafka’s sarcasm is sharp but subtle. He critiques society’s flaws through symbols only perceptive readers can decipher.

I first encountered The Trial at 14, thanks to my mother, who brought it from the library. She wasn’t convinced it was suitable for me, given the librarian’s caution, but I was intrigued by its place on a “Top 100 Classics” list. Predictably, I couldn’t grasp it at that age and set it aside. But at 18, after my first real encounter with bureaucracy and maddening red tape, I picked it up again. It was as if I’d unlocked a secret passage into Kafka’s world. Since then, I’ve read most of his work and can say without hesitation: Kafka is my favorite writer.

What makes Kafka so enduring is that he wrote with universal appeal, addressing the core of human experience rather than any particular nationality or culture. Born into a Jewish German-speaking family in Prague, he worked for an Italian firm and wrote entirely in German. Kafka’s reach, however, goes beyond language: his stories feel cosmopolitan, part of a broader human narrative. His words transcend time and space, addressing issues that resonate across eras. Borges captured this when he described Kafka as a “dreamer who did not want his dreams to be known,” now immortalized in the universal dream of collective memory.

Was Max Brod a bad friend?

Kafka’s language is famously challenging to translate, as any translator’s note will confirm. The German original carries nuances that are often difficult to capture in English. Take The Metamorphosis, where the word Ungeziefer is commonly translated as “bug” or “beetle,” though in German, it can refer to any kind of unwanted pest. This subtlety reflects the ambiguity and horror that Kafka infuses into his story.

I recently revisited The Metamorphosis, a story in which a hardworking man, Gregor Samsa, wakes up one morning transformed into a bug. Most readers know the premise, but what fascinates me is the layers of meaning hidden within. Kafka never writes “just fantasy”, his stories demand interpretation. This story could represent marginalization, anxiety, or feeling misunderstood, but to me, it has come to symbolize burnout.

The term “burnout” wasn’t coined until 1974 by psychologist Herbert Freudenberger to describe exhaustion in the helping professions, yet Kafka’s portrayal of Gregor Samsa eerily aligns with this phenomenon. Gregor is entirely consumed by work, driven by the need to support his family. His obsessive work ethic isolates him, as he shoulders all financial responsibilities and denies himself any personal life.

From the story’s opening line—Gregor waking from “restless dreams”—there are hints of exhaustion. He’s physically burdened by his “many legs,” symbolizing the endless tasks he must handle. The gloomy, rainy morning only reinforces his reluctance to get up. We hear his inner monologue: “What a tiring profession I chose!” and complaints about his daily grind, the poor-quality food, and the lack of stable relationships at work. Despite his fatigue, Gregor feels obligated to keep working, even as he’s reduced to a shell of himself, a worker who no longer recognizes his own needs.

In Gregor’s transformation into a bug, Kafka captures the feeling of losing one’s humanity to relentless work. Gregor’s colleagues and family, once dependent on him, can no longer understand him; his voice is reduced to unintelligible murmurs, symbolizing his isolation. His family is horrified by his state, and instead of support, they react with revulsion and rejection. His father especially is unable to accept him, echoing the strained father-son relationship Kafka experienced himself.

As the story progresses, Gregor’s health deteriorates. He barely eats, unnoticed by his family, until he dies in quiet despair. His passing brings sadness, but his family quickly shifts focus, moving on with their lives. This could easily be interpreted as depression brought on by burnout—complete emotional and physical depletion.

Kafka held a position in a corporate office, a setting that likely felt confining and profoundly misaligned with his introspective, creative nature. As an INFP—thoughtful, sensitive, and driven by imagination—Kafka likely felt the rigid structure of administrative work draining his spirit. This kind of bureaucratic routine must have felt suffocating, clashing with his deeply creative soul and leaving him, like Gregor, feeling trapped in a life that dampened his essence. Reading The Metamorphosis now, I can’t unsee this interpretation of burnout, a wordless expression of the silent suffering so many feel today.

Kafka’s genius lies in his ability to weave these universal themes into a subtle narrative, creating a timeless connection with readers. His sensitivity and vulnerability make his work profoundly human, capturing the shared struggles of identity, purpose, and isolation in a way no scientific analysis could. Kafka’s writing will always resonate because he gives voice to the parts of us that feel lost, unheard, and unseen.

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