The Cockroach as Literary Critic

An homage to Franz Kafka and the life of a writer

Here’s a short story I wrote decades ago, when I still succumbed to the erroneous belief that creativity demanded isolation. At least I understood its useless irony:

I’m lonely.

My alienation from people has reached the point where I consider such isolation a necessary prerequisite to live the life I have chosen to live, to live the life of a writer.

To give oneself completely to a goal, to a mission, is to accept no compromises. Writing is an exacting science, is a craft that demands total commitment of all my resources.

That I remain unable to consummate a healthy, satisfying relationship with another human being is a small price to pay for realizing myself in all my capacity and all my unsung glory as a creative, dynamic individual.

I am an artist.

That no one understands me or my struggle is to be expected. In a world consumed by the quest for physical pleasure, material gain, and other such banal desires, the writer is given no recourse but to work alone.

The sole company of the thoughts, dreams and symbolic expressions of genius are justification enough for persisting through all the pain and terror of isolation.

My creative output is nonetheless intrinsically rewarding, to the point the sacrifices I must make to be prolific pale in comparison. My struggles are worth it, and I would never have things any other way.

And yet, I’m still lonely.

Moments like these I question my choices, wonder if I might be taking the wrong path.

How can I devote all of my being, all of my energy to a task whose meaning is continually being undercut by a depression triggered by the circumstances necessary to fulfill my destiny?

How can I maintain enthusiasm within an emotional void? How can I create something meaningful within a culture crowded with the petty and otherwise superfluous interests of my peers?

Distracted in company, yet useless in isolation, how can I meaningfully write about the world in its absence? How can I hold fast to my identity as artist while surrounded by such an unreflective herd?

“Loser.”

What was that?

I look about, the four dusty comers of this room that is both artist’s studio and criminal’s cell.

Yes, I am alone.

Yes, I remain lonely.

Has my self-imposed banishment finally led to delusion? Am I hearing voices? Has the boundary between genius and madness been crossed?

“Oh, get a life, will ya?”

Although solipsism remains my most productive vantage point, my loneliness compels me to consider the universe outside myself.

“WTAF are you talking about?”

I localize the voice as originating from beneath my tattered bed. I lean in, and listen.

Silence.

“Come out!” I yell out loud.

Silence.

“Show yourself, intruder!” I gasp. “Begone!”

“Intruder?” continues the raspy voice again. “This place is as much mine as it is yours.”

“Who are you? Where are you?”

“Besides, you’re so fucked-up and miserable, why don’t you pack your shit up and leave? You really know how to bring me down…”

With a boldness that surprises even myself, I fling the folding cot away, revealing — nothing.

Nothing but a tattered, dusty copy of a novel lost long ago, forgotten science and porn magazines, and the rotten remains of an order of cheese fries.

Disgusted, not even considering the possibility of a sentient, English speaking order of cheese fries, I reach for the soiled bag.

“Fuck off!”

I withdraw with even greater revulsion, as a large, animated, and now truculent cockroach sticks his head out from the filthy, greasy mush.

“Oh my God!” I exclaim.

“Thought you didn’t believe in God?”

“Are you wearing glasses?”

“So I can see, you moron.” He takes a big bite of a rancid cheese fry, smirks. “And just to let you know, they aren’t for reading, especially your bullshit.”

“You can’t be speaking!” I continue, alarmed. “You’re just a cockroach!”

“No shit. I can say the same goddamned thing about you, Pal, since you’re just a writer.”

“This is monstrous!” I insist. “If my loneliness wouldn’t be enough to deal with, now I have to argue with a cockroach?”

“Hey, I’m not arguing. All I said was fuck off. You think you got it bad? Here I was, swimming blissfully, asshole-over-antennas in green cheese and rotting spuds, time of my life, and who comes along to wreck my bliss?”

He takes another bite, belches.

“Three hundred million fucken years of evolution,” he goes on, “to produce what? To produce who? You? My brains are the size of a pinhead, yet I got the common sense to know what’s good for me, know my lovely place in the grand scheme of things. And here you are, towering above, brains a thousand times my body mass, and all you can do is whine all day and create problems for yourself.”

“I have a purpose!”

“Which one? Make yourself miserable for no reason? Shoot yourself in the foot? You isolate yourself not because you have to in order to write, but because you’re afraid to work with people and be criticized.”

“You lie”

“You think so? Look in the mirror, Maestro. If you never expose your vulnerabilities you can never be hurt, but you can never reveal your strengths, either. And if you never share, you can never fail — but you can also never succeed.”

“What makes you, a cockroach, so damn confident?”

“I tell it like it is, Buddy. And after eating your garbage for a while now, I have to say that I’m revolted by having to share oxygen with such a loathsome, insignificant creature as you.”

Crunch.

I’m alone again.

And still lonely.

But that felt really, really good.