I thought about Kafka in the periphery of the Obamachron—which it appears to me is everywhere under occupation—before, but I read about Primo Levi writing about life in Auschwitz and his translation later of The Trial, how Joseph K. keeps asking "Why", and the answer is always the same: There is no why here. Such a question has no relevance here. But Kafka was adamant. He kept on asking why, like a superannuated child, knowing full well the answer. The innocent and wise always have to ask, Why the cruelty? Why the disdain? Why? 

Also I thought about Doris Lessing's book, Prisons In Which We Choose To Live.