No great book is explicable, and I shall not attempt to explain this one. An explanation--indeed, any explanation--would defile it, for reduction is precisely what a work of art opposes. Easy answers, convenient summaries, quiz questions, annotations, arrows, highlight lines, lists of its references, the numbers of its sources, echoes, and influences, an outline of its designs--useful as sometimes such helps are--nevertheless very seriously mislead. Guidebooks are useful, but only to what is past. Interpretation replaces the original with the lamest sort of substitute. It tames, disarms. "Okay, I get it," we say, dusting our hands, "and that takes care of that." "At last I understand Kafka" is a foolish and conceited remark.
I wish I had the moxie to recite that every time I'm asked, what is your novel about... or better, use it when I send out queries to agents or publishers in place of my miserable attempts at writing a synopsis . That's half my motivation for trying to get it in print... I just want someone to read the thing so they can tell me what the fuck it's about!