Did Franz Kafka Have Misophonia?

Today, July 3rd, 2022, would have been novelist Franz Kafka’s 139th birthday.

Kafka was an enigma during his life and has been the topic of much speculation since his death in 1924. One of the topics that is often mentioned about Kafka is his aversion to noises, a theme that is clear in his fiction as well as his personal letters and notes.

For his birthday, we look at the claim that Kafka had misophonia.

We also include his short piece, “Great Noise,” an autobiographical vignette which depicts Kafka’s frustration with household sounds and the anguish these caused him.

Did Kafka have Misophonia?

Kafka is often included in lists of "Famous People Who Had Misophonia"

However….

We have no way of knowing.

Kafka died over 75 years before misophonia was recognized.

It's been known...

Scholars have often noted an obvious theme of conflict with sounds in his writing and personal letters.

In many of his works, such as 'The Burrow' and 'Great Noise', Kafka's characters find themselves primarily tormented by noises.

tormented, tormented, tormented….

In the recent book, "Kafka and Noise" by Kata Gellen...

…Kafka's literary use of noise is noted for being pioneering and unusual for his time. For whatever reason, Kafka was deeply obsessed with and frustrated by NOISE.

While we can never know if Kafka had misophonia specifically...

…it is probably safe to include him among those of us with atypical sound sensitivities.

[ fin ]

Anecdotally, many people who experience sensory sensitivities like misophonia are also artistically creative.

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Bonus: “Great Noise” by Franz Kafka [1911]

I'm sitting in my room, the noise center of the entire apartment. I can hear each door slamming and therefore I am unable to hear the footsteps of the people walking between them, nor do I hear the stove door slamming in the kitchen. My father breaks down the door to my room and walks in wearing a flowing robe; in the next room he scrapes the ashes from the stove. Valli asks—shouting each word through the hallway—if my father's hat is already cleaned. There’s a hiss that thinks it’s my friend but which elevates the answering voices. The apartment door yawns and groans as if from the aching throat of a heckler, then opens further with the singing of a female voice and finally shuts with a dull and final crash. Father is gone; now begins a softer, diffuse, hopeless buzzing, led by the voices of two canaries. I ponder this often: with their chirping, I think I should open the door wide, crawl like a serpent into the adjoining room, and ask my sisters and their young friend on the floor to be quiet.

[Adapted for this article by C. Edwards]