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Up to about the midway point, this feels like a perfect Kafka tale, but then it starts to become clear that this book was left incomplete in every sense of the word. It seems like Kafka was the type to word vomit in his early drafts and then slowly and methodically peel away the excess and shape his stories. This would explain the nearly insane amount of conversational bloat in the second half. With that said (and despite my use of the word 'vomit'), I liked The Castle very much. That is, I enjoyed it as much as one can enjoy Kafka's oppressive and claustrophobic tales. It's painful that he left the story mid-sentence, but then, even if he had completed it, we couldn't have really expected comfortable closure anyway. It wasn't in his nature.