When Mary Shelley’s mother dies of “puerperal fever on September 10, 1797, she left her newborn daughter with a double burden: a powerful and ever-to-be-frustrated need to be mothered, together with a name, Mary Wollstonecraft Godwin, that proclaimed this small child as the fruit of the most famous literary marriage of eighteenth-century England” (Mellor 1). Mary‘s childhood is filled with a desperate need for love and affection as her father, William Godwin “found it easy to express his obvious affection when his daughters were small, but as they grew older together he became remote and awkward, more dutiful than sensitive, unable to show what he really felt for them. They, too, had to fitted into the methodical timetable, with periods allotted when they might interrupt his writing or listen to his latest story” (Locke 217). Although Godwin admires Mary, he does not seem to feel any special affection for her and finds it difficult to express his fatherly love for her. Anne K. Mellor adds, as Mary Shelley grows into the author of one of the most famous novels ever written, Frankenstein, or The Modern Prometheus, “we can never forget how much her desperate desire for a loving and supportive parent defined her character, shaped her fantasies, and produced her fictional idealizations of the bourgeois family-idealizations whose very fictiveness, as we shall see, is transparent” (1). Just as Mary Wollstonecraft Godwin Shelley’s childhood is filled with solitude and a desperate need for affection, Franz Kafka encounters much of the same experience.
Ronald Gray notes, “By nature, upbringing, and environment he was distrustful, isolated, prone to see the worst. The neurotic element in his work is not trivial. A Jew, he was cut off from the Germans whose language he spoke. Living in Prague, he counted as a German, and was thus cut off from the Czechs who formed