350
PARTISAN REVIEW
waited in vain for his breakfast; he "awoke one morning from uneasy
dreams, and found himself transformed in his bed into a gigantic
insect."
The initial shock is different in
The Trial
than in
The
Metamorphosis.
But in both stories, as always in Kafka, there is no
escaping the
horrendum
which swell s graduall y within a tightly sealed
world. In
The Trial,
the whole town is transformed into stuffy, dirty
rooms in attics and cell ars all owned by the court and into dusty dark
staircases, which K. indefatigably ascends and descends answering
summonses or seeking counsel. Connected with the court,
professionally or intimately, are all of K.'s acquaintances and
everyone he encounters; it is as if the whole town were made up only
of judges, guards, bailiffs, lawyers, and legal secretaries. Even the
clerks at the bank where K. works, even his own uncle, even
Fraulein Blirstner, who is renting a room from K.'s landlady, are
associated with the court. Even the washerwomen all wash the
judges' linen, even the painters paint on ly their portraits.
In
The Metamorphosis,
the whole world is reduced to a small
apartment on the second or third floor of an old tenement. Behind
the closed doors to the family dining room, Gregor Samsa, who has
been transformed into a giant centipede, walks along the walls or
naps clinging to the cei lin g in his room, which has been emptied of
all furniture. On the other side of the wall, mother, father, and sister
speak in hushed tones and eat human food. Gregor Samsa is unable
to produce a human sound; rotting remnants of human food are
brought by his sister into his room, and this not even every day.
Both stories end with death. "Like a dog" - those are K. 's last
words. Dogs are not put to death by stabbing them in the heart.
Joseph K., everyman, is not killed like a dog, but he dies "like a
dog." Death - the last horror is senseless, . uthless and hopeless.
" 'Like a dog!' he said; it is as if the shame of it must outlive him."
Gregor Samsa dies like a dog, on the stairs, in darkness, turned out
of his apartment, alone . The door slams. The li ving remain on the
other side.
Our own
horrendum
bears Kafka's signature. One morning we
will not have our breakfast. Two strangers will walk into our room.
One morning we will wake up transformed in our bed into a
monstrous worm. We are under arrest. We have cancer.
Kafka's
l'imaginaire
is our reality. The cage has found a bird.
The telephone is still ringing, but there is no longer anyone at the
other end.
