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Franz Kafka
An Imperial Message
Franz Kafka
An Imperial Message
The
Emperor—so they say—has sent a message, directly from his deathbed, to you
alone, his pathetic subject, a tiny shadow which has taken refuge at the furthest
distance from the imperial sun. He ordered the herald to kneel down beside his
death bed and whispered the message to him. He thought it was so important that
he had the herald repeat it back to him. He confirmed the accuracy of the
verbal message by nodding his head. And in front of the entire crowd of those
who have come to witness his death—all the obstructing walls have been broken
down and all the great ones of his empire are standing in a circle on the broad
and high soaring flights of stairs—in front of all of them he dispatched his
herald. The messenger started off at once, a powerful, tireless man. Sticking
one arm out and then another, he makes his way through the crowd. If he runs
into resistance, he points to his breast where there is a sign of the sun. So
he moves forward easily, unlike anyone else. But the crowd is so huge; its
dwelling places are infinite. If there were an open field, how he would fly
along, and soon you would hear the marvellous pounding of his fist on your
door. But instead of that, how futile are all his efforts. He is still forcing
his way through the private rooms of the innermost palace. He will never win
his way through. And if he did manage that, nothing would have been achieved.
He would have to fight his way down the steps, and, if he managed to do that,
nothing would have been achieved. He would have to stride through the
courtyards, and after the courtyards the second palace encircling the first,
and, then again, stairs and courtyards, and then, once again, a palace, and so
on for thousands of years. And if he finally did burst through the outermost
door—but that can never, never happen—the royal capital city, the centre of the
world, is still there in front of him, piled high and full of sediment. No one
pushes his way through here, certainly not with a message from a dead man. But
you sit at your window and dream to yourself of that message when evening
comes.
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