Franz Kafka
An Imperial
Message
This translation by Ian
Johnston of Malaspina University-College, Nanaimo, BC, has certain copyright
restrictions. For information please use the following link: Copyright.
For comments or question please contact Ian
Johnston. This text was last revised in March 2009.
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of Kafka stories available from this site, please click here.
An Imperial
Message
The Emperor—so they
say—has sent a message, directly from his death bed, 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 he 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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