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Franz Kafka
An Imperial Message
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This translation by Ian Johnston of Vancouver Island
University, Nanaimo, BC, Canada, has certain copyright restrictions. For
information please use the following link: Copyright.
For comments or question please contact Ian Johnston..
For links to more Kafka e-texts in English click here.
This text was last revised on February 21, 2009.
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 marvelous 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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