serenity which no other light possesses. a After an exchange of courteous formalities
regarding which of them was to take precedence in the next task — these emissaries
seemed to have been given no specific assignments in the charge laid jointly upon them —
one of them came up to K. and removed his coat, his waistcoat, I and finally his shirt. K.
shivered involuntarily, whereupon the man gave him a light, reassuring pat on the back.
Then he folded the clothes carefully together, as if they were likely to be used again at
some time, although perhaps not immediately. Not to leave K. standing motionless,
exposed to the night breeze, which was rather chilly, he took him by the arm and walked
him up and down a little, while his partner investigated the quarry to find a suitable spot.
When he had found it he beckoned, and K.’s companion led him over there. It was a spot
near the cliffside where a loose boulder was lying. The two of them laid K. down on the
ground, propped him against the boulder, and settled his head upon it. But in spite of the
pains they took and all the willingness K. showed, his posture remained contorted and
unnatural-looking. So one of the men begged the other to let him dispose K. all by himself,
yet even that did not improve matters. Finally they left K. in a position which was not even
the best of the positions they had already tried out. Then one of them opened his frock coat
and out of a sheath that hung from a belt girt round his waistcoat drew a long, thin, doubleedged
butcher’s knife, held it up, and tested the cutting edges in the moonlight. Once more
the odious courtesies began, the first handed the knife across K. to the second, who handed
it across K. back again to the first. K. now perceived clearly that he was supposed to seize
the knife himself, as it traveled from hand to hand above him, and plunge it into his own
breast. But he did not do so, he merely turned his head, which was still free to move, and
gazed around him. He could not completely rise to the occasion, he could not relieve the
officials of all their tasks; the responsibility for this last failure of his lay with him who had
not left him the remnant of strength necessary for the deed. His glance fell on the top story
of the house adjoining the quarry. With a flicker as of a light going up, the casements of a
window there suddenly flew open; a human figure, faint and insubstantial at that distance and that height, leaned abruptly far forward and stretched both arms still farther. Who was
it? A friend? A good man? Someone who sympathized? Someone who wanted to help?
Was it one person only? Or was it mankind? Was help at hand? Were there arguments in
his favor that had been overlooked? Of course there must be. Logic is doubtless
unshakable, but it cannot withstand a man who wants to go on living. Where was the Judge
whom he had never seen? Where was the High Court, to which he had never penetrated?
He raised his hands and spread out all his fingers. *
But the hands of one of the partners were already at K.’s throat, while the other thrust
the knife deep into his heart and turned it there twice. With failing eyes K. could still see
the two of them immediately before him, cheek leaning against cheek, watching the final
act. “Like a dog!” he said; it was as if the shame of it must outlive him.
end
POSTSCRIPT TO THE FIRST EDITION
(1925)
ALL Franz Kafka’s utterances about life were profound and original, and so too was his
attitude toward his own work and to the question of publication altogether. It would be
impossible to overrate the gravity of the problems with which he wrestled in this
connection, and which for that reason must serve as a guide for any publication of his
posthumous works. The following indications may help to give at least an approximate
idea of his attitude.