Trial by Enigma: Kafka’s The Trial

Abstract

In the last four chapters we have moved a long way, it might seem, from Comus. Yet is it as far as it looks? The scholar gipsy, the Governess, Aschenbach, Gatsby were all idealists — all Platonists at heart, seeking elusive perfections in their way. If they have become progressively more defeated, or more dangerous, or more tawdry than Milton’s Lady, is this due chiefly to an unpropitious setting, or to themselves? Perhaps the world is less propitious to Platonism now, as Arnold imagined; but perhaps the Platonic vision requires virtues that have been eroded by powerful modern trends. It may require a more total renunciation of self and of sensuality than post-romantic men usually understand or aspire to, if the true vision of beauty, goodness and truth is to be seen. Our central figures in the last four chapters have been immersed in romantic demands, egocentric needs, insane visions, which might be at least as much the cause of their malaise as its effect. With Kafka’s The Trial, we come now to a very distinctively modern experience, at the point where romantic egotism — I shall suggest — finally pushes a man over the abyss.

The Caterpillar and Alice looked at each other for some time in silence: at last the Caterpillar took the hookah out of its mouth, and addressed her in a languid, sleepy voice.

‘Who are you?’ said the Caterpillar.

This was not an encouraging opening for a conversation. Alice replied, rather shyly, ‘I — I hardly know, Sir, just at present — at least I know who I was when I got up this morning, but I think I must have been changed several times since then.’

‘What do you mean by that?’ said the Caterpillar, sternly. ‘Explain yourself!’

‘I can’t explain myself, I’m afraid, Sir,’ said Alice, ‘because I’m not myself, you see.’

‘I don’t see,’ said the Caterpillar.

‘I’m afraid I can’t put it more clearly,’ Alice replied very politely, ‘for I can’t understand it myself to begin with; and being so many different sizes in a day is very confusing.’

‘It isn’t’, said the Caterpillar.

‘Well, perhaps you haven’t found it so yet,’ said Alice; ‘but when you have to turn into a chrysalis — you will some day, you know — and then after that into a butterfly, I should think you’ll find it a little queer, won’t you?’

‘Not a bit,’ said the Caterpillar.

‘Well, perhaps your feelings may be different,’ said Alice; ‘all I know is, it would be very queer to me!’

‘You!’ said the Caterpillar contemptuously.’Who are you?’