And the simplicity of this prose reflects the fundamental attitude of acceptance.
This acceptance, or patience, follows from the conviction that life is greater and better than the intellect allows. But impatience is the normal human characteristic – or the story of the Fall would not exist. Kafka’s fiction represents life by showing impatience and patience as a running pair, to reflect the dual aspect of life as he finds it. When he describes his writing as ‘an assault on the frontier’ he is talking about the frontier of rational perception. His conjuration of spirits is an effort to follow causation across that frontier into the dark.
In The Castle we encounter a proliferation of obstacles, endless conversations, perpetual possibilities which hook on to each other as if intent to go on until the end of time. And with it all, and because of it all, quiet acceptance. The seeming contradiction in K. of questioning and acquiescence has its origin in the man who believes he is uniquely battered by the puzzles, perplexities, horrors and injustices of life but can also speak of glory and claim that ‘he who does not seek will be found’. The truth that emerges from his letters to Milena is universal. He finds it difficult to utter, but his life depends on this utterance. ‘There is only one truth,’ he tells her, ‘but it is alive and therefore has a vividly changing face.’
IDRIS PARRY
Milena Jesenská died in the Nazi concentration camp at Ravensbrück on 17 May 1944.
1
Arrival
It was late evening when K. arrived. The village lay deep in snow. Nothing could be seen of Castle Hill, it was wrapped in mist and darkness, not a glimmer of light hinted at the presence of the great castle. K. stood for a long while on the wooden bridge that led from the main road to the village, gazing up into the seeming emptiness.
Then he went to look for somewhere to spend the night; they were still awake at the inn, the landlord did not have a room to rent but was willing, the late guest having very much surprised and confused him, to let K. sleep on a palliasse in the lounge. K. accepted. A few peasants still sat over their beer but he did not feel like talking to people, he fetched the palliasse from the attic himself and lay down near the stove. It was warm, the peasants were quiet, he scanned them for a while with tired eyes, then he fell asleep.
Shortly afterwards, however, he was woken up. A young man in town clothes with a face like an actor, eyes narrow, eyebrows powerful, stood beside him, accompanied by the landlord. The peasants were still there too, some had turned their chairs round in order to see and hear better. The young man apologized most courteously for having woken K., introduced himself as the son of the castle governor, and went on: ‘This village belongs to the castle, anyone living or spending the night here is in a sense living or spending the night in the castle. No one may do that without a permit from the count. You, however, possess no such permit or at least have not produced it.’
K. had risen to a seated position and smoothed his hair tidy, he looked up at the people and said: ‘What village have I strayed into? You mean there’s a castle here?’
‘There certainly is,’ the young man said slowly, while here and there heads were shaken over K., ‘Count Westwest’s castle.’
‘And you need a permit to spend the night here?’ K. asked as if seeking to convince himself that he had not perhaps dreamed the earlier statements.
‘You need a permit,’ came the answer, and there was a certain rude mockery in the way the young man held out one arm and asked the landlord and the guests: ‘Or is a permit perhaps not required?’
‘Then I shall have to get a permit,’ K. said with a yawn, pushing back the blanket as if to rise.
‘And who will you get a permit from?’ the young man asked.
‘From the count,’ said K., ‘there’s nothing else for it.’
‘Now, at midnight, get a permit from the count?’ the young man cried, stepping back a pace.
‘Is that not possible?’ K. asked composedly.
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