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Franz Kafka,
The
Metamorphosis, 1915
Translated by
Willa & Edwin Muir |
Death of
Gregor Samsa
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Franz Kafka, The Trial, 1925
Translated by Breon Mitchell |
Death of K.
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 Franz
Kafka,
The Metamorphosis, 1915
Translated by Willa & Edwin Muir
Death of Gregor Samsa:
Perhaps I can go on turning around now, thought
Gregor, and began his labors again. He could not stop himself from
panting with the effort, and had to pause now and then to take a
breath. Nor did anyone harass him, he was left entirely to himself.
When he had completed the turn-around he began at once to crawl
straight back. He was amazed at the distance separating him from his
room and could not understand how in his weak state he had managed
to accomplish the same journey so recently almost without remarking
it. Intent on crawling as fast as possible, he barely noticed that
not a single word, not an ejaculation from his family, interfered
with his progress. Only when he was already in the doorway did he
turn his head around, not completely, for his neck muscles were
getting stiff, but enough to see that nothing had changed behind him
except that his sister had risen to her feet. His last glance fell
on his mother, who was not quite overcome by sleep.
 Hardly
was he well inside his room when the door was hastily pushed shut,
bolted, and locked. The sudden noise in his rear startled him so
much that his little legs gave beneath him. It was his sister who
had shown such haste. She had been standing ready waiting and had
made a light spring forward, Gregor had not even heard her coming,
and she cried "At last!" to her parents as she turned the key in the
lock.
"And what now?" said Gregor to himself, looking
around in the darkness. Soon he made the discovery that he was now
unable to stir a limb. This did not surprise him, rather it seemed
unnatural that he should ever actually have been able to move on
these feeble little legs. Otherwise he felt relatively comfortable.
True, his whole body was aching, but it seemed that the pain was
gradually growing
 less
and would finally pass away. The rotting apple in his back and the
inflamed area around it, all covered with soft dust, already hardly
troubled him. He thought of his family with tenderness and love. The
decision that he must disappear was one that he held to even more
strongly than his sister, if that were possible. In this state of
vacant and peaceful meditation he remained until the tower clock
struck three in the morning. The first broadening of light in the
world outside the window entered his consciousness once more. Then
his head sank to floor of its own accord and from his nostrils came
the last faint flicker of his breath.
When the charwoman arrived early in the morning —
what between her strength and her impatience she slammed all the
doors loudly, never mind how often she had been begged not to do so,
that no one in the whole apartment could enjoy any sleep after her
arrival—she noticed nothing unusual as she took her customary peep
into Gregor’s room. She thought he was lying motionless on purpose,
pretending to be in the sulks; she credited him with every kind of
intelligence. Since she happened to have the long-handled broom in
her hand she tried to tickle him up from the doorway. When that too
produced no reaction she felt provoked and poked at him a little
harder, and only when she had pushed him along the floor without
meeting any resistance was her attention aroused. It did not take
her long to establish the truth of the matter, and her eyes widened,
she let out a whistle, yet did not waste much time over it but tore
open the door of the Samsas’ bedroom and yelled into the darkness at
the top of her voice:" Just look at this, it’s dead; it’s lying here
dead and done for!"
Franz Kafka,
The Trial,
1925
Translated by Breon Mitchell
Death of K.:
After a brief polite exchange about who was
responsible for the first of the tasks to come — the men seemed to
have received their assignment without any specific division of
labor — one of them went to K. and removed his jacket, his vest, and
finally his shirt. K. shivered involuntarily, whereupon the man gave
him a gentle, reassuring pat on the back. Then he folded the clothes
carefully, as if they would be needed again, though not in the
immediate future. In order not to leave K. standing motionless,
exposed to the rather chilly night air, he took him by the arm and
walked back and forth with him a little, while the other man
searched for some suitable spot in the quarry. When he had found it,
he waved, and the other gentleman led K. over to it. It was near the
quarry wall, where a loose block of stone was lying. The men sat K.
down on the ground, propped him against the stone, and laid his head
down on it. In spite of all their efforts, and in spite of the
cooperation K. gave them, his posture was still quite forced and
implausible. So one of the men asked the other to let him work on
positioning K. on his own for a while, but that didn’t improve
things either. Finally they left K. in a position that wasn’t even
the best of those they had already tried. Then one man opened his
frock coat and, from a sheath on a belt that encircled his vest,
drew forth a long, thin, double-edged butcher knife, held it up, and
tested its sharpness in the light. Once more the nauseating
courtesies began, one of them passed the knife across K. to the
other, who passed it back over K. K. knew clearly now that it was
his duty to seize the knife as it floated from hand to hand above
him and plunge it into himself.
 But
he didn’t do so; instead he twisted his still-free neck and looked
above him. He could not rise entirely to the occasion, he could not
relieve the authorities of all their work; the responsibility for
this final failure lay with whoever had denied him the remnant of
strength to do so. His gaze fell upon the top story of the building
adjoining the quarry. Like a light flicking on, the casements of a
window flew open, a human figure, faint and insubstantial at that
distance and height, leaned far out abruptly, and stretched both
arms out even further.
Who was it? A friend? A good person? Someone who
cared? Someone who wanted to help? Was it just one person? Was it
everyone? Was there still help? Were there objections that had been
forgotten? Of course there were. Logic is no doubt unshakable, but
it can’t withstand a person who wants to live. Where was the judge
he’d never seen? Where was the high court he’s never reached? He
raised his hands and spread out all his fingers.
But the hands of one man were right at K.’s throat, while the
other thrust the knife into his heart and turned it there twice.
With failing sight K. saw how the men drew near his face, leaning
cheek-to-cheek to observe the verdict. "Like a dog!" he said; it
seemed as though the shame was to outlive him.
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