VII Symbolic Language in Myth, Fairy Tale, Ritual and Novel（2）
神话、童话、仪式和小说中的象征语言（2）
2. The Myth of Creation
创世神话
The Babylonian myth of Creation (Enuma Elish) tells us of a victorious rebellion of male gods against Tiamat, the great mother who ruled the universe. They form an alliance against her and choose Marduk to be their leader in this fight. After a bitter war Tiamat is slain, from her body heaven and earth are formed, and Marduk rules as supreme God.
However, before he is chosen to be the leader, Marduk has to pass a test, which seems insignificant and puzzling in the context of the whole story and yet which, as I shall try to show, is the key to the understanding of the myth. This is the description of the test:
Then they placed a garment in their midst;
To Marduk, their first-born, they said:
“Verily, O lord, thy destiny is supreme among the gods,
Command ‘to destroy and to create,’ (and) it shall be!
By the word of thy mouth let the garment be destroyed;
Command again, and let the garment be whole!”
He commanded with his mouth, and the garment was destroyed.
Again he commanded, and the garment was restored.
When the gods, his fathers, beheld the efficiency of his word,
They rejoiced (and) did homage, (saying) “Marduk is king!”
What is the significance of this test? Does it not sound like a trivial bit of magic rather than the crucial test that is to determine whether Marduk will be able to defeat Tiamat?
In order to understand the meaning of the test, we must remember what has been said of the problem of matriarchy in the discussion of the Oedipus myth. Quite clearly the Babylonian myth reports the conflict between patriarchal and matriarchal principles of social organization and of religious orientation. The rule of the great Mother is challenged by the male sons. But how can they win when they are inferior to women in one essential aspect? Women have the gift of natural creation, they can bear children. Men are sterile in this respect. (That the male sperm is as indispensable for the formation of the child as the female egg is true enough, but this knowledge is rather on the level of a scientific statement than on that of an obvious recognizable fact like pregnancy or childbirth. Moreover, the father’s part in the creation of the child is terminated with the act of impregnation when the mother’s role in bearing the child, then giving birth to it and nursing it begins.)
Quite in contrast to Freud’s assumption that the “penis envy” is a natural phenomenon in the constitution of the woman’s psyche, there are good reasons for assuming that before male supremacy was established there was a “pregnancy envy” in the man, which even today can be found in numerous cases. In order to defeat the mother, the male must prove that he is not inferior, that he has the gift to produce. Since he cannot produce with a womb, he must produce in another fashion; he produces with his mouth, his word, his thought. This, then, is the meaning of the test: Marduk can defeat Tiamat only if he can prove that he can also create even though in a different fashion. The test shows us the deep male-female antagonism, which is the basis of the fight between Tiamat and Marduk and the essential point of contention in this fight between the two sexes. With Marduk’s victory male supremacy is established, the natural productiveness of the women is devaluated, and the male begins domination based on his ability to produce by the power of thought, a form of production which underlies the development of human civilization.
The Biblical myth begins where the Babylonian myth has ended. The supremacy of a male god is established and hardly any trace of a previous matriarchal stage is left. Marduk’s “test” has become the main theme of the Biblical story of Creation. God creates the world by his word; the woman and her creative powers are no longer necessary. Even the natural course of events, that women give birth to men, is reversed. Eve is born from Adam’s rib (like Athene from Zeus’s head). The elimination of every memory of matriarchal supremacy is, though, not entirely complete. In the figure of Eve we see the woman who is superior to the male. She takes the initiative in eating the forbidden fruit; she does not consult with Adam, she simply gives him the fruit to eat and he, when discovered, is rather clumsy and inept in his excuses. It is only after the Fall that his domination is established. God says to Eve: “And thy desire shall be to thy husband and he shall rule over thee.” Quite obviously this establishment of male domination points to a previous situation in which he did not rule. Only from this and from the complete negation of the productive role of the woman can we recognize the traces of an underlying theme of the dominant role of the mother, which is still part of the manifest text in the Babylonian myth.
This myth offers a good illustration of the mechanism of distortion and censorship that plays such a prominent role in Freud’s interpretation of dreams and myths. Memories of older social and religious principles are still contained in the Biblical myth. But at the time of its composition as we know it now, these older principles were so much in contrast to the prevailing thought that they could not be made explicit. And now we recognize traces of the former system only in small details, over-reactions, inconsistencies, and the connection of the later myth with older variations of the same theme.
3. Little Red-Cap
小红帽
Little Red-Cap is a good illustration of Freud’s views while at the same time offering a variation of the theme of the male-female conflict that we found in the Oedipus trilogy and in the myth of Creation. This is the fairy tale:
Once upon a time there was a dear little girl who was loved by everyone who looked at her, but most of all by her grandmother, and there was nothing that she would not have given to the child. Once she gave her a little cap of red velvet, which suited her so well that she would never wear anything else; so she was always called “Little Red-Cap.”
One day her mother said to her: “Come, Little Red-Cap, here is a piece of cake and a bottle of wine; take them to your grandmother, she is ill and weak, and they will do her good. Set out before it gets hot, and when you are going, walk nicely and quietly and do not run off the path, or you may fall and break the bottle, and then your grandmother will get nothing; and when you go into her room, don’t forget to say, “Good-morning,’ and don’t peep into every corner before you do it.”
“I will take great care,” said Little Red-Cap to her mother, and gave her hand on it.
The grandmother lived out in the wood, half a league from the village, and just as Little Red-Cap entered the wood, a wolf met her. Red-Cap did not know what a wicked creature he was, and was not at all afraid of him.
“Good-day, Little Red-Cap,” said he.
“Thank you kindly, wolf.”
“Whither away so early, Little Red-Cap?”
“To my grandmother’s.”
“What have you got in your apron?”
“Cake and wine; yesterday was baking-day, so poor sick grandmother is to have something good, to make her stronger.”
“Where does your grandmother live, Little Red-Cap?”
“A good quarter of a league farther on in the wood; her house stands under the three large oak-trees, the nut-trees are just below; you must surely know it,” replied Little Red-Cap.
The wolf thought to himself: “What a tender young creature! what a nice plump mouthful—she will be better to eat than the old woman. I must act craftily, so as to catch both.” So he walked for a short time by the side of Little Red-Cap, and then he said: “See, Little Red-Cap, how pretty the flowers are about here—why do you not look around? I believe, too, that you do not hear how sweetly the little birds are singing; you walk gravely along as if you were going to school while everything else out here in the wood is merry.”
Little Red-Cap raised her eyes, and when she saw the sunbeams dancing here and there through the trees, and pretty flowers growing everywhere, she thought: “Suppose I take grandmother a fresh nosegay; that would please her too. It is so early in the day that I shall still get there in good time”; and so she ran from the path into the wood to look for flowers. And whenever she picked one, she fancied that she saw a still prettier one farther on, and ran after it, and so got deeper and deeper into the wood.
Meanwhile the wolf ran straight to the grandmother’s house and knocked at the door.
“Who is there?”
“Little Red-Cap,” replied the wolf. “She is bringing cake and wine; open the door.”
“Lift the latch,” called out the grandmother, “I am too weak, and cannot get up.”
The wolf lifted the latch, the door sprang open, and without saying a word he went straight to the grandmother’s bed, and devoured her. Then he put on her clothes, dressed himself in her cap, laid himself in bed and drew the curtains.
Little Red-Cap, however, had been running about picking flowers, and when she had gathered so many that she could carry no more, she remembered her grandmother, and set out on the way to her.
She was surprised to find the cottage-door standing open, and when she went into the room, she had such a strange feeling that she said to herself: “Oh dear! how uneasy I feel today, and at other times I like being with grandmother so much.” She called out: “Good morning,” but received no answer; so she went to the bed and drew back the curtains. There lay her grandmother with her cap pulled over her face, and looking very strange.
“Oh grandmother,” she said, “what big ears you have!”
“The better to hear you with, my child,” was the reply.
“But, grandmother, what big eyes you have!” she said.
“The better to see you with, my dear.”
“But, grandmother, what large hands you have!”
“The better to hug you with.”
“Oh! but, grandmother, what a terrible big mouth you have!”
“The better to eat you with!”
And scarcely had the wolf said this, than with one bound he was out of bed and swallowed up Red-Cap.
When the wolf had appeased his appetite, he lay down again in the bed, fell asleep and began to snore very loud. The huntsman was just passing the house, and thought to himself: “How the old woman is snoring! I must just see if she wants anything.” So he went into the room, and when he came to the bed, he saw that the wolf was lying in it. “Do I find you here, you old sinner!” said he. “I have long sought you!” Then just as he was going to fire at him, it occurred to him that the wolf might have devoured the grandmother, and that she might still be saved, so he did not fire, but took a pair of scissors, and began to cut open the stomach of the sleeping wolf. When he had made two snips, he saw the little red cap shining, and then he made two snips more, and the little girl sprang out, crying: “Ah, how frightened I have been! How dark it was inside the wolf”; and after that the aged grandmother came out alive also, but scarcely able to breathe. Red-Cap however, quickly fetched great stones with which they filled the wolf’s belly, and when he awoke, he wanted to run away, but the stones were so heavy that he collapsed at once, and fell dead.
Then all three were delighted. The huntsman drew off the wolf’s skin and went home with it; the grandmother ate the cake and drank the wine which Red-Cap had brought, and revived, but Red-Cap thought to herself: “As long as I live, I will never by myself leave the path, to run into the wood, when my mother has forbidden me to do so.”
Most of the symbolism in this fairy tale can be understood without difficulty. The “little cap of red velvet” is a symbol of menstruation. The little girl of whose adventures we hear has become a mature woman and is now confronted with the problem of sex.
The warning “not to run off the path” so as not “to fall and break the bottle” is clearly a warning against the danger of sex and of losing her virginity.
The wolfs sexual appetite is aroused by the sight of the girl and he tries to seduce her by suggesting that she “look around and hear how sweetly the birds are singing.” Little Red-Cap “raises her eyes” and following the wolf’s suggestion she gets “deeper and deeper into the wood.” She does so with a characteristic piece of rationalization: in order to convince herself that there is nothing wrong she reasons that grandmother would be happy with the flowers she might bring her.
But this deviation from the straight path of virtue is punished severely. The wolf, masquerading as the grandmother, swallows innocent Little Red-Cap. When he has appeased his appetite, he falls asleep.
So far the fairy tale seems to have one simple, moralistic theme, the danger of sex. But it is more complicated than that. What is the role of the man, and how is sex represented?
The male is portrayed as a ruthless and cunning animal, and the sexual act is described as a cannibalistic act in which the male devours the female. This view is not held by women who like men and enjoy sex. It is an expression of a deep antagonism against men and sex. But the hate and prejudice against men are even more clearly exhibited at the end of the story. Again, as in the Babylonian myth, we must remember that the woman’s superiority consists in her ability to bear children. How, then, is the wolf made ridiculous? By showing that he attempted to play the role of a pregnant woman, having living beings in his belly. Little Red-Cap puts stones, a symbol of sterility, into his belly, and the wolf collapses and dies. His deed, according to the primitive law of retaliation, is punished according to his crime: he is killed by the stones, the symbol of sterility, which mock his usurpation of the pregnant woman’s role.
This fairy tale, in which the main figures are three generations of women (the huntsman at the end is the conventional father figure without real weight), speaks of the male-female conflict; it is a story of triumph by man-hating women, ending with their victory, exactly the opposite of the Oedipus myth, which lets the male emerge victorious from this battle.
4. The Sabbath Ritual
安息日仪式
Symbols, as we have dealt with them thus far, are pictorial images or words standing for an idea, feeling or thought. But there is still another kind of symbol, whose significance in the history of man is hardly less great than that of the symbols that occur in dreams, myths or fairy tales. I refer to the symbolic ritual where an action, and not a word or image, stands for an inner experience. We all use such symbolic rituals in our everyday life. If we take off our hat as a sign of respect, if we bow our head as a sign of deference, if we shake hands as an expression of friendly feelings we act—rather than speak—symbolically. Such symbols as the ones just mentioned are simple and easily understood; just as some dreams are clear to everyone without further elaboration. There are also many religious symbols which are equally simple; for instance, the old Hebrew custom of rending one’s clothes as a sign of mourning. There are many other rituals, however, like the Sabbath ritual which are as complicated—and in need of interpretation—as the symbolic language in dreams and in myths.
The rules for Sabbath observance have a prominent place in the Old Testament; this is, in fact, the only command referring to a ritual that is mentioned in the Ten Commandments. “Remember the Sabbath day, to keep it holy. Six days shalt thou labor, and do all thy work: But the seventh day is the Sabbath of the Lord thy God; in it thou shalt not do any work, thou, nor thy son, nor thy daughter, thy manservant, nor thy maidservant, nor thy cattle, nor thy stranger that is within thy gates: For in six days the Lord made heaven and earth, the sea, and all that in them is, and rested the seventh day: wherefore the Lord blessed the Sabbath day, and hallowed it.” (Ex. 20:8-11). In the second version of the Ten Commandments (Deut. 5:12-15) the observance of the Sabbath is commanded again, although here reference is not made to God’s rest on the seventh day but to the exodus from Egypt: “And remember that thou wast a servant in the land of Egypt, and that the Lord thy God brought thee out thence through a mighty hand and by a stretched out arm: therefore the Lord thy God commanded thee to keep the Sabbath day.”
To the modern mind, there is not much of a problem in the Sabbath institution. The idea that man should rest from his work one day every week sounds to us like a self-evident, social-hygienic measure intended to give man the physical and spiritual rest and relaxation he needs in order not to be swallowed up by his daily work. No doubt, this explanation is true as far as it goes—but it does not answer some questions which arise if we pay closer attention to the Sabbath law of the Bible and particularly to the Sabbath ritual as it developed in the post-Biblical tradition.
Why is this social-hygienic law so important that it is placed among the Ten Commandments, which otherwise stipulate only the fundamental religious and ethical principles? Why is it explained with God’s rest on the seventh day and what does this “rest” mean? Is God pictured in such anthropomorphic terms as to need a rest after six days of hard work? Why in the second version of the Ten Commandments is the Sabbath explained in terms of freedom rather than of God’s rest? What is the common denominator of the two explanations? Moreover—and this is perhaps the most important question—how can we understand the intricacies of the Sabbath ritual in the light of the modern social, hygienic interpretation of rest? In the Old Testament, a man who “gathers sticks” (Num. 15: 32 ff.) is considered a violator of the Sabbath law and punished by death. In the later development not only work in our modern sense is forbidden but activities like the following: making any kind of fire, even if it is for convenience’s sake and does not require any physical effort; pulling a single grass blade or flower from the soil; carrying anything, even something as light as a handkerchief, on one’s person. All this is not work in the sense of physical effort; its avoidance is often more of an inconvenience and discomfort than the doing of it would be. Are we dealing here with extravagant and compulsive exaggerations of an originally “sensible” ritual, or is our understanding of the ritual perhaps faulty and in need of revision?
A more detailed analysis of the symbolic meaning of the Sabbath ritual will show that we are dealing not with obsessional over-strictness but with a concept of work and rest which is different from our modern concept.
To begin with the essential point—the concept of work underlying the Biblical and the later Talmudic concept—is not simply that of physical effort but can be defined thus: “Work” is any interference by man, be it constructive or destructive, with the physical world. “Rest” is a state of peace between man and nature. Man must leave nature untouched, not change it in any way, neither by building nor by destroying anything; even the smallest change made by man in the natural process is a violation of “rest.” The Sabbath is the day of peace between man and nature; work is any kind of disturbance of the man-nature equilibrium. On the basis of this general definition, we can understand the Sabbath ritual. Indeed, any heavy work like plowing or building is work in this as well as in our modern sense. But lighting a match and pulling up a grass blade, while not requiring effort, are symbols of human interference with the natural process, are a breach of peace between man and nature. On the basis of this principle, we understand also the Talmudic prohibition of carrying something of even little weight on one’s person. In fact, the carrying of something as such is not forbidden. I can carry a heavy load within my house or my estate without violating the Sabbath ritual. But I must not carry even a handkerchief from one domain to the other, for instance, from the private domain of the house to the public domain of the street. This law is an extension of the idea of peace from the natural to the social realm. Just as man must not interfere with or change the natural equilibrium, he must refrain from changing the social order. That means not only not to do business but also the avoidance of that most primitive form of transference of property, namely, its local transference from one domain to the other.
The Sabbath symbolizes a state of complete harmony between man and nature and between man and man. By not working—that is to say, by not participating in the process of natural and social change—man is free from the chains of nature and from the chains of time, although only for one day a week.
The full significance of this idea can be understood only in the context of the Biblical philosophy of the relationship between man and nature. Before Adam’s “fall”—that is, before man had reason—he lived in complete harmony with nature; the first act of disobedience, which is also the beginning of human freedom, “opens his eyes,” he knows how to judge good and evil, he has become aware of himself and of his fellows, the same and yet unique, tied together by bonds of love and yet alone. Human history has begun. He is cursed by God for his disobedience. What is the curse? Enmity and struggle are proclaimed between man and animals (“And I will put enmity between thee [the serpent] and the woman, and between thy seed and her seed; it shall bruise thy head, and thou shalt bruise his heel”), between man and the soil (“cursed is the ground for thy sake; in sorrow shalt thou eat of it all the days of thy life; thorns also and thistles shall it bring forth to thee; and thou shalt eat the herb of the field; in the sweat of thy face shalt thou eat bread, till thou return unto the ground”), between man and woman (“and thy desire shall be to thy husband, and he shall rule over thee”), between woman and her own natural function (“in sorrow thou shalt bring forth children”). The original, pre-individualist harmony was replaced by conflict and struggle.
What, then, is—in the prophetic view—the goal of man? To live in peace and harmony again with his fellow men, with animals, with the soil. The new harmony is different from that of paradise. It can be obtained only if man develops fully in order to become truly human, if he knows the truth and does justice, if he develops his power of reason to a point which frees him from the bondage of man and from the bondage of irrational passions. The prophetic descriptions abound with symbols of this idea. The earth is unboundedly fruitful again, swords will be changed into plowshares, lion and lamb will live together in peace, there will be no war any more, women will bear children without pain (Talmudic), the whole of mankind will be united in truth and in love. This new harmony, the achievement of which is the goal of the historical process, is symbolized by the figure of the Messiah.
On this basis we can understand fully the meaning of the Sabbath ritual. The Sabbath is the anticipation of the Messianic time, just as the Messianic period is called the time of “continuous Sabbath.” In fact, the Sabbath is not only the symbolic anticipation of the Messianic time but is considered its real precursor. As the Talmud puts it, “If all of Israel observed the Sabbath fully only once, the Messiah would be here.”
Resting, not working, then, has a meaning different from the modern meaning of relaxation. In the state of rest, man anticipates the state of human freedom that will be fulfilled eventually. The relationship of man and nature and of man and man is one of harmony of peace, of noninterference. Work is a symbol of conflict and disharmony; rest is an expression of dignity, peace and freedom.
In the light of this understanding some of the previously raised questions find an answer. The Sabbath ritual has such a central place in the Biblical religion because it is more than a “day of rest” in the modern sense; it is a symbol of salvation and freedom. This is also the meaning of God’s rest; this rest is not necessary for God because he is tired, but it expresses the idea that great as creation is, greater and crowning creation is peace; God’s work is a condescension; he must “rest” not because be is tired but because he is free and fully God only when he has ceased to work. So is man fully man only when he does not work, when he is at peace with nature and his fellow men; that is why the Sabbath commandment is at one time motivated by God’s rest and at the other by the liberation from Egypt. Both mean the same and interpret each other: rest is freedom.
I would rather not leave this topic without referring briefly to some other aspects of the Sabbath ritual which are relevant to its full understanding.
The Sabbath seems to have been an old Babylonian holyday, celebrated every seventh day (Shapatu). But its meaning was quite different from that of the Biblical Sabbath. The Babylonian Shapatu was a day of mourning and self-castigation. It was a somber day, dedicated to the planet Saturn (our “Saturday is still in its name devoted to Saturn, Saturn’s-day) whose wrath one wanted to placate by self-castigation and self-punishment. Slowly the holyday changed its character. Even in the Old Testament it has lost the character of self-castigation and mourning; it is no longer an “evil” day, but a good day, destined for man’s welfare. In the further development the Sabbath becomes more and more the very opposite of the sinister Shapatu. Sabbath becomes the day of joy and pleasure. Eating, drinking, singing, sexual intercourse, in addition to studying the Scriptures and later religious writings, have characterized the Jewish celebration of the Sabbath throughout the last two thousand years. From a day of submission to the evil powers of Saturn, Sabbath has become a day of freedom and joy. This change in mood and meaning can be fully understood only if we consider the meaning of Saturn. Saturn (in the old astrological and metaphysical tradition) symbolizes time. He is the god of time and hence the god of death. Inasmuch as man is like God, gifted with a soul, with reason, love and freedom, he is not subject to time or death. But inasmuch as man is an animal, with a body subject to the laws of nature, he is a slave to time and death. The Babylonians sought to appease the lord of time by self-castigation. The Bible in its Sabbath concept makes an entirely new attempt to solve the problem: by stopping interference with nature for one day you eliminate time; where there is no change, no work, no human interference there is no time. Instead of a Sabbath on which man bows down to the lord of time, the Biblical Sabbath symbolizes man’s victory over time; time is suspended, Saturn is dethroned on his very day, Saturn’s-day.
5. Kafka’s “The Trial”
卡夫卡的《审判》
An outstanding example of a work of art written in symbolic language is Kafka’s The Trial. As in so many dreams, events are presented, each of which is in itself concrete and realistic; yet the whole is impossible and fantastic. The novel, in order to be understood, must be read as if we listened to a dream—a long complicated dream in which external events happen in space and time, being representations of thoughts and feelings within the dreamer, in this case the novel’s hero, K.
The novel begins with a somewhat startling sentence: “Someone must have been telling lies about Joseph K., for without having done anything wrong he was arrested one fine morning.”
K., we might say, begins the dream with an awareness that he is “arrested.” What does “arrested” mean? It is an interesting word which has a double meaning. To be arrested can mean to be taken into custody by police officers and to be arrested can mean to be stopped in one’s growth and development. An accused man is “arrested” by the police, and an organism is “arrested” in its normal development. The manifest story uses “arrested” in the former sense. Its symbolic meaning, however, is to be understood in the latter. K. has an awareness that he is arrested and blocked in his own development.
In a masterful little paragraph, Kafka explains why K. was arrested. This is how K. spent his life: “That spring K. had been accustomed to pass his evenings in this way: after work whenever possible—he was usually in his office until nine—he would take a short walk, alone or with some of his colleagues, and then go to a beer hall, where until eleven he sat at a table patronized mostly by elderly men. But there were exceptions to this routine, when, for instance, the Manager of the Bank, who highly valued his diligence and reliability, invited him for a drive or for dinner at his villa. And once a week K. visited a girl called Elsa, who was on duty all night till early morning as a waitress in a cabaret and during the day received her visitors in bed.”
It was an empty, routinized life, sterile, without love and without productiveness. Indeed, he was arrested, and he heard the voice of his conscience tell him of his arrest and of the danger that threatened his personality.
The second sentence tells us that “his landlady’s cook, who always brought him his breakfast at eight o’clock, failed to appear on this occasion. That had never happened before.” This detail seems unimportant. In fact, it is somewhat incongruous that after the startling news of his arrest such a trivial detail as his breakfast not having come should be mentioned; but, as in so many dreams, this seemingly insignificant detail contains important information about K.’s character. K. was a man with a “receptive orientation.” All his strivings went in the direction of wanting to receive from others—never to give or to produce.
He was dependent on others, who should feed him, take care of him, and protect him. He was still a child dependent on his mother—expecting everything from her help, using her and manipulating her. As is characteristic of people of this orientation, his main concern was to be pleasant and nice so that people, and in particular women, would give him what he needed; and his greatest fear was that people might become angry and withhold their gifts. The source of all good was believed to be outside, and the problem of living was to avoid the risk of losing the good graces of this source. The result is an absence of the feeling of his own strength and intense fear of being threatened with desertion by the person or persons whom he is dependent upon.
K. did not know who accused him or what he was accused of. He asked: “Who could these men be? What were they talking about? What authority could they represent?” A little later, when he talked with the “Inspector,” a man higher up in the hierarchy of the court, the voice became somewhat more articulate. K. asked him all sorts of questions having nothing to do with the main question of what he was accused of, and in answering him the Inspector made a statement which contained one of the most important insights that could be given K. at that point—and for that matter to anyone who is troubled and seeks help. The Inspector said, “However, if I can’t answer your questions, I can at least give you a piece of advice; think less about us and of what is to happen to you, think more about yourself instead.” K. did not understand the Inspector’s meaning. He did not see that the problem was within himself, that he was the only one who could save him, and the fact that he could not accept the Inspector’s advice indicated his ultimate defeat.
This first scene of the story closes with another statement by the Inspector which throws a great deal of light on the nature of the accusation and of the arrest. “You’ll be going to the Bank now, I suppose?” “To the Bank?” asked K. “I thought I was under arrest? …How can I go to the Bank, if I am under arrest?” “Ah, I see,” said the Inspector, who had already reached the door. “You have misunderstood me. You are under arrest, certainly, but that need not hinder you from going about your business. You won’t be hampered in carrying on the ordinary course of your life.” “Then being arrested isn’t so very bad,” said K., going up to the Inspector. “I never suggested that it was,” said the Inspector. “But in that case it would seem there was no particular necessity to tell me about it,” said K., moving still closer.”
Realistically, this could hardly happen. If a man is arrested, he is not permitted to continue his business life as usual nor in fact, as we see later, any of his other ordinary activities. This strange arrangement expressed symbolically that his business activities and everything else he did were of such a nature as not really to be touched by his arrest as a human being. Humanely speaking, he was almost dead but he could continue his life as a bank official just the same, because this activity was completely separated from his existence as a human being.
K. had a vague awareness that he was wasting his life and rotting away fast. From here on, the whole novel deals with his reaction to this awareness and with the efforts he makes to defend and to save himself. The outcome was tragic; although he heard the voice of his conscience, he did not understand it. Instead of trying to understand the real reason for his arrest, he tended to escape from any such awareness. Instead of helping himself in the only way he could help himself—by recognizing the truth and trying to change—he sought help where it could not be found—on the outside, from others from clever lawyers, from women whose “connections” he could use, always protesting his innocence and silencing the voice that told him he was guilty.
Perhaps he could have found a solution had it not been for the fact that his moral sense was confused. He knew only one kind of moral law: the strict authority whose basic commandment was “You must obey.” He knew only the “authoritarian conscience,” to which obedience is the greatest virtue and disobedience the greatest crime. He hardly knew that there was another kind of conscience—the humanistic conscience—which is our own voice calling us back to ourselves.”
In the novel, both kinds of conscience are represented symbolically: the humanistic conscience by the Inspector and later by the Priest; the authoritarian conscience by the court, the judges, the assistants, the crooked lawyers, and all others connected with the case. K.’s tragic mistake was that, although he heard the voice of his humanistic conscience, he mistook it for the voice of the authoritarian conscience and defended himself against the accusing authorities, partly by submission and partly by rebellion, when he should have fought for himself in the name of his humanistic conscience.
The “court” is described as despotic, corrupt and filthy; its procedure not based on reason or justice. The kind of lawbooks the judges used (shown him by the wife of an attendant) were a symbolic expression of this corruption. They were old dog-eared volumes, the cover of one was almost completely split down the middle, the two halves were held together by mere threads. “How dirty everything is here!” said K., shaking his head, and the woman had to wipe away the worst of the dust with her apron before K. would put out his hand to touch the books. He opened the first of them and found an indecent picture. A man and a woman were sitting naked on a sofa, the obscene intention of the draughtsman was evident enough, yet his skill was so small that nothing emerged from the picture save the all-too-solid figures of a man and a woman sitting rigidly upright and, because of the bad perspective, apparently finding the utmost difficulty even in turning toward each other. K. did not look at any of the other pages, but merely glanced at the title page of the second book. It was a novel entitled, How Grete Was Plagued by Her Husband Hans. “These are the lawbooks that are studied here,” said K. “These are the men who are supposed to sit in judgment on me.”
Another expression of the same corruption was that the attendant’s wife was used sexually by one of the judges and one of the law students and that neither she nor her husband was permitted to protest. There is an element of rebelliousness in K.’s attitude toward the Court and a deep sympathy in the Law-Court Attendant who, after having given K. “a confidential look such as he had not yet ventured in spite of all friendliness,” said, “A man can’t help being rebellious.” But the rebelliousness alternated with submission. It never dawned upon K. that the moral law is not represented by the authoritarian court but by his own conscience.
To say that this idea never dawns upon him would not be quite correct. Once toward the end of his journey he came as close to the truth as he ever did. He heard the voice of his humanistic conscience represented by the priest in the Cathedral. He had gone to the Cathedral to meet a business acquaintance to whom he was to show the city, but this man had not kept the appointment and K. found himself alone in the Cathedral, a little forlorn and puzzled until suddenly an unambiguous and inescapable voice cried: “Joseph K.!”
K. started and stared at the ground before him. For the moment he was still free, he could continue on his way and vanish through one of the small dark wooden doors that faced him at no great distance. It would simply indicate that he had not understood the call or that he had understood it and did not care. But if he were to turn round he would be caught, for that would amount to an admission that he had understood it very well, that he was really the person addressed, and that he was ready to obey. Had the priest called his name a second time K. would certainly have gone on, but since there was a persistent silence, though he stood waiting a long time, he could not help turning his head a little just to see what the priest was doing.
The priest was standing calmly in the pulpit as before, yet it was obvious that he had observed K.’s turn of the head. It would have been like a childish game of hide-and-seek if K. had not turned right round to face him. He did so, and the priest beckoned him to come nearer. Since there was now no need for evasion, K. hurried back—he was both curious and eager to shorten the interview—with long flying strides towards the pulpit. At the first rows of seats he halted, but the priest seemed to think the distance still too great, he stretched out an arm and pointed with sharply bent forefinger to a spot immediately before the pulpit. K. followed this direction too; when he stood on the spot indicated he had to bend his head far back to see the priest at all.
“You are Joseph K.,” said the priest, lifting one hand from the balustrade in a vague gesture. “Yes,” said K., thinking how frankly he used to give his name and what a burden it had recently become to him; nowadays people he had never seen before seemed to know his name. How pleasant it was to have to introduce oneself before being recognized! “You are an accused man,” said the priest in a very low voice. “Yes,” said K. “So I have been informed.” “Then you are the man I seek,” said the priest. “I am the prison chaplain.” “Indeed,” said K. “I had you summoned here,” said the priest, “to have a talk with you.” “I didn’t know that,” said K. “I came here to show an Italian round the Cathedral.” “A mere detail,” said the priest. “What is that in your hand? Is it a prayer-book?” “No,” replied K., “it is an album of sights worth seeing in the town.” “Lay it down,” said the priest. K. pitched it away so violently that it flew open and slid some way along the floor with disheveled leaves.
“Do you know that your case is going badly?” asked the priest. “I have that idea myself,” said K. “I’ve done what I could, but without any success so far. Of course, my first petition hasn’t been presented yet.” “How do you think it will end?” asked the priest. “At first I thought it must turn out well,” said K., “but now I frequently have my doubts. I don’t know how it will end. Do you?” “No,” said the priest, “but I fear it will end badly. You are held to be guilty. Your case will perhaps never get beyond a lower Court. Your guilt is supposed, for the present, at least, to have been proved.” “But I am not guilty,” said K.; “Its a misunderstanding. And, if it comes to that, how can any man be called guilty? We are all simply men here, one as much as the other.” “That is true,” said the priest, “but that’s how all guilty men talk.” “Are you prejudiced against me too?” asked K. “I have no prejudices against you,” said the priest. “I thank you,” said K.; “but all the others who are concerned in these proceedings are prejudiced against me. They are influencing even outsiders. My position is becoming more and more difficult.”
“You are misinterpreting the facts of the case,” said the priest. “The verdict is not so suddenly arrived at, the proceedings only gradually merge into the verdict.” “So that’s how it is,” said K., letting his head sink. “What is the next step you propose to take in the matter?” asked the priest. “I’m going to get more help,” said K., looking up again to see how the priest took this statement. “There are several possibilities I haven’t explored yet.” “You cast about too much for outside help,” said the priest disapprovingly, “especially from women. Don’t you see that it isn’t the right kind of help?” “In some cases, even in many, I could agree with you,” said K., “but not always. Women have great influence. If I could move some women I know to join forces in working for me, I couldn’t help winning through. Especially before this Court, which consists almost entirely of petticoat-hunters. Let the Examining Magistrate see a woman in the distance and he almost knocks down his desk and the defendant in his eagerness to get at her.”
The priest drooped over the balustrade, apparently feeling for the first time the oppressiveness of the canopy above his head. What could have happened to the weather outside? There was no longer even a murky daylight; black night had set in. All the stained glass in the great window could not illumine the darkness of the wall with one solitary glimmer of light. And at this very moment the verger began to put out the candles on the high altar, one after another. “Are you angry with me?” asked K. of the priest. “It may be that you don’t know the nature of the Court you are serving.” He got no answer. “These are only my personal experiences,” said K. There was still no answer from above. “I wasn’t trying to insult you,” said K. And at that the priest shrieked from the pulpit! “Can’t you see anything at all?” It was an angry cry, but at the same time sounded like the involuntary shriek of one who sees another fall and is startled out of himself.
The priest knew what the real accusation against K. was, and he also knew that his case would end badly. At this point K. had a chance to look into himself and to ask what the real accusation was, but, consistent with his previous orientation, he was interested only in finding out where he could get more help. When the priest said disapprovingly that he casts about too much for outside help, K.’s only response was fear that the priest was angry. Now the priest became really angry, but it was the anger of love felt by a man who saw another fall knowing he could help himself but could not be helped. There was not much more the priest could tell him. When K. moved in the direction of the doorway, the priest asked, “Do you want to leave already?” Although at that moment K. had not been thinking of leaving, he answered at once, “Of course, I must go. I’m the assistant manager of a Bank, they’re waiting for me. I only came here to show a business friend from abroad round the Cathedral.” “Well,” said the priest, reaching out his hand to K., “then go.” “But I can’t find my way out alone in this darkness,” said K.
K.’s was indeed the tragic dilemma of the person who could not find his way alone in the darkness and who insisted that only others could guide him. He sought help but he rejected the only help the priest could offer him. Out of his own dilemma he could not understand the priest. He asked, “Don’t you want anything more to do with me?” “No,” said the priest. “You were so friendly to me for a time,” said K., “and explained so much to me and now you let me go as if you cared nothing about me.” “But you have to leave now, said the priest. “Well, yes,” said K., “you must see that I can’t help it.” “You must first see that I can’t help being what I am,” said the priest. “You are the prison chaplain,” said K. groping his way nearer to the priest again; his immediate return to the Bank was not so necessary as he had made out; he could quite well stay longer. “That means I belong to the Court,” said the priest. “So why should I make any claims upon you? The Court makes no claims upon you. It receives you when you come, and it relinquishes you when you go.”
The priest made it quite clear that his attitude was the opposite of authoritarianism. While he wanted to help K. out of love for his fellow men, he himself had no stake in the outcome of K.’s case. K.’s problem, in the priest’s view, was entirely his own. If he refused to see he must remain blind—because no one sees the truth except by himself.
What is so confusing in the novel is the fact that It is never said that the moral law represented by the priest and the law represented by the court are different. On the contrary, in the manifest story the priest, being the prison chaplain, is part of the court system. But this confusion in the story symbolizes the confusion in K.’s own heart. To him the two are one, and just because he is not able to distinguish between them, he remains caught in the battle with the authoritarian conscience and cannot understand himself.
One year elapsed after K. had the first inkling of his arrest. It was now the evening before his thirty-first birthday and his case had been lost. Two men came to fetch him for the execution. In spite of his frantic efforts, he had failed to ask the right question. He had not found out what he was accused of, who accused him, and what was the way to save himself.
The story ends, as so many dreams do, in a violent nightmare. But while the executioners went through the grotesque formalities of preparing their knives, K. had for the first time an insight into his own problem. “I always wanted to snatch at the world with twenty hands, and not for a very laudable motive, either. That was wrong, and am I to show now that not even a whole year’s struggling with my case has taught me anything? Am I to leave this world as a man who shies away from all conclusions? Are people to say of me after I am gone that at the beginning of my case I wanted it to finish, and at the end of it wanted it to begin again? I don’t want that to be said.”
For the first time K. was aware of his greediness and of the sterility of his life. For the first time he could see the possibility of friendship and human solidarity:
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 were they all there? Was help at hand? Were there some arguments in his favor that had been overlooked? Of course there must be. Logic is doubtless unshakeable, 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.
While all his life K. had been trying to find the answers, or rather to be given answers by others, at this moment he asked questions and the right questions. It was only the terror of dying that gave him the power to visualize the possibility of love and friendship and, paradoxically, at the moment of dying he had, for the first time, faith in life.