by Franz Kafka
THE CITY COAT OF ARMS
AT first everything was tolerably well organized for the building of the Tower of Babel; indeed the organization was perhaps excessive, too much thought was given to guides, interpreters, accommodation for the workmen and roads of communication, just as if centuries of undisturbed opportunity for work lay ahead. It was even the general opinion at the time that one simply could not build too slowly; this opinion only needed to be over-emphasized a little and people would have shrunk from laying the foundations at all. The argument ran as follows: The essence of the whole enterprise is the idea of building a tower that will reach to heaven. Beside that idea everything else is secondary. The idea, once grasped in its full magnitude, can never vanish again; so long as there are men on earth there will also be the strong desire to finish building the tower. But in this respect there need be no anxiety for the future; on the contrary, human knowledge is increasing, architecture has made progress and will make further progress, in another hundred years a piece of work that takes us a year will perhaps be done in half a year, and what is more done better, more securely. So why be in such a hurry to toil away now to the limit of one’s powers? There would only be sense in that if one could hope to erect the tower in the span of one generation. But that was quite out of the question. It seemed more likely that the next generation, with their improved knowledge, would find the work of the previous generation unsatisfactory, and pull down what had been built in order to start afresh. Such thoughts caused energy to flag, and people concerned themselves less with the tower than with constructing a city for the workmen. Each nationality wanted to have the best quarter; this gave rise to disputes, which developed into bloody conflicts. These conflicts continued endlessly; to the leaders they were a new proof that, since the necessary concentration for the task was lacking, the tower should be built very slowly, or preferably postponed until a general peace had been concluded. However the time was not spent only in fighting; in the intervals embellishments were made to the city, which admittedly provoked fresh envy and fresh conflicts. Thus the period of the first generation passed, but none of the succeeding ones was any different; except that technical skill was increasing all the while, and belligerence with it. To this must be added that by the time of the second or third generation the senselessness of building a tower up to heaven was already recognized, but by that time everybody was far too closely bound up with one another to leave the city.
All the legends and songs that have originated in this city are filled with the longing for a prophesied day, on which the city will be smashed to pieces by five blows in rapid succession from a gigantic fist. That is also the reason why the city has a fist on its coat of arms.
POSEIDON
POSEIDON sat at his desk, going over the accounts. The administration of all the waters gave him endless work. He could have had as many assistants as he wanted, and indeed he had quite a number, but since he took his job very seriously he insisted on going through all the accounts again himself, and so his assistants were of little help to him. It cannot be said that he enjoyed the work; he carried it out simply because it was assigned to him; indeed he had frequently applied for what he called more cheerful work, but whenever various suggestions were put to him it turned out that nothing suited him so well as his present employment. Needless to say, it was very difficult to find him another job. After all, he could not possibly be put in charge of one particular ocean; quite apart from the fact that in this case the work involved would not be less, only more petty, the great Poseidon could hold only a superior position. And when he was offered a post unrelated to the waters, the very idea made him feel sick, his divine breath came short and his brazen chest began to heave. As a matter of fact, no one took his troubles very seriously; when a mighty man complains one must pretend to give way to him, even if he has no hope of satisfaction. No one ever really considered relieving Poseidon of his position; he had been destined to be God of the Seas since time immemorial, and that was how it had to remain.
What annoyed him most – and this was the chief cause of discontent with his job – was to learn of the rumours that were circulating about him; for instance, that he was constantly cruising through the waves with his trident. Instead of which he was sitting in the depths of the world’s ocean, endlessly going over the accounts, an occasional journey to Jupiter being the only interruption of the monotony, a journey moreover from which he usually returned in a furious temper. As a result he had hardly seen the oceans, save fleetingly during his hasty ascent to Olympus, and had never really sailed upon them. He used to say that he was postponing this until the end of the world, for then there might come a quiet moment when, just before the end and having gone through his last account, he could still make a quick little tour.
FELLOWSHIP
WE are five friends, one day we came out of a house one after the other, first one came and placed himself beside the gate, then the second came, and placed himself near the first one, then came the third, then the fourth, then the fifth. Finally we all stood in a row. People began to notice us, they pointed at us and said: Those five just came out of that house. Since then we have been living together; it would be a peaceful life if it weren’t for a sixth one continually trying to interfere. He doesn’t do us any harm, but he annoys us, and that is harm enough; why does he intrude where he is not wanted? We don’t know him and don’t want him to join us. There was a time, of course, when the five of us did not know one another, either; and it could be said that we still don’t know one another, but what is possible and can be tolerated by the five of us is not possible and cannot be tolerated with this sixth one. In any case, we are five and don’t want to be six. And what is the point of this continual being together anyhow? It is also pointless for the five of us, but here we are together and will remain together; a new combination, however, we do not want, just because of our experiences. But how is one to make all this clear to the sixth one? Long explanations would also amount to accepting him in our circle, so we prefer not to explain and not to accept him. No matter how he pouts his lips we push him away with our elbows, but however much we push him away, back he comes.
AT NIGHT
SUNK deep in the night. As one sometimes sinks one’s head in meditation, thus utterly to be sunk in the night. All around people are asleep. It’s a harmless affectation, an innocent self-deception, to suppose that they are sleeping in houses, in safe beds, under a safe roof, stretched out or curled up on mattresses, in sheets, under blankets; in reality they have gathered together as they once did of old, and again later, in a desert region, a camp in the open, a countless number of men, a host, a people, under a cold sky on cold earth, cast down where they had earlier stood, forehead pressed upon arm, face towards the ground, peacefully sleeping. And you are watching, are one of the watchmen, you find your nearest fellow by brandishing a burning stick from the brushwood pile beside you. Why are you watching? Someone must watch, it is said. Someone must be there.
THE REFUSAL
OUR little town does not lie on the frontier, nowhere near; it is so far from the frontier, in fact, that perhaps no one from our town has ever been there; desolate highlands have to be crossed as well as wide fertile plains. To imagine even part of the road makes one tired, and more than part one just cannot imagine. There are also big towns on the road, each far larger than ours. Ten little towns like ours laid side by side, and ten more forced down from above, still would not produce one of these enormous, overcrowded towns. If one does not get lost on the way one is bound to lose oneself in these towns, and to avoid them is impossible on account of their size.
But what is even further from our town than the frontier, if such distances can be compared at all – it’s like saying that a man of three hundred years is older than one of two hundred – what is even further than the frontier is the capital. Whereas we do get news of the frontier wars now and again, of the capital we learn next to nothing – we civilians that is, for of course the governmen
t officials have very good connections with the capital; they can get news from there in as little as two or three months, so they claim at least.
Now it is remarkable, and it continually surprises me afresh, how we in our town humbly submit to all orders issued in the capital. For centuries no political change has been brought about by the citizens themselves. In the capital great rulers have superseded one another – indeed, even dynasties have been deposed or annihilated, and new ones have started; in the past century even the capital itself was destroyed, a new one was founded far away from it, later on this too was destroyed and the old one rebuilt, yet none of this had any influence on our little town. Our officials have always remained at their posts; the highest officials came from the capital, the less high came at least from outside, and the lowest from among ourselves – that is how it has always been and it has suited us. The highest official is the chief tax-collector, he has the rank of colonel, and is known as such. The present one is an old man; I’ve known him for years, because he was already a colonel when I was a child. At first he rose very fast in his career, but then he seems to have advanced no further; actually, for our little town his rank is good enough, a higher rank would be out of place. When I try to recall him I see him sitting on the veranda of his house in the market square, leaning back, pipe in mouth. Above him from the roof flutters the imperial flag; on the side of the veranda, which is so big that minor military manoeuvres are sometimes held there, washing hangs out to dry. His grandchildren, in beautiful silk clothes, play around him; they are not allowed down in the market square, the children there are considered unworthy of them, but the grandchildren are attracted by the square, so they thrust their heads between the balusters and when the children below begin to quarrel they join in the quarrel from above.
This colonel, then, commands the town. I don’t think he has ever produced a document entitling him to this position; very likely he does not possess such a thing. Perhaps he really is chief tax-collector, but is that all? Does that entitle him to rule over all the other departments in the administration as well? True, his office is very important for the government, but for the citizens it is hardly the most important. One is almost under the impression that the people here say: ‘Now that you’ve taken all we possess, please take us as well.’ In reality, of course, it was not he who seized the power, nor is he a tyrant. It has just come about over the years that the chief tax-collector is automatically the top official, and the colonel accepts the tradition just as we do.
Yet while he lives among us without laying too much stress on his official position, he is something quite different from the ordinary citizen. When a delegation comes to him with a request, he stands there like the wall of the world. Behind him is nothingness, one imagines hearing voices whispering in the background, but this is probably a delusion; after all, he represents the end of all things, at least for us. At these receptions he really was worth seeing. Once as a child I was present when a delegation of citizens arrived to ask him for a government subsidy because the poorest quarter of the town had been burned to the ground. My father the blacksmith, a man well respected in the community, was a member of the delegation and had taken me along. There’s nothing exceptional about this, everyone rushes to spectacles of this kind, one can hardly distinguish the actual delegation from the crowd. Since these receptions usually take place on the veranda, there are even people who climb up by ladder from the market square and take part in the goings-on from over the balustrade. On this occasion about a quarter of the veranda had been reserved for the colonel, the crowd filling the rest of it. A few soldiers kept watch, some of them standing round him in a semicircle. Actually a single soldier would have been quite enough, such is our fear of them. I don’t know exactly where these soldiers came from, in any case from a long way off, they all look very much alike, they wouldn’t even need a uniform. They are small, not strong but agile people, the most striking thing about them is the prominence of their teeth which almost overcrowd their mouths, and a certain restless twitching of their small, narrow eyes. This makes them the terror of the children, but also their delight, for again and again the children long to be frightened by these teeth, these eyes, so as to be able to run madly away. Even grown-ups probably never quite lose this childish terror, at least it continues to have an effect. There are, of course, other factors contributing to it. The soldiers speak a dialect utterly incomprehensible to us, and they can hardly get used to ours – all of which produces a certain shut-off, unapproachable quality corresponding, as it happens, to their character, for they are silent, serious, and rigid. They don’t actually do anything evil, and yet they are almost unbearable in an evil sense. A soldier, for example, enters a shop, buys some trifling object, and stays there leaning against the counter; he listens to the conversations, probably does not understand them, and yet gives the impression of understanding; he himself does not say a word, just stares blankly at the speaker, then back at the listeners, all the while leaning his hand on the hilt of the long knife in his belt. This is revolting, one loses the desire to talk, the customers start leaving the shop, and only when it is quite empty does the soldier also leave. Thus wherever the soldiers appear, our lively people grow silent. That’s what happened this time, too. As on all solemn occasions the colonel stood upright, holding in front of him two poles of bamboo in his outstretched hands. This is an ancient custom implying more or less that he supports the law, and the law supports him. Now everyone knows, of course, what to expect up on the veranda, and yet each time people take fright all over again. On this occasion, too, the man chosen to speak could not begin; he was already standing opposite the colonel when his courage failed him and, muttering a few excuses, he pushed his way back into the crowd. No other suitable person willing to speak could be found, albeit several unsuitable ones offered themselves; a great commotion ensued and messengers were sent in search of various citizens who were well-known speakers. During all this time the colonel stood there motionless, only his chest moving visibly up and down to his breathing. Not that he breathed with difficulty, it was just that he breathed so conspicuously, much as frogs breathe – except that with them it is normal, while here it was exceptional. I squeezed myself through the grown-ups and watched him through a gap between two soldiers, until one of them kicked me away with his knee. Meanwhile the man originally chosen to speak had regained his composure and, firmly held up by two fellow citizens, was delivering his address. It was touching to see him smile throughout this solemn speech describing a grievous misfortune – a most humble smile which strove in vain to elicit some slight reaction on the colonel’s face. Finally he formulated the request – I think he was only asking for a year’s tax exemption, but possibly also for timber from the imperial forests at a reduced price. Then he bowed low, remaining in this position for some time, as did everyone else except the colonel, the soldiers and a number of officials in the background. To a child it seemed ridiculous that the people on the ladders should climb down a few rungs so as not to be seen during this decisive pause, and now and again peer inquisitively over the floor of the veranda. After this had lasted quite a while an official, a little man, stepped up to the colonel and tried to reach the latter’s height by standing on his toes. The colonel, still motionless save for his deep breathing, whispered something in his ear, whereupon the little man clapped his hands and everyone rose. ‘The petition has been refused,’ he announced. ‘You may go.’ An undeniable sense of relief passed through the crowd, everyone surged out, hardly a soul paying any special attention to the colonel who, as it were, had turned once more into a human being like the rest of us. I still caught one last glimpse of him as he wearily let go of the poles, which fell to the ground, then sank into an armchair produced by some officials, and promptly put his pipe in his mouth.
This whole occurrence is not isolated, it’s in the general run of things. Indeed, it does happen now and again that minor petitions are granted, but then it invariably looks as though the co
lonel had done it as a powerful private person on his own responsibility, and it had to be kept all but a secret from the government – not explicitly of course, but that is what it feels like. No doubt in our little town the colonel’s eyes, so far as we know, are also the eyes of the government, and yet there is a difference which it is impossible to comprehend completely.
In all important matters, however, the citizens can always count on a refusal. And now the strange fact is that without this refusal one simply cannot get along, yet at the same time these official occasions designed to receive the refusal are by no means a formality. Time after time one goes there full of expectation and in all seriousness and then one returns, if not exactly strengthened or happy, nevertheless not disappointed or tired.
As a matter of fact there is, so far as my observations go, a certain age group that is not content – these are the young people roughly between seventeen and twenty. Quite young fellows, in fact, who are utterly incapable of foreseeing the consequences of even the least significant, far less a revolutionary, idea. And it is among just them that discontent creeps in.
THE PROBLEM OF OUR LAWS
UNFORTUNATELY our laws are not generally known; they are the secret of the small group of noblemen who govern us. We are convinced that these ancient laws are scrupulously adhered to, but all the same it is exceedingly distressing to be governed according to laws that one does not know. I am not thinking here of the various possible ways of interpreting the laws, or of the disadvantage involved when only a few individuals and not the whole people are allowed to take part in their interpretation. These disadvantages are perhaps not so very great. For the laws are very ancient, centuries of work have gone into their interpretation and by now this has probably become law itself; there does indeed still remain a certain possible latitude of interpretation, but it is very limited. Besides, the nobility have obviously no call to let their personal interest sway them into interpreting the laws to our disadvantage, since these were drawn up in the interests of the nobility from the very beginning; the nobles stand above the law, and that seems to be the very reason why the law has been given over exclusively into their hands. Of course, there is wisdom in that – who doubts the wisdom of the ancient laws? – but equally there is distress for us; probably that is unavoidable.