Abstract

I shall best approach my subject by explaining how it was that I, a non-professional, began to take an interest in Kafka. The fi rst thing of his which I happened to read was The Trial. It is diffi cult to describe my reaction. Certainly I didn’t understand the book. At fi rst sight it seemed to be a confused mass, a nightmare, something abstruse, incomprehensible to the utmost degree. One fi ne morning Joseph K., the junior manager of a bank, is arrested. No grounds are given. He has, we are assured, done nothing wrong. A charge against him is never specifi ed. Though he is under arrest, he can walk about freely and go to his offi ce. In the course of the story we are led on to catch a glimpse of a very strange ‘Court’, a ridiculous, corrupt, despicable Court that sits in a suburb, in the attics of a building where the povertystricken tenants have fl ung their useless lumber. The Examining Magistrate sits on a kitchen chair, with an old horse-rug doubled under him. The Judges are obsessed with vanity, and run after every woman they see