#341 - Thoughts on The Trial

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I'm just writing now. This morning I got out of bed and thought - WRITE. So THAT'S going well. It doesn't matter what, just write. Just fill the page with something. It might as well be something instead of nothing. It makes no difference. I was reading The Trail by Kafka.

It is such a strange book, a waking dream. A piece of fiction where there is no escape. In the story the phobias and horrors and limitations and absurdism of the waking hours and dragged on into the lies. In the lie of fiction, the paranoia of being alive is smeared all over the surface like a dirty protest. The mania of trying to escape, clawing frantically at the cage while trying to keep your dignity is depicted in excruciating detail. No one writes like that anymore. Stories are now clever, not terrifying. Not ripped open at the seams and laid out to bleed. As gods with flies, they torment us for their pleasure, says King Lear about the cruelties, the trials we must endure. It is no wonder that Kafka only had this published posthumously.

What is painful to read is K's attempt to frantically hold on to what he has and his barely concealed anger as he does so. He screams and claws at the injustices he is accused of and each step he tries to take to hold onto his individuality is met with a obstacle. It reminds me of the dreams which I have where I try to escape, to make something happen, and nothing can take place. It is the most helpless feeling you have for you aren't just prisoner to the direction of travel in the dream, but you are also incapable of changing your mind. The thoughts just bend towards one thing and one thing only - and that is the failure. You are trapped in the lack, unable to make it different. Unable to get the ship to alter its course and you yourself cannot alter yours. 

Today I will continue with Atlantis. 


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