There is a parable that describes this situation very well: The Emperor, so it runs, has sent
a message to you, the humble subject, the insignificant shadow cowering in the remotest distance
before the imperial sun; the Emperor from his death-bed has sent a message to you alone. He has
commanded the messenger to kneel down by the bed, and has whispered the message to him; so much
store did he lay on it that he ordered the messenger to whisper it back to his ear again. Then
by a nod of the head he has confirmed that it is right. Yes, before the assembled spectators of
his death- all the obstructing walls have been broken down, and on the spacious and loftily
mounting open staircases stand in a ring the great princes of the Empire- before all these he
has delivered his message. The messenger immediately sets out on his journey; a powerful, an
indefatigable man; now pushing with his right arm, now with his left, he cleaves a way for
himself through the throng; if he encounters resistance he points to his breast, where the
symbol of the sun glitters; the way, too, is made easier for him than it would be for any other
man. But the multitudes are so vast; their numbers have no end. If he could reach the open
fields how fast he would fly, and soon doubtless you would hear the welcome hammering of his
fists on your door. But instead how vainly does he wear out his strength; still he is only
making his way through the chambers of the innermost palace; never will he get to the end of
them; and if he succeeded in that nothing would be gained; he must fight his way next down the
stairs; and if he succeeded in that nothing would be gained; the courts would still have to be
crossed; and after the courts the second outer palace; and once more stairs and courts; and once
more another palace; and so on for thousands of years; and if at last he should burst through
the outermost gate- but never, never can that happen- the imperial capital would lie before him,
the centre of the world, crammed to bursting with its own refuse. Nobody could fight his way
through here even with a message from a dead man. -But you sit at your window when evening falls
and dream it to yourself.
Franz Kafka, from The Great Wall of China |
|
previous: W. Gibson | next: H. P. Lovecraft |