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His language was German, his religion was Judaism, and his passion was literature. Franz Kafka (1883-1924), who was to languish for years as an employee of a commercial insurance company that made him do acts he disapproved of, mostly when they were not under morality or simple humanity, spent his free time, often solitary, to write. Still, he wanted nothing to come to light of his work, a desire that, remarkably, fortunately, his friend, the poet Max Brod, would refuse to grant.
I was between fifteen and sixteen years old when I read The Trial. I have unforgettable memories of it simultaneously as a more or less accepted attraction for this writing which can frighten and disturb at the same time as it opens our eyes to the reality of relations between citizens and administrations. Connections, where the city will consistently be subservient, are humiliating in the face of administrative agents who regard their dialogists as anonymous pawns and draw their force on what they hold if they wish to access this information. Files that can reveal what they want to know about the people who come to present their requests. However, the novel's hero, Joseph K., is precisely in this situation of powerlessness and dependence. When learning that he is dealing with justice for facts, he does not know anything. He suffers heavily from being in this situation to becoming a daily victim of an obsession. The more worried as he considers himself innocent and has nothing to be ashamed of when he sees the gazes of people indifferent to his problem turning towards him, incredulous, even suspicious. Even when one has compassion for him, and even if some are ready to help him, they cannot do anything, coming up against a wall like him. It goes as far as the absurd, and it is indeed ridiculous. Yet, this fantastic has something objective. It describes the absurdity of our lives when we have reduced to being just a number in a confrontation with an administration, especially before the legal authorities. - that of a file handled among thousands, even millions of others, which reduces us to no longer being an object and no longer a subject, still less an active subject. Ultimately, we could tolerate an obedient issue. However, we still prefer a topic that is content to silently undergo what happens to him because it is the law and the "logic (illogical and unjust but unstoppable) of things.". Joseph K. refuses this state of affairs; he has his way of reacting, contesting, or rebelling (without making too many waves). Still, it is his concern to know which revolt is a subversive act in the eyes of authority and public opinion, as if it were futile. The one who rebels is embarrassed that he does not allow himself to stop by anything in this quest. The first step towards justification and rehabilitation attempts is to fight to forgive oneself and reestablish the truth and its honor, which ultimately is never entirely satisfied because justice is decidedly not of this world. Yes, Mr. Joseph K., therefore, stop asking to have access to your file and to consult it because we do not even know where it is: how do you want us to know that we know where to look for him since we do not know exactly where he ended up arriving. Just know that you charged and that it has happened. And besides, everyone knows what's the use of fighting, what's the use of raising mountains of files. It won't change anything.
I will not describe the end of this novel as a disturbing work that forces us to ask ourselves the right questions: are we not concerned, too, each on our own? Is this book realistic? Does he show us the "blind monster" to whom we hand over our identities in the oppressive stranglehold he maintains, individually and collectively?
Is there any adherence to a Dostoyevsky fatalism below? It's up to everyone to find the answer that they think is the most accurate.
The fact remains that this book, even if it seems unbearable, does not let you go: you finish reading it, and you come out of it troubled and forever marked.