Franz Kafka, The Metamorphosis, 1915
Translated by Willa & Edwin Muir
Death of Gregor Samsa
Franz Kafka, The Trial, 1925
Translated by Breon Mitchell
Death of K.
Franz Kafka, The Metamorphosis, 1915
Translated by Willa & Edwin Muir
Death of Gregor Samsa:
Perhaps I can go on
turning around now,
thought Gregor, and began
his labors again. He could
not stop himself from
panting with the effort,
and had to pause now and
then to take a breath. Nor
did anyone harass him, he
was left entirely to
himself. When he had
completed the turn-around
he began at once to crawl
straight back. He was
amazed at the distance
separating him from his
room and could not
understand how in his weak state he had managed to accomplish the same journey so recently
almost without remarking it. Intent on crawling as fast as possible, he barely noticed that not a
single word, not an ejaculation from his family, interfered with his progress. Only when he was
already in the doorway did he turn his head around, not completely, for his neck muscles were
getting stiff, but enough to see that nothing had changed behind him except that his sister had
risen to her feet. His last glance fell on his mother, who was not quite overcome by sleep.
Hardly was he well inside his room when the door was hastily
pushed shut, bolted, and locked. The sudden noise in his rear
startled him so much that his little legs gave beneath him. It was
his sister who had shown such haste. She had been standing
ready waiting and had made a light spring forward, Gregor had
not even heard her coming, and she cried "At last!" to her
parents as she turned the key in the lock.
"And what now?" said Gregor to himself, looking around in the
darkness. Soon he made the discovery that he was now unable to
stir a limb. This did not surprise him, rather it seemed unnatural
that he should ever actually have been able to move on these
Death, Dying, Grief and Mourning - Adrienne Nater, 2008
www.deathdyinggriefandmourning.com
A Collection and Chronology of Death, Dying, Grief and Mourning in Western Literature
feeble little legs. Otherwise he felt relatively comfortable. True, his whole body was aching, but
it seemed that the pain was gradually growing less and would finally pass away. The rotting
apple in his back and the inflamed area around it, all covered with soft dust, already hardly
troubled him. He thought of his family with tenderness and love. The decision that he must
disappear was one that he held to even more strongly than his sister, if that were possible. In this
state of vacant and peaceful meditation he remained until the tower clock struck three in the
morning. The first broadening of light in the world
outside the window entered his consciousness once
more. Then his head sank to floor of its own
accord and from his nostrils came the last faint
flicker of his breath.
When the charwoman arrived early in the morning
— what between her strength and her impatience
she slammed all the doors loudly, never mind how
often she had been begged not to do so, that no one
in the whole apartment could enjoy any sleep after
her arrival—she noticed nothing unusual as she
took her customary peep into Gregor’s room. She
thought he was lying motionless on purpose,
pretending to be in the sulks; she credited him with
every kind of intelligence. Since she happened to
have the long-handled broom in her hand she tried
to tickle him up from the doorway. When that too
produced no reaction she felt provoked and poked
at him a little harder, and only when she had
pushed him along the floor without meeting any
resistance was her attention aroused. It did not take
her long to establish the truth of the matter, and
her eyes widened, she let out a whistle, yet did not
waste much time over it but tore open the door of
the Samsas’ bedroom and yelled into the darkness
at the top of her voice:" Just look at this, it’s dead;
it’s lying here dead and done for!"
Death, Dying, Grief and Mourning - Adrienne Nater, 2008
www.deathdyinggriefandmourning.com
A Collection and Chronology of Death, Dying, Grief and Mourning in Western Literature
Franz Kafka, The Trial, 1925
Translated by Breon Mitchell
Death of K.:
After a brief polite exchange about who was
responsible for the first of the tasks to come —
the men seemed to have received their
assignment without any specific division of
labor — one of them went to K. and removed
his jacket, his vest, and finally his shirt. K.
shivered involuntarily, whereupon the man gave
him a gentle, reassuring pat on the back. Then
he folded the clothes carefully, as if they would
be needed again, though not in the immediate
future. In order not to leave K. standing
motionless, exposed to the rather chilly night
air, he took him by the arm and walked back
and forth with him a little, while the other man
searched for some suitable spot in the quarry.
When he had found it, he waved, and the other
gentleman led K. over to it. It was near the
quarry wall, where a loose block of stone was
lying. The men sat K. down on the ground,
propped him against the stone, and laid his head
down on it. In spite of all their efforts, and in
spite of the cooperation K. gave them, his
posture was still quite forced and implausible. So one of the men asked the other to let him work
on positioning K. on his own for a while, but that didn’t improve things either. Finally they left
K. in a position that wasn’t even the best of those they had
already tried. Then one man opened his frock coat and,
from a sheath on a belt that encircled his vest, drew forth a
long, thin, double-edged butcher knife, held it up, and
tested its sharpness in the light. Once more the nauseating
courtesies began, one of them passed the knife across K. to
the other, who passed it back over K. K. knew clearly now
that it was his duty to seize the knife as it floated from hand
to hand above him and plunge it into himself.
But he didn’t do so; instead he twisted his still-free neck
and looked above him. He could not rise entirely to the
occasion, he could not relieve the authorities of all their
work; the responsibility for this final failure lay with
whoever had denied him the remnant of strength to do so.
His gaze fell upon the top story of the building adjoining
the quarry. Like a light flicking on, the casements of a
window flew open, a human figure, faint and insubstantial
Death, Dying, Grief and Mourning - Adrienne Nater, 2008
www.deathdyinggriefandmourning.com
A Collection and Chronology of Death, Dying, Grief and Mourning in Western Literature
at that distance and height, leaned far out abruptly, and stretched both arms out even further.
Who was it? A friend? A good person? Someone who cared? Someone who wanted to help? Was
it just one person? Was it everyone? Was there still help? Were there objections that had been
forgotten? Of course there were. Logic is no doubt unshakable, but it can’t withstand a person
who wants to live. Where was the judge he’d never seen? Where was the high court he’s never
reached? He raised his hands and spread out all his fingers.
But the hands of one man were right at K.’s throat, while the other thrust the knife into his heart
and turned it there twice. With failing sight K. saw how the men drew near his face, leaning
cheek-to-cheek to observe the verdict. "Like a dog!" he said; it seemed as though the shame was
to outlive him.
Death, Dying, Grief and Mourning - Adrienne Nater, 2008
www.deathdyinggriefandmourning.com
A Collection and Chronology of Death, Dying, Grief and Mourning in Western Literature