2 posts tagged “fiction”

Today I attempted a translation from a passage of Kafka's Der Prozeß, aka, The Trial that has always fascinated and confused me:

Hier konnte niemand sonst Einlaß erhalten, denn dieser Eingang war nur für dich bestimmt. Ich gehe jetzt und schließe ihn.

My translation:

No one else could receive access here, because this entrance was intended only for you. I'm now going to shut it.

This is the closing line of the parable "Before the Law" that haunts any sense of optimism the reader may hold onto throughout a reading of The Trial.  I translated this on my own for my own comfort; though I've read The Trial in translation probably half-a-dozen times, I only ever tackled it in German once, and I must admit I didn't get half-way throughout.  Yet this line, and this parable, has always struck me as a curiosity.  It is presented as both the solution to the mystery of The Trial, and as simply another weighty piece of confusing misinformation.

I thought it important to use "receive access" rather than the English convention "gain access", because throughout The Trial Joseph K is unable to "gain" anything. He is at the mercy of the system, the justices, his lawyer, his neighbors, and it is clear that his efforts, though necessary, can guarantee nothing, are incapable of genuinely earning nothing, and thus the access to the Law that he would receive must be seen as a gift, the product of an indeterminable act of benevolence.  Joseph K's lawyer describes in Chapter 7 (David Willey translation):

...dark moments, such as everyone has, when you think you’ve achieved nothing at all, when it seems that the only trials to come to a good end are those that were determined to have a good end from the start and would do so without any help, while all the others are lost despite all the running to and fro, all the effort, all the little, apparent successes that gave such joy.

I also used "entrance" rather than "gate" or "door" as I've seen in other translations because "entrance" is, to my understanding, more correct literally, and it carries with it a connotation of one-way passage: one may enter, but it does not necessarily follow that one may leave.  This resonates with the text of The Trial, wherein Joseph K sometimes must use a different doorway than that through which he entered. And often those doors lead to places unexpected. In the Painter's studio, for instance, the "other way out" leads not to the street, but (where else) the court: "'It’s better if you use the other way out,' he said, pointing to the door behind the bed."

This idea of one-way doors also plays into the idea that there is no authentic self-determination available to Joseph K--just as his efforts to "gain" may or may not be fruitless (completely independent of his own efforts), Joseph K is capable of locomotion, but his range of motion is restricted, and the simple act of moving through doorways may in the end be predetermined, or controlled--subject only to the will of the powers that be; certainly not subject to the desires of the actor. As I read The Trial again I am aware that this is the greatest trouble, the largest fear that the system incurs on it's members: independence is impossible, and self-determination is pure fantasy.  And so when with uncontestable finality the Doorkeeper states, "I'm now going to shut it." our hearts sink, for the last possibility has now been lost, and all the remains is inertness and death; the ultimate helplessness.

Film stills from Orson Welles's 1962 film, The Trial. Watch it online at: liketelevision.com

I've been resisting posting up anything on vox to friends, family, neighbors, let alone public for the last few weeks primarily because I've debating if there is really any significant value in posting any writings or reflections on a public blog at all. This is despite the fact that I have had a lot to post in line with my original objectives in keeping this vox account, and that is to document or publish a journal-like account of my writing efforts, and to "show off" an occasional work-in-progress.  In the last month I've significantly revamped my objectives in an effort to rejuvenate my interest in the novel, and though I halted work on it in favor of finishing a short story that I just had to get out (thanks to a handful of characters and events at the ITC conference in Florida last week), I plan to resume the chore of finishing it once I've worked through a 2nd draft of the short story.  I've also written two-and-a-half poems.

In writing this short story and the poems, however, I've had to face-off against the problem of the appearance of biographical elements in fiction.   I'm still personally taken aback at how much Fear of Truth and Fear of Being Mistaken for Truth is a detriment or obstacle to my writing fiction. Anything any writer produces is bound to bear some resemblance to one or more aspects of his/her own life, often in the form of a character.  Writers may choose to indulge or resist this in different situations to move the story along.  However, engaging in mimicry of this sort becomes perilous when close friends or family read one's work, as they may make assumptions about themselves or the writer based on characters or events in the story.  Often these reactions are not unfounded for the autobiographical elements suggested above.  But I've found as often as not that readers make assumptions about the auto/biographical nature of one's writing regardless of it's actual resemblance to reality.  I think of this phenomenon as akin to the psychic who through vapid generalizations is able to convince people that s/he truly "knows" them.  Listeners/readers hear what they want to hear, they "read into" the text, overlaying their own experiences and understanding of the world, and, to some extent, interpreting this slippery thing called language according to their personal motives and persuasions.

I have seen that for a writer, truth presented as fiction is likely to cause self-incrimination. And yet even fiction presented as fiction may be perceived by readers as merely truth presented as fiction.  This is complicated by the fact that most writers understand early on: fiction sans truth is soulless.  So I must assume that this a common writers' dilemma.

The complexity in such a conflict, if the conflict is real and on-going, would give rationale for the recurring appearance (stereotype?) of "writer as loner".  While I myself am naturally a loner, I will state that this fear of social uproar over perceived reflections of reality in my writing (either themselves or myself) does indeed push me away from them; I do not share anything I write with any family members, and nearly as few friends.  Total strangers are the best testing ground, providing both objectivity and social distance.