An Imperial Message (Parable by Franz Kafka)

THE EMPEROR, so a parable 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 deathbed 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 into 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 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 next fight his way
down the stair; 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 center of the world, crammed
to bursting with its own sediment. 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.