Kafka and the Tea Party

[LouisianaLiberal]

I passed three young people standing on two separate corners of a busy intersection today. One was dressed in a white wig and frock coat, while the other two carried signs with print that was too small to read unless stopped at the traffic light. I had time to make a thumbs down gesture before being forced to drive on. I called a friend who lives near that intersection to tell her about it. She later called to say that she too had given them a thumbs down as she drove by, and that they had laughed at her. I immediately thought of the story below, which I hadn't read in a long time. Of course the comparison is exaggerated, but here it is.

The translation isn't very good, but its the only English translation I could find online. Edited to add: the only words I could read were "Tea Party of Louisiana" and their web address.



AN OLD MANUSCRIPT
FRANZ KAFKA

It looks as if much has been neglected in our country’s system of
defense. We have not concerned ourselves with it until now and have gone
about our daily work; but things that have been happening recently begin to
trouble us.

I have a cobbler’s workshop in the square that lies before the
Emperor’s palace. Scarcely have I taken my shutters down, at the first
glimpse of dawn, when I see armed soldiers already posted in the mouth of
every street opening on the square. But these soldiers are not ours; they are
obviously nomads from the North. In some way that is incomprehensible to
me they have pushed right into the capital, although it is a long way from the
frontier. At any rate, here they are; it seems that every morning there are
more of them.

As is their nature, they camp under the open sky, for they abominate
dwelling houses. They busy themselves sharpening swords, whittling
arrows and practicing horsemanship. This peaceful square, which was
always kept scrupulously clean, they have made literally into a stable. We
do try every now and then to run out of our shops and clear away at least the
worst of the filth, but this happens less and less often, for the labor is in vain
and brings us besides into danger of falling under the hoofs of the wild
horses or of being crippled with lashes from the whips.

Speech with the nomads is impossible. They do not know our
language; indeed they hardly have a language of their own. They
communicate with each other much as jackdaws do. A screeching of
jackdaws is always in our ears. Our way of living and our institutions they
neither understand nor care to understand. And so they are unwilling to
make sense even out of our sign language. You can gesture at them till you
dislocate your jaws and your wrists and still they will not have understood
you and will never understand. They often make grimaces; then the whites
of their eyes turn up and foam gathers on their lips, but they do not mean
anything by that, not even a threat; they do it because it is their nature to do
it. Whatever they need, they take. You cannot call it taking by force. They
grab at something and you simply stand aside and leave them to it.

From my stock, too, they have taken many good articles. But I cannot
complain when I see how the butcher, for instance, suffers across the street.
As soon as he brings in any meat the nomads snatch it all from him and
gobble it up. Even their horses devour flesh; often enough a horseman and
his horse are lying side by side, both of them gnawing at the same joint, one
at either end. The butcher is nervous and does not dare to stop his deliveries
of meat. We understand that, however, and subscribe money to keep him
going. If the nomads got no meat, who knows what they might think of
doing; who knows anyhow what they may think of, even though they get
meat every day.

Not long ago the butcher thought he might at least spare himself the
trouble of slaughtering, and so one morning he brought along a live ox. But
he will never date to do that again. I lay for a whole hour flat on the floor at
the back of my workshop with my head muffled in all the clothes and rugs
and pillows I had, simply to keep from hearing the bellowing of that ox,
which the nomads were leaping on from all sides, tearing morsels out of its
living flesh with their teeth. It had been quiet for a long time before I risked
coming out; they were lying overcome round the remains of the carcass like
drunkards round a wine cask.

This was the occasion when I fancied I actually saw the Emperor
himself at the window of the palace; usually he never enters these outer
rooms but spends all of his time in the innermost garden; yet on this
occasion he was standing, or so at least it seemed to me, at one of the
windows, watching with bent head the on goings before his residence.
“What is going to happen?” we all ask ourselves. “How long can we
endure this burden and torment? The Emperor’s palace has drawn the
nomads here but does not know how to drive them away again. The gate
stays shut; the guards, who used to be always marching out and in with
ceremony, keep close behind barred windows. It is left to us artisans and
tradesmen to save our country; but we are not equal to such a task; nor have
we ever claimed to be capable of it. This is a misunderstanding of some
kind; and it will be the ruin of us.”

http://courseweb.stthomas.edu/paschons/language_http/German/syllabi/Idsc480poetry/AN%20OLD%20MANUSCRIPT.pdf