Transforming Kafka: Translation Effects 9781442623798

Table of contents :
Contents
Acknowledgments
Introduction
1. Kafka Translated
2. Kafka’s Judgments
3. Kafka’s Metamorphoses
4. Kafka’s Americas
5. Kafka’s Trials
6. Kafka’s Castles
7. Kafka’s Titles
8. Kafka’s Names
Conclusion
Appendix: Macrotextual Contours
Bibliography
Index

Citation preview

TRANSFORMING KAFKA

GERMAN AND EUROPEAN STUDIES General Editor: Rebecca Wittmann

Transforming Kafka Translation Effects

PATRICK O’NEILL

UNIVERSITY OF TORONTO PRESS Toronto Buffalo London

© University of Toronto Press 2014 Toronto Buffalo London www.utppublishing.com Printed in the U.S.A. ISBN 978-1-4426-5042-8 (cloth)

Printed on acid-free, 100% post-consumer recycled paper with vegetable-based inks. German and European Studies

Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication O'Neill, Patrick, 1945–, author Transforming Kafka : translation effects / Patrick O’Neill. (German and European studies) Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 978-1-4426-5042-8 (bound) 1.  Kafka, Franz, 1883–1924 – Translations – History and criticism.  I. Title.  II.  Series: German and European studies PT2621.A26Z8135 2014   833'.912   C2014-905913-2

University of Toronto Press acknowledges the financial assistance to its publishing program of the Canada Council for the Arts and the Ontario Arts Council, an agency of the Government of Ontario.

University of Toronto Press acknowledges the financial support of the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund for its publishing activities.

For Trudi, as always.

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Contents

Acknowledgments  ix Introduction 3 1  Kafka Translated  13 2  Kafka’s Judgments  31 3  Kafka’s Metamorphoses  59 4  Kafka’s Americas  79 5  Kafka’s Trials  98 6  Kafka’s Castles  116 7  Kafka’s Titles  138 8  Kafka’s Names  158 Conclusion 173 Appendix: Macrotextual Contours  179 Bibliography  189 Index  217

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Acknowledgments

Thanks are due to Roberta Ascarelli, Richard Ascough, the late Mark Boulby, Michaela Burger, Marketa Goetz-Stankiewicz, Christian Lloyd, the late A.W. Riley, and several generations of undergraduate and graduate students at the University of British Columbia and Queen’s University at Kingston who over the years have politely endured my various Kafkan enthusiasms. My general debt to the bibliographical labours of Maria Luise ­Caputo-Mayr and Julius Michael Herz will be clear and is gratefully acknowledged. I would like to thank Richard Ratzlaff at the University of Toronto Press for his continued support and patience, as well as my eagle-eyed copy editor, Barbie Halaby. Thanks are due as always to my wife, Trudi, who has put up with me and my various scholarly enthusiasms for more years than could reasonably be expected of anyone.

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TRANSFORMING KAFKA

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Introduction

The extraordinary oeuvre of Franz Kafka has been translated an extraordinary number of times into an extraordinary number of languages. So much so, indeed, that no single reader, however impossibly gifted he or she might be linguistically, could ever hope to live long enough to read all the texts involved – all the original texts, that is to say, and all the renderings in the more than 40 languages involved to date. Transforming Kafka: Translation Effects explores two key aspects of this multilingual Kafka phenomenon, one involving bibliographical description, the other involving comparative reading. An obvious first approach would be to compile a comprehensive and purely bibliographical description of what we might think of as this worldwide Kafka system, constituted by the totality of Kafka’s writings in German and the entire body of their multilingual renderings. Given the already overwhelming and ever increasing number of Kafka translations, however, even a purely bibliographical attempt to capture fully the details of such a system would be both a very major and an inevitably incomplete undertaking. No such systematic overall description exists to date, though a great deal of relevant information has been captured, for example, in the excellent international Kafka bibliography of Maria Luise Caputo-Mayr and Julius Michael Herz (2000). The present book, while by no means attempting any such systematic overall description, looks at some of its possible applications, as will be explained. A second, if necessarily very circumscribed approach would involve a comparative reading of a relatively large selection of translations, in a reasonable variety of languages, of selected key Kafka texts; and that endeavour, exploring in detail a variety of translation effects generated by the polyglot expansion of the Kafka system, constitutes the central

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Transforming Kafka

focus of this book. Before describing in any greater detail what the project sets out to do, however, it may be appropriate, given the unusual nature of the undertaking, to clarify first what it does not attempt to do. First, the book does not propose any new critical understanding of Kafka’s individual works. Rather, and keeping firmly in mind throughout that not every reader of Kafka reads Kafka in German (or in English either, for that matter), it sets out to explore the implications of what one might call a macrotextual approach to Kafka’s work. Second, the book deals with translation effects rather than with issues of translation per se and consequently proposes neither any new understanding of how translators should go about their business nor any evaluation of the quality or the cultural or historical circumstances of the many individual translations considered. Its concerns are essentially with issues of literary textuality rather than issues of translation, and its central focus, as one key component of the macrotextual approach, is on a detailed comparative and transtextual reading of a large number of Kafka translations in several western European languages. The project, in short, sets out to investigate two generally neglected aspects of the nature of literary textuality, exploring the cumulative interactive implications of two related forms of textuality (what I am calling macrotextuality and transtextuality), which, to my knowledge, have so far rarely been explored in the case of any author.1 I Franz Kafka (1883–1924), a German-speaking Jew, spent almost his entire short life in the city of Prague, where Czech was the language of the majority and Jews were not particularly popular with either linguistic group. The outer course of his uneventful life is quickly told. Born on 3 July 1883, he was the eldest of six children. Two brothers died in infancy by the time he was five, while three sisters outlived him, only to die in Nazi concentration camps. His parents ran a fashion accessories business in Prague, where Franz attended the

1 The concept of macrotextuality was introduced in my book Fictions of Discourse (O’Neill 1994: 135–54). Two later books employed a macrotextual approach to the writings of James Joyce, focused in each case on a series of transtextual readings (O’Neill 2005, 2013). See also two preliminary versions of a macrotextual approach to individual Kafka texts (O’Neill 2003, 2011).

Introduction 5

German-language high school and the German Charles-Ferdinand University, graduating in 1906 with a doctorate in law. He joined the state-run Workers’ Accident Insurance Institute in 1908, quickly becoming a competent and respected official and continuing his employment with that organization until 1922, when he was obliged to take a very premature retirement due to persistent ill health. Kafka was twice engaged to be married to the same woman, and both engagements, after much agonizing, were broken off. Tuberculosis was diagnosed as early as 1917; he died of the disease in a Viennese sanatorium on 3 June 1924, not quite 41 years old, and is buried in the New Jewish Cemetery in Prague. Since his too early death he has come to be seen by many as one of the foremost Jewish authors of his age, as the greatest modernist prose writer in the German language, and as the most cosmopolitan of all German-language writers (Preece 2002: 1). The author of a mere handful of slim volumes in print during his own lifetime, he has become one of the most read and most cited writers, and one of the most immediately recognizable literary names, of modern times. His nightmare scenarios of protagonists condemned to death by their own father, or waking up to find themselves transformed into a monstrous man-sized insect, or arrested and executed for a crime whose nature is never explained, or summoned to present themselves at a castle which they are then never allowed to enter, have for countless readers become part of the cultural fabric of modern life. Those readers who read their Kafka in Hungarian or Turkish, Finnish or Basque, Malayalam or Marathi, may or may not pause to reflect that Kafka could not speak a word of any of these languages. And thereby hangs a tale.2 The novel, as Umberto Eco felicitously puts it in his postscript to The Name of the Rose, is “a machine for generating interpretations” (1994: 506). What is true of the novel is true of the literary text in general, and what is true of original texts is of course true also of their translations.3 Reading any literary work is always a process of negotiated settlement

2 General introductions in English to Kafka’s life and writings, each containing suggestions for further reading, include Politzer (1966), Heller (1974), Hayman (1982), Karl (1993), Adler (2002), Preece (2002), Rolleston (2002), Murray (2004), Robertson (2004), and Gilman (2005). 3 For general introductions to contemporary issues in translation studies, see, for example, Lefevere (1992), Venuti (1995, 1998), Gentzler (2001).

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between reader and text, and in the case of Kafka’s texts, whether read in the original or in translation, it is most emphatically so. Kafka’s works have intrigued, fascinated, and perplexed generations of readers across the globe, across languages, and across cultures. The perplexity, as it happens, constitutes a very large part of the fascination, for, as Ritchie Robertson puts it, “if one is puzzled by Kafka, it is not because one has somehow missed the point: Kafka’s texts are puzzling. And they are so because uncertainty and perplexity are essential features of the reality Kafka is writing about” (2004: 28). The enduring fascination of Kafka’s work for readers, indeed, is arguably the result precisely of this fundamental indeterminacy of his writing, combined with the destabilizing effect of his continuing subversion of what most readers would consider the logic of the everyday world. Kafka has memorably been called “the creator of the most obscure lucidity in the history of literature, a phenomenon that, like a word one has on the tip of one’s tongue, perpetually attracts and at the same time repels the search for what it is and what it means” (Heller 1974: 9). Kafka’s textual strategies continually challenge his readers – crucial among whom are of course his translators. Information is given, only to be almost immediately qualified or retracted; sometimes the information offered appears to be too little, and sometimes too much; narrative logic sometimes appears to be flauntedly lacking, sometimes appears to be the logic of dreams; linguistic games and wordplays occur so subtly that readers (including translators) may be uneasily unsure if they are to be regarded as such at all. Above all, and informing all of this, the continually destabilizing combination of a narrator’s voice and a character’s vision – the two perspectives so subtly interwoven that readers (including translators) frequently cannot disentangle them – must count as the single most important of Kafka’s many disorienting textual effects. An emblematic example from The Castle is instructive for any reader of Kafka, whether in translation or not. As the protagonist K. leaves the village inn after his first night in the vicinity of the titular castle, having already been inconclusively interrogated as to his intentions by a young man named Schwarzer (whose name, we may notice, translates as “black”), “he noticed a dark portrait in a dim frame on the wall. He had already observed it from his couch by the stove, but from that distance he had not been able to distinguish any detail and had thought that it was only a plain back to the frame. But it was a picture after all, as now appeared, the bust portrait of a man about fifty”

Introduction 7

(Muir/Wilkins 1953/1957: 14).4 K.’s initial interpretive failure, as will emerge, is immediately and multiply compounded: he assumes, first, that the picture is not a picture but discovers that he was mistaken; he then goes on to assume, second, that its subject must in that case be the lord of the castle but is informed by the landlord of the inn that it is merely the castellan; he then assumes, third, that this castellan must be Schwarzer’s father but is told that the latter’s father is merely “an under-castellan, and one of the lowest, too”; he assumes, fourth, that such an under-castellan must be completely without power but is warned that a castle official even at this level is powerful; he assumes, fifth, that the landlord is childishly exaggerating the power of the Castle – and the rest of the narrative serves to illustrate just how false this assumption is too. The initial misinterpretation, that is to say, releases a whole chained series of misinterpretations, and the object of that initial failure, the picture, which readers encounter only half a dozen pages into the narrative, emerges as a strategically placed anticipation of K.’s chained interpretive difficulties to come. Finally, it is clear, Kafka’s characters’ interpretive difficulties are a textual mise en abyme of Kafka’s readers’ interpretive difficulties – not to mention those of Kafka’s translators and the consequences of their difficulties for their readers. II “Like Shakespeare, Dante, and Molière, Kafka is now the common property of the civilized world,” write the compilers of the most complete Kafka bibliography to date (Caputo-Mayr and Herz 2000, 1:xlvi), already mentioned. The 1,400-page work lists, among much else, translations of Kafka’s various works in more than 40 languages, including such languages as Albanian, Finnish, Hungarian, Turkish, and Malayalam, to which the great majority of Kafka’s readers will never have any access. The compilation lists not only 194 collections of Kafka’s writings in German, but also 188 in Spanish, 100 in Italian, 87 in English, and 72 in French, among many others. We also find, for example, that while there were, as of 2000, 78 different German editions of Der Prozeß (The

4 In parenthetical references containing two dates separated by a slash, the first is that of the source’s first publication, the second that of the particular edition cited here.

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Trial), there were also 61 English, 43 Spanish, 35 Italian, and 28 French editions, among those in many other languages; and that there already existed a vigorous and rapidly growing stream of Asian Kafka translations, especially in Korea but also in Japan and, more recently, China. Any writer who achieves such a worldwide readership can of course do so only by means of translation. Global Kafka, like global Dante or global Shakespeare, as “the common property of the civilized world,” is a concept founded on the centrality of translation in the worldwide literary polysystem. Transforming Kafka employs a number of strategies to explore some key aspects of the global Kafka phenomenon, focusing first on the concept of a worldwide Kafka system, constituted, as already suggested, by the totality of Kafka’s writings in both the original German and all their multilingual renderings. The opening chapter, essentially a very much reduced bibliographical survey, suggests the overall contours of some significant components of the system by succinctly reviewing the chronological history and linguistic spread of translations, especially of five selected key Kafka texts. A summary account of the publication history of Kafka’s works in the original German leads into separate and likewise very summary accounts of the publication history of Kafka translations in English, French, Spanish, and Italian, and even more briefly in some other languages, including Portuguese, Dutch, the Scandinavian languages, several eastern European languages, and a number of non-European languages. These highly concise abstracts are intended to suggest only outline contours of Kafka’s comparative fortunes in different languages, the general shape of French Kafka, Spanish Kafka, and so on, and, cumulatively, global Kafka. The component texts constituting our worldwide Kafka system may in turn be envisaged as potentially constituting also a single Kafkan macrotext: a system, one might say, is composed of texts that can be enumerated, in a bibliography, for instance; a macrotext is composed of individual texts, each of which can be read, if only by readers competent in the relevant language. Since the primary focus of Transforming Kafka is the exploration of a range of effects generated by cumulative translations rather than exhaustive bibliographical compilation for its own sake, a strategic choice was therefore made to limit the scope of the investigation essentially to the five key Kafka texts considered in chapter 1, namely the three uncompleted novels (Amerika, The Trial, The Castle) and two shorter texts of central importance in Kafka’s oeuvre, The

Introduction 9

Judgment and The Metamorphosis, each of which has been very widely translated and even more widely discussed.5 If for our purposes we subdivide the overall Kafka system into component systems centred on individual key texts, each potentially generating its own putative macrotext, and if the number of languages involved is also sharply reduced (to some of the more familiar western European languages, for example), then it does indeed become possible to explore at least some aspects of these individual macrotexts. The central focus of the book, in chapters 2 through 6, is therefore a series of comparative readings of translations in several languages of key passages in these five selected texts, involving the second aspect of our experimental model, namely the concept of transtextual reading. One of the most liberating developments in the contemporary understanding of literary textuality has been the insight that readers’ reactions to a literary text are not just passive responses to it but also, in a certain sense, continuations of it. In this understanding, the most significant role of the reader of literary texts is always to extend them, to open up rather than curtail their particular capacities for textual play, to function not just as a reader but also and simultaneously as a writer and rewriter. One key area in which the story of the literary text is taken up, reshaped, and continued by readers who function very overtly and consistently as rewriters is of course that of literary translation. The concept of macrotextuality, as already suggested, is based on the notion that any literary work potentially or actually involves both an original text and a macrotext that is made up of that text and all its translations. The concept of transtextuality is based on the notion that the original text is in principle always extended by its individual and cumulative translations; that every translation has something unique to add to the always developing macrotext; and that transtextual attempts to read comparatively at least some aspects of that macrotext across the individual translations and individual languages involved, exploring relations between texts that are at once different and the same, can constitute a literary experiment of considerable interest. As genetic readings extend the potential meanings of a literary text by a comparative

5 Since this book is intended primarily for English-speaking readers, Kafka’s works, despite the fact that he wrote them in German, will normally be referred to (as long as confusion can be avoided) by their most commonly used English titles, which in most cases will be those first employed by Willa and Edwin Muir.

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consideration of its genetically earlier forms, so transtextual readings extend its potential meanings by a comparative consideration, across languages, of its collective translations.6 The present exercise therefore regards literary translations as essentially independent texts characterized primarily by their complex relationship, involving both sameness and difference, both with the original text and with other competing translations. The chosen approach involves a comparative reading across the entire body of selected translations, as if they, in conjunction with Kafka’s original text, formed a single multilingual and multi-voiced macrotext, its constituent voices sometimes agreeing, sometimes disagreeing with each other, always relativizing and interrogating each other, and thus also collectively serving to extend the boundaries of Kafka’s original text and its potential for generating meanings. A key factor is that while any individual translation may of course distort or fail or betray its original, whether a given translation is considered to be good or bad is essentially irrelevant in the macrotextual context, since, good or bad, each translation will always have readers for whom its words are the unassailable words of Kafka himself – and thus in principle an extension rather than a reduction or distortion of the cumulative Kafkan macrotext. Focusing on the five key Kafka texts, these five chapters constitute a comparative study of the frequently quite fascinating ways in which each text changes when translated by a range of translators in different languages – and of how each of these original texts, augmented by an ever increasing number of translations, expands into a multilingual, self-reflexive, self-interrogating, and continually growing and changing literary macrotext. An undertaking of this kind obviously needs to pay very close attention to detail, which explains why in some cases as many as eight or ten very similar English versions of a particular phrase or passage may profitably be considered. The similarities are of course to be expected; what is of central interest for our purposes are the occasional differences, which may well be quite minute in some cases and might well escape a reader’s notice in the case of any individual translation, but may contribute in the comparative context to significant variations of meaning – significant translation effects. The degree of detail required necessarily implies that the texts considered should

6 For further discussion of the concepts of macrotextuality and transtextuality, see O’Neill (1994: 132–54; 2005: 5–12).

Introduction 11

be quite short. In all five cases, once again for comparative purposes, the analysis begins with (and may be limited to) the textual incipit, the crucial opening sentence or sentences of the Kafka text. Chapters 7 and 8 continue the process of transtextual reading but turn to a set of specific translation effects generated in both cases by the comparative implications of translingual naming. Chapter 7 discusses the interpretive implications of Kafka’s titles. The title of any literary work constitutes a crucial opening move in the encounter between reader and text, and it will of course normally change in translation, thus allowing at least in principle for quite different opening expectations and assumptions on the part of the reader. Kafka’s texts are invariably characterized by their unrelenting challenge to the reader to make them make sense: the discussion will make clear that that challenge begins already with the title, whether original or translated. A related textual effect is considered in chapter 8, namely the implications of Kafka’s deployment of his fictional characters’ names – an area in which his subversive sense of humour is very clearly in evidence – and the degree to which those implications may vary in the case of translations. Unlike titles, which quite normally change in translation, fictional characters’ names are nowadays normally left untranslated – which of course adds a particular interest to those cases in which translations do occur. The discussion in this chapter suggests that, in this context as in others, the details of individual translators’ and individual readers’ specific responses, while frequently intriguing in themselves, are in principle less interesting than the fact that Kafka’s extraordinary writings so powerfully provoke such responses in the first place. Finally, a bibliographical appendix suggests the linguistic contours of the entire potential macrotextual family of translations surrounding each of the five selected texts. The exercise, while detailed, is still merely suggestive, if only in view of the ever increasing number of Kafka translations. Needless to say, the number of translations involved in each of these macrotextual families invariably exceeds, sometimes greatly, the limited number selected for transtextual analysis. The comparative analysis undertaken of The Metamorphosis, for example, involves 30 different translations in six different languages as well as Kafka’s German original. But that particular text has in fact been translated an amazing 175 times at least, into at least 42 different languages (including, for example, Lithuanian, Kanarese, Malayalam, Marathi, and Tamil), thus collectively constituting a vastly expanded potential macrotext. Even this is not the whole story, of course, since new versions of Kafka’s

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text in new languages are continually appearing, causing our Kafkan macrotext, in appropriately Kafkan fashion, to dissolve finally into indefinable and ungraspable distances. Full publication details for each translation mentioned, in the appendix or elsewhere, are to be found, to the degree that details could be reliably ascertained, in the concluding bibliography, which is arranged for easier access as a single alphabetical list in author-date (and, in the case of translations, translator-date) format.7 To summarize, Transforming Kafka: Translation Effects is an exploration, focused on the work of Franz Kafka, of certain aspects of literary translation and of literary textuality that are rarely given sustained critical consideration. Four interrelated thrusts are involved. First, the book opens with a very succinct sketch (chapter 1), focused especially on five key Kafka texts, of the comparative international history of Kafka’s work in its multilingual translations. Second, the central focus (chapters 2 through 6) is on a series of detailed comparative readings of translations in several languages of key passages in each of the same five texts, involving a mode of reading that may be called transtextual and exploring the degree to which the original text may be read as extended rather than reduced or distorted by its cumulative translations. A third thrust (chapters 7 and 8) explores literary naming (of both literary texts and the characters who populate them) in the context of translation. The final thrust, in the bibliographical appendix, suggests the worldwide contours of a potential macrotext constituted by the original of each of the selected texts and its cumulative international and multilingual renderings. An approach combining these four factors might of course in principle be applied to the writings of any author whose works have been relatively widely translated; it is particularly appropriate in the case of Franz Kafka, whose works have not only been extremely widely translated and highly influential but are universally characterized, whether in the original or in translation, by the intriguingly destabilizing nature of the interpretive challenge they present to their readers.

7 The listings are of course indebted to a wide variety of bibliographical sources, but most especially and most heavily to Caputo-Mayr and Herz (2000) and for more recent translations also to Index Translationum and a large number of individual library catalogues, online and in print. All sources are silently corrected where necessary.

1 Kafka Translated

Kafka’s first short prose pieces and sketches began to appear, in their original German, in literary journals in 1908, and by the time of his death 16 years later he had published six slim volumes, with a seventh in press, and on that basis was already a recognized and respected figure in German and Austrian literary circles. Betrachtung (Meditation), a collection of 18 short prose sketches, appeared in 1912; Der Heizer (The Stoker) in 1913; Die Verwandlung (The Metamorphosis) in 1915; Das Urteil (The Judgment) in 1916; In der Strafkolonie (In the Penal Colony) in 1919; Ein Landarzt (A Country Doctor), a collection of 14 short stories, also in 1919; and Ein Hungerkünstler (A Hunger Artist), a collection of four stories, posthumously in 1924. All but the last of these was published in Leipzig, Betrachtung by the Ernst Rowohlt Verlag and the remainder by its successor the Kurt Wolff Verlag. Ein Hungerkünstler, the proofs of which Kafka was still correcting shortly before his death, was published in Berlin by Verlag Die Schmiede. The real beginnings of the worldwide Kafka phenomenon as we know it, however, came only during the three-year period after his death, with the publication by his long-time friend and fellow Prague writer Max Brod (1884–1968), against Kafka’s stated wishes that all of his unpublished work should be burned on his death, of three unfinished but still substantial novels: Der Prozeß (The Trial) in 1925, Das Schloß (The Castle) in 1926, and Amerika (America, Amerika) in 1927, the first published in Berlin by Verlag Die Schmiede, the other two in Munich by Kurt Wolff Verlag. In addition to the manuscripts of the three novels, Kafka’s papers left behind after his death also included a great mass, largely unsorted, of other manuscripts, sketches, diaries, letters, and miscellaneous writings. A first posthumous collection of 19 stories, Beim Bau der chinesischen

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Transforming Kafka

Mauer, edited by Max Brod, appeared in 1931 and was translated by Willa and Edwin Muir as The Great Wall of China (1933). Over the next several decades Brod also prepared three separate editions of Kafka’s collected works, selected and arranged by him from the manuscripts. A six-volume edition appeared between 1935 and 1937 and included a second posthumous collection of 14 stories, sketches, and aphorisms, Beschreibung eines Kampfes (1936), translated by Tania and James Stern as Description of a Struggle (1958). A second, five-volume edition appeared in 1946; and a third, ten-volume edition (some of the individual volumes edited by other hands), appeared between 1950 and 1967, the latter including a third posthumous collection of fragments, notebooks, aphorisms, and other materials, Hochzeitsvorbereitungen auf dem Lande (1953), translated by Ernst Kaiser and Eithne Wilkins as Wedding Preparations in the Country and Other Posthumous Prose Writings (1954).8 Max Brod’s contribution to Kafka’s reputation is universally recognized as enormous, but as generations of scholars continued to pore over Kafka’s writings, including the manuscript materials, Brod’s editorial principles came to be increasingly questioned. A new critical edition based on Kafka’s own manuscripts was eventually undertaken by an international group of Kafka experts and began to appear in the 1980s. The edition, published by Fischer Verlag of Frankfurt and subsequently issued also in a 12-volume paperback version edited by Hans-Gerd Koch, included substantially revised versions of Das Schloß (edited by Malcolm Pasley in 1981); Amerika, now retitled Der Verschollene (edited by Jost Schillemeit in 1983); and Der Prozeß, now retitled Der Proceß (edited by Malcolm Pasley in 1990). In addition, a single volume of Koch’s edition contained all seven of the volumes completed during Kafka’s lifetime; four further volumes contained his posthumous writings of various kinds; and a final four volumes contained his extensive diaries from 1909 to 1923 as well as accounts of his travels. Questions were eventually also raised concerning the editorial principles employed in the critical edition, and when copyright for Kafka’s

8 A volume of Kafka’s letters to his Czech translator Milena Jesenská, Briefe an Milena, edited by Willy Haas, appeared in 1952; a volume of selected letters, Briefe 1902–1924, edited by Max Brod, appeared in 1958; and a volume of his letters to Felice Bauer, Briefe an Felice, edited by Erich Heller and Jürgen Born, appeared in 1967. Selections from Kafka’s diaries edited by Brod appeared in 1937 (Tagebücher und Briefe) and 1951 (Tagebücher 1910–1923).



Kafka Translated 15

works lapsed in 1994, 70 years after his death, a small German publisher, Stroemfeld Verlag in Frankfurt, seized the opportunity to publish a facsimile edition of Kafka’s manuscript of Der Prozeß, once again retitled, this time as Der Process, edited by Roland Reuß in 1997. A planned complete Stroemfeld edition of Kafka’s writings has continued over the intervening years to produce facsimile versions of other Kafka manuscripts, typescripts, and first editions; and the complete edition, intended to include eventually every word ever written by Kafka in any context, literary or otherwise, is expected to run to some 40 volumes. Global Kafka As previously suggested, any attempt to provide a complete account of the worldwide growth and spread of what we might call the Kafka system (which is to say, all of Kafka’s texts and their worldwide translations) would quickly fall victim to the overwhelming and ever increasing mass of material available. In this chapter we will limit ourselves to a rapid overview of some particularly interesting aspects of that system – as represented by translations of the three novels and of the two key stories (The Judgment, The Metamorphosis) – with only passing reference to other texts and collections of texts. The limitation to these two stories is partly a necessary one, in view of the huge numbers of Kafka translations that exist; partly an arbitrary one, in that, like many readers, I have always been especially fascinated by these two texts; and partly a reflection of the fact that each of them has been unusually widely translated and discussed. The first translation of any Kafka text into any language was Milena Jesenská’s Czech rendering of Der Heizer (The Stoker) in 1920, which appeared under the title Topicˇ in the short-lived Prague literary journal Kmen, a version approved by Kafka himself. The same translator, eventually to become an intimate friend of Kafka’s, went on to produce a Czech version of Das Urteil (The Judgment), under the title Soud, in the journal Cesta in 1923. Between 1920 and 1924, translations of a small number of brief individual pieces, mostly from Betrachtung (Meditation), also appeared in Dutch, Hungarian, Norwegian, and Catalan (Caputo-Mayr and Herz 2000, 1:xl). The first translation of Die Verwandlung (The Metamorphosis) was an anonymous Spanish version (La metamorfosis), which appeared in Madrid in 1925, spread over two issues of José Ortega y Gasset’s newly founded journal Revista de Occidente. The first English translation of a

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Transforming Kafka

Kafka text was Eugene Jolas’s version of Das Urteil, entitled The Sentence, published in Paris in the avant-garde journal transition in February 1928, and the first French translation of a Kafka text, Alexandre Vialatte’s La métamorphose, appeared in Paris the same year, spread over three issues of the prestigious Nouvelle Revue Française. A third version of Die Verwandlung, translated into Czech by Ludvík Vrána and František Pastor under the title Promeˇna, appeared in 1929. By the end of the 1920s, only six years after his death, shorter texts by Kafka could thus also be read in some seven languages other than his native German, while The Judgment could be read in both Czech and English and The Metamorphosis in Spanish, French, and Czech. Although these numbers are hardly overwhelming, the groundwork, as would very shortly emerge, was already solidly in place for the multilingual development of a global Kafka. English Kafka Translations of the novels began to appear in the early 1930s, the first of them in any language being Willa and Edwin Muir’s English version of Das Schloß (The Castle) in 1930.9 During the 1930s, Kafka also appeared in English in the Muirs’ translations of The Great Wall of China and Other Pieces (1933), The Trial (1935), and America (1938), as well as in two separate versions of The Metamorphosis, by A.L. Lloyd (1937) and by Eugene Jolas (1936–8) respectively. The 1940s brought Rosa Beuscher’s The Judgment (1945) as well as the Muirs’ collection of stories and short pieces The Penal Colony (1948), which included versions of both The Judgment and The Metamorphosis. The Muirs’ 1930 version of The Castle appeared in a revised edition in 1953, with additional material translated by Eithne Wilkins and Ernst Kaiser; their 1935 version of The Trial also appeared in a revised edition in 1956, with additional material translated by E.M. Butler. These revised versions would for many years be considered the definitive English versions of the two novels. The Muirs’ collected renderings shaped the face of Kafka in English for decades of readers to come. Over the following half century or so, translations proliferated, and by 2012 there existed 4 English versions of Amerika, 6 of The Castle, 9

9 On English translations of Kafka, see Crick (1980), Robertson (1983, 1984), Bullock (1989), Hafrey (1989), Mandel (1990), Durrani (2002), Zilcosky (2003), Corngold (2004).



Kafka Translated 17

of The Trial, 12 of The Judgment, and 16 of The Metamorphosis.10 The key figures in the promotion of an English Kafka, however – and indeed, after Max Brod, of a worldwide Kafka – were for many years the Scottish husband-and-wife team of Edwin and Willa Muir. The poet, novelist, critic, and translator Edwin Muir (1887–1959), born in Orkney, off the north coast of Scotland, spent unhappy years as a young man in a series of more or less menial jobs in Glasgow factories and offices until 1919, when he met and married Willa Anderson (1890–1970), a native of the Shetland Islands. Shortly after their marriage, the couple left for continental Europe, returning to England in 1924. Over the next 30 years, Edwin Muir published three novels, seven volumes of poetry, and numerous other books.11 The Muirs first visited Germany in 1921, en route to Prague and eventually Dresden. “We knew only a few words of German,” Edwin Muir writes in his An Autobiography (1954: 182), and they had difficulties at that stage even with basic communication. They began to study German in Dresden, and by 1925 they were practising translators. Over the next two decades or so the pair produced more than 40 volumes of translations, almost all from the German, including especially works by Kafka, with Willa typically preparing preliminary drafts for Edwin’s final polish (Butter 1966: 171–7). While the Muirs’ name is inextricably linked to Kafka’s for many English-speaking readers, Edwin’s An Autobiography (1954) contains only three or four passing references to Kafka, and Willa’s memoir Belonging (1968) contains little more. Edwin even expressed regret towards the end of his career that “too much of our time was wasted … in turning German into English” (1954: 227).

10 More specifically, 4 versions of Amerika (Muir and Muir 1938, Hofmann 1996, Harman 2008, Northey 2010); 6 of The Castle (Muir and Muir 1930, Muir/Wilkins 1953, Underwood 1997, Harman 1998, Calame and Rogoff 2006, Bell 2009); 9 of The Trial (Muir and Muir 1935, Muir/Butler 1956, Scott and Walker 1977, Parry 1994, Mitchell 1998, Lück 2005, Stokes 2005, Wyllie 2007, Mitchell 2009); 12 of The Judgment (Jolas 1928, Beuscher 1945, Muir and Muir 1948, Pasley 1977, Underwood 1981, Wensinger 1989, Appelbaum 1993, Neugroschel 1993, Stokes 2002, Freed 2003, Hofmann 2006, Crick 2009); and 16 of The Metamorphosis (Lloyd 1937, Jolas 1936–8, Muir and Muir 1948, Corngold 1972, Underwood 1981, Hibberd 1985, Wensinger 1989, Pasley 1992, Appelbaum 1993, Neugroschel 1993, Freed 1996, Stokes 2002, Wyllie 2005, Hofmann 2006, Reppin 2006, Crick 2009). 11 On Edwin Muir, see Butter (1966), McCulloch (1993).

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Transforming Kafka

The Muirs helped to propagate Max Brod’s version of Kafka as an essentially religious writer in the English-speaking world through their translations and through Edwin Muir’s highly influential writings on Kafka – such as his introductory note to The Castle, in which he places Kafka’s novel in the allegorical tradition of Bunyan’s Pilgrim’s Progress.12 Translators’ introductions and commentaries can have a particularly important influence on generations of readers, much more so than the views of subsequent academic critics, and, as Ritchie Robertson has observed, Muir might have done much better to remind his readers “not of Bunyan’s simple one-to-one correspondences but of a complex allegorical work like Spenser’s Faerie Queene” (1985: 268). While inaccuracies of translation were noted from an early stage, there was general admiration of the Muirs’ elegant English, though critics occasionally expressed reservations that their consistent attempt to establish a logical, coherent, and urbane tone tended in many cases to undermine the abrupt and disorienting shifts in focus characteristic of Kafka’s texts (Rolleston 1974: 151n12). Other pioneering English-language translators of Kafka included the American Eugene Jolas (1894–1952), whose translation of Das Urteil as The Sentence in 1928 was the very first Kafka text to be translated into English, as we have seen, and Albert Lancaster Lloyd (1908–82), who produced the first complete English version of The Metamorphosis (1937). A second husband-and-wife team of translators was that of James and Tania Stern (1904–93, 1904–95, respectively), and a third was that of Ernst Kaiser (1911–72) and Eithne Wilkins. A key figure in Kafka studies was Sir Malcolm Pasley (1926–2004), born in India, who spent his academic career, first as a student and then as a scholar, at Oxford University, succeeding to the family baronetcy in 1982. A lifelong student of Kafka, he was, as mentioned, responsible for the critical editions of both Das Schloß (1981) and Der Proceß (1990). He also provided a new English translation of those works of Kafka published during his lifetime (Pasley 1992). In the wake of the critical edition, a wave of other new English translations of Kafka also began to appear, including Breon Mitchell’s version of The Trial (1998) and Mark Harman’s versions of both The Castle (1998) and Amerika (2008), as well as a number

12 On the ideological dimension of the Muirs’ essentially religious understanding of Kafka and the impact of their translations on the interpretation of Kafka in the English-speaking world, see Jakob (1970).



Kafka Translated 19

of competing versions by other hands of The Trial (Lück 2005, Stokes 2005, Wyllie 2007, Mitchell 2009), The Castle (Calame and Rogoff 2006, Bell 2009), and Amerika (Northey 2010). French Kafka The first French translation of any Kafka text was Alexandre Vialatte’s La métamorphose in the Nouvelle Revue Française in 1928.13 Vialatte (1901–71), a novelist himself, also published numerous articles, poems, and translations during his lifetime. His translations included works by Friedrich Nietzsche and Thomas Mann, but he is undoubtedly best known for his versions of Kafka, which include translations of almost all of Kafka’s output. After his translation of Die Verwandlung in 1928, he went on to produce versions of Der Prozeß (Le procès) in 1933, Das Schloß (Le château) in 1938, a collection of stories in translation (including Das Urteil) under the title La métamorphose also in 1938, Amerika (L’Amérique) in 1946, and a further collection of stories under the title La colonie pénitentiaire et autres récits in 1947. All of these translations were published by one of the most prestigious French publishers, Gallimard, and Vialatte’s versions continued to be considered definitive in France for decades to come. As in the case of the Muirs in English, however, Vialatte’s French versions of Kafka eventually and inevitably came to be seen as needing revision, and various new translations appeared over the years. By 2012, French would thus have three versions of Amerika, four of Der Prozeß, four of Das Schloß, eight of Die Verwandlung, and nine of Das Urteil.14 Other early French Kafka translations included a version of Das Urteil (Le verdict) by Pierre Klossowski and Pierre Leyris in 1930. During the 1940s, Pierre Meylan translated Das Urteil once again as Le jugement

13 On French translations of Kafka, see Goth (1956), Robert (1966), Schmeling (1979), Sallager (1981), Lortholary (1983b), Gernig (1999), and Kaplan (2003). 14 More specifically, three versions of Amerika (Vialatte 1946, Lortholary 1988b, Mathieu 2000); four of Der Prozeß (Vialatte 1933, Lortholary 1983a, Goldschmidt 1983, Nesme 2000a); four of Das Schloß (Vialatte 1938a, Goldschmidt 1984, Lortholary 1984, Nesme 2000b); eight of Die Verwandlung (Vialatte 1928, Briu 1988, Lortholary 1988a, VergneCain and Rudent 1988a, David 1989, Ziegler 1993, Billmann and Cellard 1997, Torrent 2002); and nine of Das Urteil (Klossowski and Leyris 1930, Vialatte 1938c, Meylan 1944, Robert 1954a, Vergne-Cain and Rudent 1988b, David 1989, Lortholary 1991, Outin 1993, Billmann and Cellard 1997).

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Transforming Kafka

in 1944, while Jean Starobinsky translated a collection of stories entitled La colonie pénitentiaire in 1945, two years before Vialatte’s collection of the same name. The French Kafka scholar Marthe Robert (1914–96) edited (and partly translated) the first complete edition of Kafka’s works in French (Oeuvres complètes) in eight volumes between 1963 and 1965. Her translations of Kafka include the journals and, in part, the letters, as well as a number of the stories. Claude David (born 1913), author of numerous works on modern German literature and culture, edited a new four-volume edition of Kafka’s complete works in French (Oeuvres complètes) for Gallimard’s Bibliothèque de la Pléiade (1976–89), which included his own translations of Das Urteil, Die Verwandlung, and other texts. The edition was originally intended to include Alexandre Vialatte’s by then canonic translations of the novels and various other texts, updated and corrected where deemed necessary by David. The issue, however, became a legal cause célèbre when Vialatte’s son took Gallimard to court, successfully arguing that his father’s moral right over his translations was being violated in the planned corrected edition. As a result, the Gallimard edition and associated paperback editions of Kafka’s works in French carry a prefatory page summarizing the decision by the 1974 Paris court and stating that Vialatte’s translation has in each case been reprinted and appears unchanged from the original editions, though text that had previously been left untranslated has been added in brackets. Claude David’s suggested corrections and adjustments are relegated to a critical apparatus at the back of each of the relevant volumes. As Alice Kaplan writes, “Vialatte’s translation has been improved, but because the improvements are isolated in the critical apparatus, they are unable to affect our reading experience. There is something tragic (dare I say Kafkaesque?) in this visible but, at the same time, distracting revision of the French Kafka” (2003). It is of course arguable that this very element of distraction does indeed significantly affect readers’ experience of the Kafkan text, destabilizing their reactions, indeed, in an eminently Kafkan fashion. Later French translators of Kafka include Bernard Lortholary (born 1936), whose versions include Le procès (1983a), Le château (1984), La métamorphose (1988a), Amerika (1988b), and a collection of the stories entitled Dans la colonie pénitentiaire et autres nouvelles (1991), which also includes Le verdict. Georges-Arthur Goldschmidt (born 1928), in direct competition with Lortholary (whose versions were published by Flammarion), translated Der Prozeß (Le procès) in 1983 and Das Schloß (Le château) in 1984, published in both cases by Presses Pocket. A compact



Kafka Translated 21

one-volume edition of Kafka’s stories, novels, and journals, edited by Brigitte Vergne-Cain and Gérard Rudent, appeared in 2000, notable especially for including translations by Axel Nesme of the new critical editions of both Der Proceß (Le procès) and Das Schloß (Le château) and by François Mathieu of Der Verschollene (formerly Amerika) under the title Le disparu (Amerika). As in the case of the Muirs’ translations in English, finally, Alexandre Vialatte’s versions in French still continue to have their enthusiastic supporters despite the numerous flaws and inaccuracies identified by scholars over the years. Simon Leys puts the case strongly: “While accepting that Vialatte did make numerous errors, when I read the new rigorously correct versions which are now replacing the old ones, it seems to me that what Vialatte still offers, and which is more fundamental than philological exactitude, is literary truth. Even if his knowledge of German can often be found wanting, his understanding of the genius of Kafka – of the essentially comic nature of his genius – is in the end the yardstick of a truer sense of the text; a sense which, in turn, is served in French by Vialatte’s incomparable artistic abilities” (2008: 34). Spanish Kafka Among western European languages, the first significant translation of any work of Kafka’s was an anonymous Spanish version of Die Verwandlung (La metamorfosis), which appeared in the Revista de Occidente in Madrid in 1925. In 1931 an anonymous translation of Das Urteil (La sentencia) appeared in the Spanish-language journal Imán in Paris, a second Spanish version of Die Verwandlung (La metamorfosis) by Jorge Luis Borges appeared in 1938, and a translation of Der Prozeß (El proceso) by Vicente Mendivil appeared in 1939, the latter two both published in Buenos Aires. Spanish Kafka expanded during the 1940s to include translations by David Vogelmann of both Amerika (América, 1943) and Das Schloß (El castillo, 1949), as well as a third Spanish version of Die Verwandlung by Galo Sáez (La metamorfosis, 1945). The first promoter of Kafka’s work in the Spanish-speaking world – more specifically in Argentina – was Jorge Luis Borges (1899–1986), a kindred spirit later to become perhaps the best-known Spanishlanguage writer of South America and, as early as the 1940s, a celebrated master of the short story in his own right. Another Argentinian writer, Juan Rodolfo Wilcock (1919–78), translated an early collection of Kafka’s stories, including Das Urteil (La condena), under the title La

22

Transforming Kafka

condena in 1952. A first Spanish-language edition of Kafka’s complete works (Obras completas) appeared in two volumes in 1960, translated by David Vogelmann and others; another (Obras), translated by R. Kruger and others, in 1978; a third (Obras completas), edited by Alberto Laurent, in 1983, and a fourth (Obras completas), edited by Jordi Llovet, in 1999. Kafka has been very widely translated in Spanish, which as of 2012 had at least 9 translations of Das Urteil, 10 of Das Schloß, 11 of Amerika, 19 of Der Prozeß, and no fewer than 42 of Die Verwandlung.15 The very early anonymous translation of Die Verwandlung in 1925 – which preceded the first French version (Vialatte 1928) by 3 years and the first complete English version (Lloyd 1937) by 12 – heralded the enormous fascination that this particular Kafka text has had for Spanish-language translators ever since. While French has at least 8 versions of Die Verwandlung and English at least 16, Spanish can boast an amazing 42 versions, the greatest number by far in any language worldwide. At least 14 of these appeared in the 1980s alone. Italian Kafka Whereas Das Urteil was the first Kafka text to appear in English (Jolas 1928), and Die Verwandlung the first to appear in both French (Vialatte

15 Specifically, at least 9 Spanish translations of Das Urteil (Anon. 1931, Wilcock 1952, Kruger 1975b, Guillén 1978, Camargo 1985, Izquierdo 1985, Uriarte 1986, Zanutigh Núñez 2006a, Rasmozzi 2000); 10 of Das Schloß (Vogelmann 1949, Moyano Moradillo 1976, Zanutigh Núñez 1977b, Aguirre and Aguirre 1982, Uriarte 1986, Chopitea 1990, Acosta Gómez 1998, Sáenz 1999, Hernández Arias 2001, Groh and Laurent 2003); 11 of Amerika (Vogelmann 1943, Gonzáles Castresana 1974, Fabiani 1976, Zanutigh Núñez 1977a, Saunner 1983, Chopitea 1984, Heller 1987, Laurent 1994a, Sáenz 1999, Acosta Gómez 2000, Hernández Arias 2001); 17 of Der Prozeß (Mendivil 1939, Bixio 1960, Formosa 1975, Kruger 1975a, Pagni 1978, Aguirre and Aguirre 1979, Flores Esquivel 1980a, Sonsoles 1981, Alarcón 1984, Rodriguez Arias 1984, Chopitea 1989, Hernández 1989, Leyva 1998, Laurent 1999, Sáenz 1999, Hernández Arias 2001, Aries 2001, del Rey 2003, González García 2007); and 42 of Die Verwandlung (Anon. 1925, Borges 1938, Sáez 1945, de la Sota 1958, Cóndor Orduña 1968, Bruggendieck 1972, Mendilaharzu de Machaín 1974, Bartis 1975, Galmés 1975, Izquierdo 1975, Kruger 1975b, Pagni 1977, Aguirre and Aguirre 1978, Alarcón 1980, Fernández Galiano 1980, Flores Esquivel 1980b, López 1983, Rottner 1983, Durán 1984, Gutiérrez 1984, Rodriguez Arias 1984, Camargo 1985, Martínez and Letemendia 1985, Moreno 1985, Uriarte 1986, Fortea 1987, Boruda 1988, Cortés 1990, Laurent 1994b, M.L.V. 1996, Dieterich 1998, Cugajo 1999, del Solar 1999, Sola 1999, Berg 2000, Franky 2000, González García 2000, Frondden 2003, Baldocchi 2004, Ribas 2004, Lorenzo 2005, San León Jiménez 2008).



Kafka Translated 23

1928) and Spanish (Anon. 1925), the first of Kafka’s major works to appear in Italian was Alberto Spaini’s translation of Der Prozeß (Il processo) in 1933.16 Two Italian versions of Die Verwandlung quickly followed with Rodolfo Paoli’s La metamorfosi in 1934 and Anita Rho’s La metamorfosi in 1935, the latter in a translated collection of Kafka’s stories that also included Das Urteil (La condanna). During the 1940s, Alberto Spaini also translated Amerika (America, 1945), while Anita Rho went on to translate Das Schloß (Il castello, 1948). Ervino Pocar (1892–1981), a central figure in the introduction of German literature into Italy, and the official German-language translator for the publisher Mondadori from the mid-1930s, edited a four-volume edition of Kafka’s collected works (Opere) in Italian translation, published by Mondadori between 1969 and 1972, which included his own translations of Der Prozeß (Il processo, 1969), the diaries, the letters to Felice Bauer (Kafka’s fiancée), and (with Rodolfo Paoli) a number of the shorter stories. One later Italian Kafka translator with a significant international profile was Primo Levi (1919–87), a Jewish Italian writer and Auschwitz survivor, who translated Der Prozeß (Il processo) in 1983, commissioned by the publisher Einaudi for a series of novels translated by novelists. At this time Levi was already well known in Italy as a novelist and short-story writer, as well as for his memoir of his year spent in Auschwitz, but his later worldwide fame was still to come. Other more recent translators have included Giorgio Zampa, who translated the collected stories (Racconti, 1957), Die Verwandlung (La metamorfosi, 1973), and Der Prozeß (Il processo, 1978). Two later collections of the stories included Luigi Coppé’s Tutti i racconti (1974) and Henry Furst’s I racconti (1979). As of 2012, Italian had at least 11 versions of Das Urteil, 15 of Die Verwandlung, five of Amerika, 10 of Der Prozeß, and eight of Das Schloß.17

16 On Kafka in Italian translation, see Cusatelli (1986) and Bruschi (2006). 17 More specifically, at least 11 Italian versions of Das Urteil (Rho 1935, Furst 1953, Zampa 1957, Castellani 1966, Paoli 1970, Coppé 1974, Fortini 1980, Farinella 1991, Lavagetto 1991, Scrignòli 1991, Fertonani and Fortini 1997); 15 of Die Verwandlung (Paoli 1934, Rho 1935, Furst 1953, Castellani 1966, Coppé 1974, Zampa 1973, Fortini 1980, Schiavoni 1985, Codacci-Pisanelli 1989, Lavagetto 1991, Motta 1994, Nervi 1996, Fertonani and Fortini 1997, Ruggera 2002, Kolbe 2004); 5 of Amerika (Spaini 1945, Agabio 1989, Franchetti 1990, Ulivieri 1991, Gandini 1996); 10 of Der Prozeß (Spaini 1933, Pocar 1969, Zampa 1978, Levi 1983, Morena 1984b, Franchetti 1986, Codacci-Pisanelli 1991, Masci 1995, Raja 1995, Moro 1999); and 8 of Das Schloß (Rho 1948, Morena 1984a, Porzi 1990, Gandini 1994, Boni 1995, Capriolo 2002, Franchetti 2005, Colombo 2008).

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Transforming Kafka

Other Kafkas The earliest Portuguese translation of any Kafka text seems to have been Breno Silveira’s version of Die Verwandlung (A metamorfose) in 1956. One of the most active of Portuguese translators was Torrieri Guimarães, who produced versions of both Der Prozeß (O processo) and Das Schloß (O castelo) in 1964, of Amerika (América) in 1965, and of Die Verwandlung (A metamorfose) in 1969. While Portuguese has only 1 translation of Das Urteil (multiply reprinted) that I have been able to verify, it has 11 of Die Verwandlung, 4 of Amerika, 7 of Der Prozeß, and 5 of Das Schloß.18 The earliest major Dutch translation of a Kafka text was Nini Brunt’s version of Die Verwandlung (De gedaanteverwisseling) in 1944, followed by Alice van Nahuys’s rendering of Der Prozeß (Het proces) in 1948 and Guus Sötemann’s version of Das Schloß (Het slot) in 1950. Kafka’s main Dutch translator was Nini (Maria Paulina) Brunt (1891– 1984), who also translated Amerika, the letters to Milena Jesenská, the letters to Felice, and three volumes of the shorter fiction. A five-volume edition of Kafka’s novels and stories, translated by Nini Brunt, Alice van Nahuys, and Guus Sötemann, appeared in 1972 (Brunt et al. 1972). More recently, Willem van Toorn and Gerda Meijerink translated all three of the novels from the German of the new critical edition: Amerika and Het proces both in 1995 and Het slot in 1999. A Dutch translation by Ruth Wolf of Kafka’s collected works (Verzameld werk) appeared in 2002. Overall, Dutch Kafka has at least three versions of Das Urteil, six of Die Verwandlung, three of Amerika, four of Der Prozeß, and three of Das Schloß.19 The earliest Kafka text to appear in any of the Scandinavian languages was the very early Norwegian version of Der Prozeß (Prosessen)

18 Portuguese has at least 1 translation of Das Urteil (Carone 1986); 11 of Die Verwandlung (Silveira 1956, Guimarães 1969, Rebêlo 1971a, Teixeira Aguilar 1975, Carone 1985, Paschoal 1991, Fragoso 1996, Albuquerque 2000, Junqueira 2000, Gasco 2003, Abeling 2007); 4 of Amerika (Guimarães 1965, Rosa 1968, Fonseca 1977, Justo 2004); 7 of Der Prozeß (Guimarães 1964a, Álvaro 1969, Rebêlo 1971, Ferreira and Cajado 1977, Carone 1988, Fabião 1999, Costa and de Brito 2003); and 5 of Das Schloß (Guimarães 1964b, Martins 1966, Rodrigues de Carvalho 1978, Skroski 1985, Carone 2001). 19 Dutch has at least three versions of Das Urteil (Brunt 1955, Oomes 1984, Wolf 2002); six of Die Verwandlung (Brunt 1944, Oomes 1984, van Altena 1988, Graftdijk 1992, Meijerink 2001, Wolf 2002); three of Amerika (Brunt 1954, van Toorn and Meijerink 1995a, Wolf 2002); four of Der Prozeß (van Nahuys 1948, Wolf 1982, Graftdijk 1989, van Toorn and Meijerink 1995b); and three of Das Schloß (Sötemann 1950, van Toorn and Meijerink 1997, Wolf 2002).



Kafka Translated 25

by Paul Gjesdahl (1893–1969) in 1933, two years before the Muirs’ English translation. A Swedish version of Die Verwandlung by Caleb Andersson and Karl Vennberg (Förvandlingen) appeared in 1945, as did a Danish version of Der Prozeß by H.C. Branner (Processen) and a Swedish version of the same text by Karl Vennberg (Processen). Translations of Das Schloß appeared in Swedish by Tage Aurell in 1946, in Danish by H.C. Branner in 1949, and in Norwegian by Karl Fredrik Engelstad in 1950, each of the three under the title Slottet. The most active recent translator in the Scandinavian countries has been Trond Winje, who has provided Norwegian versions of Der Prozeß (Prosessen) in 1992, Amerika (Mannen som forsvant) in 1994, Das Urteil (Dommen) in 1995, and Die Verwandlung (Forvandlingen) in 1997, as well as two separate collections of the shorter fiction. The most often translated Kafka text in the Scandinavian languages has been Der Prozeß: Danish has three versions, Norwegian has two, Swedish has three, and Icelandic has one. Das Urteil is represented by two versions in Danish, two in Norwegian, and one in Swedish. Danish has two versions of Die Verwandlung, Norwegian has two, Swedish has two, and Icelandic has one. Amerika has appeared in one Danish translation, two Norwegian, and two Swedish. Danish has two versions of Das Schloß, Swedish also has two, and Norwegian has one.20 Among eastern European languages, Czech has at least three versions of Das Urteil, three of Die Verwandlung, two of Amerika, two of Der Prozeß, and two of Das Schloß.21 The most widely known of Kafka’s 20 Danish has three versions of Der Prozeß (Branner 1945, Øhrgaard 1981, Jevan 1987), Norwegian has two (Gjesdahl 1933, Winje 1992), Swedish has three (Vennberg 1945, Martinell 1987, Ågren and Blomqvist 2001), and Icelandic has one (Eysteinsson and Thorvaldsson 1983). Danish has two versions of Das Urteil (Lundbo 1964, Jevan 1987), Norwegian has two (Brøgger 1965, Winje 1995), and Swedish has one (Brunius and Chambert 1949). Danish has two versions of Die Verwandlung (Steinthal 1993, Poulsen 2008), Norwegian has two (Brøgger 1965, Winje 1997), Swedish has two (Andersson and Vennberg 1945, Ågren and Blomqvist 2004), and Icelandic has one (Pétursson 1960). Danish has one version of Amerika (Elbek and Elbek 1964), Norwegian has two (Haavardsholm 1965, Winje 1994), and Swedish has two (Edfelt and Aurell 1947, Ågren and Blomqvist 2005). Danish has two versions of Das Schloß (Branner 1949, Sørensen 2001), Swedish has two (Aurell 1946, Levander 1990), and Norwegian has one (Engelstad 1950). 21 Czech has at least three versions of Das Urteil (Jesenská 1923, Kundera 1947, V. Kafka 1964b), three of Die Verwandlung (Vrána and Pastor 1929, Sekal 1963, V. Kafka 1964b), two of Amerika (Eisnerová 1962, Cˇermák 1990), two of Der Prozeß (Eisner 1958, Cˇermák 1997), and two of Das Schloß (Eisner 1935, V. Kafka 1964a).

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Czech translators is undoubtedly Milena Jesenská (1896–1944), who, having read Der Heizer (The Stoker) in 1919, wrote to Kafka to ask permission to translate it into Czech. The result, as we have seen, was the first translation of any of Kafka’s works into any language, published in the Prague journal Kmen under the title Topicˇ in 1920. She also translated 6 of the 18 sketches of Betrachtung for the same journal, also in 1920 (Caputo-Mayr and Herz 2000, 1:40), and later Das Urteil, which appeared in the journal Cesta in 1923 under the title Soud. Her initial contact with Kafka led to a brief and eventually impassioned exchange of letters between the two (and just two short meetings) – she in her early 20s, he in his late 30s – before Kafka broke off the relationship, since Milena was unwilling to leave her husband, the Prague literary critic Ernst Pollak. Milena went on to become a well-known journalist during the 1920s and 1930s and also translated Hermann Broch and others into Czech. When the Nazis invaded Czechoslovakia in 1939 she joined an underground resistance movement, was arrested by the Gestapo, and was eventually deported to Ravensbrück concentration camp in northern Germany, where she died in 1944.22 An early Czech translation by Ludvík Vrána and František Pastor of Die Verwandlung (Promeˇna) appeared in 1929. Kafka’s main Czech apologist in the early years, however, was Pavel Eisner (1889–1958), who translated Das Schloß (Zámek) in 1935. Surviving Nazi persecution as a Jew during the war years, he went on to translate Der Prozeß (Proces) in 1958. During the 1960s, Vladimír Kafka produced a translation of the collected stories – including Das Urteil (Ortel) and Die Verwandlung (Promeˇna) – and also a new version of Das Schloß (Zámek), both published in 1964. In the 1990s, Josef Cˇ ermák translated the new editions of Amerika (Nezveˇstný: Amerika) and Der Prozeß (Proces), in 1990 and 1997 respectively. Polish has at least one version each of Das Urteil, Die Verwandlung, Amerika, and Das Schloß and two of Der Prozeß.23 Kafka’s most charismatic Polish translator was undoubtedly Bruno Schulz (1892–1942), a

22 Margareta Buber-Neumann, a fellow inmate in Ravensbrück, wrote a biography, Kafkas Freundin Milena (1963), available in English under the more sensational title Mistress to Kafka (1966). Several other biographies also exist. 23 Polish versions exist of Das Urteil (Wyrok, Kydryn´ski 1957), Die Verwandlung (Przemiana, Kydryn´ski 1980), Amerika (Ameryka, Kydryn´ski 1967), Das Schloß (Zamek, Truchanowski and Radziwill 1958), and Der Prozeß (Proces, Schulz 1936, Ekier 2008). On Kafka in Polish translation, see Hamalian (1961).



Kafka Translated 27

Polish Jewish author now regarded by many as one of the foremost Polish-language literary stylists of the twentieth century, who produced an early Polish translation of Der Prozeß (Proces) in 1936. Forced to live in the Jewish ghetto of his home town after the German invasion of Poland, he was casually murdered by a deranged Nazi officer. After the end of the Second World War he gradually won posthumous recognition as both a highly imaginative writer and a significant graphic artist. Long and patient efforts are reported on the part of Evgenija Katseva to publish Russian Kafka translations in the former USSR (CaputoMayr and Herz 2000, 1:xxxix). Rita Jakovievna Rajt-Kovaleva’s Russian translation of Der Prozeß (Process) appeared in 1965 and her version of Das Schloß (Zamok) in 1989. V. Belonoško’s version of Amerika appeared in 1991 in a two-volume edition of Kafka’s collected works edited by Evgenija Katseva which also includes Rajt-Kovaleva’s versions of Der Prozeß and Das Schloß. A three-volume edition of the collected works edited by Dimitrij Zatonskij appeared in 1994, including versions of all three of the novels as well as Das Urteil, Die Verwandlung, and extracts from the diaries and letters. Altogether, Russian has at least three versions of Das Urteil, one of Die Verwandlung, two of Amerika, one of Der Prozeß, and two of Das Schloß.24 A seven-volume edition of Kafka’s collected works in Serbo-­Croatian, edited by Nikola Bertolino et al., appeared in 1978.25 Altogether, SerboCroatian has at least two versions of Das Urteil, seven of Die Verwandlung, two of Amerika, eight of Der Prozeß, and one of Das Schloß.26 Greek has three versions of Die Verwandlung, three of Amerika, five of Der

24 Specifically, at least three versions of Das Urteil (Tatarinova 1981, Zatonskij 1994, Rudnickij 2007a), one of Die Verwandlung (Zatonskij 1994), two of Amerika (Belonoško 1991, Rudnickij 1995), one of Der Prozeß (Rajt-Kovaleva 1965), and two of Das Schloß (Rajt-Kovaleva et al. 1989, Rudnickij 2007b). On Kafka in Russian translation, see Schneider (1990). 25 For the sake of simplicity, and without any intended political connotations, translations in Croatian, Serbian, and Serbo-Croatian are all listed, here and elsewhere, as Serbo-Croatian. 26 Serbo-Croatian has at least two versions of Das Urteil (Gorjan and Mateticˇ 1968, Živkovicˇ 1978), seven of Die Verwandlung (Adum 1954, Živojinovicˇ 1964, Gorjan and Mateticˇ 1968, Živkovicˇ 1978, Crnkovicˇ 1994, Slamnig 1997, Kneževicˇ 2003), two of Amerika (Šijakovicˇ et al. 1959, Nikolajevicˇ and Nikolajevicˇ 1978), eight of Der Prozeß (Pecˇ nik 1953, Herman 1962, Crnkovicˇ 1974, Mehmedbašicˇ 1977, Brkicˇ 1989, Kneževicˇ 2003, Živojinovicˇ 2006, Acˇ in 2008), and one of Das Schloß (Milojevicˇ 1961).

28

Transforming Kafka

Prozeß, and six of Das Schloß.27 A two-volume edition of the collected works in Romanian translated by Mircea Ivaˇnescu appeared in 1996. The earliest Kafka text to appear in any non-European language was Kôichi Motono’s Japanese translation of Der Prozeß (Shinpan) in 1940.28 A second Japanese translation of Der Prozeß (Shinpan), by Hikaru Tsuji, appeared in 1950, as did a translation of Das Schloß (Shiro) by Yoshito Harada. Two separate versions of Die Verwandlung (Henshin) appeared in 1952, by Masabumi Nakai and by Yoshitaka Takahashi respectively. The following year, 1953, was a year of great activity in Japanese Kafka circles, with a version of Das Urteil (Hanketsu) by Kuniyo Takayasu; two further translations of Die Verwandlung (Henshin), by Teichi Oyama and Kuniyo Takayasu respectively; a third version of Der Prozeß (Shinpan) by Yoshito Harada; a translation of Amerika (Amerika) by Masabumi Nakai and Hiroshi Okamura; and two more versions of Das Schloß (Shiro), by Hiroshi Okamura and Hikaru Tsuji respectively. Some, but not all, of the 1953 translations were part of a six-volume edition of Kafka’s collected works in Japanese translation, translated by Hikaru Tsuji, Yoshito Harada, and others, which appeared in Tokyo between 1953 and 1959. A 12-volume edition, translated by Jiro Kawamura and others, appeared from the same Tokyo publisher, Shinchôsha, in 1980 and 1981. In total, Japanese appears to have, at the very least, 5 versions of Das Urteil, 14 of Die Verwandlung, 6 of Amerika, 10 of Der Prozeß, and 8 of Das Schloß.29

27 Greek has three versions of Die Verwandlung (Anemogianni 1962, Prokopios 1974, Tomanás 1989), three of Amerika (Anemogianni 1969, Tomanás 1989, Pateras 2004), five of Der Prozeß (Kotzias 1961, Bambalis 1969, Anemogianni 1984, Kavaki 2000, Valourdos 2006), and six of Das Schloß (Kotzias 1964, Anemogianni 1972, Prokopios 1983, Tomanás 1989, Despou 2000, Pateras 2005). 28 On Kafka in Japanese translation, see Schepers (1989). 29 Japanese has at least 5 versions of Das Urteil (Takayasu 1953, Anon. 1964, Kashiwabara 1966, Kawasaki and Urayama 1973, Kawamura and Maruko 1980), 14 of Die Verwandlung (Nakai 1952, Takahashi 1952, Oyama 1953, Takayasu 1953, Yamashita 1958, Harada 1962, Iiyoshi and Takagi 1966, Takamoto 1966, Ichirô 1971, Kawasaki and Urayama 1973, Shiroyama 1974, Tachikawa 1977, Kawamura and Maruko 1980, Ikeuti 2006), 6 of Amerika (Nakai and Okamura 1953, Harada et al. 1953, Tani and Takayasu 1967, Chino 1981, Sakauchi 1990, Ikeuti 2000), 10 of Der Prozeß (Motono 1940, Tsuji 1950, Harada et al. 1953, Iiyoshi and Takagi 1966, Takamoto 1966, Tatsukawa et al. 1966, Tachikawa 1979, Nakano 1981, Sakauchi 1981, Ikeuti 2001a), and 8 of Das Schloß (Harada 1950, Okamura 1953, Tsuji et al. 1953, Maeda 1971, Tani 1974, Tachikawa 1977, Sakauchi 1985, Ikeuti 2001b).



Kafka Translated 29

Korean translations of Kafka began to appear in the mid-1950s, with versions of Das Urteil (Pan-gyol) in 1955 by Bong Shik Kang and in 1957 by Seong-jin Kim; of Die Verwandlung (Byonshin) in 1957 by Kyong-sok Chong; of Der Prozeß (Shimpan) in 1957 by Seong-jin Kim and in 1958 by Jong-Seo Park; and of Amerika (Amerika) and Das Schloß (Seong) in 1960, both by Seong-jin Kim. In total, Korean appears to have at least three versions of Das Urteil, eight of Die Verwandlung, three of Amerika, ten of Der Prozeß, and six of Das Schloß.30 The first Chinese translations began to appear in Taiwan in the 1960s. A version of Das Urteil (Panjue), translated by Xianxu Zhang, appeared in a Taipei journal in 1960. Two separate versions of Der Prozeß (Shenpan), by Shujing Huang and Xuixian Li respectively, appeared in 1969; a version of Das Schloß (Chengbao), by Xiong Ren, appeared in 1970; and a second version of Das Schloß (Chengbao), by Wenfan Huang, appeared in 1979, all four in Taipei. In mainland China, Kafka reception dates from 1979, after the Cultural Revolution (Caputo-Mayr and Herz 2000, 1:xlv). A version of Die Verwandlung (Bianxing ji), by Wenjun Li, appeared in a Beijing journal in 1979; a third version of Das Schloß (Chengbao), by Yongkuan Tang, was published in Shanghai in 1980; and a third version of Der Prozeß (Shenpan), by Mansu Qian and Huaqing Yuan, appeared in Changsha in 1982. A four-volume edition of Kafka’s collected works in Chinese, translated by Niansheng Gao and others, appeared in 2002. In all, Chinese appears to have at least two versions of Das Urteil, one of Die Verwandlung, five of Der Prozeß, and five of Das Schloß.31 Kafka is also well represented in Turkish translation, due largely to the efforts of two translators, Kâmuran S¸ipal and Arif Gelen, though preceded by a relatively early translation of Die Verwandlung (Degis¸im) by Vedat Günyol in 1955. Kâmuran S¸ipal translated Der Prozeß (Dâva) in 1964, Das Schloß (S¸ato) in 1966, the collected stories in 1974, Amerika

30 Korean has at least three versions of Das Urteil (Kang 1955, Kim 1957, Han 1982), eight of Die Verwandlung (Chong 1957, Lee 1973, Bak 1977, Kim 1978, Hong 1990, Choe 1991a, Kwak 1991, Jeon 1998), three of Amerika (Kim 1960, Kwak 1980a, Hong 1990), ten of Der Prozeß (Kim 1957, Park 1958, Yom 1968, Bak 1976b, Kwak 1980b, Kim 1981, Han 1982, Shin 1990, Choe 1991b, Lee 1997), and six of Das Schloß (Kim 1960, Yom 1968, Kang 1972, Bak 1976a, Kim 1993, Shin 1993). 31 Chinese has at least two versions of Das Urteil (Zhang 1960, Dong 1981), two of Die Verwandlung (Li 1979, Wang and Wang 2007), five of Der Prozeß (Huang 1969, Li 1969, Qian and Yuan 1982, Wang 1997, Zhao and Zhao 2006), and five of Das Schloß (Ren 1970, Huang 1979, Tang 1980, Ma 1997, Gao 1998).

30

Transforming Kafka

(Amerika) in 1983, and Die Verwandlung (Degis¸im) in 1987. Arif Gelen translated both Amerika (Amerika) and Die Verwandlung (Degis¸im) in 1967, Der Prozeß (Dâva) in 1968. In total, Turkish has at least four different translations of Die Verwandlung, two of Amerika, two of Der Prozeß, and one of Das Schloß.32 Of the five Kafka texts I have chosen to focus on in the present discussion, Das Urteil (The Judgment) has given rise to some 75 versions worldwide, Die Verwandlung (The Metamorphosis) to at least 175, Amerika to more than 70, Der Prozeß (The Trial) to more than 130, and Das Schloß (The Castle) to more than 90. At least 40 languages worldwide have so far been involved. In the case of every single one of these translations, there are undoubtedly readers for whom the particular version they happen to be reading, which may be in Basque or Faroese or Korean or Sinhalese, is likewise read and studied as constituting that particular reader’s Kafka. The macrotextual Kafka system envisaged in the present exercise is precisely the sum of all these individual Kafkas, all these texts characterized in each case by being at once the same text that Kafka wrote and a text that may very well be different in every single word.

32 Turkish has least four different translations of Die Verwandlung (Günyol 1955, Gelen 1967b, Cemal 1986, S¸ipal 1987), two of Amerika (Gelen 1967a, S¸ipal 1983), two of Der Prozeß (S¸ipal 1964, Gelen 1968), and one of Das Schloß (S¸ipal 1966).

2 Kafka’s Judgments

Written in September 1912, Kafka’s short narrative Das Urteil (The Judgment) first appeared in Arkadia, a literary yearbook edited by Max Brod for the Kurt Wolff Verlag of Leipzig, in 1913. It appeared in book form in 1916, likewise published by the Kurt Wolff Verlag, and it made its first appearance in English in 1928 as The Sentence, translated by Eugene Jolas, followed in 1945 by a translation by Rosa Beuscher as The Judgment and in 1948 by what became for many years the standard English version, The Judgment, translated by Willa and Edwin Muir. The story is quickly summarized. Georg Bendemann, a young commercial traveller, writes to a bachelor friend now living in Russia to announce his own recent engagement and shortly afterwards announces to his elderly father that he has just written the letter. Thereupon his father accuses him of having invented this friend and also of having disgraced his dead mother’s memory by the planned marriage. Moreover, Georg’s unnamed friend, invented or not, is really his father’s friend; Georg’s fiancée would be his too, if he wished; and since Georg, as his father now claims, has always wished his father dead, now he sentences Georg himself to death by drowning. Georg rushes from the house and lets himself fall from the same bridge he can see from his window while writing the fatal letter to his absent friend. Kafka’s story, to quote Erich Heller’s well-known formulation, negotiates the precarious transition “from realistic narrative to the grotesqueness and absurdities of the nightmare” (1974: 19). While little of this darker side of the story is apparent as it opens on a fine Sunday morning in spring, intriguing hints of the action to come are indeed already present in the three sentences of the first paragraph, which we shall discuss here. Rather than examining the original German text in

32

Transforming Kafka

isolation, however, we shall attempt a transtextual analysis that also involves multiple translations into various other European languages. The point of the exercise will be to chart the degree to which the anticipatory hints of the German original are cumulatively reduced, repeated, extended, or ignored in the resulting multi-voiced Kafkan macrotext. Specifically, we will undertake a comparative reading of the opening paragraph and its rendering, first, in a dozen different English translations and, second, in 15 translations into four other European languages (six French, four Italian, four Spanish, and one Dutch). The more detailed argument will be made on the basis of the English translations; the non-English translations will for the most part be adduced primarily as supporting, qualifying, or contesting the English versions, except, of course, where attention is to be drawn to a particularly striking new feature or effect in the relevant language. For ease of comparison, we will divide Kafka’s text into eight constituent phrases – or lexias, to use Roland Barthes’s iconic term for individual brief units of reading (1974: 13) – comparing in detail what each of the translators has made of each phrase in turn and thus tracking the ways in which Kafka’s text is cumulatively transformed in the process of its multilingual reading. Likewise, for ease of comparison, the translations are grouped by language and presented chronologically within each language. The overall aim of the exercise, it should be clearly understood, is not to demonstrate the self-evident fact that some translations will be better or worse than others, but rather to suggest the degree to which the boundaries of Kafka’s text are extended by its multilingual translations – even those that may contain significant errors of translation.33 [1] Es war an einem Sonntagvormittag im schönsten Frühjahr.34 Jolas (1928: 35): It was before noon on Sunday of a most lovely spring. Beuscher (1945: 189): It was on a Sunday morning in the most beautiful part of spring. Muir and Muir (1948/1970: 49): It was on a Sunday morning in the very height of spring.

33 An earlier version of part of this chapter appeared in the Journal of the Kafka Society of America 27 (2003): 47–56. 34 Kafka (1916/1994: 39). The text of Das Urteil is identical in the first book edition of 1916 and the critical edition of 1994. First published in Arkadia, ed. Max Brod (Leipzig: Kurt Wolff Verlag, 1913), 53–65.



Kafka’s Judgments 33 Pasley (1977: 1): It was a Sunday morning in the height of spring. Underwood (1981/1986: 45): It was a Sunday morning at the height of spring. Wensinger (1989: 3): It was a Sunday morning at the very height of spring. Appelbaum (1993/1996: 1): It was on a Sunday morning in the loveliest part of the spring. Neugroschel (1993/2000: 57): It was on a Sunday morning during the most beautiful time of spring. Freed (1996/2003: 55): It was a Sunday morning at the peak of spring. Stokes (2002: 65): It was on a Sunday morning during the loveliest days of spring. Hofmann (2006: 81): It was a Sunday morning at the height of spring. Crick (2009: 19): It was on a Sunday morning when spring was at its best. Klossowski and Leyris (French, 1930: 1): C’était une très belle matinée de Dimanche de printemps. Vialatte (French, 1938c/1964: 41): C’était un matin de dimanche, par une année qui débutait splendidement. Meylan (French, 1944: 9): C’était un dimanche matin, dans la beauté du printemps. Robert (French, 1954a/2000: 358): C’était par un dimanche matin, au plus beau du printemps. David (French, 1989: 63): C’était un dimanche matin, une magnifique journée de printemps. Billmann and Cellard (French, 1997: 47): C’était un dimanche matin, par le plus beau des printemps. Zampa (Italian, 1957/1983: 99): Era una domenica mattina di primavera, faceva un tempo splendido. Castellani (Italian, 1966/2004: 1): Era una bellissima mattina primaverile, di domenica. Paoli (Italian, 1970/2002: 141): Era una mattinata domenicale nel momento più bello della primavera. Coppé (Italian, 1974/2005: 17): Era una domenica mattina del momento più bello della primavera. Wilcock (Spanish, 1952/1978: 9): Era una mañana de domingo, en plena primavera. Camargo (Spanish, 1985/2009: 87): Era domingo por la mañana en lo más hermoso de la primavera. Izquierdo (Spanish, 1985: 95): Cierta mañana de un domingo de primavera, Zanutigh Nuñez (Spanish, 2006a: 39): Era un domingo por la mañana en lo más hermoso de la primavera.

34

Transforming Kafka

Brunt (Dutch, 1955/1994: 30): Het was op een zondagmorgen in de mooiste tijd van het voorjaar.

Kafka’s German text begins with ostensible optimism, situating the action on a bright sunny morning, on a day of rest, and “im schönsten Frühjahr.” The collocation of vor (literally, fore) in “Sonntagvormittag” and früh (literally, early) in “Frühjahr” supports the reader’s expectation of new beginnings matching the time of year. Jolas is the only translator to render Vormittag literally as “before noon” rather than just “morning.” The phrase “im schönsten Frühjahr,” as it happens, even though part of the very first sentence, already introduces a considerable cleavage of response on the part of Kafka’s English translators. One group concentrates on the marked beauty of the time of year and thus renders it variously as in “a most lovely spring” (Jolas), “the most beautiful part of spring” (Beuscher), “the loveliest part of the spring” (Appelbaum), “the most beautiful time of spring” (Neugroschel), “the loveliest days of spring” (Stokes), and “when spring was at its best” (Crick). For a second group, though no less enthusiastically, it was at “the height of spring” (Pasley, Underwood, Hofmann), “at the very height of spring” (Muir, Wensinger), or even “at the peak of spring” (Freed). This difference in phrasing might not initially seem particularly significant, perhaps, but while those versions that focus on the “beauty” of the new year might retrospectively be read as happily anticipating Georg Bendemann’s plans to get married to his recently acquired fiancée, those that focus on the “height” of spring might retrospectively be read as anticipating the failure of that plan, in that they introduce a relationship not of beauty and its opposite but one of high and low. The latter will emerge as constituting a crucial dichotomy in Kafka’s text, one that will find its most striking image in Georg’s father’s condemnation of his son quite literally from on high, standing rampant on Georg’s bed and even keeping himself steady by planting one hand on the ceiling. Our group of non-English translations, meanwhile, concentrates unanimously on the beauty of the morning or of the time of year: it was “une très belle matinée” (Klossowski and Leyris), “una bellissima mattina primaverile” (Castellani), “dans la beauté du printemps” (Meylan; similarly Robert, Billmann and Cellard), “nel momento più bello della primavera” (Paoli, Coppé), “en lo más hermoso de la primavera” (Camargo, Zanutigh Nuñez). One or two versions cannot resist



Kafka’s Judgments 35

enthusiastic editorial commentary: for Zampa, “faceva un tempo splendido” (the weather was splendid); for David, it was likewise “une magnifique journée” (a magnificent day); and for Vialatte, with what will emerge, at least for Georg, as a highly ironic assessment of the overall situation, “c’était un matin de dimanche, par une année qui débutait splendidement” (it was a Sunday morning, in a year that was beginning splendidly). In Izquierdo’s Spanish version, the events to be recounted take place “cierta mañana de un domingo de primavera” (on a certain Sunday morning in spring). This rendering stands alone in refraining from any comment on the beauty of the season, thereby reducing what will in retrospect turn out to have been the highly ironic thrust of Kafka’s opening sentence. The phrase “cierta mañana” (literally, on a certain morning), on the other hand, arguably adds a dimension to Kafka’s text, in that it can be seen as already discursively hinting at the pervasive play of certainty and uncertainty that will inform Kafka’s narrative throughout. [2] Georg Bendemann, ein junger Kaufmann, saß in seinem Privatzimmer Jolas (1928): George Bendemann, a young businessman, was sitting in his private room Beuscher (1945): George Bendemann, a young business man, sat in his private room Muir and Muir (1948): Georg Bendemann, a young merchant, was sitting in his own room Pasley (1977): Georg Bendemann, a young businessman, was sitting in his own room Underwood (1981): George Bendemann, a young businessman, was sitting in his room Wensinger (1989): Georg Bendemann, a young merchant, was sitting in his own room Appelbaum (1993): Georg Bendemann, a young merchant, sat in his room Neugroschel (1993): Georg Bendemann, a young businessman, was sitting in his private room Freed (1996): Georg Bendemann, a young businessman, sat in his own room Stokes (2002): Georg Bendemann, a young businessman, was sitting in his room

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Transforming Kafka

Hofmann (2006): Georg Bendemann, a young businessman, was sitting in his study Crick (2009): Georg Bendemann, a young businessman, was sitting in his own room Klossowski and Leyris (French, 1930): Georg Bendemann, jeune commerçant, était assis dans sa chambre Vialatte (French, 1938c): Georges Bendemann, un jeune négociant, se trouvait alors dans sa chambre, Meylan (French, 1944): Georges Bendemann, un jeune négociant, était assis dans sa chambre, Robert (French, 1954a): Georg Bendemann, un jeune commerçant, était assis chez lui dans sa chambre, David (French, 1989): Georg Bendemann, un jeune négociant, se trouvait dans sa chambre, Billmann and Cellard (French, 1997): Dans sa chambre …, un jeune commerçant, Georg Bendemann, Zampa (Italian, 1957): Il giovane commerciante Giorgio Bendemann era seduto nella sua stanza Castellani (Italian, 1966): Georg Bendemann, giovane commerciante, era seduto nella sua camera Paoli (Italian, 1970): Giorgio Bendemann, un giovane commerciante, sedeva nella sua stanza Coppé (Italian, 1974): Georg Bendemann, un giovane commerciante, sedeva nella sua stanza Wilcock (Spanish, 1952): Georg Bendemann, joven comerciante, estaba sentado en su dormitorio, Camargo (Spanish, 1985): Georg Bendemann, un joven comerciante, estaba sentado en su habitación Izquierdo (Spanish, 1985): el joven comerciante Georg Bendemann estaba sentado en su dormitorio, Zanutigh Nuñez (Spanish, 2006a): Georg Bendemann, un joven comerciante, estaba sentado en su habitación Brunt (Dutch, 1955): Georg Bendemann, een jonge koopman, zat in zijn eigen kamer

Georg’s introduction is once again a formulation unlikely to strike many first-time readers as being of any great significance. Readers of Kafka in German may retrospectively wonder if it is appropriate to read “Bendemann” as perhaps suggesting “Bändemann,” a man of books (Bände meaning “volumes”), a man of letters, a writer like Kafka himself



Kafka’s Judgments 37

perhaps, but none of the translated versions develops this possibility in any way. Some versions interculturally naturalize the German Georg as an English George (Jolas, Beuscher, Underwood), a process echoed in some non-English versions by a French Georges (Meylan, Vialatte) and an Italian Giorgio (Zampa, Paoli). The formulation “Georg Bendemann, ein junger Kaufmann” may conceivably strike some readers of the German text as involving a marked repetition of the syllable -mann; some readers may also notice a parallel structure in the “Sonntagvormittag” of the preceding sentence (almost unanimously rendered in English, however, merely as “Sunday morning”). Nine of the 12 English translators at least partially emulate the stylistic effect in having Georg (or George) Bendemann introduced as a “young businessman,” while for others he is merely a “merchant” (the Muirs, Wensinger, Appelbaum). For all four Italian versions he is a “giovane commerciante” and for all four Spanish renderings a “joven comerciante,” in all cases “a young businessman.” Brunt’s Dutch, on the other hand, has no difficulty in repeating the formulation and the meaning exactly: “Georg Bendemann, een jonge koopman.” Three French translators (Meylan, Vialatte, David) achieve quite a different effect by having Georg (or Georges) introduced as “un jeune négociant,” a term that is at once an entirely unremarkable equivalent of the German “Kaufmann” and might also retrospectively be read as a punning transtextual underlining of the degree to which Georg’s story as presented by the narrator constitutes a series of hypothetical scenarios – narrative negotiations, in short, whether with his fiancée, with his friend in Russia, with his father, or with himself. The German Georg is discovered sitting “in seinem Privatzimmer,” and the dozen English translators demonstrate some group hesitation as to just how private that room should be seen as being: for some it is indeed “his private room” (Jolas, Beuscher, Neugroschel); for others, less emphatically, it is just “his own room” (the Muirs, Pasley, Wensinger, Freed, Crick); for others, even less emphatically, it is merely “his room” (Underwood, Appelbaum, Stokes) or “his study” (Hofmann). For five of six French translations, Georg (or Georges) is neutrally “dans sa chambre”; for the sixth, he is more evocatively “chez lui dans sa chambre” (Robert), as he is in Dutch in “zijn eigen kamer” (Brunt), in both cases “in his own room.” The four Italian translators also have Georg (or Giorgio) more or less neutrally “nella sua stanza” (Zampa, Paoli, Coppé) or “nella sua camera” (Castellani), merely “in his room.” Two Spanish translations (Camargo, Zanutigh Nuñez) similarly have Georg relatively neutrally “en su habitación” (in his room), but two

38

Transforming Kafka

others (Wilcock, Izquierdo) have him much more evocatively “en su dormitorio” (in his bedroom). While the Spanish habitación can indeed include a bedroom as one of the rooms to which it refers, the noun dormitorio unambiguously refers only to a bedroom. Its use thus establishes far more emphatically than Kafka’s German an anticipatory intertextual linkage to the bedroom metamorphosis of Gregor Samsa in The Metamorphosis and the bedroom arrest of Josef K. in The Trial. Kafka’s sentence begins with the formula “Georg Bendemann, ein junger Kaufmann,” and almost all of our translators follow suit with their placement of the name and the occupation. Two versions, Zampa’s Italian “il giovane commerciante Giorgio Bendemann” and Izquierdo’s Spanish “el joven comerciante Georg Bendemann,” have the occupation precede the name, arguably lending the occupation an increased importance, even if only slight. One other version, Billmann and Cellard’s French, chooses to begin instead by focusing on the location – “Dans sa chambre” (In his room) – before introducing the protagonist, thus arguably suggesting an anticipatory hint of Georg’s essential and fatal isolation. [3] im ersten Stock eines der niedrigen, leichtgebauten Häuser, Jolas (1928): on the first floor of one of those low, lightly built houses, Beuscher (1945): on the first floor of one of those low, lightly-built houses Muir and Muir (1948): on the first floor of one of a long row of small, ramshackle houses Pasley (1977): on the first floor of one of the small, flimsily built houses Underwood (1981): on the first floor of one of the low, flimsily built houses Wensinger (1989): on the second floor of one of a long row of low, graceful houses Appelbaum (1993): on the second floor of one of the low, lightly built houses Neugroschel (1993): on the first landing of one of the low, frail houses, Freed (1996): on the second floor of one of the low, shabbily constructed houses Stokes (2002): on the first floor of one of the low, lightly built houses Hofmann (2006): on the first floor of one of the low, lightly built houses Crick (2009): on the first floor of one of the low, flimsily-built houses Klossowski and Leyris (French, 1930): au premier étage de l’une des maisons basses et légères



Kafka’s Judgments 39 Vialatte (French, 1938c): au premier étage d’une de ces maisons basses, bâties de matériaux légers, Meylan (French, 1944): au premier étage d’une de ces maisons basses et légèrement construites Robert (French, 1954a): au premier étage de l’une des maisons basses, de construction légère, David (French, 1989): au premier étage d’une de ces maisons basses de construction légère Billmann and Cellard (French, 1997): du premier étage de l’une de ces maisons basses et légères Zampa (Italian, 1957): al primo piano di una delle case basse e fragili, Castellani (Italian, 1966): al primo piano di una delle case basse, dai muri sottili, Paoli (Italian, 1970): al primo piano, in una di quelle case basse e fragili, Coppé (Italian, 1974): al primo piano di una di quelle case basse e snelle Wilcock (Spanish, 1952): en el primer piso de una de esas casas bajas y mal construidas Camargo (Spanish, 1985): en el primer piso de una de las casas bajas y de construcción ligera Izquierdo (Spanish, 1985): en el primer piso de una casa baja y mal construida, Zanutigh Nuñez (Spanish, 2006a): ubicada en el tercer piso de una de las casas bajas, de construcción endeble, Brunt (Dutch, 1955): op de eerste verdieping van een der lage, lichtgebouwde huizen,

The group indecision continues with regard to which floor Georg’s room “im ersten Stock” is to be found on, though in this case the difference is admittedly due less to Kafka’s text than to transatlantic differences of English usage: for eight of the dozen English versions it is therefore on the first floor, for others it is on the second (Wensinger, Appelbaum, Freed), while Neugroschel hedges his bets rather ingeniously by situating it on “the first landing.” Untroubled by such transatlantic differences, all but one of our group of French, Italian, Spanish, and Dutch translators show no such hesitation: for them, Georg’s room is unanimously and unproblematically “au premier étage,” “al primo piano,” “en el primer piso,” “op de eerste verdieping.” The one exception is Zanutigh Nuñez in Spanish, who for unexplained reasons situates Georg’s room not one but two floors higher, “en el tercer piso” (on the third floor).

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More serious uncertainties are also in evidence, however, with regard to Georg’s exact whereabouts and circumstances. The reference to “leichtgebaute Häuser” will perhaps not be read initially, but may be read retrospectively, as hinting at a narratorial mise en abyme, suggesting houses that may well come tumbling down, just as the initial catalogue of Georg’s ostensible successes (for not only has he acquired a fiancée, his business affairs have also been thriving over the past little while) will turn out to be a house of cards that rapidly comes tumbling down. Georg’s location in “eines der niedrigen, leichtgebauten Häuser” evokes a striking variety of responses in translation. Almost all the English versions agree that the houses are “low” (transtextually reinforcing once again the evocation of the high/low dichotomy), but two (the Muirs and Pasley) interpret niedrig as more relevantly implying “small” instead. As to their construction, these houses are “lightly built” for five of the dozen English versions, but for other translators they are “flimsily built” (Pasley, Underwood, Crick), “frail” (Neugroschel), even “shabbily constructed” (Freed) or frankly “ramshackle” (the Muirs). One version differs significantly from this catalogue of increasing decrepitude, however, in seeing them instead as “a long row of low, graceful houses” (Wensinger), a minority choice that may well strike some readers as more in accordance with the fact that Georg is after all a businessman – and it will emerge that Georg and his father jointly operate a successful business, have a number of employees, and keep a servant to look after their daily needs. The ostensible increase in realism is perhaps offset by the loss of suggestive potential in Wensinger’s version – the suggestion, that is to say, that they may come tumbling down – but in transtextual terms that loss is more than compensated for by the degree to which the suggestive potential is overemphasized (whether inadvertently or not) by competing versions. For the group of non-English translations, there is unanimity as concerns the size or height of the “niedrigen, leichtgebauten Häuser”: all six of the French versions have “maisons basses,” all four of the Italian versions “case basse,” and three of four Spanish versions likewise have “casas bajas,” in all cases, that is to say, “low houses.” Brunt’s Dutch cleaves closely to the German original with “lage, lichtgebouwde huizen.” All six French versions consider them both low and “lightly built,” or “built of light materials”: thus “maisons basses et légères” for Klossowski and Leyris and for Billmann and Cellard; “maisons basses de construction légère” for Robert and for David; “maisons basses et



Kafka’s Judgments 41

légèrement construites” for Meylan; and “maisons basses, bâties de matériaux légers” for Vialatte. In Italian, however, while Coppé refers to “case basse e snelle” (low, lightly built houses), Castellani seems to wonder about the stability of these “case basse, dai muri sottili” (low houses with thin walls), and both Zampa and Paoli clearly consider them potentially endangered, being “case basse e fragili” (low, frail houses). In Spanish, similarly, Camargo speaks of “casas bajas y de construcción ligera” (low, lightly built houses) and Zanutigh Nuñez of “casas bajas, de construcción endeble” (low, flimsily built houses), but Wilcock is unambiguous in describing them as “casas bajas y mal construidas” (low and poorly built houses). Izquierdo’s Spanish, opting for a singular “casa baja y mal construida,” strikes the negative note even more clearly, firmly establishing the relationship between this “low and poorly built house” and its occupant, the apparently solidly successful businessman Georg Bendemann. We may notice that two of the earlier English translators, Jolas and Beuscher, refer to “one of those low, lightly built houses” (emphasis added), where the deictic gesture of the demonstrative adjective seems to suggest more emphatically than Kafka’s German that the houses should already be familiar to the reader. Four of the six French translators use “une de ces maisons” to similar effect, as do both Paoli’s and Coppé’s “una di quelle case” and Wilcock’s “una de esas casas” (emphasis added throughout). These translators thus succeed in outdoing Kafka, as it were, in already putting their readers in a defensive position, if only with regard to this particular and relatively minor detail. [4] die entlang des Flusses in einer langen Reihe, fast nur in der Höhe und Färbung unterschieden, sich hinzogen. Jolas (1928): strung along a river in a row, and different from one another in height and color only. Beuscher (1945): that stretched along the river in a long row and differed from each other only in height and coloring. Muir and Muir (1948): stretching beside the river which were scarcely distinguishable from each other in height and coloring. Pasley (1977): which stretched out in a long row beside the river, hardly distinguishable from one another except in height and color. Underwood (1981): that stretched in a long row along the river bank, distinguished in little more than height and colour. Wensinger (1989): stretching along the bank of the river, distinguishable from one another only in height and color.

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Appelbaum (1993): that extended along the river in a long line, differing, if at all, only in height and coloration. Neugroschel (1993): which, differing almost only in height and coloring, stretched in a lengthy row along the river. Freed (1996): that stretched alongside the river in an extensive row, almost indistinguishable from each other except in height and color. Stokes (2002): that stretched in a long line beside the river, hardly distinguishable from one another except in height and colour. Hofmann (2006): that ran along the river bank in a long row, varying only in details of height and colour. Crick (2009): extending in a long row down the riverside, their height and colour almost the only difference between them. Klossowski and Leyris (French, 1930): qui se distinguaient seulement, dans l’égale rangée qu’elles formaient au long du fleuve, par la hauteur et la couleur. Vialatte (French, 1938c): uniquement différentes de hauteur ou de ton, dont la longue file s’étirait le long de la rivière. Meylan (French, 1944): qui s’étiraient en une longue file le long de la rivière, ne se laissant distinguer presque que par la hauteur et le coloris. Robert (French, 1954a): qui s’étendaient au bord du fleuve en une longue rangée, et dont pratiquement seules la hauteur et la couleur variaient. David (French, 1989): dont la longue file bordait la rivière et que leur hauteur et leur couleur permettaient presque seules de distinguer les unes des autres. Billmann and Cellard (French, 1997): du bord du fleuve qui ne diffèrent guère les unes des autres que par leur hauteur et leur couleur, Zampa (Italian, 1957): disposte in lunga fila sulla riva del fiume, distinte tra loro quasi soltanto per l’altezza e il colore. Castellani (Italian, 1966): che in lunga fila si susseguivano sulla riva del fiume, differendo l’una dall’altra quasi unicamente per l’altezza e la tinta. Paoli (Italian, 1970): che, seguendo il fiume, si allineavano in una lunga serie, distinguendosi quasi solo per l’altezza e il colore. Coppé (Italian, 1974): che si stendono lungo il fiume in lunga fila e si distinguono l’una dall’altra solo per l’altezza e il colore. Wilcock (Spanish, 1952): que se elevaban a lo largo del río, que apenas se distinguían unas de otras por la altura y el color. Camargo (Spanish, 1985): que se extendían a lo largo del río en forma de hilera, y que solo se distinguían entre sí por la altura y el color. Izquierdo (Spanish, 1985): prácticamente indistinguible de otras de semejante altura y color edificadas a lo largo del río.



Kafka’s Judgments 43 Zanutigh Nuñez (Spanish, 2006a): que se extendían en una larga fila a lo largo del río, apenas distintas en altura y color. Brunt (Dutch, 1955): die in een lange rij langs de rivier staan, in hoogte en kleur nauwelijks van elkaar te onderscheiden.

Whatever their construction, these houses stretch “entlang des Flusses in einer langen Reihe.” First-time readers of Kafka’s German may now experience a certain interpretive uneasiness on reading “des Flusses” (the river) rather than “eines Flusses” (a river) in introducing a hitherto unmentioned river. In retrospect, the centrality of the river becomes abundantly clear; initially, the deictic strategy of employing a definite rather than an indefinite article is an early signal to the reader of the highly unequal power relationship that always exists between the narrative text (perhaps most especially the Kafkan text) and its would-be interpreters. Eleven of the 12 English translations (and all 15 of the nonEnglish versions) likewise employ a definite article; only Jolas refers to houses “along a river” (emphasis added), giving at least minority expression to the reader’s perhaps more natural expectation. Readers may or may not notice the element of repetition in “entlang des Flusses in einer langen Reihe,” itself repeating the pattern already established in both “Sonntagvormittag” and “Georg Bendemann, ein junger Kaufmann.” Readers’ likely uncertainty as to whether these recurrences should be treated as significant is echoed in translation: 9 of the 12 English translations ignore the issue here, while three take considerable care to repeat the pattern, positioning their houses “along the river in a long row” (Beuscher), “along the river in a long line” (Appelbaum), or “along the river bank in a long row” (Hofmann). Similarly, only 5 of the 15 non-English versions contribute transtextually to the repetition of the pattern: both Meylan and Vialatte locate their houses in a “longue file le long de la rivière”; Coppé’s stand “lungo il fiume in lunga fila”; Zanutigh Nuñez’s in “una larga fila a lo largo del río”; and Brunt’s in “een lange rij langs de rivier.” Three English translators (Underwood, Wensinger, Hofmann) introduce the explanatory comment, at once expansive and limiting, that the houses actually stretch along the river bank. Four non-English translators make the same choice: the houses are “au bord du fleuve” (Robert), “du bord du fleuve” (Billmann and Cellard), and “sulla riva del fiume” (Zampa, Castellani). Perhaps the most striking characteristic of these houses is that they are at once similar and different. Kafka’s German houses are “fast nur in der Höhe und Färbung unterschieden.” To examine that statement in

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the context of everyday logic, we are thus told that the houses are different (“unterschieden”); then the degree of difference is diminished, for they are different “nur in der Höhe und Färbung” (only in height and colouring), thus presumably not in other ways; and finally the degree of difference is increased again, for they are different “fast nur” (almost only) in height and colouring, which is to say, they presumably are different in other ways too. The ways in which this shifting relationship of similarity and difference is refracted in our group of English translations are instructive. Only one retains Kafka’s double qualification exactly: Neugroschel describing the houses as “differing almost only in height and coloring.”35 Two versions initially state the fact of difference plainly, but then immediately qualify it: for Jolas the houses are thus “different from one another,” but this is quickly explained as being “in height and color only”; for Beuscher they likewise “differed from each other,” though once again “only in height and coloring.” In both cases Kafka’s double qualification of the difference (“fast nur”) is thus simplified and reduced to a single qualification (“only”). Four other versions suggest the double qualification by other means: “differing, if at all, only in height and coloration” (Appelbaum); “distinguished in little more than height and colour” (Underwood); “varying only in details of height and colour” (Hofmann); “their height and colour almost the only difference between them” (Crick). Five English versions, by employing the adjectival suffix -able, invoke the role of interpretation in deciding the difference, though they disagree among themselves as to the degree of that difference. The houses are “distinguishable from one another only in height and color” for Wensinger, who is thus also content with the single qualifier “only.” They are “hardly distinguishable from one another except in height and color” for both Pasley and Stokes, the additional qualifier (“hardly”) coming close to stressing their similarity rather than their difference. For Freed, their similarity becomes even greater, for they are now “almost indistinguishable from each other except in height and color.” Finally, for the Muirs, who allow Kafka’s textual indeterminacy to lure them into an outright mistranslation, the similarity of the houses eliminates their difference almost entirely, for now they are at last “scarcely distinguishable from each other in height and coloring.” 35 Emphasis added throughout this paragraph and the next three.



Kafka’s Judgments 45

We find a similar spectrum across our group of non-English translations. Kafka’s double qualification is retained by only 5 of the 15 versions: for Robert, “pratiquement seules la hauteur et la couleur variaient”; for David, “leur hauteur et leur couleur permettaient presque seules de distinguer les unes des autres”; for Zampa, the houses differ “quasi soltanto per l’altezza e il colore,” for Paoli “quasi solo per l’altezza e il colore,” and for Castellani “quasi unicamente per l’altezza e la tinta.” Four versions reduce the double to a single qualification, from “almost only” to “only”: for Klossowski and Leyris the houses thus “se distinguaient seulement … par la hauteur et la couleur”; for Vialatte, they are “uniquement différentes de hauteur ou de ton”; for Coppé, they differ “solo per l’altezza e il colore”; and for Camargo, the houses “solo se distinguían entre sí por la altura y el color.” Two French versions also put increased emphasis on similarity rather than difference with their idiomatic use of a negative construction: for Billmann and Cellard, the houses “ne diffèrent guère les unes des autres que par leur hauteur et leur couleur” (literally, do not differ from one another except in height and colouring), and for Meylan “ne se laissant distinguer presque que par la hauteur et le coloris” (literally, not permitting any distinction, almost, except in height and colouring). Three other versions slip into the same misreading as the Muirs, presenting the houses as “scarcely distinguishable from each other in height and coloring”: for Wilcock the houses thus “apenas se distinguían unas de otras por la altura y el color”; for Zanutigh Nuñez they were “apenas distintas en altura y color”; and for Brunt they were “in hoogte en kleur nauwelijks van elkaar te onderscheiden,” the Spanish apenas and Dutch nauwelijks both meaning “scarcely.” Izquierdo, finally, phrases the matter even more emphatically, presenting the houses as “prácticamente indistinguible de otras de semejante altura y color” (practically indistinguishable from others of similar height and colour). [5] Er hatte gerade einen Brief an einen sich im Ausland befindenden Jugendfreund beendet, Jolas (1928): He had just finished a letter to a friend of his youth who was now abroad, Beuscher (1945): He had just finished a letter to a childhood friend who was abroad, Muir and Muir (1948): He had just finished a letter to an old friend of his who was now living abroad,

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Pasley (1977): He had just finished a letter to an old friend of his who was now living abroad, Underwood (1981): He had just completed a letter to a boyhood friend now living abroad; Wensinger (1989): He had just finished a letter to an old friend who was now living abroad, Appelbaum (1993): He had just finished a letter to a childhood friend who was now living abroad; Neugroschel (1993): Having just finished writing a letter to a boyhood friend in a foreign country, Freed (1996): He had just finished writing a letter to a childhood friend who now lived abroad, Stokes (2002): He had just finished a letter to a childhood friend now living abroad, Hofmann (2006): He had just finished a letter to an old friend presently living abroad, Crick (2009): He had just finished a letter to an old friend now in foreign parts, Klossowski and Leyris (French, 1930): Il venait de terminer une lettre à un ami de jeunesse qui résidait à l’étranger. Vialatte (French, 1938c): Il venait de terminer une lettre à un ami de jeunesse qui habitait l’étranger; Meylan (French, 1944): Il venait d’achever une lettre à un ami d’enfance résidant á l’étranger, Robert (French, 1954a): Il venait de terminer une lettre à un ami de jeunesse qui se trouvait à l’étranger; David (French, 1989): Il venait tout juste de terminer une lettre à un ami de jeunesse, qui résidait à l’étranger; Billmann and Cellard (French, 1997): venait de terminer une lettre pour un ami de jeunesse qui vivait pour lors à l’étranger. Zampa (Italian, 1957): Aveva appena finito una lettera per un amico di gioventú che si trovava all’estero, Castellani (Italian, 1966): Aveva appena terminato di scrivere a un suo amico di gioventù che abitava all’estero: Paoli (Italian, 1970): Aveva finito allora una lettera ad un amico d’infanzia che viveva all’estero; Coppé (Italian, 1974): Aveva appena terminato una lettera destinata ad un amico di gioventù che viveva all’estero; Wilcock (Spanish, 1952): Acababa de escribir una carta a un amigo de infancia que se encontraba en el extranjero,



Kafka’s Judgments 47 Camargo (Spanish, 1985): Acababa de terminar una carta a un amigo de su juventud que se econtraba en el extranjero, Izquierdo (Spanish, 1985): Acababa de escribir a un amigo de la infancia residente en el extranjero, Zanutigh Nuñez (Spanish, 2006a): Justamente había terminado una carta para un amigo de la primera juventud que se encontraba en el extranjero; Brunt (Dutch, 1955): Hij had juist een brief aan zijn in het buitenland wonende jeugdvriend geschreven,

The (fictional) reality or otherwise of this “Jugendfreund” will become a key interpretive issue in Kafka’s text, readers being invited to decide at various points in the narrative whether he is a real friend of Georg’s, a false friend of Georg’s who is actually in league with Georg’s father against him, a mere projection of Georg’s imagination as a character, a counterprojection also of Georg’s father’s imagination as a character, or a projection of Georg’s imagination as a narrator who also projects his father’s counterprojection and hypothesizes his own death. (Much critical ink to the contrary, we do not actually witness Georg’s death in Kafka’s text: the narrative ends, indeed, with Georg falling from the bridge – but without having actually reached the water.) The textual indeterminacy surrounding this true or false, real or imagined friend is interestingly if briefly developed in our macrotext. For Jolas, Georg’s “Jugendfreund” is “a friend of his youth”; for others, he is “a childhood friend” (Beuscher, Appelbaum, Freed, Stokes); for yet others, he is “a boyhood friend” (Underwood, Neugroschel). Each of these versions, like Kafka’s German, allows for the possibility of his being either a continuing or merely a former friend. Those versions in which he is “a childhood friend,” however, also invite us to notice a transtextual link not present in Kafka’s German. Georg’s ostensible anxiety on behalf of his friend is presented as early as the second paragraph of Kafka’s narrative. This friend, we will be told, emigrated to Russia some years ago, was initially quite successful in business, has now apparently fallen on bad days, however, and would arguably be very well-advised just to come back home. But if he did, on the other hand, as Georg will reflect, he might well be seen by all as just a laughable failure, someone who made no more than a silly mistake in attempting to do things his own way rather than the right way, just “ein altes Kind” (1916/1994: 40), in fact, literally, an “old child.” His introduction as a “childhood” friend transtextually anticipates this

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display of what we might well be tempted to read as distinctly gleeful Schadenfreude on Georg’s part. For another group, however, the “Jugendfreund” is “an old friend” (the Muirs, Pasley, Wensinger, Hofmann, Crick). In this formulation there is little doubt about the continuation of friendly relations, but there is now a more overt intertextual link established to the dichotomy of young and old, which arguably plays the single most crucial role in Kafka’s narrative, where Georg is introduced as “a young businessman” as early as the second sentence, one who, we are very soon also informed, lives “mit seinem alten Vater” (1916/1994: 41; with his old father), a relationship that almost immediately comes to drive the entire narrative. If “Jugendfreund,” “childhood friend,” and “boyhood friend” point to one pole of that relationship, the formulation “old friend,” though certainly sharing the same semantic meaning, already invokes the second pole. We may also note that the indeterminacy that will come to surround this friend in Russia emerges transtextually in one other sense, though in only one of the translations. While 10 of the 12 English versions report that Georg’s friend was now living “abroad,” or “in foreign parts” (Crick), Neugroschel has Georg writing his letter to “a boyhood friend in a foreign country,” raising a momentary and supplementary ambiguity as to whether this friend (and possibly even Georg) may have already lived abroad when they were both boys. Hofmann, meanwhile, has the friend “presently living abroad,” the adroitly chosen combination of adverbs punningly evoking the play of absence and presence characterizing this “friend” of Georg’s throughout the story. Among the non-English versions, Brunt’s Dutch “jeugdvriend” is once again an exact parallel for Kafka’s “Jugendfreund,” which otherwise becomes “un ami de jeunesse” for five of the six French translations; an “amico di gioventú” for three of four Italian versions; “un amigo de su juventud” in Camargo’s Spanish; and “un amigo de la primera juventud” in Zanutigh Nuñez’s Spanish, all unambiguously referring to a friend of Georg’s youth. An interestingly suggestive new dimension is contributed by four versions that characterize Georg’s friend instead as “un ami d’enfance” (Meylan), “un amico d’infanzia” (Paoli), “un amigo de infancia” (Wilcock), and “un amigo de la infancia” (Izquierdo), where the etymological resonance of the Latin infans (one incapable of speech) might retrospectively be read as suggesting an ironic commentary on the fact that this friend is indeed never



Kafka’s Judgments 49

allowed to speak for himself in Kafka’s narrative: his words, thoughts, and opinions are all relayed to us only through the filter of either Georg’s or Georg’s father’s presentation or consciousness. Kafka’s “im Ausland,” meanwhile, is rendered unremarkably as “à l’étranger” in French, “all’estero” in Italian, “en el extranjero” in Spanish, and “in het buitenland” in Dutch. [6] verschloß ihn in spielerischer Langsamkeit Jolas (1928): had sealed it with playful slowness Beuscher (1945): sealed it with playful deliberateness Muir and Muir (1948): had put it into its envelope in a slow and dreamy fashion, Pasley (1977): toyed with it for a while as he slowly sealed it, Underwood (1981): he sealed it with frivolous deliberation Wensinger (1989): had sealed it in its envelope with slow and dreamy deliberateness, Appelbaum (1993): he sealed the letter with playful slowness Neugroschel (1993): he sealed the envelope with playful slowness Freed (1996): he fiddled with the letter as he languidly sealed it, Stokes (2002): sealed it with playful deliberation, Hofmann (2006): and now sealed it with playful ceremony Crick (2009): closed it, lingering lightly over the performance, Klossowski and Leyris (French, 1930): Il la ferma avec une lenteur enjouée, Vialatte (French, 1938c): il commença par la fermer avec lenteur, Meylan (French, 1944): l’avait fermée avec une lenteur feinte, Robert (French, 1954a): il la ferma avec lenteur comme par jeu, David (French, 1989): il la ferma avec lenteur, comme en se jouant; Billmann and Cellard (French, 1997): Il la cacheta lentement, comme s’il s’agissait d’un jeu; Zampa (Italian, 1957): la chiuse lentamente, Castellani (Italian, 1966): suggellò pian piano la lettera, attardandosi, Paoli (Italian, 1970): la chiuse con una lentezza compiacuta, quasi giocherellando, Coppé (Italian, 1974): la chiuse con flemma compiaciuta Wilcock (Spanish, 1952): la cerró distraída y lánguidamente Camargo (Spanish, 1985): la cerró con lentitud juguetona Izquierdo (Spanish, 1985): cerró distraídamente la carta Zanutigh Nuñez (Spanish, 2006a): la cerró con juguetona lentitud Brunt (Dutch, 1955): plakte hem opzettelijk heel langzaam dicht

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Having written his letter, Georg “verschloß ihn in spielerischer Langsamkeit,” suggesting for Pasley that he merely “toyed with it for a while as he slowly sealed it” and for Crick that he “closed it, lingering lightly over the performance.” For Jolas, however, more literally, and rather more evocatively, he “had sealed it with playful slowness”; Appelbaum likewise specifies that “he sealed the letter with playful slowness”; while Neugroschel specifies even more narrowly that “he sealed the envelope with playful slowness.” The nature of this “playful slowness” is elaborated upon by other versions. Thus, the act takes place for Beuscher “with playful deliberateness,” for Stokes “with playful deliberation,” for Underwood “with frivolous deliberation,” and for Hofmann “with playful ceremony.” For Wensinger he “had sealed it in its envelope with slow and dreamy deliberateness,” while for Freed he merely “fiddled with the letter as he languidly sealed it.” The Muirs, for their part, are not even certain that the letter is sealed at all, only that Georg “had put it into its envelope in a slow and dreamy fashion.” Transtextually, as one might say, Georg’s “spielerische Langsamkeit” is already playfully re-enacted in these English versions. The nonEnglish versions contribute some interesting further resonances. For approximately half of them, the emphasis is firmly on slowness rather than any suggestion of playfulness. The bluntest version is Zampa’s “la chiuse lentamente” (he closed it slowly), which completely ignores any element of play. For Castellani the element of slowness is also primary, if perhaps with a hint of hesitation: Georg “suggellò pian piano la lettera, attardandosi” (sealed the letter little by little, taking it slowly). Brunt expands somewhat, again ignoring any playfulness but assuring readers that Georg “plakte hem opzettelijk heel langzaam dicht” (sealed it with slow deliberation). For Vialatte, “il commença par la fermer avec lenteur” (he began closing it slowly), as if that act were merely a preliminary to some more important action yet to come – as of course it will emerge as being. Wilcock specifies that Georg “la cerró distraída y lánguidamente” (closed it absent-mindedly and languidly), Izquierdo has him do so just “distraídamente” (absent-mindedly), while Meylan, oddly, has him close the letter “avec une lenteur feinte” (with feigned slowness), introducing an interestingly indeterminate distinction between real and pretended slowness. Several other versions consider play the more important element. For Klossowski and Leyris, adhering closely to Kafka’s German, Georg closes the letter “avec une lenteur enjouée” (with playful slowness); in Spanish, he does so “con lentitud juguetona” (Camargo) or “con



Kafka’s Judgments 51

juguetona lentitud” (Zanutigh Nuñez), in both cases likewise “with playful slowness.” A number of translators consider it appropriate to add an explanatory commentary: for Robert, “il la ferma avec lenteur comme par jeu” (he closed it slowly, as if it were a game); for David, “il la ferma avec lenteur, comme en se jouant” (he closed it slowly, as if playing with it); for Billmann and Cellard, “il la cacheta lentement, comme s’il s’agissait d’un jeu” (he sealed it slowly, as if it were a game); for Coppé, “la chiuse con flemma compiaciuta” (he closed it with whimsical slowness); and for Paoli, expansively, “la chiuse con una lentezza compiacuta, quasi giocherellando” (he closed it with whimsical slowness, as if playing with it). The non-English translations, that is to say, expand the range of the English translations in both directions, from completely ignoring the element of play (as in Zampa’s case) to the suggestion, with intriguing metanarrative overtones, that Georg seems to be involved – or is involving himself – in a game of some sort. [7] und sah dann, den Ellbogen auf den Schreibtisch gestützt, aus dem Fenster Jolas (1928): and then gazed from the window, his elbow on his desk, Beuscher (1945): and then, with elbows propped on his desk, gazed out of the window Muir and Muir (1948): and with his elbows propped on the writing table was gazing out of the window Pasley (1977): and then, resting his elbow on his desk, he looked out of the window Underwood (1981): and then, propping his elbows on the desk, looked out of the window Wensinger (1989): and with one elbow propped on his desk was looking out the window Appelbaum (1993): and then, leaning his elbow on the desk, looked out the window Neugroschel (1993): and then, propping his elbow on the desk, he gazed out the window Freed (1996): and then, with his elbow propped up on the writing desk, gazed out the window Stokes (2002): and then, resting his elbow on his desk, looked out of the window Hofmann (2006): and with his elbows propped on his desk gazed out of the window

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Crick (2009): and then, his elbows resting on his desk, he gazed out of the window Klossowski and Leyris (French, 1930): puis accoudé à son secrétaire, regarda par la fenêtre Vialatte (French, 1938c): puis, le coude appuyé sur la table, se mit à regarder par la fenêtre Meylan (French, 1944): puis, accoudé à la table à écrire, il s’était mis à regarder par la fenêtre Robert (French, 1954a): puis, le coude appuyé sur le bureau, il regarda par la fenêtre David (French, 1989): puis, le coude appuyé sur la table, il jeta un regard par la fenêtre Billmann and Cellard (French, 1997): puis, accoudé à son bureau, il contempla par la fenêtre Zampa (Italian, 1957): quindi, puntati i gomiti sulla scrivania, indugió a guardare fuori della finestra Castellani (Italian, 1966): e poi, appoggiati i gomiti alla scrivania, si mise a guardare Paoli (Italian, 1970): e contemplò poi, coi gomiti appoggiati sulla scrivania, fuor della finestra, Coppé (Italian, 1974): mettendosi poi a contemplare dalla finestra, i gomiti poggiati sulla scrivania, Wilcock (Spanish, 1952): y, apoyando los codos sobre el escritorio, contempló por la ventana Camargo (Spanish, 1985): y miró luego, con el codo apoyado sobre el escritorio, por la ventana, Izquierdo (Spanish, 1985): y, apoyando los codos sobre la mesa, contempló por la ventana Zanutigh Nuñez (Spanish, 2006a): y despues, apoyando el codo en el escritorio, miró por la ventana Brunt (Dutch, 1955): en keek toen, met zijn elleboog op de schrijftafel, uit het raam

Georg’s activity here would not seem to provide a great deal of room for divergent translations. Nonetheless, 5 of the 12 English versions (Wensinger, Pasley, Underwood, Appelbaum, Stokes) have him merely “looking” out of the window, while for the other seven he is rather more evocatively “gazing.” The “Schreibtisch” is a generic “desk” for 10 of the 12 versions, but for Freed it is more specifically a “writing



Kafka’s Judgments 53

desk” and for the Muirs a “writing table.” Even the number of elbows in play is debatable, with seven of the versions persuaded that only one is involved but five (the Muirs, Beuscher, Underwood, Hofmann, Crick) convinced that both are needed. Opinions are also divided as to whether the appropriate number of elbows is “propped” (7 of the 12), “resting” (Pasley, Stokes, Crick), “leaning” (Appelbaum), or simply “on the desk” (Jolas). The distinction between “looking” and “gazing” is roughly paralleled in French, where for four of six versions Georg “regarda par la fenêtre” and for Billmann and Cellard he more reflectively “contempla par la fenêtre.” For David, however, he merely glances, “jeta un regard par la fenêtre.” Two of the Italian versions (Zampa, Castellani) employ the verb “guardare” (to look) and two others (Paoli, Coppé) the verb “contemplare” (to gaze). In Spanish, similarly, two versions (Camargo, Zanutigh Nuñez) employ the verb “mirar” (to look) and two (Wilcock, Izquierdo) the verb “contemplar” (to gaze). The connection between Georg’s desk and the activity of writing is made considerably more strongly in the non-English versions, with 10 of 15 translations describing it variously as a “secrétaire” (Klossowski and Leyris), “table à écrire” (Meylan), “scrivania” (Zampa, Paoli, Castellani, Coppé), “escritorio” (Wilcock, Camargo, Zanutigh Nuñez), or “schrijftafel” (Brunt). Opinions are again divided on the number of elbows involved, with six opting for one, six for two, and three (with the French “accoudé”) content to avoid the issue. [8] auf den Fluß, die Brücke und die Anhöhen am anderen Ufer mit ihrem schwachen Grün. Jolas (1928): out over the river, the bridge and the summits on the other bank with their frail green. Beuscher (1945): at the river, the bridge, and the hills on the other shore with their pale green. Muir and Muir (1948): at the river, the bridge, and the hills on the farther bank with their tender green. Pasley (1977): at the river, the bridge and the rising ground on the far bank with its faint show of green. Underwood (1981): at the river, the bridge, and the hills on the other side with their hint of green. Wensinger (1989): at the river, the bridge, and the hills on the farther bank with their tender green.

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Appelbaum (1993): at the river, the bridge and the pale-green hills on the far bank. Neugroschel (1993): at the river, the bridge, and the sparsely green rises on the opposite bank. Freed (1996): at the river, the bridge, and the faintly green hills on the far bank. Stokes (2002): at the river, the bridge and the pale green hills on the far bank. Hofmann (2006): at the river, the bridge, and the pallid green of the heights on the opposite bank. Crick (2009): at the river, the bridge, and the hills on the further bank with their pallid green. Klossowski and Leyris (French, 1930): le fleuve, le pont et la rive opposée dont les pentes verdoyaient à peine. Vialatte (French, 1938c): la rivière, le pont et les ondulations de terrain de l’autre rive, recouvertes d’un vert léger. Meylan (French, 1944): la rivière, le pont et les collines sur l’autre rive avec leur frêle verdure. Robert (French, 1954a): vers le fleuve, le pont et les collines sur l’autre rive, légèrement verdoyantes. David (French, 1989): sur la rivière, le pont et les hauteurs de l’autre rive, couvertes d’une frondaison vert pâle. Billmann and Cellard (French, 1997): qui donnait sur le fleuve, le pont et les hauteurs tendrement verdoyantes de la rive opposée. Zampa (Italian, 1957): il fiume, il ponte e le colline della sponda opposta, col loro verde pallido. Castellani (Italian, 1966): il fiume, il ponte e le colline coperte di verde pallido che sorgevano sulla riva opposta. Paoli (Italian, 1970): il fiume, il ponte e le colline sulla sponda opposta, coperte di tenero verde. Coppé (Italian, 1974): il fiume, il ponte, e le alture sulla riva opposta, coperte di un verde sbiadito. Wilcock (Spanish, 1952): el río, el puente y las colinas de la otra orilla, con su pálida vegetación. Camargo (Spanish, 1985): hacia el río, el puente y las colinas de la otra orilla con su color verde pálido. Izquierdo (Spanish, 1985): el río, el puente y las colinas de la otra orilla, con su escasa vegetación. Zanutigh Nuñez (Spanish, 2006a): hacia el río, los puentes y las colinas de la otra orilla, con su verde débil.



Kafka’s Judgments 55 Brunt (Dutch, 1955): naar de rivier, de brug en de heuvels aan de overkant met hun tere groen.

As regards the objects of Georg’s consideration, “Fluß” and “Brücke” are unanimously rendered in English as “river” and “bridge” respectively. “Die Anhöhen,” however, while “hills” or “heights” for 9 of the 12, are merely “rising ground” for Pasley and “rises” for Neugroschel but become nothing less than “summits” for Jolas, faintly evoking the high/low dichotomy once again. “Am anderen Ufer” is “on the other/ far/farther/further/opposite bank” for 10 of the 12, but “on the other shore” for Beuscher and “on the other side” for Underwood. The phrase “mit ihrem schwachen Grün,” finally, evokes a minor rainbow of greens: a “hint of green” (Underwood), a “faint show of green” (Pasley), “faintly green” (Freed), “tender green” (the Muirs, Wensinger), “pale green” (Beuscher, Appelbaum, Stokes), “pallid green” (Hofmann, Crick), “frail green” (Jolas), and “sparsely green” (Neugroschel). The central dichotomy in the ensuing narrative of weak (schwach) and strong (stark) is anticipated already in Kafka’s German adjective; it is transtextually developed by “frail” (Jolas) but also to a lesser degree by “faint” (Pasley) and “faintly” (Freed). “Fluß,” “Brücke,” and “Ufer” likewise evoke no particularly interesting responses in our non-English group. The “Anhöhen” once again lead to greater variety in French, becoming variously “pentes” (slopes) for Klossowski and Leyris, “ondulations de terrain” (rising ground) for Vialatte, and “hauteurs” (heights) for David and for Billmann and Cellard, as well as “collines” (hills) for both Meylan and Robert. Three of four Italian versions opt for “colline” (hills), only Coppé preferring “alture” (heights); all four Spanish versions are likewise content with “colinas” (hills); and Brunt’s Dutch also opts for “heuvels” (hills). Once again, the phrase “mit ihrem schwachen Grün” evokes the most differentiated response: “vert pâle” (David), “verde pallido” (Zampa, Castellani), “verde pálido” (Camargo), “tenero verde” (Paoli), “verde sbiadito (Coppé), “verde débil” (Zanutigh Nuñez), “tere groen” (Brunt), “frêle verdure” (Meylan), “vert léger” (Vialatte), “légèrement verdoyantes” (Robert), and “tendrement verdoyantes” (Billmann and Cellard). For Klossowski and Leyris, the hills “verdoyaient à peine” (were scarcely green at all), while two Spanish translators avoid any mention of green: for Wilcock there is only colourless “pálida vegetación” (pale growth), for Izquierdo colourless “escasa vegetación” (scant growth).

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A dominant theme in this colour spectrum is the paleness of the colour (David, Zampa, Castellani, Camargo), suggesting for some the tenderness of healthy new growth (Paoli, Brunt), for others a green that is perhaps less healthy: “weak” (Zanutigh Nuñez), “faded” (Coppé), or “fragile” (Meylan). The dichotomy of weak and strong is evoked by Klossowski and Leyris, Wilcock, and Izquierdo alike. Vialatte’s “vert léger” (light green) and Robert’s “légèrement verdoyantes” (becoming a light green) allow for a transtextual reading as an evocation of the “lightly built houses” and their variable symbolic potential. We may conclude by summarizing what significant macrotextual effects might be said to emerge from our transtextual reading of this single paragraph. It seems reasonable to evaluate our findings in three broad categories: first, false notes, misreadings, mistakes; second, possibly interesting but idiosyncratic readings; and third, readings that arguably are valid and fruitful textual extensions rather than misreadings or merely idiosyncratic readings, potentially revealing aspects of Kafka’s text that were occluded (or absent) even in the original. We will restrict ourselves to a few symptomatic examples of each category (referring in square brackets for brevity’s sake to the individual phrases already examined). To begin with false notes, the conventional modern practice among translators has been not to translate personal names, and we might therefore think of the transformation of the German Georg into an English George (Jolas, Beuscher, Underwood), a French Georges (Meylan, Vialatte), or an Italian Giorgio (Zampa, Paoli) as both unnecessary and arguably one such false note [2]. Obviously, however, none of the seven translators involved thought it either unnecessary or a false note, and the change of name might even be construed in a transtextual context as an entirely appropriate way of signalling the multilingually constructed nature of Georg’s new textual role. Similarly, the fact that the Muirs slip into an outright mistranslation as regards the distinguishability or otherwise of Kafka’s row of houses [4] might normally be seen as no more than a careless error. The fact that their reading is repeated both in Dutch by Brunt and in Spanish by Wilcock, Izquierdo, and Zanutigh Nuñez, however, lends it a not inconsiderable significance in our context, as illustrating in exemplary form the transtextual extension of Kafkan indeterminacy. Perhaps the most interesting feature of apparent false notes, in other words, is that some undoubtedly false readings in the context of an individual translation may emerge in a wider



Kafka’s Judgments 57

transtextual context as not being false at all, but rather as refractions of textual indeterminacy. Also interesting is the fact that other arguably false notes, such as the different numbering of the floor on which Georg lives [3] or whether he props one or both elbows on his desk [7], emerge only in a transtextual context. In the short text analysed here, both of these examples can of course be classified as insignificant, mere transtextual noise. Among idiosyncratic readings, one might want to include Vialatte’s rewriting of “Es war an einem Sonntagvormittag im schönsten Frühjahr” as “c’était un matin de dimanche, par une année qui débutait splendidement” [1] – and possibly also such interpretive comments on the same phrase as Zampa’s “faceva un tempo splendido,” or David’s characterization of Georg’s “Sonntagmittag” as “une magnifique journée.” As in the case of allegedly false readings, however, what might justifiably be classified in the context of an individual translation as a distinctly idiosyncratic reading may well emerge in a wider transtextual context as interesting and significant. The cumulative transtextual effect of such apparently idiosyncratic translations, for example, could in the present case quite appropriately be read as an ironic commentary on the fragility of what Georg, as reported by the narrator, initially considers to be his good fortune. Among readings that arguably extend the implications of the original text and even reveal aspects of its functioning obscured in that original, one might suggest, as already mentioned, the translation in three cases of “Kaufmann” by “négociant” (Meylan, Vialatte, David), a term very appropriately readable as a punning metanarrative commentary on the degree to which Georg’s story is presented as a series of hypothetical narrative scenarios. Among other effects generated only in a transtextual context are the group insecurity regarding the “leicht gebaute Häuser” [3] and their similarity or dissimilarity; the combined effects of describing Georg’s friend in Russia as a “childhood friend,” an “old friend,” and an “ami d’enfance” [5]; the effect of the group suggestion, with interesting metanarrative overtones, that Georg seems to be involved in a discursive game of some sort [6]; the effect of the transtextual uncertainty as to whether Georg should be read as “looking,” “gazing,” or “glancing” out the window [7]; and the effect of Vialatte’s “vert léger” and Robert’s “légèrement verdoyantes” as an evocation of the “leichtgebaute Häuser” and their temptingly symbolic potential [8].

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The present exercise, of course, has been very limited in scope, restricting itself to a single paragraph of Kafka’s narrative and to only a relative handful of translations in an even smaller handful of familiar languages. It may nonetheless have been sufficient to suggest that the concept of a transtextual Kafka has a claim to be something of a portal of textual discovery, especially in the particularly significant context represented by the opening words of the narrative.

3 Kafka’s Metamorphoses

Kafka’s story Die Verwandlung, written in late 1912, was first published in the monthly literary journal Die weißen Blätter (Leipzig) in October 1915 and appeared in book form later the same year, published by Kurt Wolff Verlag of Leipzig. It made its first complete appearance in English as The Metamorphosis, translated by A.L. Lloyd, in 1937. An English translation in three parts, by Eugene Jolas, simultaneously appeared in Paris under the title Metamorphosis, published over three issues of the journal transition in 1936, 1937, and 1938 – Jolas’s translation of the opening chapter thus anticipating Lloyd’s version. A third translation, The Metamorphosis, which would become the standard Englishlanguage version of the story for many years, appeared only in 1948, translated by Willa and Edwin Muir as part of a volume of Kafka’s collected stories entitled The Penal Colony. The narrative opens, famously, with one of Kafka’s most immediately disorienting narrative plunges in medias res: Gregor Samsa, a young travelling salesman, wakes up in his own comfortable home on a morning presumably much like any other – to find himself transformed in his bed into some kind of monstrous insect-like creature almost the size of a grown man. This startling piece of information – far more startling, of course, for generations of readers not yet exposed to the special effects of modern horror movies – is reported already in the very first sentence. For ease of comparison, the translations considered below are once again grouped by language and arranged chronologically within each language.36

36 An earlier version of part of this chapter appeared in Critical Insights: Franz Kafka’s Die Verwandlung, ed. James Whitlark (Pasadena, CA: Salem Press, 2011).

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[1] Als Gregor Samsa eines Morgens aus unruhigen Träumen erwachte, fand er sich in seinem Bett zu einem ungeheueren Ungeziefer verwandelt.37 Jolas (1936: 27): When Gregor Samsa awoke one morning from troubled dreams, he found himself changed into an enormous bug. Lloyd (1937/2008: 11–12): As Gregor Samsa awoke one morning from a troubled dream, he found himself changed in his bed to some monstrous kind of vermin. Muir and Muir (1948/1970: 67): As Gregor Samsa awoke one morning from uneasy dreams he found himself transformed in his bed into a gigantic insect. Corngold (1972: 3): When Gregor Samsa woke up one morning from unsettling dreams, he found himself changed in his bed into a monstrous vermin. Underwood (1981/1986: 91): Gregory Samsa woke from uneasy dreams one morning to find himself changed into a giant bug. Pasley (1992/2000: 76): When Gregor Samsa awoke one morning from troubled dreams he found himself transformed in his bed into a monstrous insect. Appelbaum (1993/1996: 11): When Gregor Samsa awoke from troubled dreams one morning, he found that he had been transformed in his bed into an enormous bug. Neugroschel (1993/2000: 117): One morning, upon awakening from agitated dreams, Gregor Samsa found himself, in his bed, transformed into a monstrous vermin. Freed (1996/2003: 7): As Gregor Samsa awoke from unsettling dreams one morning, he found himself transformed in his bed into a monstrous vermin. Stokes (2002: 3): When Gregor Samsa woke one morning from uneasy dreams he found himself transformed in his bed into a monstrous insect. Hofmann (2006: 1): When Gregor Samsa awoke one morning from troubled dreams, he found himself changed into a monstrous cockroach in his bed. Crick (2009: 29): As Gregor Samsa woke one morning from uneasy dreams, he found himself transformed into some kind of monstrous vermin.

37 Kafka (1915/1994: 93). The text of Die Verwandlung is identical in the first edition of 1915 and the critical edition of 1994. First published in Die weißen Blätter 2 (1915): 1177–230.



Kafka’s Metamorphoses 61 Vialatte (French, 1928: 66): Un matin, au sortir d’un rêve agité, Grégoire Samsa s’éveilla transformé dans son lit en une formidable vermine. Lortholary (French, 1988a: 9): En se réveillant un matin après des rêves agités, Gregor Samsa se retrouva, dans son lit, métamorphosé en un monstrueux insecte. Vergne-Cain and Rudent (French, 1988a/2000: 395): Lorsque Gregor Samsa s’éveilla un matin, au sortir de rêves agités, il se trouva dans son lit métamorphosé en un monstrueux insecte. David (French, 1989: 79): Lorsque Gregor Samsa s’éveilla un matin au sortir de rêves agités, il se retrouva dans son lit changé en un énorme cancrelat. Paoli (Italian, 1934/2002: 157): Gregorio Samsa, svegliandosi una mattina da sogni agitati, si trovò trasformato, nel suo letto, in un enorme insetto immondo. Rho (Italian, 1935: 25): Una mattina Gregorio Samsa, destandosi da sogni inquieti, si trovò mutato in un insetto mostruoso. Coppé (Italian, 1974/2005: 47): Quando Gregor Samsa si risvegliò una mattina da sogni tormentosi si ritrovò nel suo letto trasformato in un insetto gigantesco. Fortini (Italian, 1980/1997: 85): Mentre un mattino Gregor Samsa si veniva svegliando da sogni agitati, nel proprio letto egli si trovò mutato in un insetto mostruoso. Borges (Spanish, 1938/2005: 7): Al despertar Gregorio Samsa una mañana, tras un sueño intranquilo, encontróse en su cama convertido en un monstruoso insecto. Izquierdo (Spanish, 1975: 7): Una mañana, tras un sueño intranquilo, Gregorio Samsa se despertó convertido en un monstruoso insecto. Camargo (Spanish, 1985/2009: 131): Cuando Gregor Samsa se despertó una mañana despues de un sueño intranquilo, se encontró sobre su cama convertido en un monstruoso insecto. Ribas (Spanish, 2004: 7): Cuando una mañana Gregor Samsa despertó de un sueño intranquilo, se encontró sobre la cama transformado en un insecto monstruoso. Silveira (Portuguese, 1956/2002: 9–10): Quando Gregor Samsa despertou, certa manhã, de um sonho agitado viu que se transformara, durante o sono, numa espécie monstruosa de insecto. Teixeira Aguilar (Portuguese, 1975/1987: 15): Uma manhã, ao despertar de sonhos inquietantes, Gregor Samsa deu por si na cama transformado num gigantesco insecto.

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Fragoso (Portuguese, 1996: 19): Certa manhã ao acordar de sonhos inquietos, Gregor Samsa viu-se transformado num gigantesco insecto. Gasco (Portuguese, 2003: 9): Certa manhã, ao acordar após sonhos agitados, Gregor Samsa viu-se na sua cama, metamorfoseado num monstruoso insecto. Brunt (Dutch, 1944/1994: 75): Toen Gregor Samsa op een morgen uit onrustige dromen ontwaakte, ontdekte hij dat hij in zijn bed in een monsterachtig ongedierte was veranderd. Winje (Norwegian, 1997/2006: 535): Da Gregor Samsa en morgen våknet av urolige drømmer, fant han seg selv i sengen forvandlet til et digert, uhyrlig kryp.

Waking up to discover with relief that a terrifying experience was only a dream is a commonplace experience. As Gregor Samsa wakes up one morning, however, he finds that the dream is no dream at all. Or so the text says at any rate. That text is a particularly slippery one, however, even in the original, and it certainly loses none of its slipperiness when read in its multiple translations. We may, for example, be struck initially by the fact that Gregor’s name remains Gregor in 11 of the 12 English versions but metamorphoses into Gregory in one (Underwood). Three of our four French versions similarly retain the German Gregor, while one (Vialatte) transforms the protagonist into Grégoire. Two Italian renderings (Coppé, Fortini) retain the German Gregor, and two (Paoli, Rho) prefer Gregorio, and the same transformation from Gregor to Gregorio occurs in two of four Spanish translations (Borges, Izquierdo). The theme of transformation, metamorphosis – shape changing, that is to say – reverberates onomastically across our multilingual roster of translations in a manner entirely absent in Kafka’s German and quite unlikely to be detected in any single translation, including those in which the protagonist’s name is domesticated in the relevant language. We shall return in due course to some further onomastic considerations. Gregor, as we shall continue to call him, wakes up (or is said to wake up) in Kafka’s German “eines Morgens,” one morning among many presumably ordinary mornings – except, of course, that Gregor’s nightmarish experience immediately undermines the very concept of ordinariness. All 12 English translators replicate the ordinariness of the morning, which for each of them is simply an entirely unremarkable “one morning.” Similarly, for all four French versions it is merely “un matin” and for all four Spanish versions “una mañana.” Brunt’s



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Dutch “op een morgen” and Winje’s Norwegian “en morgen” follow suit equally unremarkably. Fortini’s Italian opts for “un mattino,” the other three versions for “una mattina,” but the choice does not appear to involve any significant semantic distinction. In the face of such uniformity, Portuguese emerges as providing the most interesting version of this particular phrase, for while one translator, Teixeira Aguilar, similarly opts for “uma manhã” (again merely “one morning”), each of the other three versions prefers a distinctly more interesting “certa manhã” (literally, on a certain morning), an idiomatic phrase unremarkable in itself but which one might nonetheless choose to read retrospectively as evoking doubts as to what might be seen as constituting certainty or uncertainty in the narrative world of Franz Kafka. Gregor, on this ordinary morning, awakes in Kafka’s German “aus unruhigen Träumen.” It has been observed that Kafka’s formulation unruhige Träume combines two everyday German phrases, unruhiger Schlaf (uneasy sleep) and schlechte Träume (bad dreams). “Uneasy dreams,” the translation chosen by Willa and Edwin Muir and followed by Underwood, Stokes, and Crick, allows for the same combination, itself marked by linguistic uneasiness, in English. Other translators prefer more standard English formulations: Gregor’s dreams are “troubled” for four of the translators (Jolas, Pasley, Appelbaum, Hofmann), “unsettling” for two (Corngold, Freed), and “agitated” for one (Neugroschel). In thus normalizing the linguistic expression of Gregor’s dreams, that is to say, 7 of 12 English translators are already busily at work, consciously or unconsciously making Kafka’s very strange text less strange, if only minimally, than it is in the original German. An early translator, A.L. Lloyd, is alone in having Gregor waking not from dreams but from a (singular) “troubled dream,” thus likewise normalizing Kafka’s text in English while suggesting a single nightmare rather than a series of disturbing dreams. Turning to non-English renderings of this particular phrase, we find that Gregor’s dreams are “agités” in three of four French versions, the adjective translating literally as “agitated,” thus once again normalizing Kafka’s linguistic usage. (Readers should of course be aware, however, of the debatability here and elsewhere of such “literal” backtranslations on my part.) All three of these later French versions reject the decision made by the earliest French translator, Alexandre Vialatte (1928), who, like Lloyd in English, has Gregor awaking not from dreams but from a single and singular dream, a “rêve agité,” a decision thus once again focusing

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readers’ attention on a single nightmare rather than on multiple dreams left undescribed out of which Gregor’s experience grows. The same decision was made by the early Spanish translator Jorge Luis Borges (1938) and echoed in all three of the other Spanish versions, “un sueño intranquilo” once again suggesting the origins of Gregor’s metamorphosis in a single “unquiet” dream. The earliest Portuguese version, by Breno Silveira (1956), likewise opts for a single dream, “um sonho agitado,” whereas three later Portuguese versions hew more closely to Kafka’s original with a plurality of dreams variously “inquietantes” (Teixeira Aguilar), “inquietos” (Fragoso), or “agitados” (Gasco). All four Italian renderings refer to a plurality of dreams (“sogni”), variously “agitati” (Paoli, Fortini) or “inquieti” (Rho), with Coppé opting instead for a more emotive “tormentosi” (literally, tormenting). Nini Brunt’s Dutch and Trond Winje’s Norwegian both have Gregor awaking from “restless dreams,” “onrustige dromen” and “urolige drømmer” respectively. The degree to which Gregor does actually wake up in the first place is interestingly nuanced across our selection of translations. Kafka’s German, with its opening conjunction “als,” allows for a slight but crucial degree of indeterminacy: “als er erwachte” may be translated variously as “when he woke up,” “as he woke up,” or even “as he was waking up.” Eight of 12 English versions opt for translating Kafka’s “als” as “when,” thus allowing for no doubt that Gregor did indeed wake up. Four, however (Lloyd, the Muirs, Freed, and Crick), using the English conjunction as rather than when, successfully emulate the destabilizing ambiguity of Kafka’s German, allowing for a reading that situates Gregor’s experience in the confused moment between sleeping and waking, night and day, nightmare and normality. The text will of course go on to claim within a few lines that “es war kein Traum” (it was not a dream), but if we choose, as some readers might well do, to read that claim as merely a product of Gregor’s dreaming mind, then it is scarcely an authoritative one. Among French versions, Vialatte assures his readers that Gregor “s’éveilla,” that he did indeed “wake up.” Both for David and for VergneCain and Rudent, however, the event occurred “lorsque Gregor Samsa s’éveilla” (while Gregor Samsa was waking up), and for Lortholary, it similarly occurs “en se réveillant” (literally, while awakening). Among Italian versions, Coppé’s “si risvegliò” (he woke up) states definitely that Gregor was indeed awake – while Fortini states equally firmly that the events recounted happened not after but “mentre Gregor Samsa si



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veniva svegliando” (while Gregor Samsa was waking up). The other two Italian renderings opt for careful ambiguity instead, employing in each case a present participle that may mean either “upon waking up” or “while waking up,” thus “svegliandosi” (Paoli) and “destandosi” (Rho). All four Spanish versions are unproblematically clear that Gregor is indeed awake (“al despertar,” “se despertó”), as are all four Portuguese renderings (“despertou,” “ao despertar,” “ao acordar”) and Brunt’s Dutch (“Toen Gregor Samsa … ontwaakte”), though Winje’s Norwegian (“Da Gregor Samsa … våknet”) seems to allow for some degree of ambiguity. The precise deployment of individual words and phrases in Kafka’s German is worthy of careful note: “Als Gregor Samsa / eines Morgens / aus unruhigen Träumen / erwachte, / fand er sich / in seinem Bett / zu einem ungeheueren Ungeziefer / verwandelt.” The German text, that is to say, informs us, as we read from one word to the next, that Gregor “fand … sich in seinem Bett” (found himself in his bed), which, after all, is an entirely normal place for him to find himself after a night’s sleep. This very momentary illusion of domestic security and normality is immediately exploded, however, and an apparent normality immediately – one might even say gleefully – exposed as merely a mask for a grotesque underlying abnormality. Remarkably, not even one of the dozen English versions manages (or chooses) to replicate this effect, even though it is a very easy one to achieve. The nearest approximation is Neugroschel’s statement that Gregor “found himself, in his bed, transformed,” where the effect, however, is undermined by the (quite unnecessary) first comma. Three English versions, hastening towards the climactic moment, even go so far as to dispense with the bed altogether, with Jolas, Underwood, and Crick all passing over it in complete silence. Two of the four French versions, on the other hand, have no difficulty in capturing the effect, David with “il se retrouva dans son lit” and Vergne-Cain and Rudent with “il se trouva dans son lit,” where in each case Gregor “found himself in his bed.” Lortholary’s translation, whose Gregor “se retrouva, dans son lit, métamorphosé,” falls victim, like Neugroschel’s English version, to an unnecessary comma that obscures the effect. In Italian, the effect is fully achieved only by Coppé, whose Gregor “si ritrovò nel suo letto” (found himself in his bed); Fortini’s version, concentrating on the contrast of normal and abnormal, emphasizes that Gregor’s transformation happened “nel proprio letto” (in his own bed) but misses the Kafkan effect, as does Paoli, while Rho’s version once again ignores the bed altogether.

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We encounter a similar range of responses in both Spanish and Portuguese. In the former, three of four versions successfully replicate the effect, Gregor finding himself, for Borges, “en su cama” (in his bed), for Ribas, “sobre la cama” (on the bed), and for Camargo, “sobre su cama” (on his bed). This distinction between Gregor’s being in or on his bed is interesting in two respects: it is limited to the Spanish versions, and it anticipates (but only when read transtextually, across the three Spanish texts) the textual play that will follow immediately in the rest of the first paragraph, as the bedcover momentarily hesitates (is seen to be hesitating) between staying put (Gregor safely covered up in his bed) or sliding to the floor (Gregor exposed uncovered on his bed). Untroubled by such fine distinctions, Izquierdo’s Spanish robustly chooses simply to ignore the existence of the bed. As for Portuguese, the effect of initial but deceptive normality is achieved by two translators, Teixeira Aguilar’s Gregor finding himself “na cama” (in the bed) and Gasco’s “na sua cama” (in his bed), while the bed remains unmentioned by either Silveira or Fragoso. Silveira’s version volunteers instead that Gregor’s transformation had taken place “duranto o sono” (in his sleep), although arguably it is precisely the fact of waking up that initiates the transformation in the first place; interestingly, it also introduces a minimal linguistic distinction, that between Portuguese sono and sonho, “sleep” and “dream.” Winje’s Norwegian, meanwhile, is included among those versions that successfully replicate Kafka’s juxtaposition of the normal and the monstrous: Gregor “fant … seg selv i sengen” (found himself in the bed). Gregor, then, as we have established, “finds” himself in his bed, “finds” himself grotesquely transformed. Kafka’s usage of the reflexive verb sich finden (to find oneself) immediately challenges readers to decide whether Gregor’s transformation is real (as reported by a reliable narrator) or imagined (as reportedly dreamed by Gregor). Readers of the text in translation are faced with essentially the same challenge and are provided in most cases with no more and no less evidence for making a decision as far as this opening sentence is concerned. All 12 English versions employ the corresponding reflexive verb to find oneself: Gregor awoke and “found himself changed” or, in one case, awoke “to find himself changed” (Underwood). In French, Gregor similarly “se retrouva” or “se trouva” in his changed state in three of four translations; in Italian, Gregor in all cases “si trovò” or “si ritrovò” thus changed; and in three of four Spanish versions Gregor “encontróse” or



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“se encontró” likewise changed. The implications of the verbs chosen here – French se trouver or se retrouver, Italian trovarsi or ritrovarsi, Spanish encontrarse – are essentially unchanged from those of their German and English counterparts and allow for the same degree of uncertainty as to the reality or otherwise of Gregor’s reported experience. There are occasional interesting deviations, however. In one French version, the earliest, Gregor “s’éveilla transformé” (Vialatte), and in one Spanish version Gregor “se despertó convertido” (Izquierdo), that is to say, woke up in both cases changed, rather than “finding” himself changed. The implication here is clearly that we are to take the narrator’s word for it: Gregor’s transformation is real, not imagined. In technical terms, Vialatte and Izquierdo both privilege narrator focalization, while all our other versions in English, French, Italian, and Spanish maintain the delicate indeterminacy of Kafka’s German as to whether narrator focalization or character focalization should be seen as taking precedence.38 In Portuguese, however, the balance tilts rather towards character focalization in at least three of four versions. Fragoso and Gasco both employ the verb ver-se, which means, idiomatically, “to find oneself” but also, literally, “to see oneself,” as in a mirror. The statement that Gregor “viu-se transformado” (Fragoso) or “viu-se … metamorfoseado” (Gasco) – literally, saw himself changed – can certainly be read as implying more strongly than any other rendering considered so far that his transformation is a figment of his own imagination. A third Portuguese version, in which Silveira’s Gregor “viu que se transformara,” goes even further. Here Gregor unambiguously “saw” (viu) rather than “found” himself transformed; intriguingly, moreover, the Portuguese reflexive “se transformara” can be read as implying either that Gregor “had been transformed” by some unknown agency or, very differently, that “he had transformed himself.” A fourth Portuguese version, finally, Teixeira Aguilar’s statement that Gregor “deu por si … transformado,” while idiomatically meaning that he “found himself” changed, strikes a more lapidary and thus potentially more comic tone than any other version, including Kafka’s own German, if taken literally: Gregor merely “noticed” (dar por, to notice) his transformation, as if it were a totally trivial matter, easily

38 For further discussion of narrative focalization in these terms, see O’Neill (1994: 83–106).

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overlooked. The lapidary quality of this particular translation anticipates the likewise comic implications of Gregor’s extraordinarily understated reaction in the second paragraph – “‘Was ist mit mir geschehen?’, dachte er” (“‘What has happened to me?’ he thought”) – soon to be compounded by anxiety that he is going to miss his train and be late for work, a catastrophe that by implication far outweighs his monstrous transformation. A rather different potentially comic effect is achieved by Brunt’s Dutch statement that Gregor “ontdekte … dat hij … was veranderd,” literally, “discovered that he had been changed.” Here the use of the verb ontdekken (to discover) – rather than, for example, vinden (to find) – can also be read as a playful anticipation of Gregor’s bedcover (deken) that we shall soon find hesitating between concealment (dekken, to hide) and revelation (ontdekken, to discover). The feature of the first sentence that most immediately seizes readers’ attention is of course the nature of the creature into which Gregor is reportedly transformed, and here we find a wide range of interpretations of the statement that Gregor Samsa found himself “zu einem ungeheueren Ungeziefer verwandelt.” Among English translators, honours are divided between an “insect” (the Muirs, Pasley, Stokes), a “vermin” (Lloyd, Corngold, Neugroschel, Freed, Crick), a “bug” (Jolas, Underwood, Appelbaum), and a “cockroach” (Hofmann), variously described as “enormous” (Jolas), “gigantic” (the Muirs), “giant” (Underwood), and, by 8 of the 12, “monstrous.” In French, we find a “vermine” (Vialatte), an “insecte” (Lortholary, Vergne-Cain and Rudent), and a “cancrelat” (David), the last of these translating literally as a “cockroach,” creatures variously described as “formidable” (Vialatte), “énorme” (David), and “monstrueux” (Lortholary, Vergne-Cain and Rudent). The four Italian translators are unanimous that it is an “insetto,” characterized by two versions as “mostruoso” (Rho, Fortini), by one as “gigantesco” (Coppé), and by one (Fortini) as “enorme” (huge), only one of them, Coppé, specifying that it is also “immondo” (foul, filthy, unclean). All four Spanish versions speak of an “insecto” that is “monstruoso”; all four Portuguese versions agree that it is an “insecto,” described as both “gigantesco” (Teixeira Aguilar, Fragoso) and “monstruoso” (Silveira, Gasco). Brunt’s Dutch speaks of a “monsterachtig ongedierte” (monstrous vermin) and Winje’s Norwegian, expansively, of a “digert, uhyrlig kryp,” a creepy-crawly “vermin” (kryp) that is both “huge” (diger) and “monstrous” (uhyrlig).



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The etymology of Kafka’s terms “ungeheuer” and “Ungeziefer” has been the subject of considerable attention among Kafka scholars.39 Kurt Weinberg, notably, has pointed to the derivation of Ungeziefer from the Middle High German ungezibere, originally denoting an unclean animal unsuited for sacrificial purposes, while noting also that the adjective ungeheuer originally shared its meaning with the Latin infamiliaris, describing a person without ties to any family (1963: 316–17). In modern German, the adjective ungeheuer acquired the connotations “uncanny,” thus eventually “monstrous,” and later still “monstrously large.” Kafka’s German is richer here than its translations, a good half of which translate “Ungeziefer” merely as “insect”/“insecte”/“insetto”/“insecto,” the next largest category being populated by various kinds of “vermin.” Kafka’s German underlines the uncanniness and monstrosity of Gregor’s fate by the evocative use of the triple negative prefix un- as the protagonist awakes from “unruhige Träume” to become an “ungeheueres Ungeziefer.” This effect is captured, in interestingly modulated form, only in Nini Brunt’s Dutch version, where Gregor awoke (“ontwaakte”) from “onrustige dromen” and discovered (“ontdekte”) his transformation into a “monsterachtig ongedierte.” Etymology and entomology meet in Kafka’s ungeheueres Ungeziefer, as has frequently been pointed out by Kafka scholars. Gregor, transformed, appears to combine features of the bedbug, the beetle, the woodlouse, the centipede, and the cockroach, monstrously enlarged in every case almost to the size of a grown man. The distinctions, vigorously argued for by their various proponents, need not concern us here. We may note, however, that the flaunted indeterminacy of Kafka’s creature leads in some versions to attempts at capturing it by means of a paraphrase: thus Lloyd’s “some monstrous kind of vermin” or Crick’s “some kind of monstrous vermin.” In Silveira’s Portuguese Gregor is transformed into an “espécie monstruosa de insecto” (a monstrous sort of insect), with the emphasis apparently shifted – as in Lloyd’s “some monstrous kind of vermin” – from the monstrosity of being changed into an “insect” to the monstrosity of being changed into a particular “sort” (espécie) of insect. A few lines later, we will find Gregor indulging in a similar strategy of displacement as he realizes that in addition to his incomprehensible transformation he has also, and by implication even worse, missed his usual train.

39 For a still useful summary of the discussion, see Corngold (1972: 66–7).

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Kafka’s “verwandelt,” as we have seen in passing, also finds a range of translated options. Seven of the English versions prefer “transformed,” while five opt instead for a more restrained “changed” (Jolas, Lloyd, Corngold, Underwood, Hofmann). In French, one opts for “transformé” (Vialatte), two for “métamorphosé” (Lortholary, Vergne-Cain and Rudent), and one for “changé” (David). Among Italian versions, Paoli and Coppé prefer “trasformato,” while Rho and Fortini opt for “mutato.” Three of four Spanish translators prefer “convertido,” while one opts for “transformado” (Ribas). In Portuguese, three of four prefer “transformado” or “se transformara,” while one prefers “metamorfoseado” (Gasco). Brunt’s Dutch has “veranderd” and Winje’s Norwegian “forvandlet.” In Kafka’s German, the final word of the first sentence, “verwandelt,” pointedly recalls the title, Die Verwandlung. Winje’s Norwegian translation, entitled Forvandlingen, is the only one of all those considered here that succeeds in replicating that particular effect, which immediately highlights the specific relevance of the otherwise ambivalent title.40 For the German noun Verwandlung, as numerous critics have observed, may variously denote not only a physical transformation but also, among other possibilities, a psychological change of personality or – intriguingly in the context – a theatrical scene change. Brunt’s Dutch, ending (thanks to the similarity between German and Dutch syntactic patterns) with “veranderd,” comes tantalizingly close, but her title is not, as it might equally well have been, De gedaanteverandering but rather De gedaanteverwisseling, each of these options literally invoking a physical “change” (verandering, verwisseling) of “shape” (gedaante). [2] Er lag auf seinem panzerartig harten Rücken und sah, wenn er den Kopf ein wenig hob, seinen gewölbten, braunen, von bogenförmigen Versteifungen geteilten Bauch, Jolas (1936): Lying on his plate-like, solid back and raising his head a bit, he saw his arched, brown belly divided by bowed corrugations, Lloyd (1937): He lay on his back, which was as hard as armor plate, and, raising his head a little, he could see the arch of his great, brown belly, divided by bowed corrugations. 40 Winje’s Norwegian translation is provided here only for the iconic opening sentence of Die Verwandlung.



Kafka’s Metamorphoses 71 Muir and Muir (1948): He was lying on his hard, as it were armor-plated, back and when he lifted his head a little he could see his dome-like brown belly divided into stiff arched segments Corngold (1972): He was lying on his back as hard as armor plate, and when he lifted his head a little, he saw his vaulted brown belly, sectioned by arch-shaped ribs, Underwood (1981): He was lying on his back, which was of a shell-like hardness, and when he lifted his head a little he could see his domeshaped brown belly, banded with what looked like reinforcing arches, Pasley (1992): He was lying on his hard shell-like back and by lifting his head a little he could see his curved brown belly, divided by stiff arching ribs, Appelbaum (1996): He lay on his back, which was hard as armor, and, when he lifted his head a little, he saw his belly – rounded, brown, partitioned by archlike ridges – Neugroschel (1993): He lay on his hard, armorlike back, and when lifting his head slightly, he could view his brown, vaulted belly partitioned by arching ridges, Freed (1996): He lay on his hard armorlike back and when he raised his head a little he saw his vaulted brown belly divided into sections by stiff arches Stokes (2002): He was lying on his hard shell-like back, and when he lifted his head a little he could see his dome-shaped brown body, banded with reinforcing arches, Hofmann (2006): He lay on his tough, armoured back, and, raising his head a little, managed to see – sectioned off by little crescent-shaped ridges into segments – the expanse of his arched, brown belly, Crick (2009): He lay on his hard, armour-like back, and if he lifted his head a little, he could see his curved brown abdomen, divided by archshaped ridges, Vialatte (French, 1928): Il était couché sur le dos, un dos dur comme une cuirasse, et, en levant un peu la tête, il s’aperçut qu’il avait un ventre brun en forme de voûte divisé par des nervures arquées. Lortholary (French, 1988a): Il était sur le dos, un dos aussi dur qu’une carapace, et, en relevant un peu la tête, il vit, bombé, brun, cloisonné par des arceaux plus rigides, son abdomen Vergne-Cain and Rudent (French, 1988a): Il reposait sur son dos qui était dur comme une cuirasse, et, en soulevant un peu la tête, il apercevait son ventre bombé, brun, divisé par des arceaux rigides,

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David (French, 1989): Il était couché sur son dos, dur comme une carapace et, lorsqu’il levait un peu la tête, il découvrait un ventre brun, bombé, partagé par des indurations en forme d’arc, Paoli (Italian, 1934): Riposava sulla schiena, dura come una corazza, e sollevando un poco il capo, vedeva il suo ventre arcuato, bruno e diviso in tanti segmenti ricurvi, Rho (Italian, 1935): Era disteso sul dorso, duro come una corazza, e alzando un poco il capo poteva vedere il suo ventre bruno convesso, solcato da nervature arcuate, Coppé (Italian, 1974): Giaceva sulla schiena dura come una corazza e sollevando un poco il capo poteva vedere la sua pancia convessa, color marrone, suddivisa in grosse scaglie ricurve; Fortini (Italian, 1980): Poggiava supino su di una schiena dura come una corazza e, se levava un poco il capo, vedeva convesso, bruno, diviso in nervature arcuate il suo addome, Borges (Spanish, 1938): Hallábase echado sobre el duro caparazón de su espalda, y, al alzar un poco la cabeza, vio la figura convexa de su vientre oscuro, surcado por curvadas callosidades, Izquierdo (Spanish, 1975): Estaba echado de espaldas sobre un duro caparazón y, al alzar la cabeza, vio su vientre convexo y oscuro, surcado por curvadas callosidades, Camargo (Spanish, 1985): Estaba tumbado sobre su espalda dura, y en forme de caparazón y, al levantar un poco la cabeza, veía un vientre abombado, parduzco, dividido por partes duras en forma de arco, Ribas (Spanish, 2004): Yacía sobre su espalda dura como un caparazón y al levantar un poco la cabeza vio su abombado abdomen pardo, cruzado por durezas en forma de arco Silveira (Portuguese, 1956): Permaneceu de costas, as quais eram duras como uma couraça, e, erguendo um pouco a cabeça, conseguiu ver a saliência do seu grande ventre castanho, dividido em nítidas ondulações. Teixeira Aguilar (Portuguese, 1975): Estava deitado sobre o dorso, tão duro que parecia revestido de metal, e, ao levantar um pouco a cabeça, divisou o arredondado ventre castanho dividido em rijos segmentos arqueados, Fragoso (Portuguese, 1996): Estava deitado na cama, sobre a sua carapaça dura, e sempre que levantava um pouco a cabeça via a barriga abaulada, castanha, subdividida em escoras arqueadas, Gasco (Portuguese, 2003): Estava deitado de costas, umas costas tão duras como uma carapaça, e, ao levantar um pouco a cabeça, viu o seu ventre acastanhado, inchado e arredondado em anéis rígidos,



Kafka’s Metamorphoses 73 Brunt (Dutch, 1944): Hij lag op zijn hard gepantserde rug en zag, als hij zijn kop enigszins optilde, zijn gewelfde bruine, door boogvormige geledingen verdeelte buik,

Gregor, in Kafka’s German, was lying “auf seinem panzerartig harten Rücken.” Among earlier English translators, he was lying “on his platelike, solid back” for Jolas, “on his back, which was as hard as armor plate” for Lloyd, and “on his hard, as it were armor-plated, back” for the Muirs. Most later English-language translators follow Lloyd and the Muirs in describing Gregor’s back as being (or at any rate as being understood by Gregor to be) more like armour, but a significant minority agree with Jolas in describing it instead as being “of shell-like hardness” (Underwood, Pasley, Stokes). The distinction is not a trivial one, for a back of shell-like hardness has unmistakable resonances of the animal world, whereas armour has strong military resonances, and Gregor will turn out (his room contains a photograph of him in military uniform) to have had military experience. The four French versions are similarly split between those (Lortholary, David) for whom his back is as hard as a “carapace” or body-shell, as if of an insect, and those (Vialatte, Vergne-Cain and Rudent) for whom it is as hard as a “cuirasse” or piece of body armour, again with definite military connotations. All four Italian translators are unanimous that armour (“una corazza”) is the more appropriate comparator, while four Spanish translators see it instead as being more like a “caparazón,” the shell of an insect. Two Portuguese translators (Fragoso, Gasco) similarly evoke a “carapaça” or insect’s shell, a third (Silveira) opts for armour (“couraça”), and a fourth (Teixeira Aguilar) describes Gregor’s back as being so hard that it seemed “revestido de metal” (covered in metal). Brunt’s Dutch has his back “gepantserd” (armoured). Lying on his back, armoured or otherwise, Gregor’s first physical reaction is raise his head a little, allowing him to see his belly. It is intriguing in the context to note that the German word Panzer (armour), associated here with Gregor’s back, derives via Old French pancier (breastplate) from the Old French panse and Latin pantex, both meaning not “back” but “belly, paunch” – to which Gregor’s attention is then immediately drawn. French cuirasse, Italian corazza, and Portuguese couraça all initially meant body armour in general, all three terms deriving ultimately from the Latin corium (leather), since such armour was originally made of leather. In all three cases, the term later came to mean specifically a breastplate. Transtextually, that is to say, what

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may or may not have been a deliberate etymological pun in German on Kafka’s part is extended into three separate languages, French, Italian, and Portuguese, in all of which a similar etymological play is possible (purposefully or otherwise) on terms specifically referring to Gregor’s back but etymologically more closely related to Gregor’s front – and thus mirroring Gregor’s bewilderment as to what can have happened to him. The reader shares in that bewilderment, of course. Kafka, indeed, immediately ensures this by the use of an inconspicuous and ostensibly innocuous conjunction, informing his readers that Gregor was able to see his belly “wenn er den Kopf ein wenig hob” (emphasis added). The German conjunction wenn, referring to past time, is normally translated by the English “if” or “whenever,” in both cases suggesting a repeated action; the conjunction als is translated as “when” or “as,” referring to a single past event. Kafka’s German would thus suggest “if he raised his head” (and we cannot be sure he did) or “whenever he raised his head” (and he did so on more than one occasion), when we would expect “as he raised his head” or “when he raised his head,” both cases referring to a single – and for Gregor shocking – event. Most of the English translators go to some pains to remove the indeterminacy, by turns of phrase such as “raising his head” (Jolas, Lloyd, Hofmann), “by lifting his head” (Pasley), “when he lifted his head” (the Muirs, Corngold, Underwood, Appelbaum, Stokes), or “when he raised his head” (Freed). Only two versions intimate something of the original Kafkan indeterminacy: Neugroschel’s “when lifting his head slightly” and Crick’s “if he lifted his head a little” might in both cases just as easily refer to repeated raisings as to a single raising of the head. Among non-English versions, Brunt’s Dutch “als hij zijn kop enigszins optilde” (as he lifted his head a little) is quite unambiguous. Three of four French versions avoid any indeterminacy by the use of a present participle (Vialatte’s “en levant,” Lortholary’s “en relevant,” VergneCain and Rudent’s “en soulevant”), while David’s “lorsqu’il levait” (on lifting) is equally unambiguous. Three of four Italian versions also avoid any ambiguity by the use of a present participle (Paoli’s and Coppé’s “sollevando,” Rho’s “alzando”), while Fortini’s “se levava un poco il capo” (if he lifted his head a little) reintroduces the element of uncertainty. All four Spanish versions avoid ambiguity with the prepositional phrases “al alzar” (Borges, Izquierdo) or “al levantar” (Camargo, Ribas), literally, “on lifting” his head. Three of four Portuguese versions refer unambiguously to a single event, Silveira using the present



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participle “erguendo” (lifting), Teixeira Aguilar and Gasco the formulation “ao levantar” (on lifting). Fragoso’s “sempre que levantava um pouco a cabeça,” however, equally unambiguously refers to a multiply repeated event, Gregor being confronted with the spectacle of his own monstrous body not just on a single, appalling occasion but “every time he raised his head a little,” the nightmare growing more nightmarish still by the repetition. What Gregor sees, in Kafka’s German, is “seinen gewölbten, braunen, von bogenförmigen Versteifungen geteilten Bauch” – a description whose extraordinary strangeness, so precisely formulated, leads to an equally extraordinary range of translatorial responses, as if the unreality of the situation were being reflected by the translators’ cumulative inability to agree on what exactly it was that Gregor could possibly have seen. Indeed, no two English-language versions agree (with the single exception of Lloyd, who clearly borrows a formulation from Jolas). All can agree at least that Gregor’s belly is “brown,” but its shape, as seen by Gregor and described by Kafka as “gewölbt,” is described by some translators, in relatively normal terms, as “curved” (Pasley, Crick) or “rounded” (Appelbaum), but also, and predominantly, in strangely architectural terms such as “dome-like” (the Muirs), “domeshaped” (Underwood, Stokes), “arched” (Jolas, Lloyd, Hofmann), or “vaulted” (Corngold, Neugroschel, Freed). This bulging belly is further described as divided or sectioned or partitioned “into stiff arched segments” (the Muirs), segments divided “by bowed corrugations” (Jolas, Lloyd), “by stiff arching ribs” (Pasley), “by arch-shaped ribs” (Corngold), by “archlike ridges” (Appelbaum), “by arching ridges” (Neugroschel), “by stiff arches” (Freed), “by arch-shaped ridges” (Crick), “by little crescent-shaped ridges” (Hofmann), “banded with what looked like reinforcing arches” (Underwood), or “banded with reinforcing arches” (Stokes). Almost all versions in all languages, including English, while employing generally similar and strange descriptive terms, agree at least tacitly with Kafka’s German that what Gregor sees, monstrous or not, is still his own stomach. A minority group seems to wonder if such can indeed be the case. Two of four French translators, for example, thus refer to “son abdomen” (Lortholary) or “son ventre” (Vergne-Cain and Rudent) – “his stomach” – but two others, reflecting Gregor’s focalization, speak of “un ventre” (Vialatte, David), “a stomach,” as if it were impossible that it could belong to Gregor himself. Three of four Spanish versions likewise refer to “su vientre” (Borges, Izquierdo) or

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“su abdomen” (Ribas), “his stomach,” but a fourth expresses a stronger sense of estrangement in speaking of “un vientre” (Camargo), “a stomach” rather than “his stomach.” [3] auf dessen Höhe sich die Bettdecke, zum gänzlichen Niedergleiten bereit, kaum noch erhalten konnte. Jolas (1936): on the top of which the blanket was about to slip down, since it could not hold by itself. Lloyd (1937): The bedcover was slipping helplessly off the summit of the curve, Muir and Muir (1948): on top of which the bed quilt could hardly keep in position and was about to slide off completely. Corngold (1972): to whose dome the cover, about to slide off completely, could barely cling. Underwood (1981): on top of which his quilt, while threatening to slip off completely at any moment, still maintained a precarious hold. Pasley (1992): on top of which the bed-quilt was precariously poised and seemed about to slide off completely. Appelbaum (1993): on top of which the blanket, ready to slip off altogether, was just barely perched. Neugroschel (1993): while on top of it, the blanket, about to slide off altogether, could barely hold. Freed (1996): from whose height the coverlet had already slipped and was about to slide off completely. Stokes (2002): on top of which the blanket, ready to slip right off, maintained its precarious hold. Hofmann (2006): atop which the coverlet perched, forever on the point of slipping off entirely. Crick (2009): and domed so high that the bedspread, on the brink of slipping off, could hardly stay put. Vialatte (French, 1928): La couverture à peine retenue par le sommet de cet édifice était près de tomber complètement, Lortholary (French, 1988a): sur le haut duquel la couverture, prête à glisser tout à fait, ne tenait plus qu’à peine. Vergne-Cain and Rudent (French, 1988a): au sommet duquel la couverture du lit, sur le point de dégringoler tout à fait, ne se maintenait que d’extrême justesse. David (French, 1989): sur lequel la couverture avait de la peine à tenir et semblait à tout moment près de glisser.



Kafka’s Metamorphoses 77 Paoli (Italian, 1934): in cima a cui la coperta da letto, vicina a scivolar giù tutta, si manteneva a fatica. Rho (Italian, 1935): sul quale si manteneva a stento la coperta, prossima a scivolare a terra. Coppé (Italian, 1974): sulla cima la coperta, pronta a scivolar via, si reggeva appena. Fortini (Italian, 1980): sulla cui eminenza la coperta, in punto di scivolar giù tutta quanta, riusciva a malapena a mantenersi. Borges (Spanish, 1938): cuya prominencia apenas si podía aguantar la colcha, que estaba visiblemente a punto de escurrirse hasta el suelo. Izquierdo (Spanish, 1975): sobre el que casi no se aguantaba la colcha, que estaba a punto de escurrirse hasta el suelo. Camargo (Spanish, 1985): sobre cuya protuberancia apenas podía mantenerse el cobertor, a punto ya de resbalar al suelo. Ribas (Spanish, 2004): sobre el cual la manta, a punto de escurrirse por completo, apenas si podía sostenerse. Silveira (Portuguese, 1956): As cobertas escorregavam, irremediàvelmente, do alto da curva, Teixeira Aguilar (Portuguese, 1975): sobre o qual a colcha dificilmente mantinha a posição e estava a pontos de resvalar completamente. Fragoso (Portuguese, 1996): no cimo da qual o cobertor, prestes a resvalar para o chão, se mantinha a custo. Gasco (Portuguese, 2003): sobre o qual o cobertor, quase a escorregar, dificilmente se mantinha. Brunt (Dutch, 1944): waarop de deken, op het punt omlaag te glijden, nauwelijks houvast kon vinden.

Kafka’s characteristic blend of the monstrous and the comic emerges briefly in the monstrously transformed Gregor’s momentary preoccupation with the quite peripheral detail of the blanket that is about to slide off the extraordinary protuberance of his bulging belly. Several translators render the situation in relatively neutral terms, as in Pasley’s observation that the blanket “was precariously poised and seemed about to slide off completely.” Some contribute a supplementary element of comedy in suggesting, perhaps unconsciously, what appear to be determined, even desperate efforts on the blanket’s part not to fall off Gregor’s newly acquired paunch: it “could not hold by itself” (Jolas), it “was slipping helplessly off” (Lloyd), it “could barely cling” (Corngold), it “maintained a precarious hold” (Underwood).

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Within a few lines, Gregor himself will settle the matter, puffing himself up experimentally to see if the blanket will indeed fall off – which it promptly does. One or two versions contribute further to the comedy by overstated accounts of the dizzy heights from which the blanket falls: from “the summit of the curve” (Lloyd), from the “height” (Freed), “domed so high” (Crick), of the abdominal “dome” (Corngold). While more English-language versions refer to a “blanket” than otherwise, the item in question is variously also a “quilt” (Muir, Underwood, Pasley), a “bedspread” (Crick), a “bedcover” (Lloyd), a “cover” (Corngold), and a “coverlet” (Freed, Hofmann). Those renderings favouring some version of a “cover” arguably come closest to Kafka’s “Bettdecke,” for this story, like Das Urteil, is a story of what may be dis-covered (entdecken) when one removes a cover (Decke). NonEnglish versions likewise contribute variously to the element of comedy: Vialatte’s French “couverture” (cover) perched on “le sommet de cet édifice” (the summit of this edifice); Paoli’s Italian “coperta” (cover) on a “cima” (peak), Fortini’s on an “eminenza” (eminence); Fragoso’s Portuguese “cobertor” (cover) on a “cimo” (peak), Silveira’s slipping, “irremediàvelmente” (irremediably), “do alto da curva” (from the height of the curve). The blend of the monstrous and the comic continues unabated in the next sentence, with Gregor’s numerous little legs dancing helplessly, completely beyond his control, in front of his eyes, his new body not only revolting but revolting against him. Immediately afterwards, the initial portrayal of Gregor’s transformation will end with the lapidary statement “Es war kein Traum” (It was not a dream), a statement that the remainder of the story, culminating with Gregor’s death and his family taking a little excursion to celebrate, appears to corroborate. Or does it? Will Gregor really wake up eventually and discover that his initial awakening was indeed merely a nightmare? At this point in the story, witnessing Gregor’s initial reaction to his monstrous transformation, real or imagined, we are certainly in no position, any more than Gregor is, to judge.

4 Kafka’s Americas

The first of Kafka’s three unfinished novels to be written (though the last to be published) appeared in Munich in 1927 as Amerika, a title provided by Max Brod. It first appeared in English in Willa and Edwin Muir’s translation, published in Britain in 1938 as America and in the United States two years later as Amerika. Kafka’s separately published story Der Heizer (1913) also served as the opening chapter of Amerika and first appeared in English in 1938 as the first chapter (“The Stoker”) of the Muirs’ translation of the novel. Der Heizer has been separately translated a number of times in various languages, and several of those versions are drawn upon in this chapter for comparison with translations of the novel. Jost Schillemeit’s revised edition of Brod’s text of Amerika appeared in 1983, as mentioned, under the new title Der Verschollene, first translated into English in 1996 by Michael Hofmann as The Man Who Disappeared (Amerika). We will concentrate once again on the opening sentences, which in this case are far more complex than the opening sentences of the other Kafka texts discussed. The German text quoted is from Max Brod’s original edition of Amerika (Kafka/Brod 1927), followed, for purposes of comparison, by the corresponding text from Jost Schillemeit’s critical edition, Der Verschollene (Kafka/Schillemeit 1983). We will consider eight English versions, four versions each in French, Italian, and Spanish, and one version each in Portuguese and Dutch. Three of these versions are translations of Brod’s text (Muir, Vogelmann, Fonseca), five are of Schillemeit’s (Hofmann, Harman, Northey, Mathieu, Hernández Arias), and the remaining are translations of Der Heizer.

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[1] Als der sechzehnjährige Karl Roßmann, der von seinen armen Eltern nach Amerika geschickt worden war, Kafka/Schillemeit (1983/1994: 9): Als der siebzehnjährige Karl Roßmann, der von seinen armen Eltern nach Amerika geschickt worden war, Muir and Muir (1938/1967: 13): As Karl Rossmann, a poor boy of sixteen who had been packed off to America by his parents Underwood (1981/1986: 59): As the sixteen-year-old Karl Rossmann, whom his poor parents had packed off to America Wensinger (1989: 19): As Karl Rossmann, a boy of sixteen who had been packed off to America by his poor parents Neugroschel (1993/2000: 75): Sixteen-year-old Karl Rossmann had been sent to America by his poor parents Freed (1996/2003: 67): As sixteen-year-old Karl Rossmann, whose poor parents had sent him off to America Hofmann (1996: 3): As the seventeen-year-old Karl Rossmann, who had been sent to America by his unfortunate parents Harman (2008: 3): As he entered New York Harbor on the now slow-­ moving ship, Karl Rossmann, a seventeen-year-old youth who had been sent to America by his poor parents Northey (2010: 7): When the seventeen-year-old Karl Rossmann – sent off to America by his poor parents Robert (French, 1954b/2000: 375): Lorsque Karl Rossmann, expédié à dixsept ans en Amérique par ses pauvres parents David (French, 1989: 149): Lorsque le jeune Karl Rossmann, âgé de seize ans, que ses pauvres parents envoyaient en Amérique, Billmann and Cellard (French, 1997: 67–8): Lorsque Karl Rossmann, un garçon de seize ans que ses parents, de pauvres gens, avaient expédié en Amérique Mathieu (French, 2000: 457–8): Lorsque Karl Rossmann, jeune homme de dix-sept ans qui avait été envoyé par ses pauvres parents en Amérique, Coppé (Italian, 1974/2005: 26): Quando il sedicenne Karl Rossmann, mandato in America dai suoi poveri genitori Lavagetto (Italian, 1991: 47): Quando il sedicenne Karl Rossmann, che i suoi poveri genitori avevano mandato in America Anonymous (Italian, 2011a): Quando il sedicenne Karl Rossmann, mandato in America dai suoi poveri genitori Anonymous (Italian, 2011b): Quando il sedicenne Carlo Rossmann, mandato in America dai suoi poveri genitori



Kafka’s Americas 81 Vogelmann (Spanish, 1943/1987: 7): Cuando Karl Rossmann – muchacho de dieciséis años de edad a quien sus pobres padres enviaban a América Camargo (Spanish, 1985/2009: 99): Cuando Karl Rossmann, un joven de dieciséis años que había sido enviado por sus pobres padres a América, Hernández Arias (Spanish, 2001: 79): Cuando el joven de diecisiete años Karl Rossmann, que había sido enviado por sus padres a América Zanutigh Nuñez (Spanish, 2006b: 55): Cuando Karl Rossmann, un muchacho de dieciséis años, a quien sus pobres padres habían enviado a América Fonseca (Portuguese, 1977/1990: 5): Karl Rossmann era un moço de 16 anos que vinha para a América a mando de seus pais, pessoas de poucos recursos, Brunt (Dutch, 1955/1994: 43): Toen de zestien jaar oude Karl Rossmann, die door zijn arme ouders naar Amerika was gestuurd

One significant difference between Brod’s text and Schillemeit’s occurs in the very first words: the protagonist, young Karl Rossmann, is only 16 in the former but, based on re-evaluated textual evidence, a year older in the critical edition. Among English-language translators, Karl is therefore a “boy of sixteen” for both the Muirs and Wensinger, a “seventeen-year-old youth” for Harman. Other versions simply report his age, with 17 of our 22 translators opting for 16 and the remaining 5 for 17. It will be clear that readers’ impressions of Karl Rossmann and his degree of life experience and maturity may well vary quite significantly, depending on which report of his age they first encounter. Karl is Karl Roßmann in Kafka’s German, Karl Rossmann in all but one of our translated versions, and Carlo Rossmann for a single Italian translator (Anon. 2011b). The change from German ß to ss is arguably without interpretive impact, being merely a typographical convention, but the change from Karl to Carlo detracts, at least visually, from the alliterative onomastic parallelism that Kafka establishes between his Karl Rossmann in Amerika, Josef K. in Der Prozeß, and K. in Das Schloß. As spoken rather than read in Italian, of course, the parallel is undisturbed. For the Muirs, Karl is “a poor boy of sixteen who had been packed off to America by his parents,” a particularly interesting example of a transferred epithet, for in Kafka’s German the adjective arm (poor) unambiguously refers to Karl’s parents rather than to him – and is so rendered in all other English translations (though Hofmann’s, without

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any significant change of meaning, refers instead to “his unfortunate parents”). The 16- or 17-year-old Karl, depending on the particular version, has been “sent” (Neugroschel, Hofmann, Harman), “sent off” (Freed, Northey), or, not to put too fine a point on it, “packed off” (the Muirs, Underwood, Wensinger) to America. The sequence suggests increasing parental severity: the boy might have been “sent” or even “sent off” to America on the understanding that, for example, his parents would be following. That he was “packed off” suggests that his parents wanted to be rid of him, motivating the Muirs’ understandable slip in thinking Karl rather than his parents “poor.” We shall have to wait for the next clause to discover why it is Karl’s parents who merit the adjective. Harman’s version (“As he entered New York Harbor on the now slow-moving ship, Karl Rossmann, a seventeen-year-old youth who had been sent to America by his poor parents”), in aiming for a smoother English rendering, chooses to rewrite Kafka more aggressively than most, demoting Karl in the process from the opening to the second clause. Seven of the eight English versions think of Karl’s parents as poor in the sense of unfortunate rather than impecunious. Although almost all the non-English versions are in agreement with this, Billmann and Cellard’s French translation has the boy sent off by “ses parents, de pauvres gens,” a variant allowing for the implication that their decision had been the result of the family’s poverty. The implication becomes a statement of fact in Fonseca’s Portuguese characterization of Karl’s parents as “pessoas de poucos recursos” (persons of small means), an uncomplicated narratorial statement of their financial condition rather than allowing, as Kafka’s German does, for the possibility of the narratorial statement being coloured by a guilt-driven focalization of their state of mind on Karl’s part. Hernández Arias’s Spanish, finally, avoids the issue by avoiding the adjective altogether: Karl is sent to America by “sus padres” (his parents), and that’s that. Though perhaps not quite. For while Kafka’s “Eltern” translates as English “parents,” French “parents,” Italian “genitori,” and Dutch “ouders,” it necessarily becomes “padres” in Spanish and “pais” in Portuguese, these being the standard and entirely unremarkable terms for “parents” in those languages. What may be unremarkable outside of the Kafkan universe, however, may very well become significant within its boundaries. In Spanish and in Portuguese, the word for “father” (padre, pai) doubles, when pluralized (padres, pais), as the word for “parents.” While a native Spanish or Portuguese speaker may very



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well take this linguistic development entirely for granted, a non-native speaker who has read The Judgment and The Metamorphosis is likely to be struck by the apparent fact of Karl’s being ordered abroad not only by his parents but by a doubled father figure, whose doubled powers include that of irreversible expulsion from hearth, home, and family. No version in any of the other languages considered here (including German) allows for this reading, which to a degree thus out-Kafkas Kafka. [2] weil ihn ein Dienstmädchen verführt und ein Kind von ihm bekommen hatte, Kafka/Schillemeit (1983): weil ihn ein Dienstmädchen verführt und ein Kind von ihm bekommen hatte, Muir and Muir (1938): because a servant girl had seduced him and got herself with child by him, Underwood (1981): because a servant-girl had seduced him and had a child by him, Wensinger (1989): because a servant girl had seduced him and got herself a child by him, Neugroschel (1993): because a maid had seduced him, giving birth to his child, Freed (1996): because a maid had seduced him and then had his child, Hofmann (1996): because a maid had seduced him and had a child by him, Harman (2008): because a servant girl had seduced him and borne a child by him, Northey (2010): because a servant girl had seduced him and borne a child by him – Robert (French, 1954b): parce qu’une bonne l’avait séduit et avait eu un enfant de lui, David (French, 1989): parce que la bonne l’avait séduit et avait eu un enfant de lui, Billmann and Cellard (French, 1997): pour le punir d’avoir engrossé une bonne qui l’avait séduit, Mathieu (French, 2000): parce qu’une bonne l’avait séduit et avait eu un enfant de lui, Coppé (Italian, 1974): perché era stato sedotto da una domestica, che poi aveva avuto un figlio da lui, Lavagetto (Italian, 1991): perché una domestica l’aveva sedotto e aveva avuto un bambino da lui,

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Anonymous (Italian, 2011a): perché una cameriera l’aveva sedotto e aveva avuto un figlio da lui, Anonymous (Italian, 2011b): dopo che una domestica lo aveva sedotto e gli aveva messo al mondo un figlio, Vogelmann (Spanish, 1943): porque lo había seducido una sirvienta que luego tuvo de él un hijo – Camargo (Spanish, 1985): porque una criada le había seducido y había tenido un hijo suyo, Hernández Arias (Spanish, 2001): porque le había seducido una sirvienta y había tenido un hijo con él, Zanutigh Nuñez (Spanish, 2006b): porque había sido seducido por una sirvienta, la cual había tenido un hijo de él, Fonseca (Portuguese, 1977): por uma criada o ter seduzido e dele ter tido um filho. Brunt (Dutch, 1955): omdat een dienstmeisje hem verleid en een kind van hem gekregen had,

The opening words of Kafka’s text evoke issues of guilt and innocence. Expulsion implies guilt, and Karl’s expulsion, as we now learn, is the result of his having previously been the apparently innocent victim of a sexual assault. The reference to Karl’s “poor parents” immediately implies that the guilt is his, however, and while his innocence is promptly stated, that innocence does not seem to have any power to alleviate his guilt. The focalization is ambivalent: the reference to the “poor parents” may reflect the opinion of the narrator or of the character – or of both. All translations are unanimous that Karl was indeed “seduced,” “séduit,” “sedotto,” “seducido,” “seduzido,” “verleid.” The seducer, Kafka’s “Dienstmädchen,” is variously described in English as “a servant girl” or, rather more ironically, “a maid”; in French, equally ironically, as a “bonne”; in Italian as “una domestica” or, with hints of the bedroom (Italian camera), “una cameriera”; in Spanish as “una sirvienta” or “una criada”; in Portuguese as “uma criada”; and in Dutch as a “dienstmeisje.” The Muirs’ servant girl as seducer “got herself with child by him,” but there is no reference to a subsequent birth. The latter event is duly recorded in all other translations with the exception of Billmann and Cellard’s French, which likewise ignores it, while volunteering the opinion that Karl’s expulsion was “pour le punir d’avoir engrossé une bonne qui l’avait séduit” (to punish him for having made pregnant a servant girl who had seduced him). The specific reference



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to punishment here, while underlining its apparent injustice in Karl’s case, is otherwise found neither in Kafka’s German nor in any other translation. Accounts vary as to whether the child born was a son or a daughter. Kafka’s German and all versions in English, French (other than Billmann and Cellard), and Dutch refer only to “ein Kind,” “a child,” “un enfant,” “een kind.” Three Italian versions refer to “un figlio,” while a fourth (Lavagetto) has “un bambino” (a child); all four Spanish versions have “un hijo”; and Fonseca’s Portuguese has “um filho.” The suggestion of a baby Karl Rossmann to carry on eventually in his own father’s footsteps is advanced by those versions referring to an Italian figlio, a Spanish hijo, or a Portuguese filho, but any such suggestion is overwhelmed by the large majority of versions that translate Kafka’s “ein Kind” less ambiguously, as referring to a child of unspecified gender. Kafka’s first two clauses evoke a highly concentrated set of circumstances that might fill the pages of an entire novel for another writer. The story, tantalizingly reticent as to details, inverts the typical account of a young serving girl debauched by the young master and then sent away in disgrace with the resulting child. Here it is likewise the victim who is sent away, apparently also in disgrace, and the reader is offered no information at all on the fate of either the seducer-mother or the child, which will presumably never see its father. Little more than a child himself, banished by his poor parents, our Karl, through no fault of his own, has in fact himself become a poor parent. [3] in dem schon langsam gewordenen Schiff in den Hafen von New York einfuhr, Kafka/Schillemeit (1983): in dem schon langsam gewordenen Schiff in den Hafen von Newyork einfuhr, Muir (1938): stood on the liner slowly entering the harbour of New York, Underwood (1981): sailed into New York harbour on the deck of the now slow-moving ship, Wensinger (1989): stood on the liner slowly entering the harbor of New York, Neugroschel (1993): and as his ship, which was already slowing down, sailed into the harbor of New York, Freed (1996): sailed into New York harbor on the now slowly moving ship,

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Hofmann (1996): sailed slowly into New York harbour, Harman (2008): – Northey (2010): entered the harbor of Newyork on board the steamer already beginning to slow down, Robert (French, 1954b): entra dans le port de Newyork sur le bateau qui avait déjà ralenti son allure, David (French, 1989): arriva dans le port de New York, sur le bateau qui progressait déjà au ralenti, Billmann and Cellard (French, 1997): lorsque Karl Rossmann, donc, entra dans le port de New York à bord du navire qui courrait sur son erre, Mathieu (French, 2000): entra dans le port de New York sur le bateau à l’allure déjà plus lente, Coppé (Italian, 1974): entrò nel porto di New York sulla nave che stava già rallentando, Lavagetto (Italian, 1991): entrò nel porto di New York sulla nave già fattasi lenta, Anonymous (Italian, 2011a): entrò con la nave a velocità ridotta nel porto di New York, Anonymous (Italian, 2011b): a bordo della nave che avanzava a piccola forza entrò nel porto di New York, Vogelmann (Spanish, 1943): entraba en el puerto de Nueva York, a bordo de ese vapor que ya había aminorado su marcha, Camargo (Spanish, 1985): entró en el puerto de Nueva York a bordo del barco que ya marchaba más lentamente, Hernández Arias (Spanish, 2001): entró en el puerto de Nueva York a bordo de un barco que había reducido considerablemente su marcha, Zanutigh Nuñez (Spanish, 2006b): entró en el puerto de Nueva York a bordo de aquel buque cuya marcha se había hecho ya lenta, Fonseca (Portuguese, 1977): De pé, no paquete que lentamente entrava no porto de Nova Iorque, Brunt (Dutch, 1955): op het al langzamer varende schip de haven van New York binnenkwam,

In Brod’s text, young Karl Rossmann arrives in New York; in Schillemeit’s, retaining Kafka’s original spelling, he arrives in an unfamiliar “Newyork.” Almost all versions choose to retain the familiar name of the real American city – rendered even more familiar for Spanish readers in all four Spanish versions by the domesticated form “Nueva York” and likewise for Portuguese readers by Fonseca’s “Nova Iorque.” Only Northey in English and Robert in French report what Kafka actually



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wrote, namely “Newyork.” The contracted spelling is in all likelihood merely an example of Kafka’s occasionally cavalier lack of attention to orthographical details, but it also conveys a sense of the strangeness for the young Karl of his new surroundings. Still on board the ship that for the period of the ocean crossing has continued to represent European normality, he finds himself in a liminal state, already arrived in this brave new world in one sense, not yet quite arrived in another. This state of liminality parallels the situations in which Georg Bendemann, Gregor Samsa, Josef K., and the land surveyor K. also find themselves at the onset of their own separate voyages of discovery. This sense of temporary stasis is caught in those versions in which Karl is described as standing (the Muirs, Wensinger, Fonseca) while the ship, willy-nilly, continues to move, whereas Karl’s stance is ignored in all other versions, including Kafka’s German. The fact that several versions find it necessary to adjust Kafka’s narrative presentation functions as a transtextual reflection of the strong sense of disorientation generated in the opening sentence, demonstrating an apparent need for clarification on the part of the relevant translators. Three versions, as we have seen, find it necessary to describe Karl as standing, though Kafka does not; Underwood prefers to add the explanatory detail that Karl is “on the deck” of the ship rather than elsewhere, though Kafka finds this unnecessary; Hofmann simplifies Kafka’s reference to the decreasing speed of the ship by simply avoiding any mention of the ship. Harman’s version, finally, in choosing to rearrange the order of the opening three clauses, as we have seen, goes furthest in rewriting Kafka and largely neutralizing the sense of disorientation conveyed in the German text. [4] erblickte er die schon längst beobachtete Statue der Freiheitsgöttin wie in einem plötzlich stärker gewordenen Sonnenlicht. Kafka/Schillemeit (1983): erblickte er die schon längst beobachtete Statue der Freiheitsgöttin wie in einem plötzlich stärker gewordenen Sonnenlicht. Muir and Muir (1938): a sudden burst of sunshine seemed to illumine the Statue of Liberty, so that he saw it in a new light, although he had sighted it long before. Underwood (1981): he saw the Statue of Liberty, which he had been watching for some time, bathed as it were in suddenly intensified sunlight. Wensinger (1989): a sudden burst of sunshine seemed to illumine the Statue of Liberty, so that he saw it in a new light, although he had sighted it long before.

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Neugroschel (1993): he viewed the statue of the goddess of freedom, which he had already observed long ago, but now saw as if in a suddenly more intense sunlight. Freed (1996): he saw the Statue of Liberty, which he had already been watching from far off, stand out as if shining in suddenly brighter sunlight. Hofmann (1996): he suddenly saw the Statue of Liberty, which had already been in view for some time, as though in an intenser sunlight. Harman (2008): saw the Statue of Liberty, which he had been observing for some time, as if in a sudden burst of sunlight. Northey (2010): he caught a full view of the Statue of the Goddess of Liberty that he had sighted long before as if in suddenly intensified sunlight. Robert (French, 1954b): il vit que la statue de la déesse de la Liberté qu’il observait déjà depuis un bon moment, était soudain éclairée par un soleil plus vif. David (French, 1989): la statue de la Liberté, qu’il regardait depuis un bon moment, lui apparut comme éclairée soudain d’une nappe de lumière. Billmann and Cellard (French, 1997): il découvrit enfin, comme dans une gloire de soleil soudain plus vive, cette statue de la Liberté qu’il observait déjà depuis un long moment. Mathieu (French, 2000): il s’aperçut que la statue de la déesse de la Liberté qu’il observait depuis longtemps déjà, était baignée par des rayons de soleil soudain plus forts. Coppé (Italian, 1974): gli parve che la statua della Libertà, che già stava osservando da diverso tempo, si fosse illuminata più intensamente sotto la luce del sole. Lavagetto (Italian, 1991): scorse la statua della libertà, che già da tempo stava osservando, come avvolta in un raggio di sole che d’improvviso si fosse fatto più intenso. Anonymous (Italian, 2011a): vide la Statua della Libertà, che già stava contemplando da tempo, come immersa in una luce d’un tratto più intensa. Anonymous (Italian, 2011b): pensò che la statua della Libertà, già da un pezzo visibile, splendesse sotto una luce più intensa. Vogelmann (Spanish, 1943): vio de pronto la estatua de la diosa de la libertad, que desde hacía rato venía observando, como si ahora estuviese iluminada por un rayo de sol más intenso. Camargo (Spanish, 1985): distinguió la estatua de la diosa de la libertad, a la que ya observaba desde hacía rato, como rodeada, de repente, por un intenso resplandor.



Kafka’s Americas 89 Hernández Arias (Spanish, 2001): contempló la estatua de la diosa de la Libertad, visible ya desde hacía tiempo, como iluminada por un resplandor repentino de luz solar. Zanutigh Nuñez (Spanish, 2006b): la Estatua de la Libertad, que hacía mucho venía observando, se le apareció como envuelta en una luz solar que repentinamente se hubiese vuelto más intensa: Fonseca (Portuguese, 1977): Karl Rossmann teve a impressão de que a Estátua da Liberdade, que há muito avistara, era agora iluminada por um sol mais forte. Brunt (Dutch, 1955): meende hij het beeld van de godin der vrijheid, dat hij al veel eerder had opgemerkt, in een plotseling veel helderder stralend zonlicht te zien.

Kafka’s long and complex opening sentence, very different from the short and (at least grammatically) simple opening sentences examined in our other chosen texts, may of course be read as presenting the young Karl Rossmann’s focalization of the dizzying speed with which the series of only partly understood events – the sexual assault, the birth of his child, the parental expulsion, the journey into the unknown – has overtaken and overwhelmed him. The possibility of waking up from the long nightmare into a new freedom in this new land is presented as if it were a sign from on high, a celestial vision of new-world light dispersing old-world darkness. Whether this moment of apparent illumination will turn out to be anything like a true anticipation of Karl’s life in his newfound America remains, of course, to be seen. In Kafka’s German, Karl sees the “Statue der Freiheitsgöttin,” literally the statue of “the goddess of freedom,” a description that, once again, may or may not be the result of a slip of the pen on Kafka’s part but, slip or not, is still a constituent element of Kafka’s text, requiring accurate translation. Remarkably, among the eight English versions the description is translated exactly only by Neugroschel. In six of the eight versions Karl sees “the Statue of Liberty,” as if he were arriving in the real American city of New York. For Northey, balancing the real city and Kafka’s “Newyork,” Karl sees “the statue of the Goddess of Liberty.” Among non-English translations, Karl sees the Statue of Liberty in two of four French versions (David, Billmann and Cellard), in all four Italian versions, in Zanutigh Nuñez’s Spanish, and in Fonseca’s Portuguese. He sees the statue of “la déesse de la Liberté” for Robert and Mathieu in French, that of “la diosa de la libertad” for three Spanish

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versions (Vogelmann, Camargo, Hernández Arias), and that of “de godin der vrijheid” in Brunt’s Dutch, in all cases the statue of the goddess of liberty or freedom. In this particular instance non-English translators as a group are evidently more prepared than their English-language colleagues to take Kafka at his word. In Kafka’s German “erblickte er die schon längst beobachtete Statue der Freiheitsgöttin wie in einem plötzlich stärker gewordenen Sonnenlicht,” a phrase notable for its two verbs of seeing: Karl had been “observing” (beobachten) the statue – more or less idly, we might assume, and from a distance – for some time but suddenly “sees” (erblicken) it “in a new light” (the Muirs, Wensinger), “as if in a suddenly more intense sunlight” (Neugroschel, similarly Underwood, Hofmann, Northey), “as if in a sudden burst of sunlight” (Harman); he sees it “stand out as if shining in suddenly brighter sunlight” (Freed), “caught a full view” (Northey), in fact, of what he had previously been looking at without really seeing. The latter condition, looking at without really seeing, is of course entirely typical of Kafka’s bewildered protagonists – and frequently also of Kafka’s bewildered readers. Kafka’s adverb “wie” is rendered with no greater emphasis than “as if” in any English version. Non-English versions express a more varied range of response. In French, for example, Karl “vit” (saw) for Robert that the statue “était soudain éclairée par un soleil plus vif” (was suddenly illuminated by a more intense sun); he “découvrit” (discovered) and “s’aperçut” (noticed) the same phenomenon for Billmann and Cellard and Mathieu respectively. For David, however, more cautiously, the statue merely “lui apparut” (seemed to him) as if transformed. Two Italian versions (Coppé, Anon. 2011b) imply a similar degree of reserve with “gli parve” (it seemed to him) and “pensò che” (he thought that) respectively, as do Zanutigh Nuñez’s Spanish “se le apareció” (it seemed to him), Fonseca’s Portuguese “teve a impressão” (he had the impression), and Brunt’s Dutch “meende hij” (he thought). Each of these renderings may be seen as implying a degree of narratorial distance from the young protagonist’s perceptions – a degree greater than that in either Kafka’s German or any of the English-language versions. [5] Ihr Arm mit dem Schwert ragte wie neuerdings empor, und um ihre Gestalt wehten die freien Lüfte. Kafka/Schillemeit (1983): Ihr Arm mit dem Schwert ragte wie neuerdings empor und um ihre Gestalt wehten die freien Lüfte.



Kafka’s Americas 91 Muir and Muir (1938): The arm with the sword rose up as if newly stretched aloft, and round the figure blew the free winds of heaven. Underwood (1981): The arm with the sword reached up as if the goddess had just raised it, and the wind blew about her body without constraint. Wensinger (1989): Her arm with its sword rose up as if newly stretched aloft, and around her figure blew the free winds of heaven. Neugroschel (1993): Her arm with its sword towered as if for the first time, and the free breezes wafted around her figure. Freed (1996): The arm with the sword reached up as if freshly thrust out, and the free breezes blew around the figure. Hofmann (1996): The sword in her hand seemed only just to have been raised aloft, and the unchained winds blew about her form. Harman (2008): The arm with the sword now reached aloft, and about her figure blew the free winds. Northey (2010): Her arm with the sword was thrust upward as if recently placed there again and around her figure wafted the free breezes. Robert (French, 1954b): Son bras portant le glaive pointait comme s’il venait juste de se dresser, et tout autour d’elle les vents se donnaient libre cours. David (French, 1989): On eût dit qu’elle venait à l’instant de brandir son bras armé d’un glaive; autour de ce grand corps, le vent soufflait en toute liberté. Billmann and Cellard (French, 1997): Le bras qui tenait l’épée se dressait vers le ciel comme dans un élan nouveau, et de libres vents tournaient autour d’elle. Mathieu (French, 2000): Le bras qui brandissait l’épée semblait s’être dressé à l’instant, et autour de son grand corps soufflaient les vents libres. Coppé (Italian, 1974): Il suo braccio con la spada sembrava sovrastare tutto, e il vento, privo d’ostacoli, mulinava intorno alla sua figura. Lavagetto (Italian, 1991): Il braccio con la spada pareva essersi appena levato, e intorno alla figura spiravano liberi i venti. Anonymous (Italian, 2011a): Il braccio con la spada sembrava essersi appena alzato, e attorno alla sua figura spiravano liberi i venti. Anonymous (Italian, 2011b): Il braccio che brandisce la spada sembrava essersi appena alzato, e intorno alla figura spiravano fresche correnti. Vogelmann (Spanish, 1943): Su brazo con la espada se irguió como con un renovado movimiento, y en torno a su figura soplaron los aires libres. Camargo (Spanish, 1985): Su brazo con la espada se elevaba como hacía un momento y alrededor de su figura soplaban vientos de libertad.

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Hernández Arias (Spanish, 2001): Su brazo, portando la espada, se elevaba con ímpetu renovado y en torno a su figura soplaban los libres vientos. Zanutigh Nuñez (Spanish, 2006b): su brazo con la espada sobresalía como si en ese mismo momento se irguiese, y aires de libertad soplaban en torno a su figura. Fonseca (Portuguese, 1977): O seu braço, de espada em riste, parecia ter acabado de se erguer, e em redor dela sopravam livres os ventos. Brunt (Dutch, 1955): Haar arm met het zwaard scheen zij zojuist te hebben opgeheven en om haar gestalte speelde de wind in alle vrijheid.

The sword brandished by Kafka’s statue of the goddess of freedom rather than the torch brandished by New York’s Statue of Liberty may once again be a slip of the pen on Kafka’s part – or it may not. Regardless, as many critics have already suggested, the sword where most readers would expect a torch invites a reading as a symbol of naked power rather than of freedom or justice. Taking the (real-life) torch for a sword may be Kafka’s mistake; or, perhaps even dazzled by the suddenly more intense sunlight he thinks he sees, it may be Karl Rossmann’s mistake; or, given the distinction between New York and Kafka’s “Newyork,” it may be no mistake at all. The reader is challenged to make a decision – as Karl himself will be continually challenged to do in this strange new world. Kafka’s “Ihr Arm mit dem Schwert ragte wie neuerdings empor” attracts a variety of translations, some focusing primarily on the arm, others on the sword: “The arm with the sword rose up as if newly stretched aloft” (the Muirs), “The arm with the sword reached up as if freshly thrust out” (Freed), “Her arm with its sword towered as if for the first time” (Neugroschel), “The sword in her hand seemed only just to have been raised aloft” (Hofmann). Northey’s “Her arm with the sword was thrust upward as if recently placed there again” is oddly awkward; Underwood’s “The arm with the sword reached up as if the goddess had just raised it” introduces a goddess after an earlier reference to “the Statue of Liberty”; and Harman, perhaps inadvertently, fails to translate the striking phrase “wie neuerdings,” providing merely a colourless “The arm with the sword now reached aloft.” Among French versions, three stress the impression of the sword’s having been just thrust upward, while Billmann and Cellard’s focuses instead on its having been raised “comme dans un élan nouveau” (as though with new energy). Three Italian versions likewise stress the apparent recency of the thrust, while for Coppé the most important



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element is that the arm with the sword “sembrava sovrastare tutto” (seemed to be higher than anything else around it). All four Spanish versions focus on the apparent recency of the thrust, as do Fonseca’s Portuguese and Brunt’s Dutch, the latter changing the syntax of the phrase to place increased emphasis on agency: “Haar arm met het zwaard scheen zij zojuist te hebben opgeheven” (She seemed to have just raised her arm with the sword). Even the winds, “die freien Lüfte,” exemplarily free, seem to pay homage to Kafka’s goddess of freedom: for “round the figure blew the free winds of heaven” (the Muirs, Wensinger, similarly Harman), “and the free breezes wafted around her figure” (Neugroschel, similarly Freed, Northey), “and the wind blew about her body without constraint” (Underwood), “and the unchained winds blew about her form” (Hofmann). In French, too, for Robert “les vents se donnaient libre cours” (the winds took their free course); for David, the winds blew “en toute liberté” (in all freedom); and for Billmann and Cellard and for Mathieu they are “de libres vents” and “les vents libres” respectively. The winds blew free (“spiravano liberi i venti”) in three of four Italian versions, while in an anonymous fourth (Anon. 2011b) they are described merely as “fresche correnti” (fresh breezes). The winds are also free in Portuguese and in all Spanish versions, acquiring explicit symbolic significance in Camargo’s “vientos de libertad” and Zanutigh Nuñez’s “aires de libertad,” in both cases being nothing less than the “winds of liberty.” Brunt’s Dutch version, having previously referred to “de godin der vrijheid” (the goddess of freedom), makes the same point in reiterating the key noun, for “om haar gestalte speelde de wind in alle vrijheid” (around her figure the wind played in all freedom). [6] “So hoch!” sagte er sich und wurde, wie er so gar nicht an das Weggehen dachte, von der immer mehr anschwellenden Menge der Gepäckträger, die an ihm vorüberzogen, allmählich bis an das Bordgeländer geschoben. Kafka/Schillemeit (1983): “So hoch,” sagte er sich und wurde, wie er so gar nicht an das Weggehn dachte, von der immer mehr anschwellenden Menge der Gepäckträger, die an ihm vorüberzogen, allmählich bis an das Bordgeländer geschoben. Muir and Muir (1938): “So high!” he said to himself, and was gradually edged to the very rail by the swelling throng of porters pushing past him, since he was not thinking at all of getting off the ship.

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Underwood (1981): “So tall!” he said to himself as, with his thoughts not at all on leaving the ship, and with growing numbers of porters pushing past him, he was gradually forced over to the rail. Wensinger (1989): “So high!” he said to himself, and since he was not thinking at all of getting off the ship, was gradually pushed to the railing by the swelling throng of porters shoving past. Neugroschel (1993): “So high!” he said to himself and, not really giving any thought to disembarking, he was gradually pushed further and further, all the way to the railing, by the constantly swelling throng of porters trudging past him. Freed (1996): “So high!” he said to himself, and without any thought of disembarking, he was pushed farther and farther along, all the way to the railing, by the constantly swelling throng of porters pressing past him. Hofmann (1996): “So high,” he said to himself, and quite forgetting to disembark, he found himself gradually pushed up against the railing by the massing throng of porters. Harman (2008): “So high,” he said to himself, and although he still had no thoughts of leaving, he found himself being pushed gradually toward the rail by an ever-swelling throng of porters. Northey (2010): “So high!” he said to himself and, while not really thinking about leaving at all, was gradually pushed to the railing by the continually swelling mass of porters. Robert (French, 1954b): “Qu’elle est haute” se dit-il, et oubliant tout à fait qu’il fallait quitter le bord, il se laissa pousser peu à peu contre le bastingage par la foule grossissante des porteurs qui s’agitaient autour de lui. David (French, 1989): “Qu’elle est grande!” se disait-il, et, comme il en oubliait d’avancer, le flot sans cesse croissant des porteurs qui passaient près de lui le repoussait peu à peu contre le bastingage. Billmann and Cellard (French, 1997): – Qu’elle est haute! se dit il; et comme il en oubliait de quitter sa place, il se trouva peu à peu repoussé contre le bastingage par le flot grossissant des porteurs qui se pressaient devant lui. Mathieu (French, 2000): “Si grande que ça,” se dit-il et, comme il ne songeait plus du tout à partir, il fut peu à peu repoussé contre le bastingage par la foule sans cesse grossissante des porteurs qui passaient près de lui. Coppé (Italian, 1974): “Quant’è alta!” mormorò tra sé e, sebbene non pensasse ancora di dover scendere, fu sospinto man mano verso il parapetto dalla massa sempre crescente di facchini che gli passavano davanti.



Kafka’s Americas 95 Lavagetto (Italian, 1991): “Com’è alta!” si disse e, siccome ancora non pensava ad andarsene, venne spinto a poco a poco contro il parapetto dalla crescente folla dei facchini che lo oltrepassavano. Anonymous (Italian, 2011a): “Com’è alta!” disse fra sé, e poiché non si decideva ad andarsene, a poco a poco fu spinto fino al parapetto della nave dalla massa sempre crescente dei facchini che lo oltrepassavano. Anonymous (Italian, 2011b): “Com’è alta!” fece tra sé, mentre la folla dei facchini, che passavano sempre più numerosi, sebbene lui non volesse muoversi, finiva con spingerlo contro il parapetto. Vogelmann (Spanish, 1943): “¡Qué alta!,” se dijo, y como ni siquiera se le ocurría retirarse, la creciente multitud de los mozos de cuerda que junto a él desfilaba fue desplazándolo, poco a poco, hasta la borda. Camargo (Spanish, 1985): “¡Qué alta!,” se dijo, y, como no parecía tener la intención de moverse de allí, fue empujado hasta la barandilla de borda por una multitud de mozos de cuerda que, cada vez en mayor número, pasaba por delante de él. Hernández Arias (Spanish, 2001): “¡Qué alta!,” se dijo, y como no pensaba en apartarse, fue empujado por las olas de mozos de equipaje que le adelantaban, hasta llegar a la borda del barco. Zanutigh Nuñez (Spanish, 2006b): “¡Qué alta!,” se dijo, y, como en absoluto pensase en marcharse, poco a poco la creciente turba de maleteros que pasaban ante él lo fue empujando hasta la borda. Fonseca (Portuguese, 1977): “Tão alta,” disse de si para si, e, esquecendo que tinha de sair dali, ia-se deixando empurrar para a amurada pela crescente multidão de carregadores que por ele passavam. Brunt (Dutch, 1955): “Wat hoog!” zei hij in zich zelf en werd, daar hij in het geheel niet aan van boord gaan dacht, door de steeds groter wordende stroom kruiers die hem voorbijging langzamerhand tot aan de verschansing gedrongen.

Karl’s reaction to this highly ambiguous vision, however, is initially just to be overawed by its size: “‘So high!’ he said to himself” (the Muirs). Perhaps it is the overwhelming size of the statue, the only item of the “Newyork” landscape mentioned so far, or perhaps it is the implications of the sword in her hand, or perhaps it is his sense of confusion in having actually arrived, or perhaps it is because he is simply generally bewildered. At any rate, despite having arrived, he is apparently, consciously or unconsciously, “wie er so gar nicht an das Weggehen dachte,” not yet at all ready to face his new surroundings. Indeed,

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“he was not thinking at all of getting off the ship,” as the Muirs report; “quite forgetting to disembark” (Hofmann); “without any thought of disembarking” (Freed); “como ni siquiera se le ocurría retirarse,” as Vogelmann adds (as it didn’t even occur to him to leave). Karl, indeed, is already involved in the first of his multiple misprisions in this misunderstood America with its unfamiliar rules and foreign conventions, adrift in a strange reality of which he understands little or nothing. Not having grasped what is expected of him, and not yet having even set foot on American soil, our teenage protagonist is innocently but none the less culpably in the way of others who have no difficulty understanding what is required. He hardly seems to be aware of “die anschwellende Menge der Gepäckträger,” the “swelling throng of porters” (the Muirs), the “continually swelling mass of porters” (Northey), the “massing throng of porters,” as Hofmann puts it, a rendition that effectively conveys a potentially threatening note. Unthinking, he is gradually “edged to the very rail” (the Muirs), “forced over to the rail” (Underwood), “pushed further and further, all the way to the railing” (Neugroschel), “pushed up against the railing” (Hofmann) by this “pushing” (the Muirs), “shoving” (Wensinger), “trudging” (Neugroschel) throng. Inexperienced as he is, events in at least this case are his own fault, or at least the fault of that inexperience, as two non-English versions point out: for Robert’s French, “il se laissa pousser,” for Fonseca’s Portuguese “ia-se deixando empurrar,” in both cases observing that Karl “allowed himself to be pushed.” He will continue to allow himself to be pushed – and pushed about – throughout his American adventures, which in large measure merely continue his previous European experiences, having been taken advantage of first by a sexually rapacious woman whose duty was in fact to take care of him and then by those parents on whom he might instead have relied for support. Karl’s already being forced over to the rail by the throng of porters – in what is only the third sentence of Kafka’s narrative – is emblematic of the continual stream of overwhelming events he will continue to be called upon to withstand. Forced over to the rail, indeed, Karl Rossmann is forced, metaphorically speaking, almost over the rail. An image of death by drowning, recalling the sentence imposed on Georg Bendemann, is intriguingly caught in two non-English versions, though entirely lacking in Kafka’s original or in any other translation considered here. In Brunt’s Dutch, Karl is forced over to the rail by “de steeds groter wordende stroom kruiers” (the ever increasing stream of porters); in Hernández



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Arias’s Spanish, that stream has become nothing less than “las olas” (the waves), already anticipating the waves of adversities by which the vulnerable young innocent abroad, a Kafkan Candide, will continually find himself battered in this strange new world that, among its other peculiarities, shares a name with America.

5 Kafka’s Trials

Kafka’s unfinished novel Der Prozeß, written in 1914–15, appeared in 1925, edited by his friend and fellow Prague writer Max Brod – who deserves Kafka’s readers’ undying gratitude for ignoring Kafka’s stated wish that the manuscript was to be destroyed. The novel made its first appearance in English in Willa and Edwin Muir’s translation as The Trial, published in London by Gollancz in 1935 and in New York by Knopf in 1937. It tells the story of Josef K. (Joseph K. in a number of translations, including the Muirs’), who wakes up on the morning of his thirtieth birthday to find himself, for no apparent reason, under arrest. The fact that he is allegedly under arrest does not in fact seem to necessitate any very great or immediate change in his daily routine, but it does very soon seem to have become common knowledge among his fellow citizens. Determined to clear his name, K., protesting his innocence, spends a full year attempting to discover what crime he is apparently accused of and who his apparent accusers may be. On the evening before his thirty-first birthday, no closer to an answer, he is called for by two formally dressed gentlemen who accompany him to a deserted quarry where, with impeccable politeness and some show of ceremony, they thrust a knife into his heart, twisting it twice for good measure. While Kafka never completed the novel, he did write a concluding chapter. He in fact began by writing the first and last chapters, dealing respectively with Josef K.’s arrest and his execution, and then began to fill in the intervening chapters, a task he eventually abandoned. In the present chapter we will undertake a transtextual reading of both the opening and the closing words of the narrative.



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I Kafka’s text, as rendered by its first English translators, opens with the lapidary and now famous statement that “someone must have been telling lies about Joseph K., for without having done anything wrong he was arrested one fine morning.” The statement has for decades given continuing food for thought to a wide array of critical approaches and is certainly Kafka’s best recognized open sentence after the one introducing the travails of Gregor Samsa in The Metamorphosis. [1] Jemand mußte Josef K. verleumdet haben,41 Muir and Muir (1935/1953: 7): Someone must have been telling lies about Joseph K., Muir/Butler (1956/1968: 1): Someone must have traduced Joseph K., Scott and Walker (1977/1988: 17): Someone must have been spreading lies about Josef K. Parry (1994/2000: 1): Somebody must have made a false accusation against Josef K., Mitchell (1998: 3): Someone must have slandered Josef K., Lück (2005: 5): Somebody must have defamed Josef K., Stokes (2005: 3): Someone must have been slandering Josef K., Wyllie (2007: n.p.): Someone must have been telling lies about Josef K., Mitchell (2009: 5): Someone must have been telling tales about Josef K., Vialatte (French, 1933/1987: 23): On avait sûrement calomnié Joseph K., Goldschmidt (French, 1983: 31): Quelqu’un avait dû calomnier Joseph K. Lortholary (French, 1983a: 29): Il fallait qu’on ait calomnié Joseph K.: Nesme (French, 2000a: 757): Quelqu’un avait dû calomnier Josef K., Raja (Italian, 1995/2005: 15): Qualcuno doveva aver calunniato Josef K., Moro (Italian, 1999: 11): Josef K. doveva essere stato oggetto di una calunnia, Formosa (Spanish, 1975/1998: 7): Alguien debió de haber calumniado a Josef K., Kruger (Spanish, 1975a/1986: 7): Posiblemente algún desconocido había calumniado a Joseph K.,

41 The text quoted is that of Max Brod’s original edition (Kafka/Brod 1925/1960: 7), followed in cases where there is any difference in wording by the text of the critical edition of Malcolm Pasley (Kafka/Pasley 1990/1994: 9).

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Hernández Arias (Spanish, 2001: 343): Alguien tenía que haber calumniado a Josef K, Guimarães (Portuguese, 1964a/1969: 29): Alguém devia ter caluniado a Josef K., Fabião (Portuguese, 1999: 9): Alguém deve ter difamado Joseph K., Costa and de Brito (Portuguese, 2003: 11): Alguém devia ter caluniado Josef K., Winje (Norwegian, 1992/2006: 9): Noen måtte ha baktalt Josef K., Rajt-Kovaleva (Russian, 1965/2004: 5): Kto-to, po-vidimomu, oklevetal Jozefa K.,

The novel centres on Josef K.’s attempts to attain some degree of certainty with regard to his situation. Since those attempts remain entirely unavailing, it is appropriate that even the very first word of the narrative emphasizes uncertainty: this “jemand,” this “someone” or “somebody” who “must” have been telling lies about Josef K., will never acquire any less nebulous a personality. The multiple translators considered here react with similarly indeterminate vocabulary equivalents in their respective languages, “quelqu’un,” “qualcuno,” “alguien,” and the like. In Kruger’s Spanish, the indeterminacy is further accentuated, the alleged liar now being “posiblemente algún desconocido” (possibly some unknown person). In Moro’s Italian, even this shadowy entity has disappeared, the reader being presented with the suggestion that K. “doveva essere stato oggetto di una calunnia” (must have been the victim of a calumny). What exactly this shadowy someone must allegedly have done leads to an interesting range of opinions among our English translators on what Kafka must allegedly have meant by his “verleumdet.” The term verleumden literally means to deprive a person of his or her good reputation (Leumund). Among our translators, K. is the victim of someone who “must have been telling lies” about him, as the Muirs originally had it, and both Wyllie and Mitchell (2009) agree, or who “must have traduced” him, as E.M. Butler would later amend the Muirs’ rendering. For Scott and Walker, “someone must have been spreading lies,” while for Parry, “somebody must have made a false accusation.” For others, “someone must have slandered” (Mitchell 1998) or “been slandering” him (Stokes) or “must have defamed” him (Lück). For some of these versions, the alleged lies seem to be seen as merely malicious gossip, whether indulged in on just one occasion or repeatedly. For others, such as Butler’s “traduced” or Parry’s “made a false accusation,” the



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reader might be tempted to detect a suggestion of a more formal denunciation of K. to an official body of some sort. Versions in languages other than English show considerably less variation here: with only one exception – Fabião’s Portuguese “difamado” (defamed) – all 11 translations in French, Italian, Spanish, and Portuguese speak with one voice of calumny, malicious misrepresentation. Meanwhile, since the German modal verb müssen, unlike its defective English cognate must, distinguishes clearly between past and present tenses (muß in the present, mußte in the past), Kafka’s “mußte” unambiguously refers to a supposed event in the past: someone, a narrating voice states, must (by that time in the past) have been telling lies about Josef K. In principle, the statement as thus phrased could represent the narrator’s own unqualified opinion; idiomatically, however, a German reader is more likely to read it as a narratorial presentation of a character’s view. In technical terms, that is to say, a reader of Kafka’s German text is faced with the necessity (noticed or not, as the case may be) to decide between a statement focalized by the narrator, and thus authoritative and trustworthy, and a statement focalized through a character, and thus potentially more debatable and less trustworthy. As has already been observed in the discussions of The Judgment and The Metamorphosis, this destabilizing use of indeterminate narrative focalization is typical of Kafka’s writing and contributes largely to its enduring fascination. In this particular instance, as it happens, most readers of Kafka’s German will see the statement that someone “must” have been telling lies about K. as focalized through K. rather than by the narrator. Had the text read “Jemand muß Josef K. verleumdet haben” (present tense), it could only be read, unambiguously, as focalized by the narrator. The mere fact that the text avoids this option in favour of the much more ambiguous formulation “Jemand mußte Josef K. verleumdet haben” (past tense) already suggests to a German reader a focalization through K. English readers (and translators) are offered no such help by the English must, which translates as both muß and mußte. In principle, all nine of the English versions thus out-Kafka Kafka in increasing the reader’s difficulty in distinguishing between narrator focalization and character focalization. In practice, however, individual translators employ different means to suggest one rather than the other. The use of a continuous tense by the Muirs, Wyllie, and Mitchell (2009) (“must have been telling lies”), Scott and Walker (“must have been spreading lies”), and Stokes (“must have been slandering”) suggest focalization through the

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character Josef K. experiencing the immediate effects of these (alleged) events. The use of a punctual rather than continuous tense by Muir/ Butler (“must have traduced”), Parry (“must have made a false accusation”), Mitchell (1998) (“must have slandered”), and Lück (“must have defamed”) suggests, on the other hand, focalization by a narrator who merely reports, without any personal involvement. Translations into other languages do not have to deal with the challenges – and opportunities – provided by the defective must of English and can simply use the past tense of the respective modal verb corresponding to Kafka’s mußte. In French, Vialatte’s “On avait sûrement calomnié Joseph K.” and both Goldschmidt’s and Nesme’s “Quelqu’un avait dû calomnier Josef K.” all thus employ a past perfect tense that clearly suggests focalization through K. rather than by a narrator, as does Lortholary’s “Il fallait qu’on ait calomnié Joseph K.” Vialatte’s “sûrement” (surely) further emphasizes the element of supposition on K.’s part (literally, someone, surely, had been telling lies). The use of the past tense in Italian (“doveva”) and Spanish (“debió,” “había,” “tenía que”) has a similar effect. Kruger’s “posiblemente” (possibly), like Vialatte’s French “sûrement,” emphasizes the element of speculation on K.’s part as he attempts to understand what is happening to him. In Portuguese, two versions employ a past tense (“devia”) to similar effect as do French, Italian, and Spanish; a third, however, that of Fabião, employs a present tense (“deve”) that shifts the focalization from character to narrator. Winje’s Norwegian similarly has no difficulty in using a simple past tense, “måtte ha baktalt” (must have slandered). RajtKovaleva’s Russian version adopts a rather different strategy, where “Kto-to, po-vidimomu, oklevetal Jozefa K.” states that “someone, apparently (po-vidimomu), had slandered (oklevetal) Josef K.,” thus also succeeding in leaving the focalization indeterminate. Our transtextual reading encounters one element of instability that is quite lacking in Kafka’s original German. Kafka’s protagonist is named Josef K., where the element of instability is limited to the surname represented only by its initial. The German Josef becomes an English Joseph for the Muirs, a French Joseph for three of four French versions, and a Russian Jozef for Rajt-Kovaleva. More surprisingly, our hero is also Joseph in both Kruger’s Spanish and Fabião’s Portuguese renderings. The English, French, and Russian versions, that is to say, in all three cases simply domesticate a foreign proper name into the relevant target-language equivalent, a practice formerly not uncommon among translators, though now generally avoided. In the two Spanish and



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Portuguese versions, however, K. is neither domesticated as a Spanish or a Portuguese José nor allowed to retain his original German appellation Josef. Instead the name is doubly foreignized, foreign to source language and target language alike, fallen between languages and cultures, and an oddly apt reflection (if only for the transtextual reader) of Josef K.’s abrupt expulsion from the network of familiar conventions and social patterns that structure what we normally agree to regard as normality.42 [2] denn ohne daß er etwas Böses getan hätte, wurde er eines Morgens verhaftet. Muir and Muir (1935): for without having done anything wrong he was arrested one fine morning. Muir/Butler (1956): for without having done anything wrong he was arrested one fine morning. Scott and Walker (1977): for without having done anything wrong he was arrested one morning. Parry (1994): for he was arrested one morning without having done anything wrong. Mitchell (1998): for one morning, without having done anything truly wrong, he was arrested. Lück (2005): for without having done anything wrong, he was arrested one morning. Stokes (2005): for one morning, without having done anything wrong, he was arrested. Wyllie (2007): he knew he had done nothing wrong but, one morning, he was arrested. Mitchell (2009): for one morning, without having done anything wrong, he was arrested. Vialatte (French, 1933): car, sans avoir rien fait de mal, il fut arrêté un matin. Goldschmidt (French, 1983): car, sans rien avoir fait de mal, il fut arrêté un matin. Lortholary (French, 1983a): un matin, sans avoir rien fait de mal, il fut arrêté. 42 It is of course possible that one or both of the translators in question may have translated from English or French rather than from German. I have not looked into this possibility in any greater detail. Whether this were the case or not, the textual effect would remain unchanged.

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Nesme (French, 2000a): car sans qu’il eût rien fait de mal, il fut arrêté un matin. Raja (Italian, 1995): perché senza che avesse fatto niente di male, una mattina fu arrestato. Moro (Italian, 1999): perché una mattina, senza aver fatto nulla di male, fu arrestato. Formosa (Spanish, 1975): puesto que, sin haber hecho nada malo, fueron a arrestarlo una mañana. Kruger (Spanish, 1975a): pues sin que éste hubiese hecho nada punible, fue detenido una mañana. Hernández Arias (Spanish, 2001): pues fue detenido una mañana sin haber hecho nada malo. Guimarães (Portuguese, 1964): pois sem que êle tivesse feito qualquer mal foi detido certa manhã. Fabião (Portuguese, 1999): pois, numa linda manhã, foi preso sem ter cometido qualquer crime. Costa and de Brito (Portuguese, 2003): porque foi preso uma manhã, sem que ele houvesse feito alguma coisa mal. Winje (Norwegian, 1992): for en morgen ble han arrestert uten at han hadde gjort noe galt. Rajt-Kovaleva (Russian, 1965): potomu cˇ to, ne sdelav nicˇ ego drugogo, on popal pod arest.

For seven of the nine English versions, Josef K. is arrested “without having done anything wrong.” Kafka’s German reads “ohne daß er etwas Böses getan hätte,” where the use of the subjunctive hätte rather than the indicative hatte once again suggests for a German reader that the statement is focalized through the character K. rather than by the narrator. Had the text used hatte, the implication would have been that the narrator was vouching without reservation for K.’s innocence. The use of hätte does not exclude the possibility that the narrator believes in K.’s innocence, but it implies that the opinion is primarily K.’s, even if the words reporting that opinion are those of the narrator. In English, the phrase “without having done anything wrong” could in principle also represent the opinion of either the character or the narrator or both. In practice, however, most English readers are likely to read the phrase at face value as an authoritative and trustworthy narratorial assurance. Wyllie’s “he knew he had done nothing wrong” less ambiguously presents us with a narrator who has no difficulty in knowing what K. “knew.”



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Versions in other languages agree almost unanimously that K. was arrested “without having done anything wrong”: “sans avoir rien fait de mal” (Vialatte, Goldschmidt, Lortholary), “sans qu’il eût rien fait de mal” (Nesme), “senza che avesse fatto niente di male” (Raja), “senza aver fatto nulla di male” (Moro), “sin haber hecho nada malo” (Formosa, Hernández Arias), “sem que êle tivesse feito qualquer mal” (Guimarães), “sem que ele houvesse feito alguma coisa mal” (Costa and de Brito), “uten at han hadde gjort noe galt” (Winje), “ne sdelav nicˇ ego drugogo” (Rajt-Kovaleva). The belief in K.’s complete innocence is not universal, however. One English translator, for example, is of the opinion that K. had not done anything “truly wrong” (Mitchell 1998), thereby tacitly admitting the possibility that he might indeed have done something wrong, even if nothing that would warrant an arrest. Similar implications, though stated more overtly, are present both in Kruger’s Spanish, where the arrest takes place with K. guilty of “nada punible” (nothing punishable), and in Fabião’s Portuguese, where K. is arrested “sem ter cometido qualquer crime” (without having committed any crime). As we know from the manuscript of Der Prozeß, Kafka originally wrote that K. was “gefangen” (caught, taken), as if in a trap, later changing this to “verhaftet” (taken into custody, arrested). In all nine English versions K. is “arrested.” He is likewise “arrêté” in French, “arrestato” in Italian, “arrestert” in Norwegian, put under “arest” in Russian.43 Formosa’s Spanish makes the arrest more vivid, avoiding the passive voice for an indicative “fueron a arrestarlo” (they came to arrest him), leaving the reader to wait for an explanation of who they may be. Both Kruger and Hernández Arias, reverting to the passive, prefer “detenido” (literally, detained) rather than arrestado (arrested) in Spanish, and in one Portuguese version Guimarães makes a similar choice, with Josef K. “detido” (detained). In the other two Portuguese versions, K. is “preso,” a term that does indeed mean “arrested” but by virtue of its etymology, from the Latin prensus (caught, taken), reminds us of Kafka’s original choice of expression. And all of this happens out of the blue “eines Morgens,” with Josef K., like Gregor Samsa, waking up in his own bed to find everything

43 Rajt-Kovaleva’s Russian translation is provided here only for the iconic opening sentence of Der Prozeß.

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utterly changed from the day before. The Muirs employ an idiomatic “one fine morning” to suggest the complete unexpectedness of the event. The phrase is also nicely ironic, since for Josef K. there is nothing at all “fine” about this particular morning, any more than there is for Georg Bendemann on his Sunday morning in the height of spring. Other English translators prefer a more neutral (and more strictly accurate) “one morning.” Versions in other languages follow the same neutrally accurate path with French “un matin,” Italian “una mattina,” and Spanish “una mañana.” The only exceptions are Russian, which omits any reference at all to time, and Portuguese, which offers a range of variations, with three translators opting for as many different versions of the phrase. Costa and de Brito’s “uma manhã” is the most neutral, merely “one morning,” without connotations or overtones. Guimarães’s “certa manhã” (literally, on a certain morning) is on one level merely an idiomatic variation conveying exactly the same semantic meaning, but on another level, whether consciously or otherwise on the translator’s part, it already introduces the play on certainty and uncertainty that will once again be a structuring element of Kafka’s narrative. Fabião’s “numa linda manhã” (on a fine morning) has the effect of directing the Portuguese reader’s attention to the conceptual irony of bad things happening on a good morning. More overtly than the Muirs’ idiomatic “one fine morning” (on which it may well be based), it thus similarly evokes the intertextual parallel of Georg Bendemann’s traumatic experience one fine Sunday morning. II In the closing scene of the novel, K., after a full year of fruitless efforts, initially appears to have accepted the necessity of his execution at the hands of the two formally dressed gentlemen, who politely defer to each other in taking the knife, as inevitable and even appropriate. But as a window abruptly flies open in the distance and an unidentified figure leans out, K. suddenly changes his mind. Surely there must be some hope for him still? Was last-minute help at hand? Were there arguments in his favour that had been overlooked? “But the hands of one of the partners were already at K.’s throat, while the other thrust the knife into his heart and turned it there twice” (Muir and Muir 1935/1953: 251).



Kafka’s Trials 107 [3] Mit brechenden Augen sah noch K., wie die Herren, nahe vor seinem Gesicht, Wange an Wange aneinandergelehnt, die Entscheidung beobachteten. Kafka/Pasley (1990/1994: 241): Mit brechenden Augen sah noch K. wie nahe vor seinem Gesicht die Herren Wange an Wange aneinandergelehnt die Entscheidung beobachteten. Muir and Muir (1935/1953: 251): With failing eyes K. could still see the two of them, cheek leaning against cheek, immediately before his face, watching the final act. Muir/Butler (1956/1968: 229): With failing eyes K. could still see the two of them immediately before him, cheek leaning against cheek, watching the final act. Scott and Walker (1977/1988: 254): As his eyes grew dim, K. could still see the two men right in front of his face, their cheeks touching as they watched the decisive moments. Parry (1994/2000: 178): With his failing sight K. could still see the gentlemen right in front of his face, cheek pressed against cheek, as they observed the decisive moment. Mitchell (1998: 231): With failing sight K. saw how the men drew near his face, leaning cheek-to-cheek to observe the verdict. Lück (2005: 256): As his eyes grew dim, K. could still see the men in front of his face, leaning cheek to cheek, watching the decisive moment. Stokes (2005: 210): With failing sight, K. could still see the two men right in front of him, cheek pressed against cheek, as they observed the final act. Wyllie (2007: n.p.): As his eyesight failed, K. saw the two gentlemen cheek by cheek, close in front of his face, watching the result. Mitchell (2009: 165): As his sight faded, K. saw the two men leaning cheek to cheek close to his face as they observed the final verdict. Vialatte (French, 1933/1987: 279–80): Les yeux mourants, K. vit encore les deux messieurs penchés tout près de son visage qui observaient le dénouement joue contre joue. Goldschmidt (French, 1983: 256): De ses yeux qui s’obscurcissaient K. vit encore, tout près de son visage, joue contre joue les deux messieurs observer l’issue: Lortholary (French, 1983a: 272): Comme ses yeux se révulsaient, K. vit encore les deux messieurs, tout près de son visage, observant joue contre joue la conclusion.

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Nesme (French, 2000a: 953): De ses yeux défaillants, K. vit encore, tout près de son visage, les messieurs appuyés l’un contre l’autre, joue contre joue, qui régardaient s’accomplir la décision. Raja (Italian, 1995/2005: 205): Con gli occhi che si velavano K. vide ancora, vicini al suo viso, i signori accostati guancia a guancia che osservavano il momento decisivo. Moro (Italian, 1999: 257): Con gli occhi che ormai si spegnevano K. vide ancora che i due signori, guancia a guancia, vicinissimi al suo viso, osservavano l’atto conclusivo. Formosa (Spanish, 1975/1998: 234): Con los ojos vidriosos, K. vio aún cómo los señores, muy cerca de su cara, mejilla contra mejilla, observaban la decisión. Kruger (Spanish, 1975a/1986: 199): Con los ojos ya velados pudo ver todavía a los dos señores que se inclinaban sobre él, con las caras muy juntas, observando el fin. Hernández Arias (Spanish, 2001: 542): Con ojos vidriosos aún pudo ver cómo, ante él, los dos hombres, mejilla con mejilla, observaban la decisión. Guimarães (Portuguese, 1964/1969: 209): Com os olhos vidrados conseguiu K. ainda ver como os senhores, mantendo-se muito próximos diante de seu rosto e apoiando-se face a face, observavam o desenlace. Fabião (Portuguese, 1999: 191): Com a vista a falhar, K. ainda pôde ver os dois homens, mesmo à frente dele, face contra face, contemplando o acto final. Costa and de Brito (Portuguese, 2003: 261): Com olhos desfalecidos, K. viu ainda, muito perto do rosto, os cavalheiros encostados um ao outro, face com face, a observarem o cumprimento da sentença. Winje (Norwegian, 1992/2006: 175): Med bristende øyne så K. hvordan herrene stod lent mot hverandre kinn mot kinn rett foran ham og iakttok dommen.

K., who has signally – and, in Kafka’s world, inevitably – failed to see, dies watching with failing eyes his two executioners watching him. Kafka’s idiomatic phrase “mit brechenden Augen” literally means “with breaking eyes,” an idiom replicated only in Winje’s Norwegian “med bristende øyne.” The image of failure is emphasized more clearly by the particular choice of words in several English versions, as K. dies with “failing eyes” (the Muirs), with “failing sight” (Parry, Mitchell 1998, Stokes), or “as his eyesight failed” (Wyllie), whereas the image of blindness, of inability to see, is more apparent in the phrasing “as his



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eyes grew dim” (Scott and Walker, Lück) or “as his sight faded” (Mitchell 2009). Vialatte’s splendid phrase “les yeux mourants” (literally, his eyes dying), once again connoting K.’s inability to see, becomes for Goldschmidt “ses yeux qui s’obscurcissaient” (his eyes growing dim) and for Nesme “ses yeux défaillants” (his failing eyes). In Italian, K.’s eyes “si velavano” (were growing dim) for Raja and “si spegnevano” (were dying) for Moro. In Spanish, his eyes are “vidriosos” (glassy) for Formosa and Hernández Arias, “ya velados” (already veiled, glazed) for Kruger. In Portuguese, his eyes are “vidrados” (glazed) for Guimarães and “desfalecidos” (weakened) for Costa and de Brito, his vision “a falhar” (failing) for Fabião. In Lortholary’s French version, “ses yeux se révulsaient” (the whites of his eyes were beginning to show), the focalization is significantly changed, as we now see K.’s eyes as his executioners see them. In Brod’s edition of Kafka’s text, the last thing K. sees is “die Herren, nahe vor seinem Gesicht, Wange an Wange aneinandergelehnt.” Pasley’s edition reverts to the word order of Kafka’s original manuscript without changing the sense, K. seeing “nahe vor seinem Gesicht die Herren Wange an Wange aneinandergelehnt.” In German, Herren is a term of polite respect, “gentlemen.” Strikingly, however, only two of the nine English versions (Parry, Wyllie) employ that term. Other English versions, clearly uneasy with the incongruity of employing such polite terminology in such extreme circumstances, carefully avoid using the term, employing such alternatives as “the two of them” (the Muirs), “the two men” (Scott and Walker, Stokes, Mitchell 2009), or just “the men” (Mitchell 1998, Lück). In so doing, of course, they smooth out the conscious incongruity of Kafka’s German, evidently in an effort to move towards some kind of normalization of the situation, at least linguistically. With only two exceptions, no such shrinking from incongruity is evident in our non-English versions: French has “les messieurs,” Italian “i signori,” Spanish “los señores,” and Norwegian “herrene,” all literally “the gentlemen,” while Portuguese even offers two separate terms of respect, “os senhores” (Guimarães) and “os cavalheiros” (Costa and de Brito), likewise both meaning “the gentlemen.” The two exceptions are Hernández Arias’s “los dos hombres” in Spanish and Fabião’s “os dois homens” in Portuguese, both referring more bluntly to “the two men.” Intriguingly, while Kafka’s German refers merely to “die Herren,” no fewer than 13 of our 22 translations find it necessary to specify that there are two of them, a fact that is already abundantly clear from the preceding pages of Kafka’s text.

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K. sees these two gentlemen “nahe vor seinem Gesicht,” a phrase that also makes our English translators somewhat uneasy. The literal meaning, “close in front of his face,” is avoided by all except Wyllie, replaced by “immediately before his face” (the Muirs), “right in front of his face” (Scott and Walker, Parry), “close to his face” (Mitchell 2009), or, avoiding any reference to K.’s face, merely “immediately before him” (Muir/ Butler) or “right in front of him” (Stokes). One version changes a static to a dynamic situation, having K. see “how the men drew near his face” (Mitchell 1998). The degree of proximity of the two to K.’s face also varies interestingly among our non-English versions. All four French versions have the two executioners “tout près de son visage” (literally, very close to his face). In Italian, they are “vicini al suo viso” (close to his face) for Raja, but “vicinissimi al suo viso” (extremely close to his face) for Moro. In Spanish, they are “muy cerca de su cara” (very close to his face) for Formosa, while for Kruger, avoiding any reference to K.’s face, they were merely “leaning over him” (“se inclinaban sobre él”), and for Hernández Arias they are just “ante él” (in front of him). Winje’s Norwegian, similarly avoiding K.’s face, has the two “rett foran ham” (right in front of him). In Portuguese, they are “muito próximos diante de seu rosto” (very close in front of his face) for Guimarães, “muito perto do rosto” (very close to his face) for Costa and de Brito, and “mesmo à frente dele” (right in front of him) for Fabião. Again, one might suggest that the several versions avoiding any reference to K.’s face, approximately one third of those considered, have the effect of reducing the oddity of the situation described in Kafka’s German, where mention of K.’s face is immediately followed by reference to the faces of his two executioners, as they stand over him “Wange an Wange aneinandergelehnt” (literally, leaning one against the other, cheek to cheek). The incongruity of their stance – which one would tend to associate with dancing partners rather than with a pair of executioners – further emphasizes the incongruity of the whole quasitheatrical procedure surrounding K.’s execution while contributing an indeterminate and faintly disturbing note of sexuality. The degree of intimacy of the gesture is variously expressed in our English versions: “their cheeks touching” (Scott and Walker), “leaning cheek to cheek” (Mitchell 1998, Lück, Mitchell 2009), “cheek leaning against cheek” (the Muirs), “cheek pressed against cheek” (Parry, Stokes), “cheek by cheek” (Wyllie). Non-English versions show less variety, essentially rendering the phrase “cheek to cheek”: French “joue contre joue,” Italian “guancia a guancia,” Spanish “mejilla contra mejilla” or “mejilla con mejilla,”



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Portuguese “face contra face,” Norwegian “kinn mot kinn.” Only one version, Kruger’s Spanish, avoids translating the phrase, preferring the locution “con las caras muy juntas” (“their faces very close together”) and thus reducing and smoothing out the element of incongruity present in other versions. Our two gentlemen, cheek to cheek, are intently watching, as K. is still able to see, “die Entscheidung” (literally, the decision). Etymologically, the noun Entscheidung is formed from the verb entscheiden (to decide), based on the verb scheiden (to separate), which in turn derives ultimately from an Indo-European root *sek-/*skei-, meaning not only “to separate” but also “to cut.” As K. breathes his last, in other words, the term used to describe the solemn moment is a far less than solemn etymological pun on the “cut” from the knife that kills him. The term “Entscheidung” even suggests another knife-related pun, for a knife is normally carried in a sheath, in German a Scheide, and the verb entscheiden, in addition to its normal meaning “to decide” can thus also be read as punningly meaning “to unsheathe.” K.’s end, one might say, is treated in Kafka’s German quite literally with cutting irony. Translators have risen to the challenge in a variety of ways, all of them interesting. One group of versions translates Kafka’s “die Entscheidung” more or less directly. In these renderings, the pair watches “the decisive moment” (Parry, Lück), “the decisive moments” (Scott and Walker), “il momento decisivo” in Italian (Raja), and “la decisión” in Spanish (Formosa, Hernández Arias). Nesme’s French has them watching “the decision being fulfilled” (“s’accomplir la décision”). Each of these versions is simultaneously able to play – consciously or unconsciously – on a linguistically related punning strategy, since all the terms involving variations on decision and decisive derive ultimately, in all of these languages, from Latin caedere (to cut), itself deriving ultimately from the same Indo-European root *sek-/*skei- as does German Entscheidung. A second group avoids any direct translation of the term “Entscheidung,” preferring a paraphrase. The Muirs thus have the two men watching “the final act,” which may be taken as referring on one level to K.’s last gasp of breath or last convulsive movement but as also simultaneously suggesting a theatrical overtone that is justified by the overall incongruity and perverse artificiality of the scenario. K.’s initial reaction to the two gentlemen, after all, had been that they looked as if they had stepped out of a theatrical show of some kind. The Muirs’ phrasing is followed by Stokes in English and by Fabião in Portuguese (“o acto final”). Vialatte’s French has the men observing “le

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dénouement,” likewise playing on a theatrical reference. Some other versions also make reference to a final act of K.’s but without any apparent theatrical overtones. In Moro’s Italian, the pair are thus watching “l’atto conclusivo” (the conclusive act), presumably K.’s last breath; in Portuguese, Guimarães has them observing “o desenlace” (the outcome); in English, Wyllie has them “watching the result”; in French, they are observing “l’issue” (the outcome) for Goldschmidt, “la conclusion” (the conclusion) for Lortholary; while Kruger’s Spanish bluntly has them watching “el fin” (the end). A final group consists of three translations that can be read as playing instead – whether consciously or not – on intertextual references to another Kafka text, in all three cases Das Urteil (The Judgment), at whose conclusion Georg Bendemann, condemned by his own father to death by drowning, obediently lets himself drop from the nearest bridge. The most overt reference to Kafka’s earlier text is provided by Winje’s Norwegian version, which has his two gentlemen watching “dommen” (the judgment, the verdict), a term that also serves as the title of Winje’s own 1995 translation of Das Urteil. The Portuguese version of Costa and de Brito has the two men observing “o cumprimento da sentença” (the fulfilment of the sentence), reminding the transtextual reader that Das Urteil has been called The Sentence in English (Jolas 1928), La sentence in French (Billmann and Cellard 1997), La sentencia in Spanish (Anon. 1931), and A sentencia (García Alvarez 1991) and A sentenza (Fernández 2004) in Galician. Two English translators’ decisions, finally, to have their two gentlemen observing “the verdict” (Mitchell 1998) or “the final verdict” (Mitchell 2009) might initially strike a reader as a somewhat odd choice of phrase, since one might assume that the executioners had in fact already carried out “the verdict” presumably uttered in K.’s absence by the Court. Alternatively, however, their watching the “verdict” might be read as suggesting, with appropriately incongruous flippancy, a sportsmanlike desire on the gentlemen’s part to see the degree of success of their particular exterminatory technique. Finally, our indefatigable transtextual reader might also remember that The Judgment is called “The Verdict” throughout the English translation of Max Brod’s biography of Kafka (Brod 1963), not to mention Le verdict in several French translations. Such intertextual echoes can be read not only as appropriate responses to the incongruous humour surrounding the final moments of Josef K.; they may also be read as reinforcing the essential



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similarity of all Kafka’s major protagonists in their Kafkan trials and tribulations. [4] “Wie ein Hund!” sagte er, es war, als sollte die Scham ihn überleben. Muir and Muir (1935): “Like a dog!” he said: it was as if he meant the shame of it to outlive him. Muir/Butler (1956): “Like a dog!” he said; it was as if the shame of it must outlive him. Scott and Walker (1977): “Like a dog!” he said. It was as if the shame of it should outlive him. Parry (1994): “Like a dog!” he said. It was as if the shame would outlive him. Mitchell (1998): “Like a dog!” he said; it seemed as though the shame was to outlive him. Lück (2005): “Like a dog!” he said. It was as if the shame should outlive him. Stokes (2005): “Like a dog!” he said, as if the shame would outlive him. Wyllie (2007): “Like a dog!” he said, it was as if the shame of it should outlive him. Mitchell (2009): “Like a dog!” he said. It seemed as if his shame would live on after him. Vialatte (French, 1933): “Comme un chien!” dit-il, c’était comme si la honte dût lui survivre. Goldschmidt (French, 1983): “Comme un chien!” dit-il; c’était comme si la honte devait lui survivre. Lortholary (French, 1983a): – Comme un chien! dit K. C’était comme si la honte allait lui survivre. Nesme (French, 2000a): “Comme un chien!” dit-il; c’était comme si la honte devait lui survivre. Raja (Italian, 1995): “Come un cane!” disse, fu come se la vergogna dovesse sopravvivergli. Moro (Italian, 1999): “Come un cane!” disse e gli parve che la vergogna gli dovesse sopravvivere. Formosa (Spanish, 1975): “¡Como un perro!,” dijo; era como si la vergüenza hubiese de sobrevivirle. Kruger (Spanish, 1975a): “¡Como un perro!,” se dijo, cual si la vergüenza debiera sobrevivirle. Hernández Arias (Spanish, 2001): – ¡Como a un perro! – dijo él: era como si la vergüenza debiera sobrevivirle.

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Guimarães (Portuguese, 1964): Disse: – Como um cachorro! – era como se a vergonha fôsse sobrevivê-lo. Fabião (Portuguese, 1999): “Tal como um cão!,” disse ele; era como se esta vergonha devesse sobreviver-lhe. Costa and de Brito (Portuguese, 2003): – Como um cão! – disse ele; era como se a vergonha devesse sobreviver-lhe. Winje (Norwegian, 1992): “Som en hund!” sa han, det var som om skammen skulle overleve ham.

Speechless so far in his encounter with his two gentlemen executioners, K. finally manages three last words as his own epitaph: “Wie ein Hund!” (Like a dog!). Kafka’s preoccupation with animals is in evidence once again as K., after all his efforts, is ignominiously put down like a dog, ignorant like a dog of the reason for his death. With only one exception, all our translators use standard dictionary terms for “Hund”: English “dog,” French “chien,” Italian “cane,” Spanish “perro,” Portuguese “cão,” Norwegian “hund.” The one exception is in Guimarães’s Portuguese version, where K. dies not just “como um cão” (like a dog), as he does for the other two Portuguese versions, but “como um cachorro” (like a whelp). The opening words of Kafka’s narrative, as we have seen, were characterized by indeterminate focalization, and the same is true of its concluding words. It is not entirely clear, that is to say, whether Kafka’s lapidary phrase “es war, als sollte die Scham ihn überleben” should be read as primarily a representation of Josef K.’s dying thoughts (“What a shameful way to die, put down like a dog!”) or as a reflective narratorial comment on the scenario explored in the narrative (“The shame of never having understood what was required of him was apparently undiminished by his death”). At least two translations present a narratorial comment of a different kind, giving priority to the narrator’s interpretation of what the character must have meant. For the Muirs, the final phrase therefore reads “it was as if he meant the shame of it to outlive him,” with the narrator speculating on what Josef K. may have meant. For Moro’s Italian, the narrator likewise comments overtly on what K. must have been thinking, namely that “gli parve che la vergogna gli dovesse sopravvivere”: “it seemed to him that the shame must outlive him” (emphasis added). One English version presents the concluding words as unambiguously Josef K.’s thoughts: “It seemed as if his shame would live on after him” (Mitchell 2009). Most translations, however, while also treating



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the phrase as if it were a presentation of K.’s dying thoughts, nonetheless exercise considerable caution. This caution is evident from the fact that among other English versions, Kafka’s modal verb “sollte” is rendered in four different ways: “as if the shame of it must outlive him” (Muir/Butler), “as if the shame of it should outlive him” (Scott and Walker, Lück, Wyllie), “as if the shame would outlive him” (Parry, Stokes), “as though the shame was to outlive him” (Mitchell 1998). A similar hesitation is apparent among non-English versions: in French, “comme si la honte dût lui survivre” (Vialatte) and “comme si la honte devait lui survivre” (Goldschmidt, Nesme), “comme si la honte allait lui survivre” (Lortholary); in Spanish, “como si la vergüenza hubiese de sobrevivirle” (Formosa) and “cual si la vergüenza debiera sobrevivirle” (Kruger, Hernández Arias); in Portuguese, “como se a vergonha fôsse sobrevivê-lo” (Guimarães) and “como se a vergonha devesse sobreviver-lhe” (Costa and de Brito, Fabião). One is almost surprised that two of three Portuguese versions agree on the use of devesse, while both Italian versions agree on the use of the corresponding dovesse: thus Raja’s “come se la vergogna dovesse sopravvivergli” and Moro’s “gli parve che la vergogna gli dovesse sopravvivere” (emphasis added in all cases). While there is thus a significant degree of variety in the translators’ handling of the relevant modal verbs, there is no variation whatsoever in any individual language on the rendering of the final noun. The narrative thus ends, as if in multilingual commentary, with a transtextual chorus of German “Scham,” English “shame,” French “honte,” Italian “vergogna,” Spanish “vergüenza,” Portuguese “vergonha,” and Norwegian “skamm.” As to what the precise nature of that shame should be seen to be, however, and as to whether it should be read as relating primarily to the manner of K.’s death or to his reaction to his arrest or to his life in general, the text remains multilingually silent.

6 Kafka’s Castles

Kafka’s unfinished novel Das Schloß, written in 1922–3, was first published in 1926, after his death, once again edited by his friend Max Brod despite Kafka’s express instructions that the manuscript should be destroyed. It appeared in English in 1930, translated by Willa and Edwin Muir, as The Castle. It tells the story of K., who may (possibly by mistake) or may not have been summoned to serve as land surveyor to the authorities of the titular castle. Refused entry on his arrival, K. resolves to penetrate what will turn out to be an enormously convoluted organization, rejecting what are presented to him as the usual channels and determined to meet with and receive a satisfactory explanation directly from somebody at the very top. Several hundred pages later, as the narrative peters out in mid-sentence, there is no indication that he is any closer to his goal. He may, indeed, even be further away than ever. As far, of course, as he – or we – can tell. I We may begin our transtextual exploration once again with the opening sentences of the narrative, describing K.’s arrival in the immediate vicinity of the unnamed castle and its associated and likewise nameless village. [1] Es war spät abends, als K. ankam. Das Dorf lag in tiefem Schnee.44 Kafka/Pasley (1981/1994: 9): Es war spät abend als K. ankam. Das Dorf lag in tiefem Schnee. 44 The text quoted is that of Max Brod’s edition (Kafka/Brod 1926/1968: 7), followed in cases where there is any difference in wording by the text of Malcolm Pasley’s critical edition (Kafka/Pasley 1981/1994: 9).



Kafka’s Castles 117 Muir and Muir (1930: 9): It was late in the evening when K. arrived. The village was deep in snow. Underwood (1997: 3): It was late evening when K. arrived. The village lay deep in snow. Harman (1998: 1): It was late evening when K. arrived. The village lay under deep snow. Calame and Rogoff (2006: 5): It was late evening when K. arrived. The village lay deep in snow. Bell (2009: 5): It was late evening when K. arrived. The village lay deep in snow. Vialatte (French, 1938a/2005: 7): Il était tard lorsque K. arriva. Une neige épaisse couvrait le village. Nesme (French, 2000b: 1147): Il était tard dans la soirée lorsque K. arriva. Une neige épaisse recouvrait le village. Porzi (Italian, 1990/2003: 21): Era tarda sera, quando K. arrivò. Il villaggio era immerso in una spessa coltre di neve. Capriolo (Italian, 2002: 3): Era sera tardi quando K. arrivò. Il villaggio era sprofondato nella neve. Franchetti (Italian, 2005: 65): Era tarda sera quando K. arrivò. Il villaggio era immerso nella neve. Vogelmann (Spanish, 1949/2003: 7): Ya era de noche cuando K. llegó. La aldea yacía hundida en la nieve. Hernández Arias (Spanish, 2001: 581): Cuando K llegó era noche cerrada. El pueblo estaba cubierto por una espesa capa de nieve. Martins (Portuguese, 1966/2000: 5): Era já noite quando K. chegou. A aldeia jazia afundada na neve. Engelstad (Norwegian, 1950/2006: 215): Da K. kom frem, var det blitt sent på kveld. Landsbyen lå i dyp sne.

The reader is given no information in Kafka’s succinct opening sentence – whether in the original or in translation – as to who this K. may be. He shares the initial of what we assume we may take as a family name with Josef K., the protagonist of The Trial, a novel which ends, as we have seen, with that earlier K. being summarily executed “like a dog.” The situations, frustrating in the extreme, in which this new K. will find himself, however, turn out to be strikingly similar to those experienced by his predecessor, even though our new K. (whose first name does in fact also appear to be Josef) appears to be able to avoid a similarly fatal conclusion to his efforts. In the final pages we have of The Castle, a novel Kafka never actually finished, K. will still be seen

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blundering on regardless in his unremitting search for some means of entry into what remains for him the perennially elusive world of the Castle. In this opening sentence, of course, we still know nothing of all this, at least as first-time readers. Gregor Samsa in The Metamorphosis and Josef K. in The Trial both begin their fatal journeys in the liminal space between sleeping and waking, night and day. In The Castle, the protagonist “arrives” in the similarly liminal space between light and darkness, day and night. One may arrive at a place either by accident or by design, and our first sentence, while perhaps tentatively suggesting the latter, leaves the matter indeterminate. “Es war spät abends, als K. ankam,” reads Kafka’s text in Max Brod’s original edition of 1926, published just two years after Kafka’s death. “Es war spät abend,” Malcolm Pasley’s critical edition of 1981 corrects, restoring the Prague colloquialism that Kafka had actually written and reversing the change from “abend” to standard German “abends” that Brod as editor had felt it proper to make. In semantic terms the change is of little importance, but in semiotic terms the reader is already alerted to the fact that Kafka’s text now exists not in one but in two “original” versions, the earlier having been the only available text for more than half a century, the latter now claiming to replace the former as the original. For all that there are strong scholarly arguments to support that claim, it is also clear that many older readers at least, long accustomed to the 1926 text, will instinctively continue to regard Brod’s edition, editorial shortcomings notwithstanding, as the “real” original. With two arguable exceptions, our group of translations provides relatively little by way of variation on this opening narratorial declaration. “It was late in the evening,” write the Muirs in their 1930 translation, rendering Brod’s “abends”; “it was late evening,” write the four later English translators, translating Pasley’s “abend.” In Alexandre Vialatte’s 1938 French version, “il était tard” (it was late) when K. arrived, which some readers might read (at least in later encounters with the text) as hinting that K. had arrived not only late in the day but later than he should have, thus potentially putting himself at a strategic disadvantage in the very first words of the narrative. Axel Nesme’s later French version removes that potential ambiguity, clarifying that K.’s arrival was merely “tard dans la soirée” (late in the evening). All three Italian versions concur: it was “tarda sera” or “sera tardi,” in either case merely “late in the evening.” For Engelstad’s Norwegian version,



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likewise, “var det blitt sent på kveld” (it had grown late in the evening). For both Vogelmann’s Spanish and Martins’s Portuguese, however, K. is later than in other versions, for in both cases “it was already night” – “ya era de noche” (Vogelmann), “era já noite” (Martins) – while for Hernández Arias’s Spanish “night had closed in” (“era noche cerrada”). Readers of Spanish or Portuguese who return to this opening sentence after a first reading of the text may well be struck by the anticipatory aptness of this formulation, for K. will spend the entire remainder of the (still unfinished) narrative blundering about, at least metaphorically, in the dark. “Das Dorf” (the village) is introduced with its definite article, as if the reader (already also on the defensive, so to speak) were supposed to be familiar with it. Since that is certainly not yet the case, the most obvious alternative implication is that K. is already expecting to see this particular village, thus also suggesting that his arrival is indeed by design rather than by chance. In Kafka’s German, the village “lag in tiefem Schnee,” a relatively neutral phrase rendered equally neutrally by four of five English versions as “was deep in snow” or “lay deep in snow,” and similarly in Engelstad’s exactly parallel Norwegian statement that the village “lå i dyp sne.” Intriguingly, however, the remaining 9 of the 14 translators choose to emphasize that the precise outlines of the village, presumably already becoming less clear as darkness approaches (or has already fallen), are further obscured by a thick mantle of snow. For Harman, the village thus “lay under deep snow,” and for both French versions the deep snow (“neige épaisse”) “covered” it: Vialatte’s “couvrait,” Nesme’s “recouvrait.” Among the three Italian versions, Franchetti’s village is “immerso” (submerged, buried), Porzi’s “immerso in una spessa coltre di neve” (buried in a thick mantle of snow), and Capriolo’s “sprofondato” (buried deep). Vogelmann’s Spanish follows suit with the village “hundida” (submerged), while Hernández Arias has it “cubierto por una espesa capa de nieve” (covered in a thick mantle of snow), and Martins’s Portuguese has it “afundada na neve” (buried in snow). Consciously or unconsciously, that is to say, nine of the translators choose in this second sentence already to out-Kafka Kafka, implicitly anticipating the multiple indeterminacies and concealments that K. will meet with in his relentlessly frustrating encounter with the (at least for him) impenetrable world of the castle.

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[2] Vom Schloßberg war nichts zu sehn, Nebel und Finsternis umgaben ihn, auch nicht der schwächste Lichtschein deutete das große Schloß an. Muir and Muir (1930): The Castle hill was hidden, veiled in mist and darkness, nor was there even a glimmer of light to show that a castle was there. Underwood (1997): Nothing could be seen of Castle Hill, it was wrapped in mist and darkness, not a glimmer of light hinted at the presence of the great castle. Harman (1998): There was no sign of the Castle hill, fog and darkness surrounded it, not even the faintest gleam of light suggested the large Castle. Calame and Rogoff (2006): Nothing was to be seen of the Castle hill, which was urrounded in fog and darkness, and not even the faintest light was present to suggest that the Castle was there. Bell (2009): There was nothing to be seen of Castle Mount, for mist and darkness surrounded it, and not the faintest glimmer of light showed where the great castle lay. Vialatte (French, 1938a): La colline était cachée par la brume et par la nuit, nul rayon de lumière n’indiquait le grand Château. Nesme (French, 2000b): La colline du château était invisible, elle était plongée dans le brouillard et les ténèbres, pas la moindre lueur n’indiquait le grand château. Porzi (Italian, 1990): Non si riusciva a vedere la collina, nebbia e oscurità la circondavano, neanche il più debole bagliore di luce indicava il grande Castello. Capriolo (Italian, 2002): Del monte del castello non si vedeva nulla, nebbia e tenebra lo circondavano, neppure il piú debole bagliore annunciava il grande castello. Franchetti (Italian, 2005): Il monte del Castello non si vedeva affatto, lo circondavano nebbia e oscurità, neppure il più debole chiarore lasciava trapelare il grande Castello. Vogelmann (Spanish, 1949): Nada se veía de la colina; bruma y tinieblas la rodeaban; ni el más débil resplandor revelaba el gran castillo. Hernández Arias (Spanish, 2001): Del castillo no se podía ver nada, la niebla y la oscuridad lo rodeaban, ni siquiera el más débil rayo de luz delataba su presencia. Martins (Portuguese, 1966): Do monte do Castelo, nada; só bruma e escuridão a toda a volta; nenhuma luzinha, nem a mais débil, deixava adivinhar o grande Castelo. Engelstad (Norwegian, 1950): Slottsfjellet var det ingenting å se av, tåke og mørke omga det, selv ikke det svakeste lysskjær ga noen antydning om det store slottet.



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The “Schloßberg” or castle hill is introduced, as the village was, by a definite article and with similar implications: K. was presumably (or at least arguably) already aware of its existence before his arrival, is expecting to find it. A variety of renderings is in evidence. For three of the English versions it is “the Castle hill,” the anticipated importance of the castle underlined by its initial capital; for the fourth, Underwood’s, the very hill on which it reportedly stands shares as “Castle Hill” in this capitalized importance; while Bell’s likewise capitalized “Castle Mount” suggests a supplementary hint of the Gothic. Three versions are considerably less reverential: the Schloßberg is merely “the hill” for Vialatte’s French (“la colline”), Porzi’s Italian (“la collina”), and Vogelmann’s Spanish (“la colina”), while Nesme’s French is more specific with “la colline du château” (“the castle hill”). The hill becomes a mountain in Capriolo’s Italian (“il monte del castello”), in Franchetti’s Italian (“il monte del Castello”), and in Martins’s Portuguese (“o monte do Castelo”), while in Hernández Arias’s Spanish, contrariwise, it disappears altogether: “del castillo no se podía ver nada” (nothing was to be seen of the castle). The closely related linguistic structure of Norwegian and German, meanwhile, provides Engelstad with a compact and exact rendering of Kafka’s “Schloßberg,” namely “Slottsfjell.” If the true contours of the village are obscured by its heavy mantle of snow, the castle hill is completely invisible: “Vom Schloßberg war nichts zu sehn.” The five English translators, interestingly, choose five different renderings of this in principle fairly simple phrase. The Calame and Rogoff and the Bell versions translate quite literally: “Nothing was to be seen” of it and “there was nothing to be seen” of it respectively. Underwood’s “Nothing could be seen” suggests rather more clearly unavailing efforts on K.’s part to see something. The Muirs’ statement that the hill “was hidden” evokes the theme of concealment once more, and Harman’s phrasing “There was no sign of the Castle hill” overtly anticipates for the English-speaking reader the crucial importance in the novel of signs and their interpretation, as was also the case in The Trial. In French, the hill is “cachée” (hidden) for Vialatte, agreeing with the Muirs, while it is “invisible” for Nesme. In Italian, for Porzi, “Non si riusciva a vedere la collina” (it was not possible to see the hill); for Capriolo, “non si vedeva nulla” (nothing was to be seen) of it; for Franchetti, the hill “non si vedeva affatto” (was not to be seen at all). In Spanish and Portuguese, “nada” was to be seen of the hill, and in Norwegian likewise “ingenting” (nothing).

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Kafka’s “Nebel und Finsternis umgaben ihn” is translated literally by Harman’s “fog and darkness surrounded it,” namely the hill, with Calame and Rogoff using similar terms in a slightly different turn of phrase. The hill, however, is “veiled in mist and darkness” for the Muirs and “wrapped in mist and darkness” for Underwood, while for Bell “mist and darkness surrounded it,” all three versions once again evoking both concealment and indeterminacy. For Vialatte, similarly, the hill “était cachée par la brume et par la nuit” (was hidden by mist and darkness), and for Nesme, in terms once again somewhat reminiscent of a Gothic novel, “elle était plongée dans le brouillard et les ténèbres” (it was lost in fog and darkness). All three Italian versions follow Kafka’s German more closely, as in Franchetti’s “lo circondavano nebbia e oscurità” (fog and darkness surrounded it). The same is also true of Vogelmann’s Spanish “bruma y tinieblas la rodeaban” (mist and darkness surrounded it), Hernández Arias’s Spanish “la niebla y la oscuridad lo rodeaban” (fog and darkness surrounded it), and Engelstad’s Norwegian “tåke og mørke omga det” (fog and darkness surrounded it). For Martins’s Portuguese, more loosely but evocatively, nothing is to be seen of the hill at all, “só bruma e escuridão a toda a volta” (only mist and darkness all around). Kafka’s text goes on to observe that in this encircling darkness “auch nicht der schwächste Lichtschein” was present. This particular phrase evokes little variation among our translators. Harman’s translation is once again the most strictly accurate English version in describing this lack: “not even the faintest gleam of light” was to be seen. Bell is only slightly less emphatic, with “not the faintest glimmer of light.” For both the Muirs and Underwood, there was not “a glimmer of light”; for Calame and Rogoff, “not even the faintest light was present.” Vialatte’s “nul rayon de lumière” (no ray of light) becomes for Nesme “pas la moindre lueur” (not the least glimmer). For the Italian translators, there is not even “il piú debole bagliore” (Capriolo), “il più debole bagliore di luce” (Porzi), “il più debole chiarore” (Franchetti), translatable respectively as not “the faintest glow,” not “the faintest glow of light,” not “the faintest gleam.” Vogelmann’s Spanish likewise finds “ni el más débil resplandor” (not even the faintest light); Hernández Arias’s Spanish “ni siquiera el más débil rayo de luz” (not even the faintest gleam of light), Martins’s Portuguese “nenhuma luzinha, nem a mais débil” (no gleam of light, not even the faintest); and Engelstad’s Norwegian “selv ikke det svakeste lysskjær” (not even the faintest gleam of light).



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For K., the advantage of even the faintest gleam of light would have been “to show that a castle was there” (the Muirs), thus possibly confirming his expectations. The degree to which it would have “shown” this is interestingly varied by our group of translators, as reflected in their choice of verb to translate Kafka’s andeuten and suggest the interactive relationship of observing subject and unobserved object. For Bell, like the Muirs, the appropriate verb is show; for Underwood, it is hint; for Harman and for Calame and Rogoff it would have “suggested” that a castle was there. For both French translators the appropriate verb would be indiquer and for Porzi’s Italian similarly indicare, in both cases “to indicate.” For Capriolo, however, the appropriate verb is annunciare (to announce), for Franchetti lasciare trapelare (to allow one to recognize), for Vogelmann revelar (to reveal), for Hernández Arias delatar (to inform about), and for Martins adivinhar (to guess at), while for Engelstad the faint gleam of light in the surrounding darkness would give at least an “antydning” (hint) of the presence, the location, or perhaps even the very existence of the castle in question. As to what sort of castle this as yet invisible structure might be, for Kafka (and presumably for K.) it is specifically “das große Schloß” (the great castle), the definite article once again suggesting that this “great castle” may in fact be what K. has been expecting to find. In German, the initial capital of the noun Schloß does not confer any special importance on the castle in question, since standard German grammar requires that nouns be capitalized. The five English translators, once again, vary interestingly in their rendering of what in itself is a very simple phrase. For the Muirs, choosing an indefinite rather than a definite article, it is merely “a castle,” while for Calame and Rogoff it is “the Castle,” portentously capitalized, which in English does of course suggest a castle of very particular importance. For Underwood and Bell, it is, accurately, “the great castle,” while for Harman, combining a blandly understated adjective and a portentous capital, it is “the large Castle.” Translators in other languages hover similarly between normality and abnormality in naming the castle. For Vialatte’s French, it is “le grand Château,” subsequently normalized by Nesme as merely “le grand château” (the great castle). In Italian, it is “il grande Castello” for both Porzi and Franchetti but normalized to “il grande castello” by Capriolo. Hernández Arias’s Spanish refers merely to “el castillo” (the castle), without adjectival qualification. In Vogelmann’s Spanish it is at least “el gran castillo” and likewise for Engelstad’s Norwegian “det store slottet,” but for Martins, in Portuguese, it is “o grande Castelo,”

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thus not just “the great castle” but “the great Castle,” the capitalized noun (as in all other similar cases) of course evoking the title of the novel in the respective language and thus assuring the reader, even at this very early stage of the proceedings, that this is indeed the castle (or Castle) in question. [3] Lange stand K. auf der Holzbrücke, die von der Landstraße zum Dorf führte, und blickte in die scheinbare Leere empor. Kafka/Pasley (1981): Lange stand K. auf der Holzbrücke die von der Landstraße zum Dorf führt und blickte in die scheinbare Leere empor. Muir and Muir (1930): On the wooden bridge leading from the main road to the village K. stood for a long time gazing into the illusory emptiness above him. Underwood (1997): K. stood for a long while on the wooden bridge that led from the main road to the village, gazing up into the seeming emptiness. Harman (1998): K. stood a long time on the wooden bridge that leads from the main road to the village, gazing upward into the seeming emptiness. Calame and Rogoff (2006): K. stood for a long time on the wooden bridge leading from the main road to the village looking up into the apparent emptiness. Bell (2009): K. stood on the wooden bridge leading from the road to the village for a long time, looking up at what seemed to be a void. Vialatte (French, 1938a): K. resta longtemps sur le pont de bois qui menait de la grand-route au village, les yeux levés vers ces hauteurs qui semblaient vides. Nesme (French, 2000b): K. se tint longtemps sur le pont de bois qui relie la grand-route au village, et dirigea son regard là-haut, vers cette apparence de vide. Porzi (Italian, 1990): K. rimase a lungo sul ponte di legno che dalla strada maestra conduceva al villaggio, e guardò su, nel vuoto apparente. Capriolo (Italian, 2002): A lungo K. sostò sul ponte di legno che dalla strada maestra conduce al villaggio, e guardava in alto, nel vuoto apparente. Franchetti (Italian, 2005): K. restò a lungo sul ponte di legno che dalla strada maestra conduce al villaggio, guardava in alto nel vuoto apparente. Vogelmann (Spanish, 1949): Largo tiempo K. se detuvo sobre el puente de madera que del camino real conducía a la aldea, con los ojos alzados al aparente vacío.



Kafka’s Castles 125 Hernández Arias (Spanish, 2001): K permaneció largo tiempo en el puente de madera que conducía desde la carretera principal al pueblo elevando su mirada hacia un vacío aparente. Martins (Portuguese, 1966): K. deteve-se na ponte de madeira que, da estrada, ia dar à aldeia, e longo tempo ali ficou, olhos erguidos para o vazio aparente. Engelstad (Norwegian, 1950): K. sto lenge på trebroen som fører fra landeveien til landsbyen, og så opp i det tilsynelatende tomme.

K. has both arrived and not arrived: the bridge on which he momentarily remains standing may once again be read as a liminal space, reflecting that between light and darkness, day and night, representing the frozen moment between past and future, between what has gone before in K.’s life (of which readers, despite occasional teasing hints, will continue to remain largely ignorant) and what may now be to come in his encounter with an as yet invisible adversary. Kafka’s German, beginning the sentence with “lange” (a long time), emphasizes the duration of this preliminary pause, though the emphatic placement of the adverb is replicated in only two of the translations, Capriolo’s Italian “a lungo” and Vogelmann’s Spanish “largo tiempo” both likewise emphatically placed in the initial position. With only two exceptions, all the remaining versions adopt a standard word order, unemphatically beginning the sentence with the grammatical subject, “K.” The Muirs’ version constitutes one of the exceptions, choosing to begin instead with “on the wooden bridge,” which one might arguably see as foregrounding the potentially symbolic character of the bridge rather than the length of the anticipatory pause. Bell similarly subordinates the length of time to the place: “K. stood on the wooden bridge.” Another exception is provided by Martins, whose Portuguese rendering adopts a different linguistic strategy to emphasize the length of the pause, specifying that K. both “deteve-se” (paused) on the bridge “e longo tempo ali ficou” (and remained there for a long time). The German verb “stand,” the Norwegian “sto,” and (in all four versions) the English “stood” might conceivably be read as directing readers’ attention primarily to K.’s physical attitude, while all the versions in Romance languages choose terms instead translating as “remained, paused” – thus Vialatte’s “resta,” Nesme’s “se tint,” Porzi’s “rimase,” Franchetti’s “restò,” Capriolo’s “sostò,” Vogelmann’s “se detuvo,” Hernández Arias’s “permaneció,” and Martins’s “deteve-se.” The isolated rural setting of the castle and its associated village, meanwhile, is suggested

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by the “Holzbrücke,” unremarkably translated in all versions by standard dictionary terms: “wooden bridge,” “pont de bois,” “puente de madera,” and so on. Brod’s edition and Pasley’s diverge in just one word in this sentence. Brod’s version indicates that the bridge “führte” (led) to the village, and this past tense is duly repeated by Underwood’s English “led,” Vialatte’s French “menait,” Porzi’s Italian “conduceva,” Vogelmann’s and Hernández Arias’s Spanish “conducía,” and Martins’s Portuguese “ia dar.” Pasley’s edition corrects Brod’s past tense to the corresponding present tense “führt” (leads), and this change is replicated in Harman’s English “leads,” Nesme’s French “relie,” and both Capriolo’s and Franchetti’s Italian “conduce.” Three English versions arrive at a different solution, appropriate for either tense of the verb: the Muirs (translating Brod’s “führte”) and Calame and Rogoff and Bell (both translating Pasley’s “führt”) in each case have their bridge “leading” to the village. The difference in tense, small though it might initially seem, involves a surprisingly significant issue of focalization. The bridge that “led” to the village in Brod’s text (and in those translated versions that similarly employ a past tense) suggests itself as being seen through the eyes of the protagonist K., whereas the bridge that “leads” to the village in Pasley’s text (and in those translations that employ a present tense) is equally clearly seen through the eyes of the narrator. Pasley’s text thus not only recuperates the text Kafka actually wrote but is richer than Brod’s in that it already obliquely suggests the shared vision of the protagonist and the still anonymous and faceless narrator. Intriguingly, while Brod’s past tense suggests focalization through the eyes of the protagonist and Pasley’s present tense focalization through the eyes of the narrator, the three English versions that employ a present participle (“leading”) arguably go Kafka one better in presenting readers with an indeterminate focalization through the eyes of either the protagonist or the narrator. Kafka’s bridge leads to the village from the “Landstraße,” a term translated by Bell as “the road,” in all four of the other English versions as the “main road,” in French as the “grand-route,” in Italian as the “strada maestra,” in Spanish as the “camino real” (Vogelmann) or “carretera principal” (Hernández Arias), in Portuguese as the “estrada,” and in Norwegian as the “landeveie.” Although in all cases the chosen term is a common dictionary term for a major route linking urban centres across rural areas, it is clear that the literary resonances of the



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individual terms might well vary considerably. The German “Landstraße” and the Norwegian “landeveie” are clear as to the rural connotations – and readers will eventually discover that K. is coming to the castle as, ostensibly at least, a Landvermesser or “land surveyor.” Portuguese “estrada” refers quite neutrally to a route, a road of indeterminate importance. The terms used in the other four languages, however, are unambiguously hierarchical, clearly stating the superiority of one particular route over any other: English “main road,” French “grandroute,” and Spanish “carretera principal” make the distinction quite clearly in terms of navigational priorities, while Italian “strada maestra” (literally, master road) and Spanish “camino real” (literally, royal road) allow also for overt metaphorical overtones. Readers in the latter two languages at least might be forgiven for wondering if a symbolic (or at least an allegorical) reading was called for in the present context, with the protagonist seen to be abandoning, perhaps foolishly, the “royal road” of normality for potentially dangerous byways shrouded in mists and darkness. Peering through these mists and darkness, Kafka’s K. “blickte in die scheinbare Leere empor.” Bell has K. “looking up at what seemed to be a void.” Three other English versions agree broadly that K. is “gazing up” or “looking up” into the “seeming” or “apparent” “emptiness.” The major exception in English is in the Muirs’ version, which sees the emptiness as “illusory” rather than apparent. The distinction is significant: an apparent emptiness may or may not be empty; an illusory emptiness is not empty. The “apparent” or “seeming” emptiness, or “what seemed to be a void,” is seen through the eyes of a protagonist who may or may not be unsure if the emptiness is real; the “illusory” emptiness is seen through the eyes either of a protagonist or of a narrator, both of whom are sure that the apparent emptiness is not real. Whether the Muirs’ translation is accurate or not (and our four later translators evidently think it is not) is less important for our present transtextual exercise than is the fact that for generations of English-speaking readers the Muirs’ Kafka was Kafka. For our Italian translators, K. “guardò su” (looked up) for Porzi, “guardava in alto” (kept looking up) for Capriolo and Franchetti, into what, for all three, is a “vuoto apparente,” an apparent “void” or “emptiness.” Engelstad’s Norwegian K. also “så opp” (looked up), while Nesme’s French K. “dirigea son regard là-haut” (directed his gaze up there), finding in both cases only an “apparent emptiness” (Engelstad’s “tilsynelatende tomme,” Nesme’s “apparence de vide”). Three other

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versions, finally, agree in adopting a more elevated and quasi-religious tone as K. gazes up into this “apparent emptiness.” Vogelmann’s Spanish has him “con los ojos alzados” (with eyes raised), Hernández Arias’s Spanish has him “elevando su mirada” (raising his gaze), and Martins’s Portuguese has him likewise with “olhos erguidos” (eyes raised), a facial expression conventionally repeated through untold generations of devotional art. Vialatte’s French, finally, evoking the quasi-religious symbolism yet more strongly, has K. with eyes not only similarly raised (“les yeux levés”) but raised “vers ces hauteurs qui semblaient vides” (towards these heights that appeared empty). Readers of Vialatte’s Kafka might well have found themselves recalling pious depictions of saints gazing upwards in rapt devotion at celestial mountains thickly populated by all the hosts of heaven. The mountain K. appears to be straining to see, the castle hill, will turn out to be an eminence of a decidedly different hue. II The nature of the castle is the central enigma of Kafka’s narrative. Moving forward by roughly 100 pages from the opening scene of his arrival, we find that K. does not seem to have advanced very far in his quest to enter the castle – or even to have gained more than the vaguest and most unreliable knowledge of it. In the present emblematic passage – identical in Brod’s edition and Pasley’s45 – we find K. once more gazing towards the castle from a distance. Time has passed, K. has made various exploratory forays, information has been accumulated, it is no longer dark, and the mists and fogs are no longer in evidence – but none of this appears to offer any guarantee whatsoever of greater understanding or insight. [4] Das Schloß, dessen Umrisse sich schon aufzulösen begannen, lag still wie immer, niemals noch hatte K. dort das geringste Zeichen von Leben gesehen, Muir and Muir (1930: 97): The Castle, whose contours were already beginning to dissolve, lay silent as ever; never yet had K. seen there the slightest sign of life –

45 Kafka/Brod 1926/1968: 96; Kafka/Pasley 1981/1994: 123.



Kafka’s Castles 129 Underwood (1997: 89): The castle, its outlines already beginning to dissolve, lay still as ever, K. had yet to see the least sign of life there, Harman (1998: 98–9): The Castle, whose contours were already beginning to dissolve, lay still as ever, K. had never seen the slightest sign of life up there, Calame and Rogoff (2006: 115): The Castle, the outlines of which had already started to fade, lay as still as ever, never yet had K. seen even the smallest sign of life there, Bell (2009: 88): The castle, its outline already beginning to blur, lay as still as always. K. had never seen the slightest sign of life there. Vialatte (French, 1938a/2005: 147–8): Le Château dont les contours commençaient déjà à se noyer paraissait toujours aussi calme; jamais K. n’y avait encore aperçu le moindre signe de vie; Nesme (French, 2000b: 1245): Le château dont les contours commençaient à s’estomper était silencieux comme toujours. K. n’y avait encore jamais vu le moindre signe de vie, Porzi (Italian, 1990/2003: 87): Il Castello, i cui contorni già cominciavano a dissolversi, era là, silenzioso come sempre; K. ancora non vi aveva scorto il minimo segnale di vita, Capriolo (Italian, 2002: 108): Il castello, i cui contorni già cominciavano a svanire, sorgeva silenzioso como sempre, K. non vi aveva ancora mai scorto il minimo segno di vita, Franchetti (Italian, 2005: 175): Il Castello, i cui contorni avevano già preso a svanire, era lì muto como sempre, K. non vi aveva ancora mai scorto il minimo segno di vita, Vogelmann (Spanish, 1949/2003: 122–3): Allí estaba el castillo – su contorno ya empezaba a desvanecerse – , quieto como siempre; jamás había visto K. en él el menor indicio de vida; Hernández Arias (Spanish, 2001: 685): El castillo, cuyos perfiles comenzaban a difuminarse, permanecía, como siempre, en calma, jamás había percibido K. en él un signo de vida, Martins (Portuguese, 1966/2000: 109): O Castelo, cujos contornos começavam já de esfumar-se, jazia imóvel como sempre, jamais K. percebera o mínimo sinal de vida lá em cima, Engelstad (Norwegian, 1950/2006: 297): Slottet, hvis omriss alt begynte å oppløse seg, lå stille som alltid, K. hadde ennå aldri sett det minste tegn til liv der,

The scene described, with K. gazing contemplatively at the castle from a vantage point some distance away, takes place on a late

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afternoon some considerable time after K.’s arrival in the village and the confident inception of his by now already deteriorating campaign to penetrate the world of the castle and its doings. The scene is an emblematic one: the contours of the physical castle beginning to dissolve in the deepening twilight is of course a reflection, a mise en abyme, of the fact that K.’s original sense of untroubled clarity regarding the appropriate attitude to take to the castle and its machinations has also long since begun to evaporate. This is evident to us as readers – and it is possibly evident also to K., even if that realization will by no means deter him from continuing his campaign. As dusk begins to gather, the contours of the castle begin to blur, and the distinction between the various architectural elements of the castle as well as the distinction between the castle and its surroundings become increasingly indistinguishable. This multiple blurring is suggested by Kafka’s plural “Umrisse,” similarly pluralized in translation by 11 of the 14 versions: English “contours” (the Muirs, Harman) or “outlines” (Underwood, Calame and Rogoff), French “contours,” Italian “contorni,” Spanish “perfiles” (Hernández Arias), and Portuguese “contornos.” Only three versions – Bell’s English “outline,” Vogelmann’s Spanish “contorno,” and Engelstad’s Norwegian “omriss” – refer to a singular outline, limiting the distinction to that between inside and outside, between what is part of the castle and what is not, an admittedly crucial distinction that K. also has major difficulty in comprehending. Those versions replicating Kafka’s plurality of contours, however, also reflect the fundamental difficulties K. has in understanding how the individual organizational elements of the castle interact with each other and what that organizational structure might mean for the course of his investigations. These contours were beginning, in Kafka’s German, “sich schon aufzulösen,” in three of five English versions “to dissolve,” in a fourth “to blur” (Bell), and in a fifth had “started to fade” (Calame and Rogoff). In Engelstad’s Norwegian, remaining close to Kafka’s phrase, they were beginning “å oppløse seg.” In Vialatte’s French, they were beginning “se noyer” (literally, to be drowned), in Nesme’s version “s’estomper” (literally, to blur). In Italian, they were beginning “dissolversi” (Porzi) or “svanire” (Capriolo, Franchetti), the former suggesting dissolution, the latter an increasing faintness. In Vogelmann’s Spanish, the verb chosen is “desvanecerse” (literally, to dissolve, to vanish), while Hernández Arias’s Spanish prefers “difuminarse” (literally, to become diffuse,



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to fade). In Martins’s Portuguese “esfumar-se,” finally, the literal implication is that the contours of the castle dissolve like “smoke” (Portuguese fumo). The castle, for its part, “lag still wie immer” in Kafka’s German, “lay still as ever” in three English versions, “lay as still as always” for Bell. In the earliest English translation, however, the Muirs have their castle lying not “still” but as “silent as ever,” thus emphasizing the lack of any response to K.’s concerns rather than an impassive immobility, unchanged by K.’s attempts. The interaction of immobility and silence is interestingly replicated across the selection of other languages considered here. In French, immobility is foregrounded in Vialatte’s “toujours aussi calme,” silence in Nesme’s “silencieux comme toujours.” Interestingly, later English versions move from silence to immobility, while the later French version moves from immobility to silence. Silence reigns in all three Italian translations, the castle “silenzioso come sempre” (Porzi, Capriolo) or “muto como sempre” (Franchetti), whereas immobility is emphasized in the Spanish “quieto como siempre” (Vogelmann) and “como siempre, en calma” (Hernández Arias), the Portuguese “imóvel como sempre” (Martins), and the Norwegian “stille som alltid” (Engelstad). “Niemals noch hatte K. dort das geringste Zeichen von Leben gesehen” is rendered by the Muirs as “never yet had K. seen there the slightest sign of life.” The first two words are of course crucial: K. has “niemals noch” (never yet) seen any sign from the castle but continues to live in the unrelenting hope that that will change. While the Muirs and Calame and Rogoff both convey this connotation in English, the two other versions move in different directions: for Underwood, whose K. “had yet to see the least sign of life there,” the failure so far to identify any sign is linguistically outweighed by the future possibility of doing so; for Harman and Bell, whose K. in both cases “had never seen the slightest sign of life” there, the possibility of hope remains unspoken. Among other versions, this lack of any suggestion of hope is found also in both Spanish versions, where K. “jamás” (never), and in Martins’s Portuguese, where K. “jamais” (never) has seen any sign of life from the castle. In all remaining versions the crucial “yet” leaves open at least a minimal possibility of hope: Vialatte’s “jamais … encore,” Nesme’s “encore jamais,” Porzi’s “ancora non,” Capriolo’s and Franchetti’s “ancora mai,” Engelstad’s “ennå aldri,” all literally mean “never yet” rather than “never.”

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[5] vielleicht war es gar nicht möglich, aus dieser Ferne etwas zu erkennen, und doch verlangten es die Augen und wollten die Stille nicht dulden. Muir and Muir (1930): perhaps it was quite impossible to recognize anything at that distance, and yet the eye demanded it and could not endure that stillness. Underwood (1997): maybe it was impossible to make out anything at all from this distance, but the eyes kept wanting to, they refused to accept the stillness. Harman (1998): perhaps it wasn’t even possible to distinguish anything from this distance, and yet his eyes demanded it and refused to tolerate the stillness. Calame and Rogoff (2006): perhaps it was impossible to recognize anything from this distance, and still the eyes demanded it and wouldn’t tolerate the stillness. Bell (2009): Perhaps it wasn’t possible to make anything out from this distance, yet his eyes kept trying and wouldn’t accept that it could lie so still. Vialatte (French, 1938a): peut-être n’était-il d’ailleurs possible de rien voir à une telle distance; pourtant les yeux exigeaient autre chose; ils ne pouvaient accepter une telle tranquillité. Nesme (French, 2000b): peut-être ne pouvait-on rien distinguer à cette distance, et pourtant le regard y aspirait et trouvait intolérable ce silence. Porzi (Italian, 1990): forse non era possibile distinguere qualcosa, da così lontano, tuttavia i suoi occhi lo pretendevano, non sopportando quella calma. Capriolo (Italian, 2002): forse non era neppure possibile distinguere qualcosa da quella distanza eppure gli occhi lo pretendevano e non volevano tollerare una simile quiete. Franchetti (Italian, 2005): magari non era neppure possibile distinguere qualcosa da quella distanza, eppure gli occhi lo richiedevano e non si rassegnavano a una simile quiete. Vogelmann (Spanish, 1949): quizá ni siquiera era posible distinguir nada a esa distancia; y sin embargo, los ojos exigían esos indicios y se resistían a tolerar esa calma. Hernández Arias (Spanish, 2001): quizá era imposible reconocer algo desde esa distancia y, sin embargo, los ojos reclamaban algo y no querían tolerar esa quietud. Martins (Portuguese, 1966): nem era possível, talvez, distinguir o quer que fosse àquela distância, e, no entanto, assim o exigiam os olhos e não queriam tolerar aquela calma.



Kafka’s Castles 133 Engelstad (Norwegian, 1950): kanskje var det ikke mulig å skjelne noe på denne avstanden og likevel krevet øynene det og ville ikke finne seg i stillheten.

The focalization, as so often in Kafka, flickers between character and narrator. We appear to be privy to K.’s thoughts as he ruminates that “vielleicht war es gar nicht möglich, aus dieser Ferne etwas zu erkennen,” rendered by Harman as “perhaps it wasn’t even possible to distinguish anything from this distance” and by Bell as “perhaps it wasn’t possible to make anything out from this distance.” Both Underwood and Calame and Rogoff likewise speak of “this distance,” putting us in all four cases into K.’s mind, while the Muirs speak of “that distance,” suggesting rather the comments of a narrator. For the Muirs and for Calame and Rogoff, and also for Hernández Arias’s Spanish “reconocer,” it was impossible to “recognize” anything, conceivably suggesting that K. has already acquired some familiarity with some facets of the castle; for Underwood it was impossible to “make out anything,” for Bell “to make anything out,” for Harman to “distinguish anything,” none of the last three conveying any suggestion of previous familiarity. With only one exception, all other versions employ a term also meaning “to distinguish”: French “distinguer,” Italian “distinguere,” Spanish and Portuguese “distinguir,” Norwegian “skjelne.” The one exception is Vialatte’s French, which speculates that it was perhaps not possible “de rien voir” (literally, to see anything), a rendering at once inaccurate on a physical level, since K. can indeed see the blurring outlines of the castle, and accurate on a symbolic level, since K.’s fundamental problem, reminiscent of that of Josef K. in The Trial, is his inability to see. Porzi’s Italian makes a similar point by different means in referring not, as all other translators do, to the indeterminate “distance” separating K. from the castle but rather to the difficulty of distinguishing anything “da così lontano” (from so far away), a subtle but important difference. The two French versions provide an interesting variation on that difficulty: for Vialatte, “peut-être n’était-il d’ailleurs possible de rien voir à une telle distance” (literally, perhaps it was not possible in the first place to see anything at this distance), where the adverb “d’ailleurs” (in the first place) has the effect of suggesting that seeing anything would be impossible for anybody, not just for K.; while for Nesme, with “peut-être ne pouvait-on rien distinguer à cette distance” (literally, perhaps one could not distinguish anything

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at this distance), the effect is rather to suggest K.’s possible doubts as to his own ability to make distinctions. And yet, despite the arguable impossibility of distinguishing anything at such a distance, “verlangten es die Augen,” rendered by the Muirs as “the eye demanded it.” Less idiomatically, if more strictly accurately, the other three English versions specify “the eyes” (Underwood, Calame and Rogoff) or “his eyes” (Harman, Bell), where the last of these in particular identifies the difficulty in seeing specifically with K. The verb “verlangten,” unexpected in combination with “die Augen” as subject, causes some uneasiness. It is rendered as “demanded” in three of five English versions but as “kept wanting to” by Underwood and as “kept trying” by Bell. In Italian, the eyes “lo pretendevano” (Porzi, Capriolo) or “lo richiedevano” (Franchetti), suggesting respectively “laid claim to it” and “demanded it.” Hernández Arias’s Spanish “los ojos reclamaban algo” (the eyes demanded something), Martins’s Portuguese “assim o exigiam os olhos” (this is what the eyes demanded), and Engelstad’s Norwegian “krevet øynene det” (the eyes demanded that) all remain close to Kafka’s German. Other versions add an explanatory touch, such as Vogelmann’s Spanish “los ojos exigían esos indicios” (the eyes demanded those signs) or Vialatte’s French “les yeux exigeaient autre chose” (the eyes demanded something else). Nesme’s French translation substitutes a different verb: “le regard y aspirait” (literally, one’s gaze aspired to it). The eyes, Kafka’s text reads, “wollten die Stille nicht dulden,” rendered by Harman as “refused to tolerate the stillness,” by Bell as “wouldn’t accept that it could lie so still.” While the reference earlier in the same sentence to the castle lying “still wie immer” led to differences of opinion as to whether silence or immobility was the primary meaning, the noun “Stille” is translated at this point, with almost complete unanimity, as meaning primarily lack of any movement: English “stillness” or “so still,” French “tranquillité,” Italian “calma” (Porzi) or “quiete” (Capriolo, Franchetti), Spanish “calma” (Vogelmann) and “quietud” (Hernández Arias), Portuguese “calma,” Norwegian “stillhet.” The single exception is Nesme’s French, which prefers “silence.” It is this impassivity, this lack of any response, that the eyes of an observer “wollten … nicht dulden” (Kafka), “could not endure” (the Muirs), “refused to accept” (Underwood), “wouldn’t accept” (Bell), “wouldn’t tolerate” (Calame and Rogoff). Others follow suit with such



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phrases as Vialatte’s “ne pouvaient accepter” (could not accept), Engelstad’s “ville ikke finne seg i” (could not accept), Nesme’s “trouvait intolérable” (found intolerable), Porzi’s “non sopportando” (unable to endure), Capriolo’s “non volevano tollerare” (could not tolerate), Hernández Arias’s “no querían tolerar” (could not tolerate), Martins’s “não queriam tolerar” (could not tolerate), Franchetti’s “non si rassegnavano” (could not resign themselves), and Vogelmann’s “se resistían a tolerar” (resisted tolerating). [6] Je länger er hinsah, desto weniger erkannte er, desto tiefer sank alles in Dämmerung. Muir and Muir (1930): The longer he looked, the less he could make out and the deeper everything was lost in the twilight. Underwood (1997): The longer K. looked, the less he could make out, the deeper everything sank into semi-darkness. Harman (1998): The longer he looked, the less he could make out, and the deeper everything sank into the twilight. Calame and Rogoff (2006): The longer he looked, the less he recognized, and the deeper everything sank into twilight. Bell (2009): The longer he looked, the less he could make out, and the further everything receded into the twilight. Vialatte (French, 1938a): Plus K. regardait, moins il distinguait, tout semblait s’enfoncer dans le noir. Nesme (French, 2000b): Plus il regardait, moins il distinguait de détails, plus tout se noyait dans le crépuscule. Porzi (Italian, 1990): Più a lungo egli guardava e meno riusciva a distinguere, e tutto sprofondava nell’oscurità. Capriolo (Italian, 2002): Quanto piú egli guardava, tanto meno distingueva, tanto piú profondamente tutto annegava nella penombra. Franchetti (Italian, 2005): Quanto più a lungo guardava, tanto meno distingueva, e tanto più profondamente tutto si immergeva nel crespuscolo. Vogelmann (Spanish, 1949): Cuanto más miraba, menos distinguía, y más se hundía en el crepúsculo. Hernández Arias (Spanish, 2001): Cuanto más tiempo lo contemplaba, con más profundidad se hundía todo en la penumbra. Martins (Portuguese, 1966): Quanto mais K. olhava, menos distinguia, mais e mais se afundava tudo em crepúsculo. Engelstad (Norwegian, 1950): Jo mer han stirret dit opp desto mindre kunne han skimte, desto dypere sank alt i skumring.

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Our final sentence, which occurs in the text of the novel some lines after the sentence previously considered, concluding the same paragraph, sums up the foundational paradox of the entire novel, to the extent that one may venture such a definitive statement in the case of an unfinished narrative: the longer K. examines the problem, the less he is able to understand it and the less capable of eventual understanding it becomes. In the world in which K. finds himself inescapably trapped, the search for a solution constitutes the most infallible way of ensuring that a solution can never be found. For four of five English translators, “the longer he looked, the less he could make out,” for the fifth “the less he recognized” (Calame and Rogoff). The less he could distinguish, as almost all the non-English versions put it: in French, “moins il distinguait” (Vialatte, Nesme), in Italian, “tanto meno distingueva” (Capriolo, Franchetti), in Spanish “menos distinguía” (Vogelmann), and in Portuguese, likewise, the more he looked, “menos distinguía” (Martins). Porzi’s Italian specifically emphasizes both the intensity of the interpretive effort involved and the total futility of that effort: “Più a lungo egli guardava e meno riusciva a distinguere” (the longer he looked, the less he succeeded in distinguishing) (emphasis added). Presumably inadvertently, Hernández Arias’s Spanish version omits any corresponding phrase. The emblematic sum total of K.’s interpretive efforts is that however hard he tried, “the deeper everything was lost in the twilight” (the Muirs), “receded into the twilight” (Bell), “sank into twilight” (Harman, Calame and Rogoff), or “sank into semi-darkness” (Underwood). For Engelstad’s Norwegian, the deeper everything likewise “sank into twilight” (“desto dypere sank alt i skumring”). The lexicon of dissolution employed by other non-English translators, as contours fade into the twilight, is strikingly reminiscent of the terms used in the opening lexia of this chapter to describe the village buried deep in snow. For Nesme’s French, “tout se noyait” (literally, everything was drowned); for Franchetti’s Italian, “tutto si immergeva” (literally, everything was immersed); for Vogelmann’s and Hernández Arias’s Spanish, everything “se hundía” (was submerged); for Martins’s Portuguese “se afundava tudo” (everything was submerged); and for Capriolo’s Italian, “tutto annegava” (everything was drowned, was obliterated). In two versions, twilight is no longer deepening but already past, and in Porzi’s Italian, “tutto sprofondava nell’oscurità” (everything was buried deep in darkness), while for Vialatte’s French, more overtly reporting K.’s thoughts, “tout semblait s’enfoncer dans le noir” (everything



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seemed to be plunged into blackness), returning us to the lasting darkness into which K. himself was plunged very shortly after his arrival in the nameless village whose outlines were already multiply obscured, by snowdrifts, by an emblematic darkness, and by the proliferating uncertainties of the act of interpretation itself.

7 Kafka’s Titles

The title of any literary work constitutes a crucial opening move in the encounter between reader and text. Kafka’s works, both in German and in translation, offer a particularly interesting field for exploring the role of titles as a constituent factor shaping readerly response to the literary text. Although considerable valuable work has been carried out internationally in recent decades on the semiotic status of the titles of literary works, much of the research in question focuses by its nature on classificational questions rather than on the specific role of the title we shall be considering in this chapter, namely the degree to which the particular title, whether in the original or in translation, functions to suggest or to withhold interpretive assistance to readers in their encounter with the literary text.46 The discussion is limited largely to the titles of our five chosen texts, preceded by an introductory consideration of Kafka’s two earliest published works, Betrachtung (1912) and Der Heizer (1913). One of the several peculiarities of Kafka’s remarkable textual universe is that many of his texts – ranging from short pieces of a single paragraph to lengthy novel-length fragments – were left untitled by their author and received their subsequent titles, sometimes more than one, from third parties – especially, of course, from Kafka’s friend Max Brod. All seven volumes published during his own lifetime, however, carried titles chosen by Kafka himself. For the reader blessed with hindsight, the title even of Kafka’s earliest published work, Betrachtung (1912), translated by the Muirs as

46 On various aspects of the study of literary titles, mainly of a classificational nature, see Levin (1977), Hoek (1981), Alberti (1984), Rothe (1986), Genette (1987, 1988, 1997), and Maiorino (2008).



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Meditation (1948), already has a distinctly Kafkan touch of indeterminacy and indirection about it. Semantically, the term Betrachtung has a range of connotations including reflection, contemplation, consideration, observation, and examination (as in bei näherer Betrachtung, “on closer examination”). The noun of the title is singular, not plural, even though the collection contains 18 separate short pieces (none of which has the same title as the collection). The collection is therefore characterized by its title as a multifaceted single act of Betrachtung by a single narrative consciousness. The title, that is to say, would initially appear to function as a sort of generic descriptor indicating in advance how the collection is to be read. But while the singular noun of the title can reasonably be read as characterizing the entire collection as a single act of perception, its 18 heterogeneous component pieces are marked by their difference rather than by any similarity and thus progressively undermine the suggestion of a programmatic title. From the beginning, critics have been in agreement that, as Heinz Politzer put it several decades ago, “there is no recognizable principle of selection or organization governing this short book; its parts are united by a mood of sophisticated wistfulness rather than by any theme or aim … it is a hodgepodge of reminiscences and promises, an odd assortment of paragraphs, gleaned from a poet’s imaginary diary” (1966: 29). Things are not made any clearer by the fact that eight of the pieces had already appeared in print in 1908 in the journal Hyperion, under the same collective title, “Betrachtung.” Four of these, moreover, together with one more of the 18, had appeared in print again in the newspaper Bohemia in 1910, this time under the collective (plural) title “Betrachtungen.” One of the several meanings of the noun Betrachtung, as mentioned, is “observation,” and it could be argued that the title is most meaningfully understood as referring to the act of creative observation that transmutes the everyday into the work of art, the title’s central function therefore being to focus readers’ attention not only on the 18 individual acts of observation but on the shaping nature of the act of observation itself. Two English translations, however, by Willa and Edwin Muir (1948) and by Malcolm Pasley (1992) respectively, are both entitled Meditation and will thus, for many readers, undoubtedly be read as primarily suggestive of a spiritual or religious exercise, thus narrowing the semantic field considerably. A third English version appears as Contemplation (Blahut 1996), allowing for a wider semantic range. Four French translations all opt for relatively neutral titles, one with Regard (David

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1989: 35–60), two others with Contemplation (Gepner 1995, Vergne-Cain and Rudent 2000), and a fourth with Considération (Lortholary 1991). A fifth French version (Billmann and Cellard 1997) adopts a much more radical solution – and one of very questionable legitimacy – in simply rejecting the original title altogether as having been inappropriate from the beginning, replacing it with the descriptive label Mini-récits impressionistes (impressionist mini-narratives) as allegedly rendering the contents of the collection “more accessible to French readers” (7; my translation). An Italian translation, meanwhile, bears the title Meditazione (Paoli 1996), while two Spanish versions opt respectively for Meditaciones (Santo Tomás Colmenarejo 1976) and Contemplación (Caeiro 1977). Other than the French Regard (David 1989) and Considération (Lortholary 1991), respectively suggesting acts of “observation” and “reflection,” all of the translated titles listed here are clearly strongly influenced by Max Brod’s propagation of Kafka as an essentially religious writer. Kafka’s next published work in book form, Der Heizer (1913; The Stoker), plays a special role in the consideration of our five chosen texts, in that it was first published as an independent narrative but then also incorporated as the first chapter in Amerika. The title Der Heizer introduces the lapidary article-plus-noun formula that would later serve for several of Kafka’s most significant works. Though one might not unreasonably expect the title character to be the central figure of the narrative, the eponymous Heizer, a stoker on the transatlantic liner that carries Karl Rossmann to the New World, in fact emerges as a secondary figure whose confused story of perceived injustice merely provides the real central character, Karl, with a foretaste of possible confusions and injustices in store for him too. The relationship between title and narrative is thus once again, at least in hindsight, characterized by a typical Kafkan indirection: the title invites the reader to consider the Heizer as the focal character, while the ensuing narrative suggests that the importance of his story is in fact its relevance for another character, namely Karl. The reader, as a result, is given a sharp warning of the long series of misreadings indulged in by so many of Kafka’s protagonists. The Muirs included the story as the first chapter in their translation of the novel Amerika (1938), giving it the title “The Stoker,” with Malcolm Pasley (1992) and other English-language translators following suit, while four French versions (Robert 1954b, David 1989, Billmann and Cellard 1997, Vergne-Cain and Rudent 2000) all agree on Le soutier. The French title is by far the more interesting one. Etymologically, an English



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stoker is defined by the nature of his required activity, namely feeding a furnace, while a German Heizer is defined by the desired result of that activity, namely keeping the furnace hot (German heiß), and either one of them might be found on a steam locomotive as easily as on a ship. Etymology suggests, however, that a French soutier is less significantly defined by his activity than by his location, being by definition a person who works in the soutes of a ship. The term soute can refer to various kinds of shipboard spaces, most commonly to the engine room, and derives ultimately from the Latin adverb subtus (below, beneath, underneath). A soutier is thus literally a person whose occupation keeps him down below, on a lower level, beneath other people. To this extent, the French title, while referring primarily to the unhappy stoker and his various real and imagined travails, simultaneously anticipates the narrative of Karl’s repeatedly thwarted efforts to rise through the ranks of American society as his uncle the senator will turn out to have successfully done. Luigi Coppé’s Italian translation of 1974 as Il fochista, meanwhile, and three subsequent Italian versions entitled Il fuochista (Lavagetto 1991, Anon. 2011a, Anon. 2011b) – deriving respectively from Italian fòco and fuoco, both variants meaning “fire” – may potentially leave readers in some initial doubt as to whether the eponymous character will turn out to be a fireman, a fireworks maker, a fireworks seller, or a stoker, all of these being possible meanings of the terms fochista and fuochista. Four Spanish versions likewise employ a title, El fogonero (Vogelmann 1943, Camargo 1985, Hernández Arias 2001, Zanutigh Nuñez 2006b), which may similarly give rise to some doubt on the reader’s part as to whether the ensuing story will focus on a fireman (fogonero), whose job is to extinguish fires, or a stoker (fogonero), whose job is to keep fires burning. The French, Italian, and Spanish titles thus contribute elements of potential readerly uncertainty that are entirely Kafkan in spirit – but are wholly lacking in Kafka’s own German title (or, for that matter, in the Muirs’ English). The title of Die Verwandlung (The Metamorphosis), published in book form in 1915, potentially implies not only a physical transformation but also, among other possibilities, a psychological change of personality or a theatrical scene change. The term Verwandlung can also imply the conversion of water into steam for a physicist or bonds into cash for an economist; in a legal context it can imply the commuting of a prison sentence; and in the context of Christian belief, the transubstantiation of bread and wine into the body and blood of Christ. While Kafka’s title was Die Verwandlung rather than Die Metamorphose, and despite his vigorous

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efforts to forbid any illustrations depicting any physical transformation, mythological resonances are much in evidence – including especially in the titles of translations. Alexandre Vialatte’s French version of 1938 was called La métamorphose, and this title has been retained in all subsequent French translations. A decade later, Willa and Edwin Muir followed Vialatte’s lead with their English translation of 1948, The Metamorphosis. Among later versions, the title is almost universally The Metamorphosis in English, La métamorphose in French, La metamorfosi in Italian, La metamorfosis in Spanish, and A metamorfose in Portuguese. Variations include Metamorphosis in English (Jolas, Pasley, Hofmann, Stokes) and Metamorfose in Portuguese (Silveira), where the deletion of the definite article can be read as even further accentuating the ostensibly Ovidian note. Some translators have argued that Kafka’s title might more accurately be translated as The Transformation, and Malcolm Pasley’s attempt to escape the mythological overtones of what was by then the traditional English title is instructive. Pasley’s translation of a collection of Kafka’s stories published by Penguin Books in 1992 bore the title The Transformation (“Metamorphosis”) and Other Stories, where one may suspect that the very awkward title is the result of a compromise between the translator’s preference for the arguably more accurate title and the publisher’s sales department’s position that the traditional title would sell more books. When the same collection was reissued eight years later, the sales department had evidently won the day, for the volume now appeared as Metamorphosis and Other Stories. At least two earlier attempts to escape mythological titular overtones were similarly unsuccessful. Jordi Llovet reports (1992: ix) that Jorge Luis Borges originally translated Kafka’s text into Spanish in 1938 as La transformación but was likewise overruled by his publisher, who insisted on La metamorfosis; a similar fate overtook Llovet’s own Catalan version, which first appeared in 1978 as La transformació, but seven years later, in a second edition, under the more universally recognizable title La metamorfosi. More recently, however, Llovet’s translation has been republished as La transformació: la metamorfosi (2005), while two Spanish versions have appeared as La transformación (del Solar 1999, Lorenzo 2005). Three Dutch versions avoid using De metamorfose as a title, opting instead for De gedaanteverwisseling (Brunt 1944, Meijerink 2001) or De gedaanteverandering (Graftdijk 1992), each more literally meaning “transformation” (gedaante “form”; verwisseling and verandering “change”), while a fourth version opts for the certainly more immediately recognizable De metamorfose (van Altena 1988). Titles of a large majority of



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versions in other languages likewise choose the relevant term denoting metamorphosis rather than transformation.47 One of the few exceptions is the Asturian La tresformación (Fernández 2000). In less familiar languages the theme of metamorphosis is itself reflected in what for most readers of western European background will be a bewildering array of equally unfamiliar titles.48 Of all languages considered, and returning to more familiar linguistic territory, Swedish Förvandlingen (Andersson and Vennberg 1945), Norwegian Forvandlingen (Brøgger 1965), and Danish Forvandlingen (Steinthal 1993) – the suffix -en in each case representing the definite article – are the closest approximations of Kafka’s German title, while two other Nordic languages, Icelandic and Faroese, go their own way with Hamskiptin (Pétursson 1960) and Umskapanin (Anon. 1997) respectively. Die Verwandlung and Kafka’s next publication in book form, Das Urteil (1916; The Judgment), provide an interesting example of two potentially interchangeable titles: Das Urteil (which had already appeared in print in the yearbook Arkadia in 1913) could just as accurately have been called Die Verwandlung, in which case the primary reference for most readers would undoubtedly be to the transformation of Georg Bendemann’s father; while Die Verwandlung could as appropriately have been called Das Urteil, with the primary reference then being to Gregor Samsa’s self-imposed sentence of suicide for the sake of his family’s presumptive happiness. The outrageousness of Georg Bendemann’s father’s behaviour in condemning his own son to death has led in particular to an interesting scatter of translated titles. 47 Thus, for example, Greek I metamórfosi (Anemogianni 1962), Romanian Metamorfoze (Isbaˇ¸s escu 1964), Lithuanian Metamorfozé (Cˇetrauskas 1988), Galician A metamorfose (García Alvarez 1991), Aragonese A metamorfosis (Ballestín 1993), Friulian La metamòrfose (Nazzi and Ongˇhar 1996), and Basque Metamorfosia (Iraola 2000). 48 Among eastern European languages, we thus find Hungarian A fu˝to˝ (Györffy 1990) and Finnish Muodonmuutos (Peromies 2007) as well as Czech Promeˇna (Vrána and Pastor 1929), Polish Przemiana (Kydryn´ski 1980), Bulgarian Preobraženieto (Konstantinov 1982), and Macedonian Preobrazba (Anastasovska and Kostoska 2008), while Serbo-Croatian employs both Preobražaj (Adum 1954) and Preobrazba (Crnkovicˇ 1994). Among non-European languages, Japanese, Korean, and Chinese share similar titles: all Japanese versions have the title Henshin (Nakai 1952), all Korean versions the title Byonshin (Chong 1957), and all Chinese versions Bianxing ji (Li 1979). We also find Hebrew Hagilgul (Keshet 1975), Persian Maskh (Heda¯yat and Qa¯’emiya¯n 1959), Kanarese Rupantara (Hegde 1978), Malayalam Rupantaraprapti (Shanmukhadas 1961), Marathi Kayapalat (Gokhle 1980), and Tamil Urumarram (Shivakumar 1998). Turkish offers two different titles, Degˇis¸im (Günyol 1955) and Dönüs¸üm (Cemal 1986).

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Das Urteil was first translated into English as The Sentence (Jolas 1928), followed by nine other English versions as The Judgement or The Judgment, while one translation (Stokes 2002) reverts to The Sentence.49 In French, the story was first translated as Le verdict (Klossowski and Leyris 1930), and this title was retained by at least six later versions, but with one early translator preferring Le jugement (Meylan 1944) and another more recent translator opting for La sentence (Billmann and Cellard 1997).50 In Italian, the earliest version, La condanna (Rho 1935), was retained by at least five subsequent versions, but with another opting for La sentenza (Castellani 1966) and three more recent translations preferring Il verdetto (Farinella 1991, Lavagetto 1991, Scrignòli 1991).51 In Spanish, the earliest translation had the title La sentencia (Anon. 1931), but at least eight subsequent versions preferred La condena.52 The title appears as O veredicto (Carone 1986) in Portuguese and as both A sentencia (García Alvarez 1991) and A sentenza (Fernández 2004) in Galician. The collective translatorial indecision may well be read as reflecting the fact that a judicial Urteil is a process involving first the forming of a judgment, then the uttering of the verdict, and finally the imposition of the sentence – which may even, as in this case, be a condemnation (O’Neill 1994: 147). Das Urteil has been translated into far fewer languages than has Die Verwandlung, but we can still find an interesting array of further titles in a variety of other languages.53

49 Beuscher 1945, Muir and Muir 1948, Pasley 1977, Underwood 1981, Appelbaum 1993, Neugroschel 1993, Freed 1996, Hofmann 2006, and Crick 2009 all opt for The Judgement or The Judgment. 50 Vialatte 1938c, Robert 1954a, David 1989, Lortholary 1991, Outin 1993, and VergneCain and Rudent 2000 all follow Klossowski and Leyris in choosing Le verdict. 51 Zampa 1957, Paoli 1970, Coppé 1974, Fortini 1980, and Fertonani and Fortini 1997 all follow Rho in opting for La condanna. 52 Wilcock 1952, Kruger 1975b, Guillén 1978, Camargo 1985, Izquierdo 1985, Uriarte 1986, Zanutigh Núñez 2006a, and Rasmozzi 2000 all go with La condena. 53 Among western European languages we thus also find Dutch Het vonnis (Brunt 1955), Danish Dommen (Lundbo 1964), and Norwegian Dommen (Brøgger 1965). In eastern European languages we find both Soud (Jesenská 1923) and Ortel (Kundera 1947) in Czech, as well as Polish Wyrok (Kydryn´ski 1957), Ukrainian Vyrok (Popovycˇ and Tarašcˇ uk 2003), Serbo-Croatian Osuda (Gorjan and Mateticˇ 1968), Bulgarian Prisaˇdata (Konstantinov 1981), Russian Prigovor (Tatarinova 1981, Rudnickij 2007a), Hungarian Az itélet (Boldizsár 1957), and a rather more familiar-looking Romanian Verdictul (Isbaˇs¸escu 1969). Non-European languages contribute Japanese Hanketsu (Takayasu 1953), Chinese Panjue (Zhang 1960), and two different Korean titles, Pangyol (Kang 1955) and Sun-go (Han 1982).



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The three unfinished novels that secured Kafka’s worldwide fame – Der Prozeß, Das Schloß, and Amerika, published in that order – all appeared after his death, all three of them initially edited by Max Brod, and all three involving intriguing titular implications. The manuscript of the novel to which Brod assigned the title Der Prozeß (1925; The Trial) does not contain any title, but Kafka consistently referred to it by this name in his diaries and also, according to Brod, in conversation. The individual chapter titles do exist in the manuscript, though their precise order is left unspecified. The title Der Prozeß refers primarily, as in the case of Die Verwandlung and Das Urteil, to a particular fictional happening and its effects on a focal character, in this case one Josef K. The nature of that happening, however, is ambiguous from as early as the title itself. In modern German, a Prozess (as the word is currently spelled in standard German) means not only a trial or a court case but also either a “process” from one state of affairs to another, or a “progress” from one state to another, as of a disease, for example. The word entered the language in Middle High German as process (edict, decree, verdict) from the Late Latin processus (court case, in modern terms), which in turn derived from classical Latin processus (advance, progress, process, lapse of time, from the verb procedere, literally “to move forward”). Der Prozeß appeared in French translation in 1933 and in English translation in 1935. Alexandre Vialatte’s version of 1933 opted for Le procès as its title, and three later French versions (Goldschmidt 1983, Lortholary 1983a, Nesme 2000a) have all followed suit, while Willa and Edwin Muir’s version of 1935 opted for The Trial, with no fewer than eight later English versions following suit.54 English, in fact, is one of only two or three European languages not to translate the title by a term deriving from the Latin processus, which likewise combined the two meanings “process” and “trial.” The English title The Trial therefore inevitably loses a whole area of resonance of the German title Der Prozeß. The process is by no means one solely of loss, however. The etymology of the English trial, though debated, is generally held to derive via French from a Latin verb triare (to sift, to sort out). The noun trial, according to the OED, entered English in the legal sense of determining

54 Muir/Butler 1956, Scott and Walker 1977, Parry 1994, Mitchell 1998, Lück 2005, Stokes 2005, Wyllie 2007, and Mitchell 2009 all follow the Muirs in opting for The Trial.

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a person’s guilt or innocence by a court of law, only later developing subsidiary senses as in the phrases trial and error or trials and tribulations. While losing resonances deriving from the Latin processus, that is to say, the English term trial also has significant resonances of its own beyond the legal sense that are entirely relevant for Kafka’s novel, as in a trial of strength or patience or endurance (all of which Josef K. undergoes), or as in learning by trial and error (at which he spectacularly fails), or as in suffering trials and tribulations (which eventually overwhelm him). Given the English title, many English-speaking readers of The Trial quite naturally see the novel as focused most importantly on the inexplicable legal system that outrageously arrests, tries, and condemns an apparently entirely innocent victim. Readers who see the English title as also including the concept of a trial of endurance to be withstood arguably come closer to the reaction of German-speaking readers to the title Der Prozeß. German-speaking readers have repeatedly observed that the novel has as much to do with a process as with a trial in the legal sense. For Heinz Politzer, the novel, “as the [German] title indicates … is not focused on the fate of the bank clerk Josef K. but on the proceedings to which he is subjected. These proceedings are Kafka’s theme” (1966: 166). Erich Heller likewise emphasizes the fact that a Prozeß is as importantly a process as it is a trial (1974: 36, 103). Charles Osborne idiosyncratically observes that “Prozess is not only the legal word for law-suit, but also the German medical term for tuberculosis. Kafka was not suffering from TB when he wrote The Trial, or at any rate was not aware that he was, but if what he really was writing about was the attack of a killing disease, he may well have unconsciously called it into existence” (1967: 75–6). Two more recent English-language critics clearly conflate the English and the German titles in their readings. For Patrick Bridgwater, the mechanism of the trial is merely an elaborate structural device: what is central to the novel is the mental process of self-exploration it portrays (2003: 107–8; emphasis added). For Paul Malone, the title “both draws attention to the fact that K.’s trial never actually arrives (compare Beckett’s Waiting for Godot), and describes the process of mental and social breakdown which K. endures before resigning himself to his death. The processual aspect of the narrative is reflected in the episodic form of the plot: each chapter leaves K. no further ahead than before, and just as there is no actual trial, so also there is no conventional climax to the action” (2003: 13–14). It is of course conceivable in the world of Kafka’s novel that there has in fact been a trial, of which neither Josef K.



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nor the reader is informed. Finally, and quite intriguingly, the standard German term for a trial in the legal sense is Verhandlung, suggesting the presence in some parallel transtextual universe of a Kafkan ghost text Die Verhandlung, providing a hypothetical (and foreboding) titular counterpart to Die Verwandlung. From the beginning, then, the title of Kafka’s novel potentially involved a fundamental instability. Of recent years, that instability has developed in another direction as well, at least for the Germanspeaking reader. Der Prozeß retained the title Brod had given it for a good 65 years before that title underwent an apparently small but actually very interesting change in 1990 when the novel was re-edited by Malcolm Pasley for the Fischer critical edition as Der Proceß (Kafka 1990). The stated objective of the critical edition was to follow Kafka’s actual manuscripts as closely as possible, as opposed to Max Brod’s creative reshaping of them. In fact, however, and ironically, the spelling Proceß is not Kafka’s (who, as his manuscripts show, preferred Process) but Pasley’s, for the critical edition silently corrects what Pasley regarded as obvious misspellings in the manuscript, which included changing Kafka’s preferred spellings involving final -ss to -ß where called for by the German spelling rules in effect in 1990. Many readers have regretted that this latter rule was applied even in the title, in view of the strikingly hybrid result, since Kafka’s preferred spelling in -c- is not changed to -z-, even though equally called for by modern conventions (Riley 1993: 97n1). Readers’ reactions to what is at first sight merely a minor spelling change can be surprisingly visceral. Bridgwater, for example, is thus prepared to admit that the preferred official spelling in 1910 (as opposed to 1990) was indeed Proceß (even though Kafka chose not to use it), but he goes on to argue with some vehemence that, despite its arguable temporary historical correctness, the spelling Proceß is nonetheless, “historically speaking, a transitional and indeed bastard form,” a fleeting anomaly between the correct nineteenth-century Process (Kafka’s preferred spelling) and the correct twentieth-century Prozeß (Brod’s preferred spelling), and thus giving the title a deplorably “alien, unexpected, outlandish look” (2003: 194). Pasley’s new title, in other words, is thus in one sense regrettable but in another arguably a highly appropriate one in the universe of this particular text, in which the protagonist is notoriously “arrested” in the very first sentence. Readers of Pasley’s title already comfortably familiar with Brod’s title do not even reach the first sentence before being

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arrested by the defamiliarizing effect of an intrusive and, for many, distinctly irritating new spelling. Arguably, the orthographic peculiarity of the new title thus aptly anticipates the overall peculiarity of the process of Josef K.’s trial. Meanwhile, however, a second new and competing edition has appeared: Roland Reuß’s Stroemfeld Verlag facsimile edition of 1997 – which opts for Kafka’s preferred manuscript spelling, Der Process. Since Fischer Verlag editions of both Der Proceß and Der Prozeß are also freely available, readers therefore now have their choice not just of three texts but also of three titles. And in a final turn of the screw, the German spelling reform of the 1990s would theoretically require a fourth version, namely Der Prozess. While we may thus still be able to speak the original German name of Kafka’s novel nowadays, in short, we are paradoxically no longer in a position to write it any more, a splendidly appropriate Kafkan confusion of sameness and difference, familiarity and strangeness. There was, of course, another area of major titular instability informing Brod’s Prozeß from an early date, for the title gradually came to refer not to a single text but arguably to three quite different texts sharing a single title. Brod’s first edition (in 1925) included only one of the unfinished chapters; the second (in 1935) included all the unfinished chapters and also those passages originally deleted in the manuscript; and the third (in 1946) raised the entirely radical new possibility that the chapters could conceivably also be read in a quite different order – and thus obviously also constitute a quite different text. Many translators repeated at least the first two steps of this process, so that the title The Trial also came, for example, to designate at least two quite separate texts. Pasley’s 1990 edition aims to provide a new German text to match its new title, in that it not only reverses Brod’s many minor textual alterations but introduces at least one major alteration in the narrative economy of the text by presenting Josef K.’s meeting with Fräulein Bürstner’s friend Fräulein Montag not as the fourth chapter, very shortly after Josef K.’s arest, but as a fragment now encountered by the reader only after Josef K.’s death. And even Pasley’s new edition could be argued as essentially also presenting readers with two different texts, for the two-volume clothbound edition contains (if only in the critical apparatus of the Apparatband) the passages originally deleted in Kafka’s manuscript, while the onevolume paperback edition (Kafka 1994) omits them altogether. Der Prozeß, in short, is both a single canonical text and a fragment of a



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work-in-process composed of a series of episodes whose intended order and import (not to mention its title) have all been hotly disputed. Kafka’s text is characterized by an ostentatious doubleness (or duplicity), by the play of unity and multiplicity – and a consistent play on readerly expectations. When we look at titles in other languages, the most striking fact is undoubtedly just how few European languages other than English have titles that do not derive from the Latin processus: the only exceptions, indeed, are the Greek I diki (Kotzias 1961), Finnish Oikeusjuttu (Simojoki 1946), Hungarian A per (Szabó 1966), and Icelandic Réttarhöldin (Eysteinsson and Thorvaldsson 1983). The second striking fact is that even though several languages have many different translations of Der Prozeß – Spanish has 19, for example, Italian 10, Portuguese 7 – in no case is there ever any departure from the title first employed in the particular language.55 The title of Das Schloß (The Castle), edited by Brod in 1926 and reedited by Pasley under the same title in 1981, presents us with fewer obvious difficulties than its immediate predecessor but is by no means without its own claim to readerly interest. Six English translations are all called The Castle; four French versions are all called Le château.56 For

55 In the following listing, only the first occurrence of any title in a given language is identified by its translator. Titles of versions in other western European languages include Basque Prozesua (Garikano 1993), Catalan El procés (Ferrater 1966), Danish Processen (Branner 1945), Dutch Het proces (van Nahuys 1948), Galician O proceso (Fernández Rodríguez 2003), Italian Il processo (Spaini 1933), Norwegian Prosessen (Gjesdahl 1933), Portuguese O processo (Guimarães 1964a), Spanish El proceso (Mendivil 1939), and Swedish Processen (Vennberg 1945). Among eastern European languages we find Albanian Procesi (Kelmendi 1972), Bulgarian Procesaˇt (Stoevski 1980), Czech Proces (Eisner 1958), Estonian Protsess (Lang 1966), Lithuanian Procesas (Gailius 1981), Macedonian Proces (Dimitrovski 1962), Polish Proces (Schulz 1936), Romanian Procesul (Naum 1965), Russian Process (Rajt-Kovaleva 1965), SerboCroatian Proces (Pecˇ nik 1953), Slovak Proces (Rampák 1964), Slovenian Proces (Udovicˇ 1962), Ukrainian Proces (Popovycˇ and Tarašcˇ uk 2003), and Yiddish Der protses (Anon. 1966). Among non-European languages we find Chinese Shenpan (Huang 1969) and Susong (Zhao and Zhao 2006), Japanese Shinpan (Motono 1940), and Korean Shimpan (Kim 1957), as well as Hebrew Ha-mishpat (Keshet 1951) and Turkish Dâva (S¸ipal 1964). 56 Muir 1930, Muir/Wilkins 1953, Underwood 1997, Harman 1998, Calame and Rogoff 2006, and Bell 2009 all opt for The Castle; Vialatte 1938a, Goldschmidt 1984, Lortholary 1984, and Nesme 2000b all opt for Le château.

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readers in any of the three languages, the respective title will likely be read as a reference to the goal of the focal character K.’s quest and also as an element of setting, the village-like cluster of undistinguished buildings in whose dark shadow K. pursues that goal. A German Schloß, an English castle, and a French château all historically designated a stronghold, a feste Burg, closed (verschlossen) against unwanted intruders but also frequently serving as a prison for those who (eingeschlossen) might well wish to be outside rather than inside the walls. In all three languages the respective term gradually lost its specifically martial associations and came to be associated with the palatial residences of the privileged, and thus also with exclusions and inclusions of other kinds. In French, a château (derived from Latin castellum, a diminutive of castrum “fort, fortress”) originally meant a stronghold (what is now called a château fort); in modern times the term came to be applied primarily to a palatial residence. In English, a castle (likewise derived, via French, from the Latin castellum) is “a large building or set of buildings fortified for defence against an enemy; a fortress, stronghold” (OED), thus combining the notions of a stronghold to be stormed and a defence against attack (“an Englishman’s home is his castle”). In German, however, the title is also significantly ambiguous, referring either to a castle or to a lock: the term sloz, indeed, had “lock” as its primary meaning in Old High German, acquiring the secondary meaning “castle” only several hundred years later. Locks, like castles, are agents of both exclusion and inclusion, but a lock is also by definition capable of being picked, and every lock suggests the possible existence of a matching key. K.’s task is thus readable as being not only to gain entry to a castle but also to find the possible key that will open a lock still to be discovered. Perhaps the key and the lock, the solution and the problem, may even be the same, and K. will never be able to enter the castle because he is already inside the castle – and thus irremediably locked both inside and outside at once (Bridgwater 2003: 207). The significant ambiguity of the German term Schloß, conflating “castle” and “lock,” is replicated only in other Germanic languages, with the signal exception of English: Dutch Het slot and Danish, Norwegian, and Swedish Slottet (where the suffix -et represents the definite article) share their etymology with the German term. While several languages have multiple translations (Spanish has ten and Italian has eight, for example), no language (other than Chinese) appears to make use of any



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title other than that chosen by the earliest translator in the particular language.57 Our most obvious example of titular schizophrenia is provided by the novel that Max Brod edited as Amerika in 1927. Kafka drafted a first version in early 1912, but destroyed it; the second version was mostly drafted in late 1912, continued in late 1914, but never completed. The unfinished novel was known as Amerika for more than half a century before its title was changed, in the new 1983 critical edition by Jost Schillemeit, to Der Verschollene. Schillemeit’s edition reverses Brod’s various textual changes and rearranges the order of the final 50-odd pages. Kafka himself referred in his diaries to his eventually abandoned project variously as Der Verschollene, Der Heizer (the earlier story of this title doubling as its first chapter), and also as his “American” novel, which Brod took as justifying the title Amerika. Although there is no final certainty what name Kafka might have given the novel eventually (Politzer 1966: 117), critics have by and large disapproved strongly of Brod’s choice and applauded Schillemeit’s alternative. Michael Hofmann, who provided a new English version in 1996, thus strongly approves of the critical edition’s new German title, for “it is a book about a person, not a place” (1996: viii). Patrick Bridgwater is more scathingly dismissive of Brod’s title: “Amerika implies a novel about the United States … an optimistic, realistic novel at odds not only with Kafka’s other novels, but with all his work, and indeed

57 Identifying the translator only in the case of the first occurrence of a particular title, we find Catalan El castell (Solá 1971), Italian Il castello (Rho 1948), Portuguese O castelo (Guimarães 1964b), and Spanish El castillo (Vogelmann 1949), as well as Danish Slottet (Branner 1949), Dutch Het slot (Sötemann 1950), Norwegian Slottet (Engelstad 1950), and Swedish Slottet (Aurell 1946). Among eastern European languages are Albanian Kështjella (Shita 1980), Hungarian A kastély (Rónay 1964), and Romanian Castelul (S¸ora 1968); Bulgarian Zamaˇkaˇt (Ilieva 1982), Czech Zámek (Eisner 1935), Polish Zamek (Truchanowski and Radziwill 1958), Serbo-Croatian Zamak (Milojevicˇ 1961), Slovak Zámok (Bžochová 1965), Macedonian Zamak (Anon. 1975), and Russian Zamok (Rajt-Kovaleva et al. 1989); as well as Slovenian Grad (Udovicˇ 1967), Greek O pyrgos (Kotzias 1964), Estonian Loss (Sang and Sirkel 1987), Finnish Linna (Peromies 1964), Lithuanian Pilis (Gailius 1994), and Latvian Pils (Kalnin‚a 2001). Among nonEuropean languages we encounter Arabic al-Qasr (Ma¯hir 1971), Chinese Chengbao (Ren 1970) and Baocheng (Ma 1997), Hebrew Ha-tira (Shapir 1955), Japanese Shiro (Harada 1950), Korean Seong (Kim 1960), Persian Qasr (Sadrujye 1961), Sinhalese Balakotwa (Nandisena 1994), and Turkish S¸ato (S¸ipal 1966).

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with all his literary aims and concerns, to say nothing of being at odds with the structure, symbolism and allusions of the novel itself” (2003: 31–2). What both critics (among others) appear to overlook is the element of potential irony in Brod’s title, which by no means need be seen as implying a book about a place rather than a person. Karl Rossmann’s America, like that of many hopeful immigrants, and despite his having been unceremoniously transported there by his “poor parents,” is a country of the imagination rather than of the real world, a land in which social and financial success and personal fulfilment and happiness are nothing short of guaranteed. How little likely it is that Karl’s America will turn out to be the wished-for land of golden opportunity is suggested already in the very first paragraph, with its ominous image of a Statue of Liberty wielding not the torch of freedom but a sword whose purpose is entirely unclear – though perhaps all too reminiscent of the knife that ignominiously ends Josef K.’s life “like a dog.” The German title Amerika will certainly have been read by its early readers as referring primarily to an element of the physical and intellectual setting of Karl Rossmann’s odyssey. While Brod’s title may initially conjure up for its readers the likelihood of foreign climes, cultural unfamiliarity, and possible adventure, Schillemeit’s title, Der Verschollene, emphasizing the central character rather than his environment, also immediately forecasts the eventual disappearance of the protagonist, a victim of that new environment, and thus clearly suggests a much darker story. A Verschollener, in the legal sense of the German term, denotes a person who is missing, presumed dead, the adjective verschollen deriving from the past participle of the obsolete verb verschallen (to be no longer heard from). While readers of a text entitled Amerika tended in many cases (certainly including its English translators, the Muirs) to consider this novel Kafka’s sunniest and most optimistic text, readers of a text entitled Der Verschollene are thus considerably more likely to see the fatal parallels between Karl Rossmann and the other victims of Kafka’s narrative universe. Whether Schillemeit’s title, with its almost prescriptive guarantee of failure on Karl’s part, is a better threshold to Kafka’s novel than Brod’s title, with its more subtly ironic implication of that same failure, is in fact, and despite general critical approval of the new title, very questionable. The titles of Kafka’s other two novels, indeed, lend strong support to Brod’s choice: the Prozeß of the one and the Schloß of the other likewise refer not to the protagonist but rather to specific challenges to which the protagonist will be required to react. Amerika is no more about the United States than Das Schloß is about a castle.



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Once again, it is worth remembering that we should not underestimate the role of free association on the individual reader’s part in interpreting a particular title. Osman Durrani, for example, correctly notes that “the term verschollen denotes a person who has ‘gone missing’ and ‘is presumed dead,’” but then goes on to observe that the term also “has associations with Scholle (‘clod, soil’), which in turn suggests connections with the land-surveyor of The Castle” (2002: 215). Despite the superficial attractiveness of the proposed connections, any “associations” between the two words, entirely unrelated etymologically, are clearly nothing more than personal idiosyncrasy – but the role of personal idiosyncrasy is perhaps not entirely to be discounted as a factor in an individual reader’s response to a literary text, even if the particular reading is lacking in any persuasive power for any other reader. Willa and Edwin Muir’s English translation was to have its own quite different adventures. It appeared in London in 1938 as America (with a c) but in New York in 1940 as Amerika (with a k). The title of the English edition no doubt appeared merely to invite readers of the late 1930s – many of whom at that time would of course have never been to North America – to see the novel as being about the typical experiences, familiar from popular accounts, of a recent immigrant to the United States, his initial disorientation in all likelihood merely a prelude to eventual social integration and economic success. The title of the American edition, aimed at readers for whom life in North America was a daily reality, greeted those readers with a very pointed Verfremdungseffekt, promising an America at once familiar and disquietingly different. Such a promise was realized as early as the first paragraph, immediately invoking the Statue of Liberty as a familiar landmark but one that is simultaneously defamiliarized by being made to hold aloft not the torch of liberty but rather a sword that may or may not be an instrument of justice. Twenty-five years later, for many politically disaffected American readers of the radicalized late 1960s and early 1970s, Amerika was indeed a book about a place, namely an America seen not from the outside by a Karl Rossmann but from the disenchanted inside, an America whose perceived totalitarian tendencies made the overtly foreign spelling of the name with a k entirely appropriate, trenchantly invoking the perceived “Kafkaesque” nature of American society of the day, estranged from true American values. Readers who made such an interpretive leap were of course reacting less to the novel itself than to its title as

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read in the light of other Kafka texts such as The Trial and In the Penal Colony, not to mention the light of radical political convictions. The titular split personality of Amerika becomes even more apparent in its various translations. Before the appearance of Der Verschollene, English was unique in having two different titles, the Muirs’ America (1938) and Amerika (1940). Among renderings in other languages, we find only the relevant target-language country name.58 Following the appearance of Der Verschollene, however, several languages echo German in having two titles: thus Spanish América (Vogelmann 1943) and El desaparecido (Sáenz 1999, Hernández Arias 2001), Czech Amerika (Eisnerová 1962) and Nezveˇstný: Amerika (Cˇermák 1990), or Norwegian Amerika (Haavardsholm 1965) and Mannen som forsvant (Winje 1994). Italian has three, and French can boast of five.59 English, meanwhile, now has no fewer than six different titles, including the Muirs’ America and Amerika; The Man Who Disappeared (Amerika) (Hofmann 1996), later republished as Amerika (The Man Who Disappeared) in 2002; Amerika: The Missing Person (Harman 2008); and Lost in America (Northey 2010). Translators and their publishers, indeed, have struggled mightily since 1983 to accommodate the competing titles. Michael Hofmann’s English translation is emblematic. Hofmann himself publicly states his approval of the new German title, for “it is a book about a person, not a place” (1996: viii). The British edition of his translation nonetheless – undoubtedly at the behest of the publisher’s sales department – employs the combined title The Man Who Disappeared (Amerika). When an American edition of the same translation appeared in 2002, however, it

58 Thus Spanish América (Vogelmann 1943), Hebrew Amerika (Shenberg 1945), Italian America (Spaini 1945), French L’Amérique (Vialatte 1946), Swedish Amerika (Edfelt and Aurell 1947), Japanese Amerika (Harada et al. 1953), Dutch Amerika (Brunt 1954), Serbo-Croatian Amerika (Šijakovicˇ et al. 1959), Korean Amerika (Kim 1960), Czech Amerika (Eisnerová 1962), Danish Amerika (Elbek and Elbek 1964), Finnish Amerikka (Sinervo 1965), Norwegian Amerika (Haavardsholm 1965), Portuguese América (Guimarães 1965), Hungarian Amerika (Nagy 1967), Polish Ameryka (Kydryn´ski 1967), Turkish Amerika (Gelen 1967a), Hebrew Amerikah (Menhar 1968), Greek Ameriki (Anemogianni 1969), Slovenian Amerika (Gradišnik 1969), Arabic Amrı¯ka¯ (al-Dusuqi 1970), and Romanian America (Pop and Voiculescu 1970). 59 Italian has America (Spaini 1945), America (Il disperso) (Franchetti 1990), and America o Il disperso (Gandini 1996). French has L’Amérique (Vialatte 1946), L’Amérique (L’oublié) (Vialatte 1946/1976), Amerika ou Le disparu (Lortholary 1988b), Amerika (Lortholary 1988b/1998), and Le disparu (Amerika) (Mathieu 2000).



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did so, evidently on the advice of a different sales department catering to a different readership, under the title Amerika (The Man Who Disappeared). Alexandre Vialatte’s French translation appeared as L’Amérique in 1946 but appeared in Claude David’s edition of the complete works in 1976 (even before the appearance of Schillemeit’s edition) as L’Amérique (L’oublié); a second French version, on the other hand, by Bernard Lortholary, appeared in 1988 as Amerika ou Le disparu but, subtitle abandoned, was reissued in 1998 as Amerika. Among the various choices made, some versions simply continue to use the older title, ignoring the new.60 Some abandon the older title in favour of the new.61 Others prefer the newer title but (awkwardly) include the old in parentheses.62 Others, conversely, prefer the older title but (no less awkwardly) include the new in parentheses.63 Yet others demote the older title to subtitle status.64 And still others, conversely, treat the newer title as a subtitle.65 On a semantic level, we may also note some not insignificantly different shades of meaning in the translated titles following Schillemeit’s critical edition. Thus the Norwegian Mannen som forsvant (Winje 1994), the French Le disparu (Mathieu 2000), the Spanish El desaparecido (Hernández Arias 2001), the Portuguese O desaparecido (Justo 2004), and the Swedish Den försvunne (Ågren and Blomqvist 2005) all translate as “the man who disappeared”; the French L’oublié (Vialatte 1946/1976)

60 Thus Bulgarian Amerika (Ilieva 1985), Estonian Ameerika (Sang and Sirkel 1987), Catalan Amèrica (Fontcuberta 1988), French Amerika (Lortholary 1988b/1998), Greek Ameriki (Tomanás 1989), Russian Amerika (Belonoško 1991, Rudnickij 1995), Spanish América (Laurent 1994a), Dutch Amerika (van Toorn and Meijerink 1995a), and Croatian Amerika (Crnkovicˇ 2006). 61 Thus Norwegian Mannen som forsvant (Winje 1994), Japanese Sissosya (Ikeuti 2000), Spanish El desaparecido (Hernández Arias 2001), Croatian Izgubljenik (Vilen 2003), Hungarian Az elkallódott fiú (Györffy 2003), Portuguese O desaparecido (Justo 2004), Swedish Den försvunne (Ågren and Blomqvist 2005). 62 Thus English The Man Who Disappeared (Amerika) (Hofmann 1996), Lithuanian Pražuvélis (Amerika) (Cˇetrauskas 1997), French Le disparu (Amerika) (Mathieu 2000), Spanish El desaparecido (América) (Acosta Gómez 2000), Greek O agnoumenos (Ameriki) (Pateras 2004). 63 Thus French L’Amérique (L’oublié) (Vialatte 1946/1976), Italian America (Il disperso) (Franchetti 1990), Lithuanian Amerika (Pražuve˙ lis) (Gailius and Cˇetrauskas 2006). 64 Thus Nezveˇstný: Amerika (Cˇermák 1990). 65 Thus French Amerika ou Le disparu (Lortholary 1988b), English Amerika: The Missing Person (Harman 2008), Italian America o Il disperso (Gandini 1996), Albanian Amerika ose njeriu që u zhduk (Hasani 2006).

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translates literally as “the man who was forgotten”; the Italian Il disperso (Gandini 1996) and the Czech Nezveˇstný (Cˇermák 1990) translate rather as “the missing person”; and the Lithuanian Pražuvélis (Cˇetrauskas 1997) translates simply as “lost.” Each one of all these competing titular solutions has its own claim to justification, and each one will no doubt have its own champions. One of the more adroit solutions in any language, combining old and new, is Anthony Northey’s English version, Lost in America (2010). The semiotic slide characteristic of Kafka’s work in general is amply reflected, as will have become apparent, in the titles of those works, whether in the original or in their multiple translations. The German critical edition of Kafka’s works undertaken in the 1980s and 1990s, it will also be clear, has significantly amplified the degree of that slide, involving as it does a process of significant defamiliarization on the level of texts and titles alike. This process goes well beyond the titles of the five works chosen here as exemplary of Kafka’s work. A recent development particularly with regard to the titles of individual stories is that long-familiar titles have in many cases been, as it were, withdrawn from circulation altogether. Specifically, the critical edition abandons as inauthentic the long-familiar titles assigned to various pieces by Max Brod, replacing them in the interests of philological accuracy by incipits (the opening words of the story) rather than titles. The narrative known to generations of German readers as “Der Bau,” for example, is now identified by its opening five words as “Ich habe den Bau eingerichtet…” (I have completed the construction of my burrow …), though English-language readers continue to read the same text in translation under the familiar title “The Burrow.” That there are potential interpretive implications will be abundantly clear. A point of central interest for the present discussion is not that Max Brod more than occasionally made mistakes (as he verifiably did), whether by misreading Kafka’s handwriting or by misinterpreting his intentions. The point is rather that for several decades these “mistaken” titles were in fact the “real” titles, readers having no reason to question them and no alternative titles to weigh in the balance. That situation has radically changed since the 1980s. Other than the texts actually published during Kafka’s lifetime, and a handful of others assigned their titles by Kafka himself, texts known for generations by particular titles are now officially no longer so entitled for German readers. Philological accuracy has no doubt been attained, and that is certainly a laudable achievement, but in the process readers have had to revise



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significantly their reactions to many of Kafka’s texts, especially to the degree that those reactions are a function of those texts’ titles. This is not by any means to suggest, however, that radical estrangement and uncertainty are at all contrary to the pervasive spirit of Kafka’s narrative universe. Kafka’s texts, whether encountered in the original or in translation, are invariably characterized by their unrelenting challenge to the reader to make them make sense: it is clear that that challenge begins no later than their title.

8 Kafka’s Names

Kafka’s play with his characters’ names, and in particular, his play with variations on his own name and that of his sometime fiancée Felice Bauer, has long been recognized as a significant element of his fictional universe.66 What is still open for debate is how readers should most appropriately react to such names as constitutive elements of the literary text – including when that text is a translation. For there may of course also be onomastic effects generated specifically by translations, most obviously the degree to which characters’ names retain or shed or alter their particular textual resonances in the transition from Kafka’s original German to the respective target language. Traditional Kafka criticism has tended by and large to regard his characters’ names as repositories of deeper meaning deliberately and earnestly buried by Kafka for subsequent excavation by equally earnest readers. But it is also clear that Kafka, like many a writer before him, quite simply enjoyed playing with names, not to mention playing with readers. The present chapter will therefore examine just some of the more significant readerly implications of this onomastic play in the major narratives, with due attention to the distinction between what Kafka may quite possibly have intended or claimed he intended certain names to mean and the various interpretive effects they may subsequently have had (or arguably could have) on his readers. His own surname was clearly at the very heart of Kafka’s interest in names and their implications. The name Kafka originated, long before

66 See, for example, Tauber (1948: 153–4), Levi (1966), Politzer (1966: 234–43), Heller (1974: 123–4), Rajec (1977), Robertson (2004: 40).



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Franz Kafka’s day, as a Czech nickname – from the Czech kavka, meaning “jackdaw,” a name imitative of the jackdaw’s call and equivalent to an English caw-caw. The original range of meanings of the nickname might have included either a mocking reference to its first bearer’s raucous voice or perhaps thieving propensities or else merely a neutrally locational reference from his having lived near an inn or a house under a sign of the same name. Kafka is not a specifically Jewish name in origin, but it has been suggested that it was sometimes arbitrarily employed as an enforced Jewish name because of its similarity to the final syllable of the Hebrew name Yaakov (Jacob), supplemented by a (possibly punning) Slavic suffix -ka (Robertson 1985: 4; Hanks et al. 2002: 332). In Kafka’s writings, the avian reference is extended to include not only the homonymous jackdaw but also a variety of other black birds, whether of the same family or not, including ravens, crows, and grackles, all of them traditionally regarded in various contexts as birds of ill omen, thieves, and general nuisances. Since the letter k is pronounced kah in German (as it is also in Czech), the names of the protagonists in all three of Kafka’s novels – Karl, Josef K., and K. – echo, for a Germanspeaking reader, the raucous call of these ill-starred birds as well as evoking the name of Franz Kafka himself. This effect is of course weakened in English translation, though not in, say, French, Italian, Portuguese, or Spanish, in all of which the letter k is pronounced kah, as it is in German. Whereas translations in these languages thus all retain the caw of the black birds inscribed in the names of Kafka’s protagonists, English versions, with kay rather than kah, necessarily lose it, even though retaining the alliterative play on Kafka’s own name. While the name Kafka is not specifically Jewish, Kafka’s fellow Prague author Max Brod reports that it was also not a particularly uncommon surname among Jews coming from those Bohemian districts in which, during the late eighteenth century, the emperor Josef II had ordered a census of all Jewish inhabitants (Brod 1963: 3). Nor does the name seem to have had a necessarily traumatic effect on all of those who bore it, whether Jewish or not. The business envelopes of Kafka’s own father’s firm, for example, carried an embossed jackdaw in cheerfully punning reference to its proprietor’s name (Brod 1963: 3). Kafka’s own pronounced sensitivity to his surname may have been affected to some extent by the fact that his Hebrew given name was Amschel, for, despite the fact that the name Amschel is actually a variant of the Yiddish Antschel, which itself derives ultimately from the medieval Latin angelus (angel) (Hanks et al. 2002: 700, 704), the name is also likewise

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evocative (this time in German rather than Czech) of a black bird, namely the Amsel or blackbird. The fact that several of Kafka’s stories have animals for their protagonists likewise gestures with characteristic Kafkan obliquity towards this originary onomastic hybridity.67 It is worth noting in the present context that one major aspect of Kafka’s play with his own name is translingual, since the name Kafka does not necessarily have any immediate etymological resonances for either a German or an English reader – unless they happen to speak Czech, or at least have access to a Czech dictionary and the will to use it. For most Czech-speaking readers, on the other hand, one might reasonably assume that the play on kavka will be immediately apparent. Kafka’s obsessive textual play on his own name begins already in his very early story “Hochzeitsvorbereitungen auf dem Lande” (“Wedding Preparations in the Country,” written in 1907–8), in which the focal character Eduard Raban’s surname overtly plays on Rabe (raven), a close family relative of the jackdaw. He entered into the onomastic game much more enthusiastically, and in much greater detail, with Das Urteil (The Judgment), written in 1912, less than six weeks after he met Felice Bauer, the young Berlin woman soon to be (twice, and each time briefly) his fiancée. His ruminations on the onomastic implications of Das Urteil are well known. In his diary entry for 11 February 1913 he reflects in self-analytical detail on his own perhaps unconscious reasons for selecting the names of both the protagonist, Georg Bendemann, and Georg’s recently acquired fiancée, one Frieda Brandenfeld: Georg has the same number of letters as Franz. In Bendemann, the mann is there only to strengthen the syllable Bende (bonds [sic]) in case of any unforeseen possibilities in the story. But Bende has the same number of letters as Kafka, and the vowel e is repeated in the same positions as the vowel a in Kafka. Frieda has exactly the same number of letters as F. and begins with the same letter; Brandenfeld begins with the same letter as Bauer and, through feld, has a certain connection of meaning too. Possibly, too, the idea of Berlin was not without influence, and the Brandenburg province may have had something to do with it. (Brod 1963: 130) 67 The animals include the dog of “Forschungen eines Hundes” (“Investigations of a Dog”), the ape of “Ein Bericht für eine Akademie” (“A Report for an Academy”), the jackals of “Schakale und Araber” (“Jackals and Arabs”), the nameless burrowing creature of “Der Bau” (“The Burrow”), and the significantly named mouse diva of “Josefine, die Sängerin” (“Josephine the Songstress”).



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As so often with Kafka, one of the most intriguing aspects of his onomastic practice is his pronounced ability to have his cake and eat it, to proffer information and simultaneously undermine or retract it. On the one hand his protagonists’ names, here and elsewhere, seem to identify them with their creator; on the other hand they are carefully distanced. A Georg is not a Franz, but the name does have the same number of letters. A younger brother of Kafka’s who died in infancy was called Georg, but a brother is not oneself. A Bende-mann, as mentioned in an earlier chapter, might reasonably be construed as suggesting a Bändemann, a man of books, Bände meaning “volumes,” but, then again, it doesn’t have to be. Interestingly, the translators of the passage from Brod quoted above allow themselves to be lured by the “Kafkaesque” context into wrongly translating Bende as “bonds,” the German for which, however, is Bande, not the homophone Bände. Modern translation theory, as already observed, discourages the translation of proper names – which of course makes such acts of translation all the more interesting when they do occur. The translation (or non-translation) of proper names, indeed, always invokes in a particularly vivid fashion the tension between the foreign and the familiar that is at the heart of all translation. Georg Bendemann retains his family name in all translations I have been able to consult, but while his given name also remains unchanged in most translations, it is interculturally naturalized in several others, thus variously, as we have already seen, into an English George (Underwood 1981), a French Georges (Meylan 1944), an Italian Giorgio (Zampa 1957), or a Czech Jirˇí (V. Kafka 2001). One effect of this in the respective target languages is arguably to make the protagonist less “foreign” than he would be if his name were to remain a German Georg, consequently to lessen the perceived cultural distance between protagonist and reader, and in doing so to emphasize all the more strongly the irreducible strangeness of the events and experiences narrated and the degree to which what is assumed to be an everyday reality is grotesquely disrupted. As for Frieda Brandenfeld, Georg’s new fiancée, the name Frieda ostensibly promises “peace” (German Friede), but the element Brandenrather ominously contains both Brand (fire, conflagration) and Branden, the “surging” or “breaking” of waves, evoking the less than inviting spectre of marital trial by both fire and water. Intriguingly, in this most fascinating of Kafka’s shorter narratives, Georg’s newly acquired fiancée not only shares her initials with Kafka’s fiancée-to-be Felice Bauer but is also stamped by her name as something of a mirror image of

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Georg himself: Branden- contains all the letters of Bende-, and the agricultural connotations of -feld (field) also echo the derivation of Georg from the Greek geôrgos, meaning “farmer,” and thus a German Bauer, also meaning “farmer.” And as for Bauer, as the much-tried Felice of that name was to find out very soon, Kafka was all too well aware that in German the word also, however coincidentally, means “cage.” The complex onomastic play on Frieda Brandenfeld’s name is of course necessarily lost in translation. Gregor Samsa, the protagonist of Die Verwandlung (The Metamorphosis), has a particularly interesting name. To begin with, Gregor is clearly a variation on Georg, the letters of which (repeating one of them) it rearranges, and Sam-sa is equally clearly a play on Kaf-ka. Etymologically, the name Gregor is closely related to the Greek verb grêgoreô, which includes among its meanings both “to be awake” and “to be alive.” The name has an immediate and ironic relevance for The Metamorphosis, a story focusing initially on Gregor’s awakening and finally on Gregor’s death – a death, moreover, that provides his family with a new lease of life. In addition, for some readers, especially perhaps German readers, Gregor’s name may also evoke the emblematic figure of Gregorius, the “holy sinner” of medieval legend. In the best-known literary version of that particular story, the Swabian poet Hartmann von Aue’s latetwelfth-century poem Gregorius, the protagonist (the child of an incestuous union) unwittingly goes on to replicate the sin of incest by taking a wife subsequently revealed to be his own mother, spends many years in the wilderness on a desolate lake fettered to a rock in voluntary expiation, and by dint of such extreme repentance eventually wins divine forgiveness not only for his own sins but even for those of his unfortunate parents as well. While the precise nature of Gregor Samsa’s sin may be less immediately evident, there are certainly those who might choose to read his metamorphosis as penitential, and he himself, we are given to understand, sees his voluntary death as an indisputably necessary step towards the redemption of his own afflicted family – afflicted, that is to say, by the continued living presence of such a disastrously failed son. The name Samsa evokes for some readers of existential bent the Czech phrase sám jsem, pronounced /’sa:msəm/ (“I am alone”); for others, of a more quietistic bent, a Buddhist samsara or “passing through” the repeating cycles of incarnation to be endured before reaching nirvana through the extinction of personal desire; for yet others, abandoning



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philosophical concerns, merely the kind of indecipherable Sumsen or “buzzing” an ungeheures Ungeziefer or “monstrous vermin” might be expected to make.68 In a quite different vein it has also very plausibly been suggested that the name Samsa contains an anagrammatic reference (combining Sa- and Mas-) to the name of Kafka’s once celebrated fellow Austrian Leopold von Sacher-Masoch (1836–95): the picture on Gregor’s bedroom wall of a lady in furs, mentioned at a strikingly early point of the narrative, may certainly remind us that the protagonist of SacherMasoch’s once-scandalous novel Venus im Pelz (1870; Venus in Furs) onomastically marks his voluntary sexual enslavement by the fur-clad lady of the title by also voluntarily changing his social status from nobleman to servant and his name from Severin to Gregor (Kuna 1974: 37). We may also note that, in the textual economy of Die Verwandlung, Gregor’s parents owe their names to their son rather than, as one might expect, the other way around: they are simply Herr Samsa and Frau Samsa, onomastically defined by their relationship to Gregor. His sister is indeed assigned a given name, Grete, but it too can be read as derived in a sense from her brother’s, the strongly marked alliteration of Gregor and Grete immediately but quite indeterminately suggesting the importance of the relationship between the two. That relationship can be read as primarily one of sibling love (as suggested by Gregor’s reported intention to send his sister to the conservatory of music, for example), as one of rather more than brotherly love on Gregor’s part (as when he fantasizes about inviting her into his room, keeping her there permanently, and rearing up, monster that he is, to kiss her on the neck), or as one of potentially fatal sibling rivalry (with Gregor’s sad demise at the end of the narrative succeeded almost immediately by Grete’s youthful florescence). The overt similarity of their names, in other words, invites readers to decide whether that similarity should more appropriately be read as uniting or as separating the two siblings – or, of course, alternatively, as merely a decorative flourish that is essentially irrelevant. The onomastic relationship of the pair becomes quite intriguingly nuanced in a transtextual context. In Jorge Luis Borges’s Spanish translation, La metamorfosis (1938), the German Gregor becomes a hispanicized Gregorio, but his sister Grete’s name remains unchanged. João Crisóstomo Gasco’s Portuguese translation, A metamorfose (2003), on the other hand, leaves Gregor unchanged but alters the German Grete to

68 See Weinberg (1963: 238); Rajec (1977: 57).

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a Portuguese Greta. In both of these translations, despite these changes, the alliteration and assonance between the names of the siblings are both preserved – while the introduction in both cases of a new and specifically linguistic estrangement between their names is readable in a transtextual context as suggesting more strongly than in Kafka’s original text a relationship founded in fatal sibling rivalry rather than otherwise. At least three translators, meanwhile, agree in choosing a quite different strategy in naming the two siblings. In Rodolfo Paoli’s Italian version (La metamorfosi, 1934) the pair become a fully naturalized Italian Gregorio and Rita; in J.A. Underwood’s English translation (The Metamorphosis, 1981) they become an equally naturalized Gregory and Meg; and in Vladimír Kafka’s Czech version (Promeˇna, 2002) they are likeˇ ehorˇ and Markétka. Etymologically, wise linguistically domesticated as R the at first glance divergent choice of names for the sister is in fact both correct and consistent in all three cases, for English Meg is to Margaret as Italian Rita is to Margarita as Czech Markétka is to Markéta and as German Grete is to Margarete. The change of name clearly results in all three cases, however, in the loss of any suggestion of either alliteration or assonance joining the pair and thus also in the loss of what in Kafka’s German is an overtly teasing textual connection between the names of the siblings, however indeterminate that connection may be, and however readers may choose to evaluate its textual relevance. All three translators’ common onomastic strategy firmly domesticates Kafka’s story in the respective target-language reality, thus arguably emphasizing in all three cases the completely drastic disruption of everyday normality represented by its protagonist’s monstrous transformation; the loss of the onomastically suggested textual tension between brother and sister, however, results in a distinctly depleted target-language text. Several English versions, meanwhile, leaving the two names untranslated, preserve the marked relationship of alliteration and assonance linking the two siblings, while having Gregor transformed into a monstrous “insect” – thus allowing some readers, considering the possibility of a more than brotherly love on Gregor’s part, to consider also the linguistic coincidence that English insect may be read as an anagrammatic metamorphosis of incest. This interpretive option would of course be limited solely to readers of the relevant English translations, with neither Kafka’s German nor any other translation I am aware of in any language offering its readers such an opportunity.



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The central character of Kafka’s first (and eventually unfinished) novel, Amerika (written mostly in 1912), is 16-year-old Karl Rossmann (who is a year older in the critical edition of 1983, the retitled Der Verschollene). Here the initial K clearly begs to be read as playing on Kafka, and the -mann suffix may well remind us of Georg Bendemann, but overall the name will strike most readers as a relatively normal German name, like Hauptmann or Kaufmann, say. But since Ross means “horse,” is a Rossmann one who looks after horses (like a Rossarzt or “horse doctor,” as German military veterinarians were once called) or one who is like a horse, the centaur-like combination of horse and man gesturing towards the same sort of hybridity suggested by the name Kafka? And how relevant is the patently Freudian overtone, even if Karl is initially portrayed as the victim rather than the perpetrator of a sexual assault? We should probably also not forget the colloquial German phrase so ein Ross! (what an idiot!), where Ross idiomatically implies not “horse” but “donkey,” a not entirely inappropriate characterization of Karl Rossmann – not by any means yet fully a Mann – at the beginning of his adventures as a latter-day Candide. Not entirely coincidentally, perhaps, one of the colloquial terms in Czech for a gullible simpleton is also kavka (Bridgwater 2003: 214). Karl’s mother, meanwhile, is “eine geborene Bendelmeyer” (née Bendelmeyer), where Bende- is overtly reminiscent of Georg Bendemann, and the element Meyer (a noun that once denoted the foreman of a farm) echoes the rural connotations of Frieda Brandenfeld – and thus also of Felice Bauer. Once again, most of these onomastic implications tend to disappear in translation. In Kafka’s next (and likewise unfinished) novel, Der Prozeß (The Trial, written in 1914–15), the protagonist’s name, Josef K., very overtly invites reading in an autobiographical context, as a teasing variation on “Franz K.,” due in all likelihood to the almost irresistible onomastic connection provided by the iconic Franz Joseph I, Austrian emperor since 1848, whose name had been a household word throughout Kafka’s entire lifetime to this point. Etymologically, the name Joseph, German Josef, derives from the Hebrew yôse¯ p, one reading of whose literal meaning is “may God increase” (McKenzie 1965: 455), implying “may the bearer of this name be fortunate” – which, coincidentally or otherwise, is also the meaning of the Latin name Faustus or Faust. There is a double irony here, of course, for Josef K. is hardly “fortunate,” and it is certainly not true in his case that, as in Goethe’s Faust, “wer immer strebend sich bemüht, den können wir erlösen” (he who continues to strive is assured of salvation). Of the two Wächter or “wardens” who

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arrest K., one, punning again on Kafka’s own name, is called Franz, the other (humorously suggesting a change of imperial house from Austria to Prussia) Willem. K.’s arrest, meanwhile, is witnessed by an onomastically striking trio of bank clerks, K.’s subordinates at his place of work, who inexplicably and embarrassingly materialize for the event. Two of them are called Kullich and Kaminer, thus sharing an initial with K. The third is called Rabensteiner, his name both repeating the now familiar play on Rabe and also, more ominously, invoking the German noun Rabenstein (literally, raven stone), referring to medieval places of execution, where carrion would feed on the bodies of those executed. The most obvious discursive effect of the trio of names is thus clearly the implied sequence K-ka-kavka. The new note introduced by Rabensteiner’s name, however, foreshadowing Josef K.’s own execution just one year later, is ominously reinforced by the names of his two colleagues, as Ritchie Robertson has observed: Kullich is overtly reminiscent of Czech kulich or “screech-owl,” one more bird of ill omen, traditionally portending death, while Kaminer’s name gestures towards both the German Kamin (chimney) – thus, at a time when chimney sweeps were a common sight, sounding the theme of blackness once again – and the Czech kámen (stone), “so that, by a multilingual pun,” as Robertson puts it, “Kullich and Kaminer together convey the same message as Rabensteiner” (1985: 296n33). A Kafka and a Kullich are not related merely by avian reference, moreover, for while Czech kavka, as we have seen, figuratively refers to a gullible simpleton, Czech kulich figuratively refers to a cunning fellow, a wise old owl. Josef K. pendulates between those positions, gullibility and cunning, but neither position does him very much good in the end. The textual message, indeed, is already all too clear – even if K. is of course unable to decipher it. We, however, are unlikely to be surprised that K.’s uncle later turns out to be called Karl (reminiscent of Karl Rossmann), or that his fellow lodger Fräulein Bürstner’s initials should be the same as those of both Frieda Brandenfeld and Felice Bauer. It may or may not be a surprise to discover that while Fräulein Bürstner’s family name originally referred to the respectable and now extinct trade of brushmaker (Bürste “brush”), the verb bürsten developed a secondary meaning as a vulgar expression for the act of sexual intercourse. Fräulein Montag, a friend of Fräulein Bürstner’s who appears on the scene after Josef K.’s curiously half-hearted sexual assault on the latter, bears a name (“Miss Monday”) that may be read



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as ironically suggesting a return to workaday affairs after a recuperative weekend break. Among translations of Der Prozeß, Alexandre Vialatte’s French version (Le procès, 1933) refers to Fräulein Bürstner throughout as “Mlle. Bürstner,” thus abandoning the intertextual play on Felice Bauer’s initials. A peculiarity of one Portuguese translation, Maria José Fabião’s O processo (1999), is that the names of all the significant characters are left untranslated with the single exception of Josef K., who appears throughout (and without explanation) neither as a German Josef nor as a Portuguese José but as an anglicized (or conceivably gallicized) Joseph K. In a Portuguese translation of Das Schloß by Vinga Martins, however, we find K. giving his name as a Portuguese José during his initial phone call to the castle (Martins 1966/2000: 26). The fact that Portuguese employs the letter k only in foreign words, meanwhile, lends the protagonist a supplementary onomastic touch of strangeness throughout both novels – as of course does the name Kafka itself for a Portuguese reader. Kafka on occasion gives his readers fair (and ironic) warning as to the limits of onomastic interpretation. A brief piece written in 1917, “Die Sorgen eines Hausvaters” (“The Cares of a Family Man”), has as its protagonist a vaguely spool-shaped object with miscellaneous pieces of thread wound around it but which is nonetheless capable of standing on two legs and even running about, though to no immediately obvious purpose. It rejoices in what might initially seem to be the quite impenetrable name Odradek, which has been traced, however, by Kafka scholars to the Czech verb odraditi, meaning “to advise against” (Heller 1974: 31). Kafka’s humorous point here would seem to be that since the name is calculated to repel readerly attempts to explain it, readers would be far better advised to simply save their energy. His next novel, however, made very sure that his readers would pay no attention at all to that ironic piece of good advice. Das Schloß (The Castle, written 1921–2) is in some ways the most intriguing of Kafka’s narratives from an onomastic point of view, invitingly presenting readers with a remarkably hodgepodge collection of names from an extravagant range of cultural backgrounds and contexts, which, if we so choose, we may read as suggesting a gesture towards the racial and linguistic heterogeneity of the Austro-Hungarian empire, with its impenetrably convoluted systems of bureaucracy. One of the reader’s numerous challenges in reading Kafka’s highly enigmatic text is to decide which of these names should be construed as meaningful authorial signposts, which merely as diversions (if not

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traps) for the too-gullible reader, and which as being without any apparent interpretive interest at all other than the uncertainty as to their relevance.69 It has aptly been noted that the names of the protagonists of Kafka’s three novels are progressively reduced: from Karl Rossmann to Josef K. to, finally, just K. (Robertson 2004: 4). An obvious opening question then is whether the protagonist of Das Schloß, K., is the same character as Josef K. from Der Prozeß, redivivus – and the answer is essentially left up to the reader. K., pretending to be one of his own old assistants, does in fact call himself Josef during an early phone call to the castle, but even assuming that K. isn’t just inventing his name as well as (possibly) his occupation of land surveyor, sharing a name does not necessarily involve sharing an identity, though it may leave that possibility open. Another central question demanding an answer is the relationship of K. and the mysterious castle official Klamm, who may or may not be the person K. once glimpsed and believed to be him. Klamm’s name is certainly the most evocative one in the narrative, especially in the original German, variously suggesting not only the German adjectives klamm (numb with cold) and klammheimlich (top secret) and the German nouns Klamm (gorge, ravine) and Klemme (a tight spot) but also the English to clam up (refuse to speak), the Latin clam me est (it’s a mystery to me), and, perhaps most invitingly of all, the Czech klam (illusion), klamati (to deceive), and klamati se (to deceive oneself). Whether in the original or in translation, Klamm’s name, with five letters like Kafka’s and the same initial K, lends strong support to a reading that would see the castle, surrounded by its black swarms of crows, as essentially a projection of K.’s own search for an identity. And Klamm and K. are of course also linked, in K.’s mind at least, by the barmaid Frieda, one of Klamm’s serial mistresses, who demonstrates her likewise serial infidelity by abruptly leaving Klamm for K., as she will later and equally abruptly leave K. for one of his (ostensible) assistants. Teasingly, readers are free but by no means obliged to see this Frieda too, onomastically promising “peace” once again, as yet one more variation on Frieda Brandenfeld and Felice Bauer. The same readers might also notice that Frieda’s successor as barmaid in the Herrenhof inn is called Pepi, a pet name for Josefa or Josefine, feminine forms of Josef.

69 On names in Das Schloß, see also Heller (1974: 123–4).



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K.’s main contact with the castle, however, is not Frieda but one Barnabas, who claims (though misleadingly, as it turns out) to be an official castle messenger. Here the biblical name is invitingly appropriate to the character’s role – or, more accurately, to his role as understood (or misunderstood) by K. The name, of undetermined Aramaic origin, is explained in the Acts of the Apostles (4:36) as meaning “son of consolation” – though that interpretation is discounted by biblical scholars as merely a popular etymology. K. (and the reader) may or may not remember that, in the Bible, Barnabas’s original name was Joseph. K.’s two assistants (or ostensible assistants), meanwhile, also closely associated with the castle, are called Artur and Jeremias, the latter likewise invitingly recalling a biblical figure, in this case the Old Testament prophet whose protracted lamentations have given us the word jeremiad. While the name (German Jeremias, English Jeremiah) is of Hebrew origin, its meaning is uncertain. It has been suggested, however, that it may have originally meant “may God exalt” (Cottle 1978: 197), thus providing us with a striking similarity to the (possible) meaning of the name Josef, “may God increase.” One might well have expected Jeremias and Barnabas, evoking biblical lamentation and consolation respectively, to constitute a symmetrically matching pair – as of assistants, for example. Instead we have a pair called Jeremias and Artur, the latter, innocent of any biblical resonance, refusing to play this particular onomastic game. Readers so disposed, however, might conceivably detect in compensation a possible reference, ironic or otherwise, to the Arthurian legend of the quest for the Holy Grail. Others might be tempted to wonder instead if the combination of two vowels and three consonants (one of them doubled) in Artur should be read as one more cryptogram for Kafka. In other words, Kafka’s text trains us as readers to read it in ways that ironically reflect the (increasingly desperate) hermeneutic efforts of its protagonist to make sense of the world of the castle. The names of certain characters in Das Schloß seem to challenge us overtly to read them as metanarrative commentaries, ironic or otherwise, on K.’s quest. The young man Schwarzer, for example, has a name (German schwarz “black”) that might be read as invoking the blackness of a kavka, suggesting him thus as an implied reflection of K. – all the more so, perhaps, since Schwarzer is the first serious obstacle K. encounters in his mission to enter the castle. For a German-speaking reader familiar with the New Testament, the name Galater, to take another example, immediately evokes St. Paul’s biblical reproach to the

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“foolish Galatians” (German Galater) that they have been led astray by misreadings and have learned nothing from their experience.70 While there is nothing in particular to suggest the character Galater as being any sort of parallel to K., the character’s name thus temptingly invites interpretation as a textual commentary on K.’s failed interpretive endeavours. Only readers of the original German will be likely to notice the biblical connection – and then realize that their task is to decide how seriously this invitation should be taken. In a similar vein, one of K.’s apparently most promising interviews with a representative of the castle is with one Bürgel, whose name has been seen by some readers as underscoring the central importance of that interview, evoking as it does the verb bürgen (to guarantee, to vouch for). Other readers see the name as merely ironic, on the grounds that Bürgel is so low in the castle hierarchy that he is in no place to vouch for anything.71 And since his name also, of course, evokes the noun Burg and thus by association Schloß, both terms meaning “castle,” it also evokes the centrality of interpretive indeterminacy in what is certainly one of Kafka’s most flauntedly enigmatic texts. Many of these implications, once again, will certainly be lost in translation. Various other names, however, names that flaunt their own overt peculiarity, survive the transition to a foreign language without difficulty. One of these is the name of the castle official Momus, who identifies himself as Klamm’s secretary. In Greek mythology, Momos, son of Night (and whose name, from the noun mômos, means “ridicule”), was a sort of professional proofreader authorized by the gods to find fault wherever he could, the personification of the irritating knowit-all, forever criticizing and ridiculing the doings of the other gods – and eventually, having exhausted their patience with his overzealous performance of his mandate, banished from their presence. He is usually represented in the mythological tales as a figure of fun, and it is difficult to see the use of his name here as other than a self-reflexively destabilizing element of Kafka’s text – though readers may very well note, once again, that the name, referring to a son of nocturnal darkness, includes two vowels and three consonants (one of them doubled).

70 Galatians 3:1: “O foolish Galatians, who hath bewitched you, that ye should not obey the truth?” In Luther’s German: “O ihr unverständigen Galater, wer hat euch bezaubert, daß ihr der Wahrheit nicht gehorchet?” 71 See Vergne-Cain and Rudent (2000: 1403n1), Rolleston (2002: 337).



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They might even notice the similarity with two other names involving the same combination, belonging respectively to Gregor Samsa and Franz Kafka. We may not be too surprised to discover later that there are those among the villagers who are said to be convinced that Momus is not just Klamm’s secretary but actually Klamm himself, operating incognito. Then there is the relatively peripheral character Brunswick, whose name leaves the reader vainly wondering why it should be the English Brunswick rather than the German Braunschweig or Braunschweiger. Some readers might choose to read the pointedly foreign name here as indicative of the universal dimension of Kafka’s parabolic narrative; others might choose rather to read it as yet another of the discursively destabilizing elements of Kafka’s text. And many readers may wonder, given all the names she could have had, what they are to make of the fact that Brunswick’s wife is also called Frieda. Then there are the two castle officials Sordini and Sortini, the similarity of whose names inevitably leads to confusion, both for other characters (including notably K.) and certainly for the beleaguered reader, who must in addition decide whether the fact that both names are Italian should be seen as in some way significant. There is also the fact that Italian sordo means both “deaf” and “surd” (as in “absurd,” which is to say, “irrational”), potentially readable, at least from K.’s perspective, as a comment on an organization apparently both deaf to entreaty and absurd in its functioning. Italian sorte, on the other hand, means “destiny, chance, luck,” also inviting further speculation on its possible relevance. Finally, there is Graf Westwest, Count Westwest, the supposed owner of the castle, whose splendidly self-reflexive name emblematically points to both the continued necessity and the potential pitfalls of interpretation. As one puzzled reader, throwing up his hands, observes, “the Count’s name, like every other name in Kafka’s work, can be made to reveal meanings, though whether these meanings, ghosts of a ghost, are to the point, can never be told with absolute certainty” (Bridgwater 2003: 211). To which one might retort, of course, that the point is precisely to decide what the point is. Crucial to all of this, indeed, is the too often neglected role of ironic self-reflexivity in Kafka’s textual universe, a reflexivity that finds demonstrable expression in many aspects of his narrative work, including specifically, as argued here, in his use of names. Many of his fictional names look as if they should mean something highly significant – and,

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arguably, that is all they mean, contributing to the overall indeterminacy of his texts, gesturing towards biographical, cultural, and etymological possibilities of certitude, duplicitously promising closure, but triumphantly failing on all levels to allow the reader to follow through. Kafka’s readers’ attempts to discover determinate meaning in his textual use of names becomes a mise en abyme of Kafka’s characters’ hermeneutic difficulties: highly promising clues are provided in abundance, but in the end they regularly emerge as merely gesturing towards the possibility of meaning without for a moment permitting its determination. One interpretive temptation that can be difficult to resist in the everexpandable context of literary onomastics is to go too far in discovering latent textual meanings – where what exactly may constitute “too far” is of course the crux of the matter. In the end, different readers will react differently to all such temptations, their responses informed with varying degrees of persuasiveness for any other reader. In the larger picture, finally, the details of individual readers’ specific responses are less interesting than the fact that Kafka’s extraordinary writings so powerfully provoke such responses and such uncertainties in the first place. Readers of Kafka’s original German undoubtedly have greater access to the possible implications of many of his characters’ names, as we have seen; other names survive the transition from original to translation with their potential resonances largely or even wholly undistorted; and occasionally, as we have seen in the case of The Metamorphosis, individual translations or comparisons among groups of translations may reveal productive possibilities of onomastic play that are not at all to be found in the original text.

Conclusion

The thrust of the Kritische Ausgabe or critical edition of Kafka’s works that appeared in Germany between 1982 and 1994, replacing the earlier texts edited in decidedly subjective fashion by Kafka’s friend and literary colleague Max Brod, was the establishment of a single authentic and authoritative text. The present work, close to the other extreme of the textual spectrum, has focused instead on a plurality of texts that all have some claim to be genuine Kafka, with each translation of each individual Kafka text arguably being the very words of this Kafka as far as its individual readers are concerned – even in the case of translations eventually shown to be in varying degrees inadequate. The entirely justified scholarly enthusiasm greeting the critical edition led some critics to a corresponding rejection of Max Brod’s editions, including those of the three novels considered here. Flawed though they certainly are, however, Brod’s editions were read and studied for decades as constituting Kafka. They certainly still merit an honoured place in the history of Kafka studies. The same is true of the early translations by such pioneers as the Muirs in English and Vialatte in French, whose renditions may be far less accurate in details than those of their multiple successors over the years, but whose versions have likewise been read and studied for decades as constituting genuine Kafka – and which for many readers continue to do so despite demonstrably more professionally accurate later renderings. In the macrotextual context of this project, as we have seen, Kafka’s own words are always only one way of putting the matter. There are always other ways (and always readers who read those other ways as the only way), and we may conclude our transtextual endeavours by presenting for comparison, without further commentary, all nine of the

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currently existing English versions of the iconic words addressed by a priest, in the darkness of a dimly lit church, to an uncomprehending Josef K. in a late chapter of The Trial. It is especially striking in the context of this particular utterance, regarding the unchanging nature of (original) texts, that no two of the nine English versions, for all that several may be quite similar, are exactly the same. Umberto Eco’s (1994: 506) iconic suggestion that the literary text is above all else a machine for generating interpretive meanings, a statement that of course also includes those meanings generated by translations, resonates powerfully in this context. Kafka (1925 and 1990): Die Schrift ist unveränderlich und die Meinungen sind oft nur ein Ausdruck der Verzweiflung darüber.72 Muir and Muir (1935/1953: 240): The scriptures are unalterable and the comments often enough merely express the commentator’s bewilderment. Muir/Butler (1956/1968: 217): The scriptures are unalterable and the comments often enough merely express the commentators’ despair. Scott and Walker (1977/1988: 243): The scripture is unalterable, and the opinions are often merely an expression of despair on the part of the commentators. Parry (1994/2000: 169): The written word is unalterable, and opinions are often only an expression of despair. Mitchell (1998: 220): The text is immutable, and the opinions are often only an expression of despair over it. Lück (2005: 238): The written word is unalterable, and opinions are often just an expression of despair. Stokes (2005: 200): The written word is immutable, and opinions are often only an expression of despair. Wyllie (2007): The text cannot be altered, and the various opinions are often no more than an expression of despair over it. Mitchell (2009: 157): What is written is unchanging, and opinions are often just an expression of despair at that.

In conclusion, to recapitulate some of the key points made in the present project, it is entirely clear that not everybody reads their Kafka 72 The wording of the German sentence is identical in Max Brod’s original edition (Kafka/Brod 1925/1960: 158) and in Malcolm Pasley’s critical edition (Kafka/Pasley 1990/1994: 230).

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in German – or in English either. It is obvious, indeed, that many readers, given the huge number of translations of Kafka’s writings that exist in a wide variety of languages, read their Kafka in a language of which Kafka himself had not the faintest inkling – and of which other readers (and translators) of Kafka may also lack any understanding. And yet a Kafka text read in Spanish or Japanese, Chinese or Turkish, Hungarian or Korean, clearly has a claim to be a text by Kafka. Translations of, say, The Trial in each of these languages are in one sense very clearly the same text, in that they are all versions of Kafka’s Trial; in another sense, of course, and equally clearly, they are completely different texts, different possibly even in every single word. Transforming Kafka has been centrally an experiment in reading, exploring the implications of two rarely considered aspects of literary textuality generated by the comparison of an original literary text and its cumulative multilingual translations. These two aspects, to reiterate, involve macrotextual and transtextual issues respectively. The macrotextual model, as has been argued, envisages the totality of Kafka’s literary writings together with their cumulative translations as constituting a worldwide Kafka system whose multiple and multilingual constituent texts may in turn be envisaged as potentially constituting a single Kafkan macrotext. Given that the total Kafka system as thus defined involves many hundreds of translations in dozens of languages, it is abundantly clear that no individual reader, however multilingually competent, will live long enough to actually read that postulated macrotext. Given, moreover, that the system underlying the macrotext is continually expanding, as more and more translations of Kafka’s works appear in more and more languages, even a complete bibliographical charting of the system in its entirety would undoubtedly prove to be an undertaking verging on the impossible. It is possible, on the other hand, to suggest at least the overall contours of some significant components of the system by succinctly reviewing the chronological history and linguistic spread of translations of a relatively small number of key texts. This initial exercise was undertaken in chapter 1. With the subdivision of the Kafka system into component systems centred on individual key texts, each potentially generating its own putative macrotext, and with the number of languages to be considered also sharply reduced, it became feasible to undertake a limited exploration of these specific macrotexts. This exercise involved the second aspect of our experimental model, namely the concept of transtextual reading, which is to say a comparative reading across texts and across

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languages. This undertaking occupied chapters 2 through 6, focused on transtextual analysis of five key texts and their individual macrotextual families. The same undertaking was continued in a different key in chapters 7 and 8, focused specifically on the transtextual role of naming, whether involving the titles of texts or the names of the fictional characters who populate those texts. A final appendix following the main text will return to the exercise undertaken in chapter 1 to chart a reduced version of the overall Kafka system, offering instead a relatively detailed bibliographical account of the five individual systems generated by the key texts, each system potentially blossoming into its own macrotextual family. There exist, of course, good translations and bad translations – but the distinction, it is appropriate to reiterate, has been totally irrelevant for our purposes, as have the particular cultural or historical or geographical backgrounds of any given translation. Whether, for example, the Muirs’ translation of a particular text is entirely accurate or not is less important for the specific purposes of our transtextual exercise than is the fact that for generations of English-speaking readers the Muirs’ Kafka, right or wrong, was Kafka. A key feature of the macrotextual model is that while any individual translation may very well be said to reduce or distort or completely fail its original text, the cumulative translations of that original text may be transtextually read as extending rather than reducing or distorting it, since every rendering, good or bad and in no matter what language, will for some readers constitute the very words of Kafka himself and none other. The transtextual model clearly works best with an author who has been widely translated, as in the case of Kafka, allowing the investigation, in principle, to compare each individual translation not only with its original but also with each of its competing translations, whether in the same target language or another. The relationship in each case will be one of both sameness and difference: each target-language rendering attempts to replicate the same original text, and yet each will evidently be different from that original text and different from any other translation in existence, regardless of the target language. The difference between translations may be very great – as in the case of, say, a French, a Hungarian, and a Korean rendering of the same original text, where, in theory, none of them may share a single word with either the original text or with any of the others. Alternatively, in the case of several different English renderings of the same original text, as in the last example given, interest now focuses on the implications of what may be quite

Conclusion 177

limited and quite subtle differences but are differences nonetheless, capable in the transtextual context of carrying a disproportionate weight of interpretive potential. It might well be asked if any of this theorizing is of any practical value for our reading of Kafka. While it will be clear that the project was not conceived as a tool of practical criticism, one obvious answer to this hypothetical question is that finding, for example, a key passage from Kafka translated in nine English versions no two of which are in agreement emphasizes for a reader willing to take the trouble of comparing them the extraordinary subtlety of Kafka’s original German and may suggest previously unexpected interpretive possibilities of the original text. No claim is being made, I need hardly add, that Kafka (or any other translated author) must be read or should be read in this fashion. Choosing to do so, however, can turn out to be surprisingly enlightening – especially in the case of a writer like Franz Kafka, whose works are universally characterized, whether in the original or in translation, by the pervasively destabilizing nature of the interpretive challenge they present to their readers.

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Appendix: Macrotextual Contours

The following listing suggests, as concisely as possible, the potential overall macrotextual contours of the multilingual family of translated texts surrounding the original of each of the five Kafka texts considered. In each case, relevant translations are noted in three separate linguistic categories: western European languages, eastern European languages, and non-European languages. Full bibliographical information is given in the bibliography, arranged in an alphabetical list in translator-date format. Versions variously reported for which I have not been able to establish bibliographical details are separately noted. The Judgment

The 27 different renderings of the opening paragraph of Das Urteil that were examined represent considerably fewer than half of the translations of that text that exist worldwide. To begin with, there are at least 51 separate translations in at least 10 different western European languages, listed here in alphabetical order: Danish has 2 (Lundbo 1964, Jevan 1987), Dutch has 3 (Brunt 1955, Oomes 1984, Wolf 2002), English has 12 (Jolas 1928, Beuscher 1945, Muir and Muir 1948, Pasley 1977, Underwood 1981, Wensinger 1989, Appelbaum 1993, Neugroschel 1993, Freed 1996, Stokes 2002, Hofmann 2006, Crick 2009), French has 9 (Klossowski and Leyris 1930, Vialatte 1938c, Meylan 1944, Robert 1954a, Vergne-Cain and Rudent 1988b, David 1989, Lortholary 1991, Outin 1993, Billmann and Cellard 1997), Galician has 2 (García Alvarez 1991, Fernández 2004), Italian has 11 (Rho 1935, Furst 1953, Zampa 1957, Castellani 1966, Paoli 1970, Coppé 1974, Fortini 1980, Farinella 1991, Lavagetto 1991, Scrignòli 1991, Fertonani

180 Appendix

and Fortini 1997), Norwegian has 2 (Brøgger 1965, Winje 1995), Portuguese has at least 1 (Carone 1986), Spanish has 9 (Anon. 1931, Wilcock 1952, Kruger 1975b, Guillén 1978, Camargo 1985, Izquierdo 1985, Uriarte 1986, Zanutigh Núñez 2006a, Rasmozzi 2000), and Swedish has 1 (Brunius and Chambert 1949). There are also at least 13 translations in no less than 8 eastern European languages: Bulgarian has 1 (Konstantinov 1981), Czech has 3 (Jesenská 1923, Kundera 1947, V. Kafka 1964b), Hungarian has 1 (Boldizsár 1957), Polish has 1 (Kydryn´ski 1957), Romanian has 1 (Isbaˇs¸escu 1969), Russian has 3 (Tatarinova 1981, Zatonskij 1994, Rudnickij 2007a), Serbo-Croatian has 2 (Gorjan and Mateticˇ 1968, Živkovicˇ 1978), and Ukrainian has 1 (Popovycˇ and Tarašcˇ uk 2003). In addition, at least 11 translations exist in 4 non-European languages: Chinese has 2 (Zhang 1960, Dong 1981), Japanese has 5 (Takayasu 1953, Anon. 1964, Tatsukawa et al. 1966, Kawasaki and Urayama 1973, Kawamura and Maruko 1980), Korean has 3 (Kang 1955, Kim 1957, Han 1982), and Turkish has 1 (S¸ipal 1974). In total, there thus exist at a minimum 75 different translations of Das Urteil in at least 22 languages overall. The languages with the earliest translations were English (Jolas 1928), French (Klossowski and Leyris 1930), Spanish (Anon. 1931), and Italian (Rho 1935). The languages with the greatest numbers of translations are English with 12, Italian with 11, and French and Spanish each with 9. The Metamorphosis

Die Verwandlung is by far the most widely translated of Kafka’s texts. The 30 different renditions considered in the present study constitute something less than one fifth of the versions that exist worldwide. Other than the following versions of Die Verwandlung, renderings are also reported in Arabic, Estonian, Slovenian, and Ukrainian for which I have not been able to establish bibliographical details. Ignoring that group, I have identified 115 separate translations of Die Verwandlung in 17 western European languages: Aragonese has 1 (Ballestín 1993), Asturian has 1 (Fernández 2000), Basque has 1 (Iraola 2000), Catalan has 5 (Llovet 1978, Murgades 1982, van Lawick and Sòria 1989, Gala 2001, Fontcuberta 2008), Danish has 2 (Steinthal 1993, Poulsen 2008), Dutch has 6 (Brunt 1944, Oomes 1984, van Altena 1988, Graftdijk 1992, Meijerink 2001, Wolf 2002), English has 16 (Lloyd 1937, Jolas 1938,



Macrotextual Contours 181

Muir and Muir 1948, Corngold 1972, Underwood 1981, Hibberd 1985, Wensinger 1989, Pasley 1992, Appelbaum 1993, Neugroschel 1993, Freed 1996, Stokes 2002, Wyllie 2005, Hofmann 2006, Reppin 2006, Crick 2009), Faroese has 1 (Anon. 1997), French has 8 (Vialatte 1928, Briu 1988, Lortholary 1988a, Vergne-Cain and Rudent 1988a, David 1989, Ziegler 1993, Billmann and Cellard 1997, Torrent 2002), Friulian has 1 (Nazzi and Ongˇhar 1996), Galician has 1 (García Alvarez 1991), Icelandic has 1 (Pétursson 1960), Italian has 15 (Paoli 1934, Rho 1935, Furst 1953, Castellani 1966, Coppé 1974, Zampa 1973, Fortini 1980, Schiavoni 1985, Codacci-Pisanelli 1989, Lavagetto 1991, Motta 1994, Nervi 1996, Fertonani and Fortini 1997, Ruggera 2002, Kolbe 2004), Norwegian has 2 (Brøgger 1965, Winje 1997), Portuguese has 11 (Silveira 1956, Guimarães 1969, Rebêlo 1971a, Teixeira Aguilar 1975, Carone 1985, Paschoal 1991, Fragoso 1996, Albuquerque 2000, Junqueira 2000, Gasco 2003, Abeling 2007), Spanish has no fewer than 42 (Anon. 1925, Borges 1938, Sáez 1945, de la Sota 1958, Cóndor Orduña 1968, Bruggendieck 1972, Mendilaharzu de Machaín 1974, Bartis 1975, Galmés 1975, Izquierdo 1975, Kruger 1975b, Pagni 1977, Aguirre and Aguirre 1978, Alarcón 1980, Fernández Galiano 1980, Flores Esquivel 1980b, López 1983, Rottner 1983, Durán 1984, Gutiérrez 1984, Rodriguez Arias 1984, Camargo 1985, Martínez and Letemendia 1985, Moreno 1985, Uriarte 1986, Fortea 1987, Boruda 1988, Cortés 1990, Laurent 1994b, M.L.V. 1996, Dieterich 1998, Cugajo 1999, del Solar 1999, Sola 1999, Berg 2000, Franky 2000, González García 2000, Frondden 2003, Baldocchi 2004, Ribas 2004, Lorenzo 2005, San León Jiménez 2008), and Swedish has 2 (Andersson and Vennberg 1945, Ågren and Blomqvist 2004). In addition, there are at least 22 separate translations in a total of at least 11 different eastern European languages: Bulgarian has 1 (Konstantinov 1982), Czech has 3 (Vrána and Pastor 1929, Sekal 1963, V. Kafka 1964b), Finnish has 1 (Peromies 2007), Greek has 3 (Anemogianni 1962, Prokopios 1974, Tomanás 1989), Hungarian ˇ etrauskas has 2 (Antal et al. 1973, Györffy 1990), Lithuanian has 1 (C 1988), Macedonian has 1 (Anastasovska and Kostoska 2008), Polish has 1 (Kydryn´ski 1980), Romanian has 1 (Isbaˇs¸escu 1964), Russian has 1 (Zatonskij 1994), and Serbo-Croatian has 7 (Adum 1954, Živojinovicˇ 1964, Gorjan and Mateticˇ 1968, Živkovicˇ 1978, Crnkovicˇ 1994, Slamnig 1997, Kneževicˇ 2003). There are also at least 34 separate translations in a total of 10 different non-European languages: Chinese has 2 (Li 1979, Wang and

182 Appendix

Wang 2007), Japanese has 14 (Nakai 1952, Takahashi 1952, Oyama 1953, Takayasu 1953, Yamashita 1958, Harada 1962, Iiyoshi and Takagi 1966, Takamoto 1966, Ichirô 1971, Kawasaki and Urayama 1973, Shiroyama 1974, Tachikawa 1977, Kawamura and Maruko 1980, Ikeuti 2006), Korean has 8 (Chong 1957, Lee 1973, Bak 1977, Kim 1978, Hong 1990, Choe 1991a, Kwak 1991, Jeon 1998), Turkish has 4 (Günyol 1955, Gelen 1967b, Cemal 1986, S¸ipal 1987), and single translations exist in each of Hebrew (Keshet 1975), Kanarese (Hegde 1978), Malayalam (Shanmukhadas 1961), Marathi (Gokhle 1980), Persian (Heda¯yat and Qa¯’emiya¯n 1959), and Tamil (Shivakumar 1998). There therefore exist altogether some 171 translations of Die Verwandlung for which I have adequate bibliographical information, in at least 38 different languages worldwide. Adding the reported renderings in Arabic, Estonian, Slovenian, and Ukrainian brings the total number of versions to at least 175 in 42 different languages. Those languages with the earliest translations were Spanish (Anon. 1925), French (Vialatte 1928), Czech (Vrána and Pastor 1929), Italian (Paoli 1934), English (Lloyd 1937, Jolas 1938), Spanish again (Borges 1938), Dutch (Brunt 1944), Spanish for a third time (Sáez 1945), and English for a third time (Muir and Muir 1948, long to be the standard English version). Those languages with the greatest numbers of translations of Die Verwandlung include English with 16, Italian with 15, Japanese with 14, Portuguese with 11, French and Korean each with 8, and Serbo-Croatian with 7 – but all of these pale in comparison with Spanish and its astonishing 42 different versions of Kafka’s story. The Iberian peninsula, indeed, displays a truly remarkable fascination for Die Verwandlung, its 42 versions in Spanish, 11 in Portuguese, and 5 in Catalan, as well as single translations in Aragonese, Asturian, Basque, and Galician, amounting altogether to no fewer than 62 separate renderings – which is well more than half of all western European versions of Kafka’s narrative and well more than one third of all versions worldwide. America

For the particular purpose of suggesting the overall contours of the extended textual family surrounding Amerika and its revision as Der Verschollene, no distinction is made in the following listing between translations of the former and translations of the latter, and renditions



Macrotextual Contours 183

specifically of Der Heizer are not included. The 22 different renditions that were considered in this study constitute less than one third of the versions that exist worldwide. There are some 36 translations of Amerika (in either one of its editorial manifestations) in at least 10 western European languages: Catalan has 1 (Fontcuberta 1988), Danish has 1 (Elbek and Elbek 1964), Dutch has 3 (Brunt 1954, van Toorn and Meijerink 1995a, Wolf 2002), English has 4 (Muir and Muir 1938, Hofmann 1996, Harman 2008, Northey 2010), French has 3 (Vialatte 1946, Lortholary 1988b, Mathieu 2000), Italian has 5 (Spaini 1945, Agabio 1989, Franchetti 1990, Ulivieri 1991, Gandini 1996), Norwegian has 2 (Haavardsholm 1965, Winje 1994), Portuguese has 4 (Guimarães 1965, Rosa 1968, Fonseca 1977, Justo 2004), Spanish has 11 (Vogelmann 1943, Gonzáles Castresana 1974, Fabiani 1976, Zanutigh Núñez 1977a, Saunner 1983, Chopitea 1984, Heller 1987, Laurent 1994a, Sáenz 1999, Acosta Gómez 2000, Hernández Arias 2001), and Swedish has 2 (Edfelt and Aurell 1947, Ågren and Blomqvist 2005). In addition, there are at least 22 translations in at least 13 eastern Euˇ ermák 1990), Greek ropean languages: Czech has 2 (Eisnerová 1962, C has 3 (Anemogianni 1969, Tomanás 1989, Pateras 2004), Hungarian ˇ etrauskas 1997, has 2 (Nagy 1967, Györffy 2003), Lithuanian has 2 (C ˇ etrauskas 2006), Russian has 2 (Belonoško 1991, RudGailius and C nickij 1995), Serbo-Croatian has 4 (Šijakovicˇ et al. 1959, Nikolajevicˇ and Nikolajevicˇ 1978, Vilen 2003, Crnkovicˇ 2006), and single translations exist in each of Albanian (Hasani 2006), Bulgarian (Ilieva 1985), Estonian (Sang and Sirkel 1987), Finnish (Sinervo 1965), Polish (Kydryn´ski 1967), Romanian (Pop and Voiculescu 1970), and Slovenian (Gradišnik 1969). There are also at least 13 translations in at least five non-European languages: Arabic has 1 (al-Dusuqi 1970), Hebrew has 2 (Shenberg 1945, Menhar 1968), Japanese has 6 (Nakai and Okamura 1953, Harada et al. 1953, Tani and Takayasu 1967, Chino 1981, Sakauchi 1990, Ikeuti 2000), Korean has 3 (Kim 1960, Kwak 1980a, Hong 1990), and Turkish has 2 (Gelen 1967a, S¸ipal 1983). There therefore exist altogether at least 72 translations of Amerika (in one edition or the other) in 28 or more languages worldwide. Those languages with the earliest translations were English (Muir and Muir 1938), Spanish (Vogelmann 1943), Hebrew (Shenberg 1945), Italian (Spaini 1945), French (Vialatte 1946), and Dutch (Brunt 1954). Those languages with the greatest numbers of versions include Spanish with

184 Appendix

11, Japanese with 6, Italian with 5, and English and Portuguese with 4 each. The Trial

The 23 different renditions considered in this book constitute something less than one sixth of the versions of Der Prozeß/Der Proceß that exist worldwide. In addition to the following versions, translations are reported in Latvian, Arabic, Armenian, Bengali, and Malayalam for which I have not been able to establish bibliographical details. Ignoring for the moment that latter group, we find at least 65 separate translations of Der Prozeß – whether in Max Brod’s original edition of 1925 or in Malcolm Pasley’s critical edition of 1990 as Der Proceß73 – in a total of at least 13 different western European languages: Basque has 1 (Garikano 1993); Catalan has 1 (Ferrater 1966); Danish has 3 (Branner 1945, Øhrgaard 1981, Jevan 1987); Dutch has 4 (van Nahuys 1948, Wolf 1982, Graftdijk 1989, van Toorn and Meijerink 1995b); English has 9 (Muir and Muir 1935, Muir/Butler 1956, Scott and Walker 1977, Parry 1994, Mitchell 1998, Lück 2005, Stokes 2005, Wyllie 2007, Mitchell 2009); French has 4 (Vialatte 1933, Lortholary 1983a, Goldschmidt 1983, Nesme 2000a); Galician has 1 (Fernández Rodríguez 2003); Icelandic has 1 (Eysteinsson and Thorvaldsson 1983); Italian has 10 (Spaini 1933, Pocar 1969, Zampa 1978, Levi 1983, Morena 1984b, Franchetti 1986, Codacci-Pisanelli 1991, Masci 1995, Raja 1995, Moro 1999); Norwegian has 2 (Gjesdahl 1933, Winje 1992); Portuguese has 7 (Guimarães 1964a, Álvaro 1969, Rebêlo 1971b, Ferreira and Cajado 1977, Carone 1988, Fabião 1999, Costa and de Brito 2003); Spanish has 19 (Mendivil 1939, Bixio 1960, Formosa 1975, Kruger 1975a, Pagni 1978, Aguirre and Aguirre 1979, Flores Esquivel 1980a, Sonsoles 1981, Alarcón 1984, Rodriguez Arias 1984, Chopitea 1989, Hernández 1989, Leyva 1998, Laurent 1999, Sáenz 1999, Hernández Arias 2001, Aries 2001, del Rey 2003, González García 2007); and Swedish has 3 (Vennberg 1945, Martinell 1987, Ågren and Blomqvist 2001). I have also found 36 separate translations in a total of 17 different eastern European languages: Albanian has 2 (Kelmendi 1972, Vlashi

73 Translations after 1990 are sometimes from Brod’s original 1925 edition, sometimes from Pasley’s critical edition of that year.



Macrotextual Contours 185

1997), Czech has 2 (Eisner 1958, Cˇermák 1997), Estonian has 2 (Lang 1966, Sang and Sirkel 1987), Finnish has 2 (Simojoki 1946, Peromies 1975), Greek has 5 (Kotzias 1961, Bambalis 1969, Anemogianni 1984, Kavaki 2000, Valourdos 2006), Hungarian has 2 (Szabó 1966, Györffy 2002), Polish has 2 (Schulz 1936, Ekier 2008), Romanian has 2 (Naum 1965, S¸ora 1990), Serbo-Croatian has 8 (Pecˇ nik 1953, Herman 1962, Crnkovicˇ 1974, Mehmedbašicˇ 1977, Brkicˇ 1989, Kneževicˇ 2003, Živojinovicˇ 2006, Acˇ in 2008), Slovenian has 2 (Udovicˇ 1962, Virk 1998), and single translations exist in each of Bulgarian (Stoevski 1980), Lithuanian (Gailius 1981), Macedonian (Dimitrovski 1962), Russian (Rajt-Kovaleva 1965), Slovak (Rampák 1964), Ukrainian (Popovycˇ and Tarašcˇ uk 2003), and Yiddish (Anon. 1966). There are at least another 29 separate translations in 5 nonEuropean languages: Chinese has 5 (Huang 1969, Li 1969, Qian and Yuan 1982, Wang 1997, Zhao and Zhao 2006), Hebrew has 2 (Keshet 1951, Karmel 1992), Japanese has 10 (Motono 1940, Tsuji 1950, Harada et al. 1953, Iiyoshi and Takagi 1966, Takamoto 1966, Tatsukawa et al. 1966, Tachikawa 1979, Nakano 1981, Sakauchi 1981, Ikeuti 2001a), Korean has 10 (Kim 1957, Park 1958, Yom 1968, Bak 1976b, Kwak 1980b, Kim 1981, Han 1982, Shin 1990, Choe 1991b, Lee 1997), and Turkish has 2 (S¸ipal 1964, Gelen 1968). There therefore exist altogether at least 130 separate translations of Der Prozeß/Der Proceß, in a total of at least 35 different languages. Adding to this figure the five versions reported in Latvian, Arabic, Armenian, Bengali, and Malayalam brings the total number of translations to no less than 135, in at least 40 different languages. Those languages with the earliest translations were French (Vialatte 1933), Italian (Spaini 1933), Norwegian (Gjesdahl 1933), English (Muir and Muir 1935), Polish (Schulz 1936), Spanish (Mendivil 1939), and Japanese (Motono 1940). Those languages with the greatest numbers of translations include Spanish with 19; Italian, Japanese, and Korean with 10 each; English with 9; and Portuguese with 7. The Castle

The 14 different renderings that were considered here constitute less than one sixth of the worldwide versions of Das Schloß that I have been able to identify. Further translations almost certainly exist. That the contours of the textual family surrounding The Castle should be somewhat blurred has of course a distinctly Kafkan appropriateness to it.

186 Appendix

Within these limitations, there are at least 42 translations of Das Schloß – whether in Max Brod’s original edition of 1926 or in Malcolm Pasley’s critical edition of 198174 – in at least 10 western European languages: Catalan has 1 (Solá 1971), Danish has 2 (Branner 1949, Sørensen 2001), Dutch has 3 (Sötemann 1950, van Toorn and Meijerink 1997, Wolf 2002), English has 6 (Muir and Muir 1930, Muir/Wilkins 1953, Underwood 1997, Harman 1998, Calame and Rogoff 2006, Bell 2009), French has 4 (Vialatte 1938a, Goldschmidt 1984, Lortholary 1984, Nesme 2000b), Italian has 8 (Rho 1948, Morena 1984a, Porzi 1990, Gandini 1994, Boni 1995, Capriolo 2002, Franchetti 2005, Colombo 2008), Norwegian has 1 (Engelstad 1950), Portuguese has 5 (Guimarães 1964b, Martins 1966, Rodrigues de Carvalho 1978, Skroski 1985, Carone 2001), Spanish has 10 (Vogelmann 1949, Moyano Moradillo 1976, Zanutigh Núñez 1977b, Aguirre and Aguirre 1982, Uriarte 1986, Chopitea 1990, Acosta Gómez 1998, Sáenz 1999, Hernández Arias 2001, Groh and Laurent 2003), and Swedish has 2 (Aurell 1946, Levander 1990). There are at least 25 separate translations in a total of 16 eastern European languages: Bulgarian has 2 (Ilieva 1982, Ivanova 1993), Czech has 2 (Eisner 1935, V. Kafka 1964a), Greek has 6 (Kotzias 1964, Anemogianni 1972, Prokopios 1983, Tomanás 1989, Despou 2000, Pateras 2005), Macedonian has 2 (Anon. 1975, Zdravkovski 2006), and Russian has 2 (Rajt-Kovaleva et al. 1989, Rudnickij 2007b), while single translations exist in each of Albanian (Shita 1980), Estonian (Sang and Sirkel 1987), Finnish (Peromies 1964), Hungarian (Rónay 1964), Latvian (Kalnin‚a 2001), Lithuanian (Gailius 1994), Polish (Truchanowski and Radziwill 1958), Romanian (S¸ora 1968), Serbo-Croatian (Milojevicˇ 1961), Slovak (Bžochová 1965), and Slovenian (Udovicˇ 1967). There are another 25 translations in at least 8 non-European languages: Chinese has 5 (Ren 1970, Huang 1979, Tang 1980, Ma 1997, Gao 1998), Hebrew has 2 (Shapir 1955, Zandbank 1967), Japanese has 8 (Harada 1950, Okamura 1953, Tsuji et al. 1953, Maeda 1971, Tani 1974, Tachikawa 1977, Sakauchi 1985, Ikeuti 2001b), Korean has 6 (Kim 1960, Yom 1968, Kang 1972, Bak 1976a, Kim 1993, Shin 1993), while single translations exist in each of Arabic (Ma¯hir 1971), Persian (Sadrujye 1961), Sinhalese (Nandisena 1994), and Turkish (S¸ipal 1966).

74 Translations after 1981 are sometimes from Brod’s 1926 edition, sometimes from Pasley’s critical edition of that year.



Macrotextual Contours 187

There therefore exist altogether at least 92 separate translations of Das Schloß in a total of at least 34 different languages. Those languages with the earliest translations were English (Muir and Muir 1930), Czech (Eisner 1935), French (Vialatte 1938a), Swedish (Aurell 1946), Italian (Rho 1948), Danish (Branner 1949), Spanish (Vogelmann 1949), and Japanese (Harada 1950). Those languages with the greatest numbers of translations include Spanish with 10; Italian and Japanese with 8 each; English, Greek, and Korean with 6 each; Portuguese and Chinese with 5 each; and French with 4.

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Bibliography

Translations of the five selected Kafka texts (and of a relevant sixth text, Der Heizer) are identified by the following abbreviations, based on the original German titles:

A H P S U V

Amerika, Der Verschollene (America, Amerika, The Man Who Disappeared) Der Heizer (The Stoker) Der Prozeß, Der Proceß, Der Process (The Trial) Das Schloß (The Castle) Das Urteil (The Judgment, The Judgement, The Sentence) Die Verwandlung (The Metamorphosis, The Transformation)

In entries of the type “Lloyd, A.L., trans. 1937. The Metamorphosis. London: Parton Press. London: Faber and Faber, 2008,” 1937 is the date of first publication, 2008 that of the particular edition cited. Since the chronology of successive editions and translations is important for the purposes of this study, parenthetical references in the text retain both dates, thus, for example, “(Lloyd 1937/2008: 11–12),” where the cited pagination is that of the 2008 edition.

Kafka in German Kafka, Franz. 1912. Betrachtung. Leipzig: Ernst Rowohlt Verlag. –. 1913. Der Heizer. Leipzig: Kurt Wolff Verlag. –. 1915. Die Verwandlung. Leipzig: Kurt Wolff Verlag. Rpt. in Kafka 1994, vol. 1, 91–158. –. 1916. Das Urteil. Leipzig: Kurt Wolff Verlag. Rpt. in Kafka 1994, vol. 1, 37–52. –. 1919a. In der Strafkolonie. Leipzig: Kurt Wolff Verlag. –. 1919b. Ein Landarzt. Munich and Leipzig: Kurt Wolff Verlag. –. 1924. Ein Hungerkünstler. Berlin: Verlag Die Schmiede.

190 Bibliography –. 1925. Der Prozeß. Ed. Max Brod. Berlin: Verlag Die Schmiede. Frankfurt am Main: Fischer, 1960. Cited as Kafka/Brod 1925. –. 1926. Das Schloß. Ed. Max Brod. Munich: Kurt Wolff Verlag. Frankfurt am Main: Fischer, 1968. Cited as Kafka/Brod 1926. –. 1927. Amerika. Ed. Max Brod. Munich: Kurt Wolff Verlag. Frankfurt am Main: Fischer, 1956. Cited as Kafka/Brod 1927. –. 1931. Beim Bau der chinesischen Mauer: Ungedruckte Erzählungen und Prosa aus dem Nachlaß. Ed. Max Brod and Hans Joachim Schoeps. Berlin: Gustav Kiepenheuer Verlag. –. 1936. Beschreibung eines Kampfes: Novellen, Skizzen, Aphorismen aus dem Nachlaß. Ed. Max Brod, with Heinz Politzer. Prague: Heinrich Mercy Sohn. –. 1937. Tagebücher und Briefe. Ed. Max Brod. Prague: Heinrich Mercy Sohn. –. 1951. Tagebücher 1910–1923. Ed. Max Brod. New York: Schocken; Frankfurt: Fischer. –. 1952. Briefe an Milena. Ed. Willy Haas. New York: Schocken; Frankfurt: Fischer. –. 1953. Hochzeitsvorbereitungen auf dem Lande und andere Prosa aus dem Nachlaß. Ed. Max Brod. Frankfurt am Main: Fischer. –. 1958. Briefe 1902–1924. Ed. Max Brod. Frankfurt am Main: Fischer. –. 1967. Briefe an Felice und andere Korrespondenz aus der Verlobungszeit. Ed. Erich Heller and Jürgen Born. Frankfurt am Main: Fischer. –. 1981. Das Schloß. Ed. Malcolm Pasley. Rpt. as vol. 4 of Kafka 1994. Cited as Kafka/Pasley 1981. –. 1983. Der Verschollene. Ed. Jost Schillemeit. Rpt. as vol. 2 of Kafka 1994. Cited as Kafka/Schillemeit 1983. –. 1990. Der Proceß. Ed. Malcolm Pasley. Rpt. as vol. 3 of Kafka 1994. Cited as Kafka/Pasley 1990. –. 1994. Gesammelte Werke in zwölf Bänden. Ed. Hans-Gerd Koch. 12 vols. Frankfurt am Main: Fischer Taschenbuch Verlag. –. 1997. Der Process: Faksimile-Edition. Ed. Roland Reuß. Frankfurt am Main: Stroemfeld Verlag. Translations and Other Works Abeling, Claudia, trans. 2007. A metamorfose [V: Portuguese]. São Paulo: Melhoramentos. Acˇ in, Jovica, trans. 2008. Proces [P: Serbo-Croatian]. Vršac: Književna opština. Acosta Gómez, Luis, trans. 1998. El castillo [S: Spanish]. Madrid: Cátedra. –, trans. 2000. El desaparecido (América) [A: Spanish]. Madrid: Cátedra. Adler, Jeremy. 2002. Franz Kafka. Woodstock and New York: Overlook Press.

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208 Bibliography Paschoal, Erlon José, trans. 1991. A metamorfose [V: Portuguese]. São Paulo: Círculo do Livro. Pasley, Malcolm, trans. 1977. The Judgment. In The Problem of The Judgment: Eleven Approaches to Kafka’s Story, ed. Angel Flores, 1–12. New York: Gordian Press. –, trans. 1992. The Transformation (“Metamorphosis”) and Other Stories: Works Published During Kafka’s Lifetime. Harmondsworth, UK: Penguin. Under title Metamorphosis and Other Stories, Harmondsworth, UK: Penguin, 2000. Pateras, Vasilis, trans. 2004. O agnoumenos (Ameriki) [A: Greek]. Athens: Roes. –, trans. 2005. O pyrgos [S: Greek]. Athens: Roes. Pecˇ nik, Vida, trans. 1953. Proces [P: Serbo-Croatian]. Belgrade: Novo pokolenje. Peromies, Aarno, trans. 1964. Linna [S: Finnish]. Helsinki: Otava. –, trans. 1975. Oikeusjuttu [P: Finnish]. Helsinki: Suuri suomalainen kirjakerho. –, trans. 2007. Muodonmuutos, Rangaistussiirtolassa [V etc.: Finnish]. Helsinki: Otava. Pétursson, Hannes, trans. 1960. Hamskiptin [V: Icelandic]. Reykjavík: Menningarsjóð. Pocar, Ervino, trans. 1969. Il processo [P: Italian]. In Franz Kafka, Opere, vol. 1, ed. Ervino Pocar. Milan: Mondadori. –, ed. 1969–72. Franz Kafka, Opere. 4 vols. Milan: Mondadori. Vol. 1 (1969), Romanzi, trans. Alberto Spaini (Amerika), Ervino Pocar (Il processo), and Anita Rho (Il castello); vol. 2 (1970), Racconti, trans. Ervino Pocar and Rodolfo Paoli; vol. 3 (1972), Confessioni e diari, trans. Ervino Pocar, Anita Rho, and Italo A. Chiusano; vol. 4 (1972), Lettere a Felice 1912–1917, trans. Ervino Pocar. Politzer, Heinz. 1966. Franz Kafka: Parable and Paradox. Rev. edn. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press. Pop, Simion, and Erika Voiculescu, trans. 1970. America [A: Romanian]. Bucharest: Univers. Popovycˇ , J., and P. Tarašcˇ uk, trans. 2003. Vybrani tvory: Proces, Vyrok, Perevtilennja [P, U, etc.: Ukrainian]. Kiev: Geneza. Porzi, Giuseppe, trans. 1990. Il castello [S: Italian]. Rome: Newton Compton, 2003. Poulsen, Henrik, trans. 2008. Forvandlingen [V: Danish]. Copenhagen: Vandkunsten. Preece, Julian, ed. 2002. The Cambridge Companion to Kafka. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Prokopios, Kostas, trans. 1974. I metamórfosi [V etc.: Greek]. Thessaloniki: Egnatia. –, trans. 1983. O pyrgos [S: Greek]. Athens: Grammata.

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Bibliography 215 Wang, Binbin, trans. 1997. Shenpan [P: Chinese]. Hefei, China: Anhui wenyi chubanshe. Wang, Hong, and Cui Wang, trans. 2007. Bianxing ji [V: Chinese]. Wuhan: Changjiang wenyi chubanshe. Weinberg, Kurt. 1963. Kafkas Dichtungen: Die Travestien des Mythos. Bern: Francke. Wensinger, Arthur S., trans. 1989. The Sons: The Judgment, The Stoker, The Metamorphosis, and Letter to His Father. Trans. Willa and Edwin Muir; revised and updated by Arthur S. Wensinger. New York: Schocken Books. Wilcock, Juan Rodolfo, trans. 1952. La condena [U etc.: Spanish]. Buenos Aires: Emecé. Madrid: Alianza, 1978. Winje, Trond, trans. 1992. Prosessen [P: Norwegian]. Rpt. in Franz Kafka, Kafkas beste: Prosessen, Slottet, Fortellinger i utvalg, trans. Trond Winje, Carl Fredrik Engelstad, and Arild Vange, 7–211. Oslo: Gyldendal, 2006. –, trans. 1994. Mannen som forsvant [A: Norwegian]. Oslo: Gyldendal. –, trans. 1995. Dommen [U: Norwegian]. Rpt. in Franz Kafka, Kafkas beste: Prosessen, Slottet, Fortellinger i utvalg, trans. Trond Winje, Carl Fredrik Engelstad, and Arild Vange, 493–504. Oslo: Gyldendal, 2006. –, trans. 1997. Forvandlingen [V: Norwegian]. Oslo: Bokklubben dagens bøker. Rpt. in Franz Kafka, Kafkas beste: Prosessen, Slottet, Fortellinger i utvalg, trans. Trond Winje, Carl Fredrik Engelstad, and Arild Vange, 533–81. Oslo: Gyldendal, 2006. Wolf, Ruth, trans. 1982. Het proces [P: Dutch]. Amsterdam: Querido. –, trans. 2002. Verzameld werk [collected works: Dutch]. Amsterdam: Athenaeum-Polak & Van Gennep. Wyllie, David, trans. 2005. The Metamorphosis. Project Gutenberg EBook. www .gutenberg.net –, trans. 2007. The Trial. Teddington, UK: Echo Library. Yamashita, Hajime, trans. 1958. Henshin [V: Japanese]. Tokyo: Iwanami shoten. Yom, Mung, trans. 1968. Seong. Shimpan [S, P: Korean]. Seoul: Jongumsa. Zampa, Giorgio, trans. 1957. La condanna [U: Italian]. Rpt. in Franz Kafka, Racconti, trans. Giorgio Zampa, 99–113. Milan: Feltrinelli, 1983. –, trans. 1973. La metamorfosi [V: Italian]. Milan: Olivetti. –, trans. 1978. Il processo [P: Italian]. Milan: Adelphi. Zandbank, Shimon, trans. 1967. Ha-tira [S: Hebrew]. Jerusalem and Tel Aviv: Schocken. Zanutigh Núñez, Francisco, trans. 1977a. América [A: Spanish]. Buenos Aires: Losada. –, trans. 1977b. El castillo [S: Spanish]. Buenos Aires: Losada.

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Index

For abbreviations of the titles of Kafka’s works, see page 189. Ågren, Erik, 155 Amerika, 8, 30; in Albanian, 183; in Arabic, 183; in Bulgarian, 183; in Catalan, 183; in Czech, 25–6, 183; in Danish, 25, 183; in Dutch, 24, 183; in English, 16–18, 183–4; in Estonian, 183; in Finnish, 183; in French, 19–21, 183; in German, 13, 14; in Greek, 27–8, 183; in Hebrew, 183; in Hungarian, 183; in Italian, 23, 183; in Japanese, 28, 183–4; in Korean, 29, 183; in Lithuanian, 183; in Norwegian, 25, 183 in Polish, 26, 183; in Portuguese, 24, 183–4; in Romanian, 183; in Russian, 27, 183; in Serbo-Croatian, 27, 183; in Slovenian, 183; in Spanish, 21–2, 183–4; in Swedish, 25, 183; in Turkish, 29–30, 183; macrotextual contours, 182–4; translation of title, 151–6; compared translations of, 79–97 Andersson, Caleb J., 143 Appelbaum, Stanley: and U, 33–58; and V, 60–78

Barthes, Roland, 32 Bauer, Felice, 14n, 23, 158; and A, 165; and P, 166–7; and S, 168; and U, 160–2 Bell, Anthea, and S, 117–37 Belonoško, V., 27 Bertolino, Nikola, 27 Beuscher, Rosa, 31 Billmann, Catherine, 140; and A, 80–97; and H, 140; and U, 33–58, 144 Blahut, Kevin, 139 Blomqvist, Hans, 155 Borges, Jorge Luis, 21; and V, 61–78, 142, 163 Bridgwater, Patrick, 146–7, 150, 151, 165, 171 Brod, Max, 13–14, 140, 159, 173; and A, 79, 81, 86, 151–2; and P, 98–9, 109, 147–8; and S, 116, 118, 126, 147–9, 151–2, 156; and U, 32n34, 160–1 Brøgger, Waldemar, 143 Brunt, Nini, 24; and A, 81–97; and U, 34–58; and V, 62–78, 142 Butler, E.M., 16; and P, 99–115, 174

218 Index Caeiro, Oscar, 140 Calame, Jon, and S, 117–37 Camargo, Ángeles: and A, 81–97; and H, 141; and U, 33–58; and V, 61–78 Capriolo, Paola, and S, 117–37 Caputo-Mayr, Maria Luise, 3, 7, 12n Carone, Modesto, 144 Castellani, Emilio, and U, 33–58, 144 Castle, The (Das Schloß), 6–7, 8, 30; in Albanian, 186; in Arabic, 186; in Bulgarian, 186; in Catalan, 186; in Chinese, 29, 186–7; in Czech, 25–6, 186–7; in Danish, 25, 186–7; in Dutch, 24, 186; in English, 16–19, 186–7; in Estonian, 186; in Finnish, 186; in French, 19–21, 186–7; in German, 13, 14; in Greek, 27–8, 186–7; in Hebrew, 186; in Hungarian, 186; in Italian, 23, 186–7; in Japanese, 28, 186–7; in Korean, 29, 186–7; in Lithuanian, 186; in Macedonian, 186; in Norwegian, 25, 186; in Persian, 186; in Polish, 26, 186; in Portuguese, 24, 186–7; in Romanian, 186; in Russian, 27, 186; in Serbo-Croatian, 27, 186; in Sinhalese, 186; in Slovak, 186; in Slovenian, 186; in Spanish, 21–2, 186–7; in Swedish, 25, 186–7; in Turkish, 29–30, 186; macrotextual contours, 185–7; translation of title, 149–51; compared translations of, 116–37 Cellard, Jacques, 140; and A, 80–97; and H, 140; and U, 33–58, 144 Cˇermák, Josef, 26, 154, 156 Cˇetrauskas, Teodoras, 156 Chong, Kyong-sok, 29 Coppé, Luigi, 23; and A, 80–97; and H, 141; and U, 33–58; and V, 61–78

Corngold, Stanley, and V, 60–78 Costa, João, and P, 99–115 Crick, Joyce: and U, 33–58; and V, 60–78 David, Claude, 20, 139–40; and A, 80–97, 155; and H, 140; and U, 33–58; and V, 61–78 de Brito, Delfim, and P, 99–115 del Solar, Juan José, 142 Durrani, Osman, 153 Eco, Umberto, 5, 174 Eisner, Pavel, 26 Eisnerová, Dagmar, 154 Engelstad, Carl Fredrik, and S, 117–37 Eysteinsson, Astraður, 149 Fabião, María José, and P, 99–115, 167 Farinella, Paola, 144 Fernández, Luís, 144 Fernández, Xandru, 143 focalization, 6; in A, 84, 89; in P, 101–2, 104, 109, 114–15; in S, 126, 127, 133; in V, 67, 75–6 Fonseca, Maria de Fátima, and A, 79–97 Formosa, Feliu, and P, 99–115 Fortini, Franco, and V, 61–78 Fragoso, Gabriela, and V, 62–78 Franchetti, Elena, and S, 117–37 Freed, Donna: and A, 80–97; and U, 33–58; and V, 60–78 Furst, Henry, 23 Gao, Niansheng, 29 García Alvarez, Xosé M., 144 Gasco, João Crisóstomo, and V, 62–78, 163



Index 219

Gelen, Arif, 29–30 Gepner, Corinna, 140 Goldschmidt, Georges-Arthur, 20; and P, 99–115, 145 Guimarães, Torrieri, 24; and P, 99–115 Günyol, Vedat, 29 Haavardsholm, Espen, 154 Harada, Yoshito, 28 Harman, Mark, 18; and A, 79–97, 154; and S, 117–37 Hartmann von Aue and Gregorius, 162 Heller, Erich, 6, 31, 146, 167, 168n Hernández Arias, José Rafael: and A, 79–97, 154, 155; and H, 141; and P, 99–115; and S, 117–37 Herz, Julius Michael, 3, 7, 12n Hofmann, Michael: and A, 79–97, 151, 154–5; and U, 33–58; and V, 60–78, 142 Huang, Shujing, 29 Huang, Wenfan, 29 humour, 11; in P, 112; in S, 170; in V, 77–8 incipit, role of, 11, 156; in A, 79, 89; in P, 99; in S, 117–18, 136–7; in U, 34; in V, 59 indeterminacy, 139, 172; in P, 106, 110; in S, 119, 122 Ivaˇnescu, Mircea, 28 Izquierdo, Julio: and U, 33–58; and V, 61–78 Jesenská, Milena, 14n, 15, 26 Jolas, Eugene, 15, 18; and U, 31–58, 144; and V, 59–78, 142 Judgment, The (Das Urteil), 9, 30, 31, 78, 112; in Bulgarian, 180; in Chinese, 180; in Czech, 15, 25–6,

180; in Danish, 25, 179; in Dutch, 24, 179; in English, 15–18, 179, 180; in French, 19–21, 179, 180; in Galician, 179; in German, 13; in Hungarian, 180; in Italian, 23, 179–80; in Japanese, 28, 180; in Korean, 29, 180; in Norwegian, 25, 180; in Polish, 26, 180; in Portuguese, 24, 180; in Romanian, 180; in Russian, 27, 180; in Serbo-Croatian, 27, 180; in Spanish, 21–2, 180; in Swedish, 25, 180; in Turkish, 180; in Ukrainian, 180; macrotextual contours, 179–80; translation of title, 143–4; compared translations of, 32–58 Justo, José M., 155 Kafka, Franz: in Chinese, 8, 29; in Czech, 25–6; in Danish, 25; in Dutch, 24; in English, 7, 16–19; in French, 7, 19–21; in German, 7, 13–15; in Greek, 27–8; in Icelandic, 25; in Italian, 7, 22–3; in Japanese, 8, 28; in Korean, 8, 29; in Norwegian, 24–5; in Polish, 26–7; in Portuguese, 24; in Romanian, 28; in Russian, 27; in Serbo-Croatian, 27; in Spanish, 7, 21–2; in Swedish, 25; in Turkish, 29–30; life and work, 4–5; and names, use of, 158–72; and textual strategies, 6; and titles, 138–57 Kafka, Vladimír, 26; and V, 161, 164 Kaiser, Ernst, 14, 16, 18 Kang, Bong Shik, 29 Kaplan, Alice, 20 Katseva, Evgenija, 27 Kawamura, Jiro, 28 Kim, Seong-jin, 29 Klossowski, Pierre, 19; and U, 33–58, 144

220 Index Koch, Hans-Gerd, 14 Kotzias, Alexandros, 149 Kruger, R., 22; and P, 99–115 Kuna, Franz, 163 Laurent, Alberto, 22 Lavagetto, Andreina: and A, 80–97; and H, 141; and U, 144 Levi, Primo, 23 Leyris, Pierre, 19; and U, 33–58, 144 Leys, Simon, 21 Li, Wenjun, 29 Li, Xuixian, 29 Llovet, Jordi, 22, 142 Lloyd, Albert Lancaster, 18; and V, 59–78 Lorenzo, Guillermo, 142 Lortholary, Bernard, 20, 140; and A, 155; and P, 99–115, 145; and V, 61–78 Lück, Susanne, and P, 99–115, 174 macrotextuality, concept of, 4, 8–12, 32, 173, 175–6; defined, 30; effects of, 56–58. See also system, descriptive Malone, Paul, 146 Martins, Vinga, and S, 117–37, 167 Mathieu, François, and A, 79–97, 155 Meditation (Betrachtung), 138–40 Meijerink, Gerda, 24, 142 Mendivil, Vicente, 21 Metamorphosis, The (Die Verwandlung), 9, 11, 30, 38; in Arabic, 180, 182; in Aragonese, 180, 182; in Asturian, 180, 182; in Basque, 180, 182; in Bulgarian, 181; in Catalan, 180, 182; in Chinese, 29, 181; in Czech, 16, 25–6, 181; in Danish, 25, 180; in Dutch, 24, 180; in English, 16, 17, 18, 180–2; in Estonian, 180,

182; in Faroese, 181; in Finnish, 181; in French, 15, 19–21, 181–2; in Friulian, 181; in Galician, 181, 182; in German, 13; in Greek, 27–8, 181; in Hebrew, 182; in Hungarian, 181; in Icelandic, 25, 181; in Italian, 23, 181–2; in Japanese, 28, 181–2; in Korean, 29, 182; in Lithuanian, 181; in Macedonian, 181; in Malayalam, 182; in Marathi, 182; in Norwegian, 25, 181; in Persian, 182; in Polish, 26, 181; in Portuguese, 24, 181–2; in Romanian, 181; in Russian, 27, 181; in SerboCroatian, 27, 181; in Slovenian, 180, 182; in Spanish, 15, 21–2, 181, 182; in Swedish, 25, 181; in Tamil, 182; in Turkish, 29–30, 182; in Ukrainian, 180, 182; macrotextual contours, 180–2; translation of title, 141–3; compared translations of, 59–78 Meylan, Pierre, 19–20; and U, 33–58, 144, 161 mise en abyme, 7, 130, 172 Mitchell, Breon, 18; and P, 99–115, 174 Mitchell, Mike, and P, 99–115, 174 Moro, Danila, and P, 99–115 Motono, Kôichi, 28 Muir, Willa and Edwin, 9n, 14, 16–18, 139, 173, 176; and A, 79–97, 151–4; and H, 140–1; and P, 98–115, 174; and S, 116–37; and U, 31–58; and V, 59–78, 142 Nakai, Masabumi, 28 names, 11, 12, 158–72; in A, 81, 165; in P, 102–3, 165–7; in S, 117, 167–71; in U, 36–7, 56, 160–2; in V, 62, 162–4



Index 221

narrator, 6; in A, 82, 84, 90; in P, 101–2, 104, 114; in S, 118, 126–7; in U, 37, 40, 57; in V, 66–7 Nesme, Axel: and P, 99–115, 145; and S, 117–37 Neugroschel, Joachim: and A, 80–97; and U, 33–58; and V, 60–78 Northey, Anthony, and A, 79–97, 154, 156 Okamura, Hiroshi, 28 O’Neill, Patrick, 4n, 10n, 144 Osborne, Charles, 146 Oyama, Teichi, 28 Paoli, Rodolfo, 23, 140; and U, 33–58; and V, 61–78, 164 Park, Jong-Seo, 29 Parry, Idris, and P, 99–115, 174 Pasley, Malcolm, 14, 18, 139; and H, 140; and P, 99n, 109, 147–8; and S, 116n, 118, 126, 149; and U, 33–58; and V, 60–78, 142 Pastor, František, 16, 26 Pétursson, Hannes, 143 Pocar, Ervino, 23 Politzer, Heinz, 139, 146, 151 Porzi, Giuseppe, and S, 117–37 Preece, Julian, 5 Qian, Mansu, and Huaqing Yuan, 29 Raja, Anita, and P, 99–115 Rajec, Elizabeth M., 158n, 163n Rajt-Kovaleva, Rita Jakovievna, 27; and P, 99–106 reader, role of, 6–7, 9, 12, 90, 169–72, 177 reflexivity, narrative, 171–2 Ren, Xiong, 29 Reuß, Roland, 15, 148

Rho, Anita, 23; and U, 144; and V, 61–78 Ribas, Rosa, and V, 61–78 Riley, Anthony W., 147 Robert, Marthe, 20; and A, 80–97; and H, 140; and U, 33–58 Robertson, Ritchie, 6, 18, 159, 166, 168 Rogoff, Seth, and S, 117–37 Rolleston, James, 18 Rudent, Gérard, 21, 140; and H, 140; and V, 61–78 Sacher-Masoch, Leopold von, 163 Sáenz, Miguel, 154 Sáez, Galo, 21 Santo Tomás Colmenarejo, José María, 140 Schillemeit, Jost, and A, 79–97, 151–2 Scott, Douglas, and P, 99–115, 174 Scrignòli, Massimo, 144 Silveira, Breno, 24; and V, 61–78, 142 Simojoki, Aukusti, 149 S¸ipal, Kâmuran, 29 Sötemann, Guus, 24 Spaini, Alberto, 23 Starobinsky, Jean, 20 Steinthal, Herbert, 143 Stern, James, 14, 18 Stern, Tania, 14, 18 Stoker, The (Der Heizer), 13, 79, 182; in Czech, 15, 25–6; translation of title, 140–1 Stokes, Richard: and P, 99–115, 174; and U, 33–58, 144; and V, 60–78, 142 system, descriptive, 8, 9, 15; and macrotext, 175–6 Szabó, Ede, 149 Takahashi, Yoshitaka, 28 Takayasu, Kuniyo, 28

222 Index Tang, Yongkuan, 29 Teixeira Aguilar, J.A., and V, 61–78 Thorvaldsson, Eysteinn, 149 titles, 11, 12, 124 translation, 5n3, 8, 9; effects, 8, 10–11, 56–8 transtextuality, concept of, 4, 9–12, 175–7; and P, 112, 115; and U, 56–8 Trial, The (Der Prozeß), 8, 30, 38; in Albanian, 184; in Arabic, 184–5; in Armenian, 184–5; in Basque, 184; in Bengali, 184–5; in Bulgarian, 185; in Catalan, 184; in Chinese, 29, 185; in Czech, 25–6, 185; in Danish, 25, 184; in Dutch, 24, 184; in English, 8, 16–19, 184–5; in Estonian, 185; in Finnish, 185; in French, 8, 19–21, 184–5; in Galician, 184; in German, 7, 13, 14, 15; in Greek, 27–8, 185; in Hebrew, 185; in Hungarian, 185; in Icelandic, 25, 184; in Italian, 8, 23, 184–5; in Japanese, 28, 185; in Korean, 29, 185; in Latvian, 184–5; in Lithuanian, 185; in Macedonian, 185; in Malayalam, 184–5; in Norwegian, 24–5, 184–5; in Polish, 26–7, 185; in Portuguese, 24, 184; in Romanian, 185; in Russian, 27, 185; in SerboCroatian, 27, 185; in Slovak, 185; in Slovenian, 185; in Spanish, 8, 21–2, 184–5; in Swedish, 25, 184; in Turkish, 29–30, 185; in Ukrainian, 185; in Yiddish, 185; macrotextual contours, 184–5; translation of title, 145–9; compared translations of, 98–115 Tsuji, Hikaru, 28

Underwood, J.A.: and A, 80–97; and S, 117–37; and U, 33–58, 161; and V, 60–78, 164 van Altena, Ernst, 142 van Nahuys, Alice, 24 van Toorn, Willem, 24 Vennberg, Karl, 143 Vergne-Cain, Brigitte, 21, 140; and H, 140; and V, 61–78 Vialatte, Alexandre, 15, 19–21, 173; and A, 155; and P, 99–115, 145, 167; and S, 117–37; and U, 33–58; and V, 61–78, 142 Vogelmann, David, 21–2; and A, 79–97, 154; and H, 141; and S, 117–37 Vrána, Ludvík, 16, 26 Walker, Chris, and P, 99–115, 174 Weinberg, Kurt, 69, 163n Wensinger, Arthur S.: and A, 80–97; and U, 33–58 Wilcock, Juan Rodolfo, 21–2; and U, 33–58 Wilkins, Eithne, 14, 16, 18 Winje, Trond: and A, 154, 155; and P, 99–115; and V, 62–78 Wolf, Ruth, 24 Wyllie, David, and P, 99–115, 174 Zampa, Giorgio, 23; and U, 33–58, 161 Zanutigh Nuñez, Francisco: and A, 81–97; and H, 141; and U, 34–58 Zatonskij, Dimitrij, 27 Zhang, Xianxu, 29

GERMAN AND EUROPEAN STUDIES General Editor: Rebecca Wittmann 1. Emanuel Adler, Beverly Crawford, Federica Bicchi, and Rafaella Del Sarto, The Convergence of Civilizations: Constructing a Mediterranean Region 2. James Retallack, The German Right, 1860–1920: Political Limits of the Authoritarian Imagination 3. Silvija Jestrovic, Theatre of Estrangement: Theory, Practice, Ideology 4. Susan Gross Solomon, ed., Doing Medicine Together: Germany and Russian Between the Wars 5. Laurence McFalls, ed., Max Weber’s ‘Objectivity’ Revisited 6. Robin Ostow, ed., (Re)Visualizing National History: Museums and National Identities in Europe in the New Millennium 7. David Blackbourn and James Retallack, eds., Localism, Landscape, and the Ambiguities of Place: German-Speaking Central Europe, 1860–1930 8. John Zilcosky, ed., Writing Travel: The Poetics and Politics of the Modern Journey 9. Angelica Fenner, Race under Reconstruction in German Cinema: Robert Stemmle’s Toxi 10. Martina Kessel and Patrick Merziger, eds., The Politics of Humour in the Twentieth Century: Inclusion, Exclusion, and Communities of Laughter 11. Jeffrey K. Wilson, The German Forest: Nature, Identity, and the Contestation of a National Symbol, 1871–1914 12. David G. John, Bennewitz, Goethe, Faust: German and Intercultural Stagings 13. Jennifer Ruth Hosek, Sun, Sex, and Socialism: Cuba in the German Imaginary 14. Steven M. Schroeder, To Forget All and Begin Anew: Reconciliation in Occupied Germany, 1944–1954 15. Kenneth S. Calhoon, Affecting Grace: Theatre, Subject, and the Shakespearean Paradox in German Literature from Lessing to Kleist 16. Martina Kolb, Nietzsche, Freud, Benn, and the Azure Spell of Liguria 17. Hoi-eun Kim, Doctors of Empire: Medical and Cultural Encounters between Imperial Germany and Meiji Japan 18. J. Laurence Hare, Excavating Nations: Archaeology, Museums, and the German-Danish Borderlands 19. Patrick O’Neill, Transforming Kafka: Translation Effects