Note: This was a class assignment given to me after we finished reading The Castle by Franz Kafka. The goal was to continue where the novel abruptly cut off, trying to mimic Kafka’s style of writing to predict where the book might have gone. My cut off at the end, mid-sentence, is intentional, mimicking how the novel itself ended.

The room in Gerstäcker’s cottage was only dimly illuminated by the fire in the hearth and by a candle stump in the light of which someone deep inside an alcove sat bent under the crooked protruding beams, reading a book. It was Gerstäcker’s mother. She held out her trembling hand to K. and had him sit down beside her, she spoke with great difficulty, it was difficult to understand her, but what she said gave K. cause to lean forward so as to hear her more clearly.

“You may think an old woman like me would not have any use for you, so unfamiliar and unnatural to this place as you are, but I have been waiting for days now–I have hoped for but a few minutes with the surveyor of whom word has spread even to the deafened ears of this bedridden woman. My son brings me news from all over the village, and when I heard tell that a stranger had come into town and upset Gardena of the Bridge Inn with his mere presence and manner, well… I felt compelled to meet this stranger and give him my blessing.” “Your blessing?” K. murmured, almost as if to himself, and in such a low voice as to prompt the old lady to lean forward, cough raspingly, and implore K. to speak louder.

K., starting slightly at her harsh cough, repeated his question, also adding, “But to what end do you bless me? Can it be that you hold a particular ill will toward the landlady, and so you support anyone who causes her grief? If so, then I must wonder at whom your son has brought me to see, for I have had enough troubles with the people in this village so far, on my own, without adding to it the animosity that would surely come for my having thrown in with someone who so readily and blatantly wishes misfortune upon another. Even if this is the case (and if so, I only with the greatest reluctance remain even now in this chair, indeed, I would much rather take my leave just now than sit here and be brought into your fold by our continued conversation), I must first do my best to remove this blessing of yours from my person, for it is unduly earned, you see.

“While I admit that I have caused the landlady at the Bridge Inn, and quite honestly the one at the Gentleman’s Inn as well, a good deal of turmoil, it was only because of my initial ignorance of how things proceed here. The landlady spoke on my behalf, owing to my persistent and unwavering resolve on speaking to Klamm, in order to obtain for me an interview with Klamm himself, and in turn received only a dismissal, causing her, naturally, great personal embarrassment and grief. She knew upon giving way to my demands that there wasn’t the slightest, most miniscule chance of my being granted an audience with Klamm, even for but a moment, yet she still attempted to arrange it, being the helpful and patient soul that she is. Now, had I known then what I know now, namely that such an audience is impossible, and also that I should even request such a thing is laughable, I would of course have bowed to her superior familiarity with village affairs, and simply given up on the idea. As it is, however, I remained undaunted then and insisted that she pursue the matter. It is perhaps possible that my perseverance was encouraged by her confessions to me, which naturally lent a personal, almost friendly atmosphere to our dealings, and cast upon me the false belief that I had a right to make demands of her. My ignorance does not excuse my actions, which are inexcusable–for one should not make such demands of people they consider friends, or at least tentative allies–but merely brings to light the point that you should not consider me worthy of your blessing in this matter, no matter how nefarious your motives toward the landlady may be, because my harm to her was not at all of my choosing.”

Gerstäcker, who until now had been sitting quietly in a chair across the room, had evidently heard enough of K. speaking in such a harsh manner to his mother, and spoke up. “See here now! It is little wonder you caused such an uproar this morning at the Gentleman’s Inn, if that is the way you go about speaking to people you have only just met! Indeed, it is becoming very clear to me now why it is talk of you has been rampant within the various social circles I must frequent, considering your treatment of your assistants, the school teacher, and, yes, even the landladies at our two inns. What is the meaning in this, sir, that you should so unjustly and without grounds attack my mother, especially in her own home?” K. had just begun to speak when Gerstäcker’s mother, her skin looking sallow in the flickering light of the candle, interrupted him as if she hadn’t heard K. speaking at all.

“Now, my son, it is hardly unreasonable for someone to object to being treated well for having caused the embarrassment of another, let alone another’s very public embarrassment, and if the surveyor were the type of man who would simply bow to me and let me have my way, he would not be the type of person with whom I would have such an intense interest in meeting. No, it is just this peculiar and obstinate attitude of K.’s that has me so intrigued by him.” This she directed at her son before adjusting her dress, which was a thick, dark affair, and laying her book beside her in the alcove. She then turned to K., who could just make out a slight glimmer in her eyes, perhaps from the firelight beside them, perhaps from some inner delight that she was about to share with him. K. found himself leaning forward in anticipation, becoming curious in spite of himself at what this old, but perhaps not yet irrelevant, woman could possibly have to say to him. She began to speak again, her lips visibly sticking together at first from bits of dried saliva, but gradually moistening as they moved. “It is simply that

Works Cited

Kafka, Franz. 1926. The Castle. Trans. Mark Harman. New York: Schocken, 1998.