Monday
What strange thoughts will slide into our heads following the death of someone we love. I was relieved when my 96-year-old mother passed away in Saturday’s early hours. Although it was what we wanted and what she said she wanted, yet I was torn about feeling glad.
I thought of the ending of Kafka’s Metamorphosis and the relief that the family experiences when their son, who has transformed into a giant cockroach (“large vermin” in certain translations), finally passes away. Their lives have been upended by the event and, with his passing, they can finally move on with their lives. Here’s how the story ends:
After that, the three of them left the flat together, which was something they had not done for months, and took the tram out to the open country outside the town. They had the tram, filled with warm sunshine, all to themselves. Leant back comfortably on their seats, they discussed their prospects and found that on closer examination they were not at all bad—until then they had never asked each other about their work but all three had jobs which were very good and held particularly good promise for the future. The greatest improvement for the time being, of course, would be achieved quite easily by moving house; what they needed now was a flat that was smaller and cheaper than the current one which had been chosen by Gregor, one that was in a better location and, most of all, more practical. All the time, Grete was becoming livelier. With all the worry they had been having of late her cheeks had become pale, but, while they were talking, Mr. and Mrs. Samsa were struck, almost simultaneously, with the thought of how their daughter was blossoming into a well built and beautiful young lady. They became quieter. Just from each other’s glance and almost without knowing it they agreed that it would soon be time to find a good man for her. And, as if in confirmation of their new dreams and good intentions, as soon as they reached their destination Grete was the first to get up and stretch out her young body.
That last image—of Grete getting up and stretching her young body—rings so true. Not that Julia and I are young (we’re 71), but suddenly the world seems to be opening up again. For over a year, our lives have rotated entirely around her and now we can think about going out to eat and attending events together. (Yesterday was the first time Julia and I didn’t have to attend church in shifts.) I recently and hesitantly accepted an invitation to teach at the University of Ljubljana for the month of November and now I can do so without worrying. We can visit Wales and Ireland to further Julia’s roots quest. As with the Samsa family, a world of possibilities opens up.
But it’s all on account of someone I deeply loved dying. You see the conflict.
Of course, Kafka being Kafka, it’s more problematic in the story: the family has locked Gregor in his room so he’ll die sooner. Their relief has a dark side to it that mine does not.
Still, I can’t entirely let it go.