Even Knowing It Will Never Arrive, We Keep Waiting for the "Truth of the Universe": Reading Kafka's The Imperial Message

Have you ever found yourself in a quiet room at night, pondering questions like: "What is the true nature of this universe?" "What is the meaning of human existence, and the reason I am here?"

Somewhere deep in our hearts, we live with the expectation that someday, someone—or perhaps some dramatic leap in science—will unravel all these "truths" and finally make us understand.

Yet, at the same time, we are confronted with a cold reality. It is the quiet despair of knowing: "This will probably not happen within my lifetime."

There is a short story that brilliantly captures this exact despair, along with the hope we simply cannot abandon. It is The Imperial Message by Franz Kafka.

The Messenger Who Will Never Arrive

The story is incredibly simple, yet filled with Kafka's signature "absurdity."

An absolute Emperor, one who seems to rule the entire universe, dispatches a messenger from his deathbed with a crucial message intended for no one else but "you," a humble subject. The messenger is a strong, tireless man. He cleaves his way through the crowds, running vigorously toward you.

However, Kafka ruthlessly tells us that this messenger will never reach you.

No matter how many chambers of the palace he pushes through, how many stairs he descends, or how many courtyards he crosses, there is always another outer palace, and beyond that, an endlessly vast imperial capital. No matter how long he runs, space seems to multiply infinitely. He cannot escape it, even if thousands or tens of thousands of years pass.

It cannot arrive. Logically and physically speaking, that message will never reach your hands.

"But you sit at your window, and dream it when evening falls."

The story concludes with this single sentence.

The "Truth" That Set Out with the Big Bang

To me, this "Emperor on his deathbed" cannot help but feel like the Big Bang itself, 13.8 billion years ago.

At that singularity, the very moment the universe was born, the ultimate answers we seek—the "truth of the universe" and the "meaning of our existence"—were perhaps already written down. And at the exact moment the universe let out its first cry, the messenger set off, clutching that message tightly.

The messenger (whether it be particles of light or undiscovered laws of physics) is rushing through the labyrinth of the expanding universe at an unimaginable speed. Einstein's theory of relativity and new discoveries in quantum mechanics are, in a way, the sound of the messenger's footsteps breaking through the palace chambers one by one.

However, the expanse of the universe, much like Kafka's infinite palace, is bottomless. Solve one mystery, and an even more massive space of mysteries unfolds. Because space itself continues to expand outward, the finish line is constantly receding.

In contrast, the time I am given is a mere 70 or 80 years. It is the overwhelming time limit known as a "lifespan." The day will not come within my lifetime when I receive all the answers that have been traveling for 13.8 billion years, allowing me to peacefully nod and say, "Ah, so that's how it is."

It is a quiet, profound despair felt when facing one's own insignificance against the staggering immensity of the cosmos.

Yet, We Still Dream of Tomorrow

So, do we let this despair crush us and stop thinking altogether?

Fascinatingly, we do not. As Kafka wrote in the final line, we inevitably "dream it when evening falls."

"Perhaps tomorrow, there will be the discovery of the century, and all the mysteries of the universe will be solved." "Perhaps tomorrow, I will encounter a decisive word (a message) that defines the meaning of my life."

Even when logic dictates it is absolutely impossible, somewhere in our hearts, we hope for a miraculous shortcut. It is a very human, somewhat comical, and deeply beautiful "hope" found right in the middle of despair.

The reason we read books, lose ourselves in thought, and feel our hearts race at new scientific discoveries might just be because we are sitting by the window, waiting for the footsteps of an unseen messenger.

It is impossible for me to know all the answers before my life ends. The messenger, released at the moment of the Big Bang, is destined to run eternally through the labyrinth of an ever-expanding universe.

Even so, I sit by my window again today. Looking up at the starlight in the night sky—the traces of a messenger from the past—I cannot help but dream of the sound of him knocking on my door, whispering to myself, "Maybe tomorrow..."

English ver.