Drowsiness In Rags
The views and opinions expressed in this text are those of the monster on the evening news and do not necessarily reflect the views or positions of the author
“Because they that give themselves to drinking, and that club together shall be consumed; and drowsiness shall be clothed with rags”
Proverbs, 23:21
As Gregor Samsa awoke one morning from uneasy dreams, he found himself transformed in his bed into a horrible monster. So did I.
To me, this was news, but for years, reports of my transformation had been making the headlines, only to be solemnly ignored. Still, the revelation was shocking: I had become the monster on the evening news.
Like me, millions have turned, overnight or over decades, into similar monsters—often by default.
In our metamorphosis, much like Gregor Samsa’s, we did not actively cross an actual Rubicon to become monsters. Instead, we were overtaken by the ever-shifting tides of an invisible Rubicon. The good news is that, with these shifting tides, it appears one can cross the Rubicon and then cross it back. After all, Dick Cheney has successfully navigated his way back into the mainstream.
But I suspect it costs more than the penny for the boatman. It’s almost as if you can choose to stop being a monster, even if you can’t choose to become one, which kind, or to what extent.
If given the choice, at least I wouldn’t opt to be a Nazi or a Fascist—the extremists on the ‘far-right’ fringe. Not those fellows.
I didn’t shave my head, nor join the nearest chapter of the Ku Klux Klan. I didn’t band together with other monsters to round up the Jews. Not that I remember. The irony is, perhaps, if that were the case, we wouldn’t necessarily be labelled as monsters.
Yet, I was still guilty. If not by association with Nazis, then by my disassociation from polite society.
Guilty by Disassociation
“My situation at that time becomes clearer, perhaps, if I compare it with that of Felix. Whenever at meals he does anything that is in your opinion unclean, you are not content to say to him, as you used to say to me: ‘You are a pig,’ but add: ‘a real Hermann’ or ‘just like your father.’
Franz Kafka, Letter to My Father
Polite society can differentiate between Jeffrey Epstein and Jeffrey Dahmer—the latter, of course, would never be invited to the dinner table. Yet, they group me with the extreme right, with Nazis, without any nuance or subtlety.
Perhaps the taxonomy of political monsters isn’t as forgiving as that for sociopaths, or even venomous animals — some of which end up on the table, albeit as a dish.
But not the right-wing extremist. We’re not only clueless about using the cutlery of modern institutions, but there’s also a fear that we might devour the cutlery itself.
As inhuman as I am now deemed, they concede I might possess some consciousness and rationality—perhaps not much, but it’s there. Consequently, that’s proof I show no regard for polite society—disrupting its peace and quiet, refusing to voluntarily remove myself from the table. So, I must be in the wrong. But how?
From the day I woke up as a monster, one question haunts me: how have I become an extremist?
So I conducted an experiment: if I strip all checks and balances from my ideology, letting it run wild, where would it end? What happens if you stretch my beliefs to their most fundamental application?
Well, pushing my belief system to its logical extreme might lead to the Crusades and the Inquisition. I’m fine with that. A form of fundamentalist Christianity that’s likely to result in some sort of Theocracy ruling over a unified Christendom—not Christian Nationalism per se, mind you.
It certainly wouldn’t end with a bunch of murderous, neo-pagan racists of ambiguous sexuality. Thus, I cannot accept that I’ve become the kind of far-right extremist that polite society warns us about, nor can I agree that Nazis should also be categorised as far-right extremists.
Here lies the problem: you’ve been persuaded to see yourself as mainstream ‘right-winger’ while recognising that Nazis are the ‘far-right,’ tacitly implying that the purest expression of your ideology would equate to Nazism. To take this deal, you’re either a moderate Nazi or an extreme fool—tertium non datur.
You might think you are distancing yourself from the ‘real’ deplorables, but you’re not. You’re effectively admitting, “Yes, I am a Nazi, but just to a lesser extent.” Why the human race evolved from ‘monkeys’—some are still evolving, and some might never evolve — you’re advised to thread carefully when exercising your political views, avoiding the faux risk of your evolutionary path leading to the Fourth Reich.
Granted, I am a monster — one who wants to control women’s bodies, incarcerate immigrant children, remain indifferent to victims of school shootings, erase transgender people, and set the world ablaze with fossil fuels. Moreover, I insist on the freedom to express my monstrosity, which now seems to be the most monstrous aspect about me.
Politics is Downstream from Culture but Religion is Always the Source
“Why pamper life’s complexity
When the leather runs smooth
On the passenger seat?”
The Smiths, This Charming Man
But it’s not about me, just as Kafka’s Metamorphosis isn’t about Gregor Samsa, but about his sister, Grete. She decides when Gregor ceases to be human, when she no longer views him as a brother but as vermin, intolerable to behold.
So convinced she was, Grete didn’t even bury Gregor after his death. She leaves it to the charwoman to sweep away his remains. After all, you don’t bury vermin; you dispose of it with common tools — be it a broom, a shovel, or lawfare.
Grete’s actions are not political statements but a severing of affiliations. By casting out Gregor, Grete denies him a place in the common institution — the family and society at large. She sheds the traditional values of truth, goodness, and beauty, adopting instead a stark, utilitarian view. The real metamorphosis in the book is Grete’s conversion to materialism.
Our modern Grete Samsas are not politically motivated either. Their transformation, like hers, stems from a belief in a myth: that it is the wisdom of technocrats that brings peace, prosperity, and freedom.
This naïve belief in democracy as a system powered by the enlightened voter, where politicians and bureaucrats are noble servants, delivering freedom and the rule of law in service to the people, is a comforting tale of unity and sacrifice, perfectly coherent in a secular, purposeless society.
They cling to narratives of fighting against genocides and fascists, imagining themselves as heroic soldiers storming the beaches of Normandy. Without such myths, how could they justify rampant inflation, unchecked immigration, the suicidal contradictions of woke culture, and the billions spent gearing up for a third world war?
The myth persists that the costs of democracy bring the sensation of peace, even if not peace itself. Anything that disrupts this perceived peace is seen as repulsive, something to be banned, swept away. And that’s how you find yourself kicked out of polite society.
Society, embodied by Grete Samsa, untroubled even by the prospect of global war, marches towards a future that, hopefully, will be barren, uncomplicated and repetitive in its peacefulness. Ideologies, however bloodthirsty, claim to seek peace.
But we, monsters, cannot afford to buy into this. Progressives understand that cultural wars involve the character assassination of their opponents and the destruction of their institutions. Sometimes, your political adversary truly is your enemy. Values and principles, more in the religious sense than in the political, are the blue-water navies in these culture wars to establish order and orthodoxy.
We should strenghten these values thus, not pretend that doing so would be the real threat to society, to democracy. Recognising enmity is a moral imperative; acting on our religious convictions politically is not a crime.
Kafka’s Metamorphosis, viewed through Grete Samsa’s eyes, lays bare the grotesque drowsiness of a status quo maintained by a lack of power, or the will, to renounce the beauty of mediocrity and embrace the ugliness of truth.
Gregor Samsa’s overnight transformation into an insect illustrates this reality—his appearance has changed, but not his essence; he remains bound by the petty concerns of those who torment him: a drowsy monster, dressed in borrowed rags. Being a political monster has its challenges, yet at least it offers the choice to cast aside these rags, perhaps along with the machine that wove them.
Very good article Cauf. As a teenager I first read Kafka's "Trial" and then "Metamorphosis." Only now as an aging adult do I get them both. I think Kafka was an absurdist a la Albert Camus, given his views on the pointlessness of encapsulated political systems. Thanks for a refreshing essay referencing Kafka's ideas.
Great article- loved the Grete analogy .