The Trial (n.) has ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠a court whose hierarchy is infinite, its gradations extending beyond the ken even of initiates.

The Trial (n.) seats ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠an audience that turns out to be the court itself — beneath the beards, both apparent parties wear the same official badges.

The Trial (n.) tells ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠in its parable of a gate to the Law that always stands open — so even the doorkeeper can't shut it.

The Trial (n.) ends ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠its parable with an entrance to the Law meant solely for you — and now the doorkeeper is going to shut it.

A Trial (n.) of ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠five years may not even have begun yet: the bell that opens the trial still hasn't rung.

A Trial (n.) can ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠take a direction the lawyer is not permitted to follow; then his petitions come back as worthless scraps, and one simply knows nothing more about it, and never will.

A Trial (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠only a proceeding if I recognize it as such — and I do recognize it, for the moment, out of compassion.

A Trial (n.) kept ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠in protraction must be kept constantly spinning within the tight circle to which it is artificially restricted, since it cannot come to a standstill without some plausible reason.

A Court (n.) wants ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠nothing from you. It receives you when you come and dismisses you when you go.

A Court (n.) loses ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠its way among subtle points, and then in the end pulls out some profound guilt from somewhere where there was originally none at all.

A Court (n.) that ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠never acquits has no real point: a single hangman could replace the entire court.

A Court (n.) owns ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠everything — even the little girls giggling on the stairs belong to it.

A Doorkeeper (n.) before ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠the Law says “It's possible, but not now” — the gate stands open as always, and he is only the lowest; from hall to hall stand others each more powerful, the third unbearable even for him to see.

The Doorkeeper (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠a servant of the Law and belongs to it, beyond human judgment; to be bound by office even at its entrance is incomparably better than to live freely in the world, and to doubt his dignity is to doubt the Law itself.

A Doorkeeper (n.) may ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠be the one deceived: he knows not the interior of the Law but only the path he patrols before it, and fears more than the man the very thing with which he frightens him.

A Doorkeeper (n.) by ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠profession stands with his back to the entrance — so at the end it is the man, not he, who sees the radiance.

An Acquittal (n.) of ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠the actual kind destroys everything — not only the charge, but the trial and even the acquittal itself vanish from the files.

An Acquittal (n.) of ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠the apparent kind is followed by a second arrest, the second acquittal by a third arrest, and so on — that is inherent in the very concept.

An Acquittal (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠barred by both methods the painter offers: they prevent the accused from being convicted — but they also prevent an actual acquittal. That is the heart of the matter.

An Acquittal (n.) of ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠the apparent kind leaves you only apparently free, or more accurately temporarily free: the charge is dropped for the moment but continues to hover over you.

Guilt (n.) must ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠not be entertained even as a notion; the trial is no different from a major business deal where all thought must focus on one's own advantage.

Guilt (n.) has ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠its usual excuse — "How can any person in general be guilty? We're all human after all." "That's right, but that's how guilty people always talk."

Guilt (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠not sought out by the court; the court is attracted by guilt, and has to send the guards out.

Guilt (n.) belongs ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠not to the guards but to the organization, to the high officials — who never show themselves.

A Lawyer (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠engaged to shift the burden of the trial from oneself — but the opposite occurred: K. never had as many worries as from the moment he was represented.

A Lawyer (n.) of ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠the great kind stands incomparably higher above the petty lawyers than those stand over the despised shysters — no one has seen one, and every defendant dreams of them for a time.

A Lawyer (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠most needed before the court that most wants to eliminate him: everything is to be laid on the defendant, and so there is no court where the need is greater.

A Lawyer (n.) of ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠the great kind is best not thought about, for the thought makes all other help seem so disgusting and useless that you'd like to go home to bed — and you can never quite forget them; nights are particularly conducive.

A Defendant (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠always attractive — not because of guilt, since they can't all be guilty, nor of coming punishment, since not all will be punished, but because of the proceedings, which somehow adhere to them.

A Defendant (n.) half ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠asleep feels himself the only one, with everyone else walking about as officials and lawyers in the halls of a courthouse, even the dullest wearing the stare of someone meditating on matters of great account.

A Defendant (n.) is, ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠to the usher, the one man free enough to flog an official — he has nothing left to fear.

A Defendant (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠never free — not under protraction, and not in a true sense under apparent acquittal either.

An Arrest (n.) does ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠not keep you from your profession or ordinary life; you are under arrest, certainly, and free to go to the bank.

An Arrest (n.) seems ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠not like a thief's but like something scholarly — something one doesn't understand, and doesn't need to.

An Arrest (n.) can ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠befall you one morning without your having done anything truly wrong — the only explanation is that someone must have slandered you.

An Arrest (n.) after ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠an apparent acquittal may be waiting at home before the acquitted man gets there — and the judges have foreseen it from the moment of the acquittal.

Law (n.) you ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠do not know is all the worse for you — and if you think it exists only in their heads, you'll feel it eventually.

Law (n.) constricts ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠officials night and day, so that they have no proper understanding of human relationships — and come to the lawyer, files in tow, for advice.

Law (n.) says ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠an innocent person is to be acquitted and that judges cannot be influenced; experience says precisely the opposite — and the man who explains this has never read the Law.

Law (n.) should ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠be accessible to anyone at any time, the man from the country thinks — then he looks at the doorkeeper's fur coat and pointed nose, and decides to wait.