Ordinarily, I would “pen” my own description of this podcast, but I’ve recently run across a famous story, a parable really, by a famous writer/philosopher that expresses it at least as well as I could, if not better. The story/parable is entitled An Imperial Message written by none other than Franz Kafka in 1919. It sums up my sentiments nicely. This is how I feel most of the time. “I hope that someone gets my, I hope that someone gets my, I hope that someone gets my — message in a podcast, yeah.”
The story/parable is quoted below with a source link, but before I provide it I would appreciate it if you participate in the new poll I’ve provided below regarding Hae Min Lee’s murder. I provided one a couple of months prior but it’s grown stale so here’s a new fresh one. Please take the time to indicate your choice. You can check the results at the bottom of the poll if you’re curious. Thank you for your cooperation in advance.
The Emperor—so they say—has sent a message, directly from his death bed, to you alone, his pathetic subject, a tiny shadow which has taken refuge at the furthest distance from the imperial sun. He ordered the herald to kneel down beside his bed and whispered the message in his ear. He thought it was so important that he had the herald speak it back to him. He confirmed the accuracy of verbal message by nodding his head. And in front of the entire crowd of those witnessing his death—all the obstructing walls have been broken down, and all the great ones of his empire are standing in a circle on the broad and high soaring flights of stairs—in front of all of them he dispatched his herald. The messenger started off at once, a powerful, tireless man. Sticking one arm out and then another, he makes his way through the crowd. If he runs into resistance, he points to his breast where there is a sign of the sun. So he moves forwards easily, unlike anyone else. But the crowd is so huge; its dwelling places are infinite. If there were an open field, how he would fly along, and soon you would hear the marvellous pounding of his fist on your door. But instead of that, how futile are all his efforts. He is still forcing his way through the private rooms of the innermost palace. Never will he win his way through. And if he did manage that, nothing would have been achieved. He would have to fight his way down the steps, and, if he managed to do that, nothing would have been achieved. He would have to stride through the courtyards, and after the courtyards through the second palace encircling the first, and, then again, through stairs and courtyards, and then, once again, a palace, and so on for thousands of years. And if he finally burst through the outermost door—but that can never, never happen—the royal capital city, the centre of the world, is still there in front of him, piled high and full of sediment. No one pushes his way through here, certainly not someone with a message from a dead man. But you sit at your window and dream of that message when evening comes.