“In the night a camel died. I have had it brought here.” Four bearers came and threw the heavy carcass right in front of us. No sooner was it lying there than the jackals raised their voices. Everyone of them crept forward, its body scraping the ground, as if drawn by an irresistible rope. They had forgotten the Arabs, forgotten their hatred. The presence of a powerfully stinking dead body wiped out everything and enchanted them. One of them was already hanging at the camel’s throat and with its first bite had found the artery. Like a small raging pump which—with a determination matched only by its hopelessness—seeks to put out an overpowering fire, every muscle of its body pulled and twitched in its place. Then right away all of them were lying there on the corpse in a mountainous heap, working in the same way. Then the leader cracked his sharp whip powerfully all around above them. They raised their heads, half fainting in their intoxicated state, looked at the Arab standing in front of them, started to feel the whip now hitting their muzzles, jumped away, and ran back a distance.
“Jackals and Arabs” By Franz Kafka (1883–1924). Art by Copilot
