Change

I would like, dear Lucian, before returning to the image that concerns us, to remind you to keep in mind that everything we may deduce from this image—whose origin is unknown since it, too, is unsigned—are only hypotheses.
Your patient, Lucian, Igniatius you told me, creates through the drawings he brings you, characters that are closer to a psychic function than to a realistic entity. It is also with the same distance that he takes himself for Don Carrot. As for the goal he pursues, we can only conjecture according to our means, and above all let us not forget that this must not divert us from ours, which is to help him.
Igniatius relies on his Don-Quixote-like delusion…

— If he relies on his delusion… it is to do what?
— This delusion, we will return to it later, is not so common in this specific form, but it is incredibly present in many different forms throughout all the layers of our “honourable” society, for which, certainly… indirectly, we are supposed to work…
— I do not really understand where you are going with this!
— Let us leave that aside for the moment…

The supervisor returns to the image and, with a broad gesture, points to the large reddish-orange discs.

— These kinds of big red suns, multiple…
It is said, as a consequence of a certain dissolution of reason, that according to the well-known saying, “everyone sees noon at their own doorstep.”
I see in them a fragmentation of internal temporality. There is not a single time, you know it as well as I do, but several subjective times: the time of the id, the time of the ego, the time of the superego, the time of trauma, etc.
For your patient, as for each of us, this may mean that there is no clear, linear story, but zones that live on different hours.
Again, this is not a sign of madness, but of complexity.
And the image bears its mark: several suns, several noons, several centres of gravity.

— Tell me Félix, is it my sight that is troubled or… has this image changed?
— You know as well as I do, dear Lucian, that nothing is truly stable in the universe… which is ours… neither you, nor your client, nor I myself can pretend to possess the entirety of that stability which we lack.

The supervisor leans back, sinks deeper into his chair, lifts his head toward the ceiling and closes his eyes.

— It is not only the image that shows changes, but our gaze that changes as we discover what is happening there… what it is trying to show us… and, through it, the one who conceived it.
On this subject, I must return again to the notion of the double.
What strikes me most in this image is that almost everything is doubled.

— Explain to me, Félix. I would like to understand this doubling, and the fact that if everything is doubled, our understanding might also be double…
— You’ve got it, Lucian, so to speak… Let us keep things simple, if we can. There are two parrots…
— What do they represent?
— For the moment, I do not know. I have an idea… but let us begin with the two assistants of K.
— That, I know you know!
— I do indeed have some idea. And that one is, for the moment, more satisfying… to me. Would you like me to share it with you?

Félix, slightly flattered, does not wait for Lucian’s answer.

— In The Castle, Franz Kafka introduces two singular characters, simply called the assistants (Die Gehilfen), named Arthur and Jeremias. From their first appearance, they constitute one of the most disconcerting elements of the novel, combining comedy, absurdity, bureaucratic opacity and Kafka’s suffocating atmosphere. Although presented as assistants sent to the surveyor K., they seem to have neither real usefulness nor clear origin.
— And according to you, what are they or what might they be?
— Their role oscillates constantly between servants, spies, parasites, grotesque doubles or symbolic figures. But Kafka provides almost no stable information about their identity. We only know that they “look like twins” and adopt an excessively obedient attitude toward K., often turning ridiculous. Their personality seems malleable, almost empty. They often laugh for no reason, repeat K.’s words, bustle about, jostle each other without purpose. They merge together, appear childish or even sneaky. They never exist independently of the relationship they have with K. They are like little beings fabricated to revolve around him.
Their lack of individuality and constant fusion—they sleep together, speak for one another—gives them an almost inhuman or mechanical character.

— Hence the presence of Pinocchio in the same image… Félix… taken together, they are the double of Pinocchio…
— Excellent deduction, my dear colleague. Kafka depicts them as two liminal figures, neither fully human nor fully spectral. A perfect example of those indeterminate Kafkaesque creatures that blur the boundaries between the real and the irrational.
— Exactly like Igniatius and Don Carotte…

Félix pretends nothing. He has heard perfectly well and rejoices inwardly, hoping Lucian will continue… but since he does not, Félix continues.

— Officially, the two assistants are sent from the Castle to help K. in his mission as a surveyor. Yet their behaviour constantly contradicts that function. Anyone reading the book can see that they do not actually help him. Almost never do they accomplish anything useful, and K. must often supervise them, correct them, repel them or repair their errors. They quickly become more bothersome than helpful. Their presence generates confusion and agitation, even disturbing K.’s social relations, particularly with Frieda.

— But then, Félix, what would their task be?
— Their main activity seems to be observing K. They are silent or sniggering, always close by, like witnesses or spies sent to report to the authorities about a suspicious civil servant. This ambiguity makes them possible intermediaries between K. and the Castle’s administration, though their inefficiency makes the idea both comical and disturbing.

— That does not correspond in any way to a mission. I struggle to understand… and I fear my imagination entangles… leads me to suppose that we might be… that we could be these assistants…

Félix ignores the remark—at least, he shows nothing that might encourage or discourage Lucian. He continues.

— Despite their apparent disorder, they are officially mandated. Through their clumsiness, Kafka shows an administration capable of absurd decisions, of sending uselessly duplicative assistants, or assistants lacking even minimal competence.
— Do you think this could have any link… or rather, do you think we could draw a parallel with Igniatius and Don Carotte?
— You are going too fast… We are only at the beginning, but already some interpretative threads appear. These assistants may represent an empty yet omnipresent bureaucracy, acting without discernible logic—yet they are cunning, and in their own way intelligent.
Though supposedly designated by the administration to assist the surveyor, their bureaucratic origin is at least curious, perhaps dubious… though administratively attested.

The doubt is strengthened by the fact that the assistants seem ignorant of the Castle, possess no professional skills, and show no real link with authority. They seem to arise from the world of the village…

— How so? What makes you say that?
— They sleep at the inn, eat with the others, know or frequent the inhabitants. They appear like village creatures disguised as representatives of authority.
And now, the icing on the cake: most often, critics see in them a projection—almost grotesque doubles—of K. They imitate his gestures, try to follow him everywhere, and above all, they seem dependent on his existence in order to act.
This gives us an interesting direction for later… Lucian.

— Why later, Félix?
— Because like them, you are impatient and restless. You have the deep desire to access the Castle… that is, the head of your patient… while being unable to exercise real control.