The Metamorphosis

The Metamorphosis

Franz Kafka

When Gregor Samsa woke up one morning from unsettling dreams, he found himself changed in his bed into a monstrous vermin. He was lying on his hard, armor-like back, and when he lifted his head a little, he saw a brown, domed belly divided into stiff arched segments, atop which the bedcovers had difficulty staying in place and seemed about to slide off at any moment. His numerous legs, pitifully thin compared with the rest of his bulk, were waving helplessly before his eyes.

"What's happened to me?" he thought. It wasn't a dream. His room, a regular human bedroom, only rather small, lay quietly between the four familiar walls. Over the table, on which a collection of cloth samples was unpacked – Samsa was a traveling salesman – hung the picture he had recently cut out of an illustrated magazine and put into a pretty gilt frame. It showed a lady, sitting upright, dressed in fur with a fur hat and fur boa, gazing expectantly at the viewer over the raised barrier of her heavy fur muff, in which her entire forearm had disappeared.

Gregor's eyes then turned to the window, and the dreary weather – the raindrops could be heard hitting against the metal window frame – made him quite melancholy. "And if I went back to sleep for a little while and forgot all this nonsense," he thought, but it was entirely impractical, as he was used to sleeping on his right side, and in his current state, he couldn't get into that position. However hard he threw himself onto his right side, he always rolled onto his back again. He tried it at least a hundred times, closing his eyes so as not to have to see his wriggling legs, and gave up only when he began to feel a mild, dull ache in his side, something he had never felt before.

"Ah, God," he thought, "what a demanding job I've chosen! Day in, day out, on the road. The worries of travel are much worse than the problems of the office, and on top of that, the nuisance of traveling, the worry about train connections, irregular bad food, contact with different people all the time, so no relationships that last or get intimate. To hell with this job!" He felt a slight itching up on his belly; slowly pushed himself on his back closer to the bedpost, so that he could lift his head more easily; found the itchy part, which was entirely covered with small white spots he didn't know what to make of; and wanted to feel the place with a leg. But immediately drew it back again, for the contact made him shiver.

He slid back into his former position. "This getting up early," he thought, "makes you quite stupid. A man needs his sleep. Other traveling salesmen live like harem women. For instance, when I come back to the hotel in the morning to write up the orders I've received, these gentlemen are just having their breakfast. If I wanted to do that too, I'd have to put up with a lot. But who knows, maybe that would be really good for me. If I didn't hold back for my parents' sake, I would've quit long ago. I would've gone to the boss and told him just what I think from the bottom of my heart. He would've fallen right off his desk! There's something else, too; I'd have to put up with the stress of traveling, worrying about changing trains, bad and irregular food, contact with different people all the time, so that you can never get to know anyone or become friendly with them. It can all go to hell!" He felt a slight itching on his belly; pushed himself slowly up on his back toward the headboard so that he could lift his head better; found the itchy part covered with little white spots that he didn't know what to make of; and wanted to feel the place with a leg. But immediately he drew it back again, for the contact made him shiver. "And besides, I have to get up. My train leaves at five." He looked over at the alarm clock ticking on the chest of drawers. "God Almighty," he thought. It was half past six, and the hands were quietly moving forwards, it was even past the half-hour, it was already nearly a quarter to seven. Could the alarm have failed to ring? One could see from the bed that it had been properly set for four o'clock; it must certainly have rung. Yes, but was it possible to sleep peacefully through that ringing, which had gone on for at least five minutes? Surely it had been going on. And had he really been sleeping? Had he not been getting up in bed and was he not now leaning back against the pillow and covering his eyes with his hand? And he remembered all that had happened as if it had been the day before yesterday: getting up early, a trip to the station, a business meeting, a glimpse of a young woman he had missed as he was getting on the train, a tedious conversation with a business acquaintance while he had been distracted, the slight pains from a mild toothache, but it was clearly caused by his sitting for a long time in the same position. If he had a dentist like he once did in the past, he would have been in the dentist's chair long ago. There was nothing particularly remarkable about that pain; it was a routine matter. Gregor was still looking out the window, gritting his teeth. For a moment everything remained quiet. "They're not opening up," Gregor said to himself, caught in some absurd hope. But then of course the door was thrown open, causing Gregor to shoot up in bed.

It was only at twilight that Gregor emerged from a sleep akin to swooning. He would probably have awakened shortly afterward anyway, even if he hadn't been disturbed, for he felt sufficiently rested and had had his fill of sleep, but it seemed to him that he had been awakened by stealthy footsteps and by the sound of the door leading to the vestibule being carefully closed. The light from the electric street lamps faintly touched the ceiling and the upper part of the furniture, but down where Gregor was, everything was plunged into darkness. Slowly, he dragged himself toward the door, still awkwardly feeling around him with his antennae, whose utility he was just beginning to understand, to see what had happened. His left side felt like a long scar that pulled unpleasantly, and he was forced to limp on his two rows of legs. One of his legs had also been seriously injured during the morning's incidents—and it was a miracle that it was the only one; life had left it and it dragged along the ground.

Only when he reached the door did he notice what had drawn him in that direction: it was the smell of something edible. There was a bowl filled with sweetened milk, in which floated small slices of white bread. He almost felt like laughing with pleasure, for his hunger was even greater than in the morning, and he immediately plunged his head almost to his eyes into the milk. But he quickly withdrew it with disappointment: not only was it difficult for him to eat because of his unfortunate left side—he had to make an effort with his whole body to eat—but he could no longer smell the milk, which had once been his favorite drink and which his sister had probably placed there for that reason; he turned away from the bowl almost with disgust and crawled to the middle of the room.

In the living room, the gas had been lit, as Gregor noticed through the crack in the door; but, whereas his father was accustomed at this time of day to read aloud to his mother and sister from the newspaper, which was published in the afternoon, today there was no sound. Perhaps this reading, which his sister constantly spoke of in her conversations and letters, had been abandoned in recent times. But everywhere the same silence prevailed, although the house was certainly not empty. "What a quiet life our family leads," thought Gregor, and, while staring into the darkness, he felt a great pride in having been able to provide such a life in such a nice apartment for his parents and sister. But what would happen now, if this tranquility, this satisfaction, this well-being were to end in horror? To avoid surrendering to these thoughts, Gregor preferred to move and began to crawl around the room.

Once during this long evening, one of the side doors was opened slightly and then quickly closed again; a little later, the same was done with the other door; someone clearly wanted to come in, but in the end, hesitations prevailed. Gregor stopped near the door of the living room, determined to somehow bring the hesitant visitor in or at least to know who it was; but the door was not opened again, and Gregor waited in vain. In the morning, when all the doors were closed, everyone wanted to come in, and now that he had himself opened one of the doors and the others must certainly have been opened during the day, no one came, and the keys had been left outside.

The light in the living room was only extinguished late at night, and it was then easy for him to realize that his parents and sister had stayed awake all this time, for they could be heard clearly tiptoeing away. He was sure now that no one would come to Gregor's room until morning; he had a good moment to ponder at his leisure on the new organization of his existence. But this large empty room, where he was obliged to lie flat on the floor, frightened him, without him being able to guess the reason, for it was the room where he had lived for five years—and as a result of a half-conscious decision and not without a slight shame, he quickly went to bed under the sofa, where he immediately felt quite comfortable, although his back was a little cramped, and he could not raise his head; he regretted only that his body was too wide to be able to fit entirely under the sofa.