The Metamorphosis: Compare Translations

One morning, as Gregor Samsa was waking up from anxious dreams, he discovered that in bed he had been changed into a monstrous verminous bug. He lay on his armour-hard back and saw, as he lifted his head up a little, his brown, arched abdomen divided up into rigid bow-like sections. From this height the blanket, just about ready to slide off completely, could hardly stay in place. His numerous legs, pitifully thin in comparison to the rest of his circumference, flickered helplessly before his eyes.

“What’s happened to me,” he thought. It was no dream. His room, a proper room for a human being, only somewhat too small, lay quietly between the four well-known walls. Above the table, on which an unpacked collection of sample cloth goods was spread out (Samsa was a traveling salesman) hung the picture which he had cut out of an illustrated magazine a little while ago and set in a pretty gilt frame. It was a picture of a woman with a fur hat and a fur boa. She sat erect there, lifting up in the direction of the viewer a solid fur muff into which her entire forearm disappeared.

Gregor’s glance then turned to the window. The dreary weather (the rain drops were falling audibly down on the metal window ledge) made him quite melancholy. “Why don’t I keep sleeping for a little while longer and forget all this foolishness,” he thought. But this was entirely impractical, for he was used to sleeping on his right side, and in his present state he couldn’t get himself into this position. No matter how hard he threw himself onto his right side, he always rolled again onto his back. He must have tried it a hundred times, closing his eyes, so that he would not have to see the wriggling legs, and gave up only when he began to feel a light, dull pain in his side which he had never felt before.

As Gregor Samsa awoke one morning from uneasy dreams he found himself transformed in his bed into a gigantic insect. He was lying on his hard, as it were armor-plated, back and when he lifted his head a little he could see his dome-like brown belly divided into stiff arched segments on top of which the bed quilt could hardly keep in position and was about to slide off completely. His numerous legs, which were pitifully thin compared to the rest of his bulk, waved helplessly before his eyes.

What has happened to me? he thought. It was no dream. His room, a regular human bedroom, only rather too small, lay quiet between the four familiar walls. Above the table on which a collection of cloth samples was unpacked and spread out—Samsa was a commercial traveler—hung the picture which he had recently cut out of an illustrated magazine and put into a pretty gilt frame. It showed a lady, with a fur cap on and a fur stole, sitting upright and holding out to the spectator a huge fur muff into which the whole of her forearm had vanished!

Gregor’s eyes turned next to the window, and the overcast sky-one could hear rain drops beating on the window gutter-made him quite melancholy. What about sleeping a little longer and forgetting all this nonsense, he thought, but it could not be done, for he was accustomed to sleep on his right side and in his present condition he could not turn himself over. However violently he forced himself towards his right side he always rolled on to his back again. He tried it at least a hundred times, shutting his eyes to keep from seeing his struggling legs, and only desisted when he began to feel in his side a faint dull ache he had never experienced before.

When Gregor Samsa woke one morning from troubled dreams, he found himself transformed right there in his bed into some sort of monstrous insect. He was lying on his back—which was hard, like a carapace—and when he raised his head a little he saw his curved brown belly segmented by rigid arches atop which the blanket, already slipping, was just barely managing to cling. His many legs, pitifully thin compared to the rest of him, waved helplessly before his eyes.

“What in the world has happened to me?” he thought. It was no dream. His room, a proper human room, if admittedly rather too small, lay peacefully between the four familiar walls. Above the table, where an unpacked collection of cloth samples was arranged (Samsa was a traveling salesman), hung the picture he had recently clipped from a glossy magazine and placed in an attractive gilt frame. This picture showed a lady in a fur hat and fur boa who sat erect, holding out to the viewer a heavy fur muff in which her entire forearm had vanished.

Gregor’s gaze then shifted to the window, where the bleak weather—raindrops could be heard striking the metal sill—made him feel quite melancholy. “What if I just go back to sleep for a little while and forget all this foolishness,” he thought, but this proved utterly impossible, for it was his habit to sleep on his right side, and in his present state he was unable to assume this position. No matter how forcefully he thrust himself onto his side, he kept rolling back. Perhaps a hundred times he attempted it, closing his eyes so as not to have to see those struggling legs, and relented only when he began to feel a faint dull ache in his side, unlike anything he’d ever felt before.

As Gregor Samsa awoke one morning out of restless dreams, he found himself in bed, transformed into a gargantuan pest.2 He lay on his hard, armored back and saw, as he raised his head a little, his domed, brown belly, divided into arched segments; he could hardly keep the bed sheets from sliding from his stomach’s height completely to the floor. His numerous legs, lamentably thin in comparison to his new girth, flickered helplessly before his eyes.3

“What has happened to me?” he thought. It was no dream. His room, a proper room for a human being (albeit a little too small), lay still between the four familiar walls. Above the table, upon which a collection of sample cloth goods was spread out in stacks-Samsa was a traveling salesman—hung the picture which he had cut out of an illustrated magazine a little while ago and set in a pretty gilt frame. It depicted a woman who, with a fur hat and a fur boa, sat erect, lifting up in the direction of the viewer a solid fur muff into which her entire forearm had disappeared.4

Gregor’s glance then turned to the window, and the dreary weather-one heard raindrops falling upon the window ledge—made him quite melancholy. “How would it be if I kept sleeping for a little while longer and forgot all this foolishness,” he thought; but this was entirely impractical, for he was accustomed to sleeping on his right side, and in his present circumstances, he couldn’t bring himself into this position. No matter how hard he threw himself onto his right side, he always rolled again into a prone position. He tried it a full hundred times, closing his eyes because he had to avoid seeing the wriggling legs, and gave up trying when he began to feel a slight, dull pain in his side that he had hitherto not felt.

When Gregor Samsa woke one morning from uneasy dreams he found himself transformed in his bed into a monstrous insect. He was lying on his hard shell-like back, and when he lifted his head a little he could see his dome-shaped brown body, banded with reinforcing arches, on top of which the blanket, ready to slip right off, maintained its precarious hold. His numerous legs, pitifully thin in relation to the rest of his bulk, danced ineffectually before his eyes.

‘What has happened to me?’ he thought. It was not a dream. His room, a normal though rather too small human room, lay peacefully between the four familiar walls. Above the table, on which a collection of cloth samples had been unpacked and laid out – Samsa was a travelling salesman – hung the picture that he had recently cut out of a magazine and mounted in a pretty gilt frame. It showed a lady in a fur hat and boa sitting up straight and holding out to the viewer a heavy fur muff into which her entire forearms had vanished.

Gregor’s eyes then focused on the window, and the gloomy weather – you could hear raindrops beating on the metal window-sill – made him feel quite melancholy. ‘Suppose I went back to sleep for a while and forgot all this nonsense,’ he thought, but that was quite impossible, for he was used to sleeping on his right side and was unable in his present state to assume that position. No matter how vigorously he swung himself to the right, he kept rocking onto his back again. He must have tried it a hundred times, he shut his eyes to avoid looking at his flailing legs, and only gave up when he began to feel a faint dull ache in his side that he had never felt before.

One morning, as Gregor Samsa woke from a fitful, dream- filled sleep, he found that he had changed into an enormous bedbug. As he lay there on his back, which resembled an armoured breastplate, by raising his head slightly he could just see his brown, protruding belly made up of a series of rigid, arched segments, from the top of which the bedcovers were about to slip at any moment. His many tiny legs – which, compared with his otherwise considerable girth, were pitifully thin – flapped around helplessly as he looked on.

“What’s happened to me?” he wondered. It wasn’t a dream. Between the four familiar walls, his room, a rather small but undeniably human bedroom, was still there, as tranquil as ever. Above the table, over which was scattered a bundle of fabric samples – Samsa was a commercial traveller – hung a picture that he had cut out of a fashion periodical and put in an attractive gilt frame. It was of a woman wearing a fur hat and fur boa, sitting very upright and showing off a fur muff into which her forearms completely disappeared.

Gregor’s gaze shifted to the window, and the cheerless weather – raindrops could be heard drumming on the zinc-covered window sill – filled him with melancholy. “What if I go back to sleep for a while and just forget all this nonsense?” he thought. But that wouldn’t work at all, because he was used to sleeping on his right side, and in his current circumstances he was unable to manoeuvre himself into that position. However hard he tried to throw himself onto his right side he just rolled onto his back again. He must have tried more than a hundred times, closing his eyes so that he couldn’t see his wriggling legs, and only gave up when he began to feel a faint, dull pain in his side that he had never experienced before.

When Gregor Samsa awoke one morning from troubled dreams, he found himself changed into an enormous bug. Lying on his plate-like, solid back and raising his head a bit, he saw his arched, brown belly divided by bowed corrugations, on the top of which the blanket was about to slip down, since it could not hold by itself. His many legs—lamentably thin as compared with his usual size—were dangling helplessly before his eyes.

What has happened to me, he thought. It was not a dream. His room, a real human room, albeit too small, lay quietly between the four well-known walls. Over the table, on which were spread a collection of cloth samples—Samsa was a drummer—there hung a picture he had recently cut out of an illustrated magazine and put in a pretty gilt frame. It showed a lady wearing a fur hat and boa, seated upright, and pointing in the direction of the spectator a heavy fur muff in which her entire forearm had disappeared.

Gregor’s eyes turned to the window, and the gloomy weather—he could hear rain-drops on the window-panes—made him quite melancholy. How would it be if I went on sleeping a little longer and forgot all this foolishness, he thought. But that was entirely impracticable, for he was used to sleeping on his right side and in his present state could not get into that position. However great an effort he made to throw himself on to his right side, again and again he rocked back into the position on his back. He tried it at least one hundred times, and closed his eyes in order not to have to see the squirming legs. He only stopped when he began to feel a slight dull pain in his side he had never felt before.

One morning, upon awakening from agitated dreams, Gregor Samsa found himself, in his bed. transformed into a monstrous vermin. He lay on his hard, armorlike back, and when lifting his head slightly, he could view his brown, vaulted belly partitioned by arching ridges, while on top of it, the blanket, about to slide off altogether, could barely hold. His many legs, wretchedly thin compared with his overall girth, danced helplessly before his eyes.

“What’s happened to me?” he wondered. It was no dream. His room, a normal if somewhat tiny human room, lay quietly between the four familiar walls. Above the table, on which a line of fabric samples had been unpacked and spread out (Samsa was a traveling salesman), hung the picture that he had recently clipped from an illustrated magazine and inserted in a pretty gilt frame. The picture showed a lady sitting there upright, bedizened in a fur hat and fur boa, with her entire forearm vanishing inside a heavy fur muff that she held out toward the viewer.

Gregor’s eyes then focused on the window, and the dismal weather—raindrops could be heard splattering on the metal ledge—made him feel quite melancholy. “What if I slept a little more and forgot all about this nonsense,” he thought. But his idea was impossible to carry out, for while he was accustomed to sleeping on his right side, his current state prevented him from getting into that position. No matter how forcefully he attempted to wrench himself over on his right side, he kept rocking back into his supine state. He must have tried it a hundred times, closing his eyes to avoid having to look at those wriggling legs, and he gave up only when he started feeling a mild, dull ache in his side such as he had never felt before.

When Gregor Samsa awoke one morning from troubled dreams, he found himself changed into a monstrous cockroach in his bed. He lay on his tough, armoured back, and, raising his head a little, managed to see – sectioned off by little crescent- shaped ridges into segments – the expanse of his arched, brown belly, atop which the coverlet perched, forever on the point of slipping off entirely. His numerous legs, pathetically frail by contrast to the rest of him, waved feebly before his eyes.

“What’s the matter with me?” he thought. It was no dream. There, quietly between the four familiar walls, was his room, a normal human room, if always a little on the small side. Over the table, on which an array of cloth samples was spread out – Samsa was a travelling salesman – hung the picture he had only recently clipped from a magazine, and set in an attractive gilt frame. It was a picture of a lady in a fur hat and stole, sitting bolt upright, holding in the direction of the onlooker a heavy fur muff into which she had thrust the whole of her forearm.

From there, Gregor’s gaze directed itself towards the window, and the drab weather outside – rain- drops could be heard plinking against the tin window-frames – made him quite melancholy. “What if I went back to sleep for a while, and forgot about all this nonsense?” he thought, but that proved quite impossible, because he was accustomed to sleeping on his right side, and in his present state he was unable to find that position. However vigorously he flung himself to his right, he kept rocking on to his back. He must have tried it a hundred times, closing his eyes so as not to have to watch his wriggling legs, and only stopped when he felt a slight ache in his side which he didn’t recall having felt before.

One morning Gregor Samsa woke in his bed from uneasy dreams and found he had turned into a huge verminous insect. He lay on his hard shell-like back, and when he raised his head slightly he saw his rounded brown underbelly, divided into a series of curved ridges, on which the bedding could scarcely stay in place and was about to slip off completely. His numerous legs, which were pitifully thin relative to the rest of his body, wriggled helplessly in front of his eyes.

‘What has happened to me?’ he thought. It was not a dream. His room, quite adequate for one person though rather too small, was there as usual with its familiar four walls. Spread out on the table was a collection of samples of material he had unpacked – Samsa was a travelling salesman – and above it hung the picture he had recently cut out of an illustrated magazine and set in a handsome gilt frame. It showed a lady with a fur hat and wrap sitting upright and holding out towards the viewer a heavy fur muff which covered the whole of her forearm.

Then Gregor turned his eyes towards the window, and the dreary weather – he could hear the rain dripping onto the metal window-ledge – made him feel quite depressed. ‘Why don’t I just sleep on a little longer and forget al this nonsense,’ he thought, but that was quite impossible; he was used to sleeping on his right side, and in his present situation he could not get into that position. However hard he tried to throw himself to the right, he always rolled onto his back again. He must have tried a hundred times; he closed his eyes so he did not have to see his wriggling legs, and only gave up when he began to feel a slight dull ache in his side that he had never felt before.

As Gregor Samsa awoke one morning from restless dreams, he found himself transformed in his bed into a monstrous insect. He lay on his hard, armorlike back and saw, when he lifted his head a little, his curved, brown abdomen, segmented by stiff arches, the height of which was barely covered by his blanket. which was ready to slip down entirely at any moment. His numerous and, in comparison to his girth, pathetically thin legs flickered helplessly before his eyes.

“What has happened to me?” he thought. It was not a dream. His room, a proper human being’s room, only slightly too small, lay calmly between the four familiar walls. Above the table, on which an unpacked collection of textile samples was spread out— Samsa was a traveling salesman-hung the picture that he had recently cut from an illustrated magazine and placed in a pretty, gilded frame. It depicted a lady, who, dressed in a fur hat and fur boa, was sitting upright and raising toward the viewer a heavy fur muff, in which her entire forearm had disappeared.

Gregor’s gaze then turned to the window, and the dreary weather—one could hear raindrops striking the tin windowsill made him quite melancholy, “What if I were to sleep a little longer and forget all this foolishness,” he thought, but that was entirely unfeasible because he was accustomed to sleeping on his right side. and in his current state he was unable to bring himself into this position. No matter how much force he used to throw himself onto his right side, he always rocked back to lie on his back. He must have tried it a hundred times, closed his eyes so he didn’t have to see his wriggling legs, and only let off when he began to feel a slight, dull pain in his side that he had never felt before.

When Gregor Samsa1 woke up one morning from unsettling dreams, he found himself changed in his bed into a monstrous vermin.2 He was lying on his back as hard as armor plate, and when he lifted his head a little, he saw his vaulted brown belly, sectioned by arch-shaped ribs, to whose dome the cover, about to slide off completely, could barely cling. His many legs, pitifully thin compared with the size of the rest of him, were waving helplessly before his eyes.

“What’s happened to me?” he thought. It was no dream. His room, a regular human room,3 only a little on the small side, lay quiet between the four familiar walls. Over the table, on which an unpacked line of fabric samples was all spread out—Samsa was a traveling salesman—hung the picture which he had recently cut out of a glossy magazine and lodged in a pretty gilt frame. It showed a lady done up in a fur hat and a fur boa,4 sitting upright and raising up against the viewer a heavy fur muff in which her whole forearm had disappeared.

Gregor’s eyes then turned to the window, and the overcast weather-he could hear raindrops hitting against the metal window ledge completely depressed him. “How about going back to sleep for a few minutes and forgetting all this nonsense,” he thought, but that was completely impracticable, since he was used to sleeping on his right side and in his present state could not get into that position. No matter how hard he threw himself onto his right side, he always rocked onto his back again. He must have tried it a hundred times, closing his eyes so as not to have to see his squirming legs, and stopped only when he began to feel a slight, dull pain in his side, which he had never felt before.

Waking one morning from restless dreams, Gregor Samsa found himself transformed in his bed into a monstrous bug. He lay on his hard, shell-like back, and saw, upon raising his head a little, that his vaulted brown belly was bedecked with curved stripes, on the crest of which his blanket, perilously close to falling, could hardly still hold. His many legs, looking pitifully spindly in contrast to his body mass, kicked up a storm before his helpless eyes.

“What happened to me?” he thought. It was no dream. His bedroom, a bona fide, albeit somewhat cramped, human room, was lodged perfectly peacefully between four familiar walls. Above the table, bestrewn with a spread-out collection of cloth samples – Samsa was a traveling salesman – hung the picture he had cut out of an illustrated magazine and mounted in a handsome gilded frame. The picture showed a lady seated erect, in a fur hat and fur boa, her forearms practically buried in a heavy fur muffler lifted toward the spectator.

Gregor’s gaze turned next out the window, and the dismal weather – raindrops struck the window frame – made him feel altogether melancholy. “Why don’t I sleep a little longer and forget all this madness,” he thought, but that was absolutely impossible, since he was accustomed to sleeping on his right side and given his present condition could not manage to so position himself. He summoned up all his strength to fling himself onto his right side, but kept rocking back to the same supine position. He tried some hundred times, closed his eyes so as not to have to see his fidgeting little legs, and gave up only when he started feeling a light, dull pain in the side which he had never felt before.

One morning when Gregor Samsa* awoke in his bed from restless dreams he found himself transformed into a monstrous insect. He lay on his hard, armor-like back, and when he raised his head slightly he could see the stiff, arched ridges that segmented his domed, brown stomach, to which the quilt, about to slide off completely, barely clung. His numerous legs, pitifully thin compared to the rest of his girth, flickered helplessly before his eyes.

“What’s happened to me?” he thought. It was not a dream. His room, an ordinary human’s room, only a little too small, lay quietly between the four familiar walls. Above the table, on which an assortment of cloth samples had been unpacked and spread out—Samsa was a traveling salesman—hung a picture, which he had recently clipped from an illustrated magazine and inserted into a pretty, gilded frame. It depicted a lady decked out in a fur hat and a fur boa, sitting upright and raising toward the viewer a heavy fur muff into which her entire forearm had disappeared.

Gregor’s gaze then turned toward the window, and the dull weather—one could hear raindrops striking the metal windowsills—made him quite melancholy. “What if I slept a little longer and forgot about all this foolishness,” he thought, but that was simply not feasible, for though he was used to sleeping on his right side he could not in his present state maneuver himself into that position. However forcefully he threw himself onto his right side, he repeatedly rocked onto his back again. He tried this perhaps a hundred times, closed his eyes so that he would not have to see his wriggling legs, and ceased only when he began to feel in his side a slight, dull pain that he had never felt before.

One morning, when Gregor Samsa woke from troubled dreams, he found himself transformed in his bed into a horrible vermin. He lay on his armour-like back, and if he lifted his head a little he could see his brown belly, slightly domed and divided by arches into stiff sections. The bedding was hardly able to cover it and seemed ready to slide off any moment. His many legs, pitifully thin compared with the size of the rest of him, waved about helplessly as he looked.

“What’s happened to me?” he thought. It wasn’t a dream. His room, a proper human room although a little too small, lay peacefully between its four familiar walls. A collection of textile samples lay spread out on the table—Samsa was a travelling salesman—and above it there hung a picture that he had recently cut out of an illustrated magazine and housed in a nice, gilded frame. It showed a lady fitted out with a fur hat and fur boa who sat upright, raising a heavy fur muff that covered the whole of her lower arm towards the viewer.

Gregor then turned to look out the window at the dull weather. Drops of rain could be heard hitting the pane, which made him feel quite sad. “How about if I sleep a little bit longer and forget all this nonsense”, he thought, but that was something he was unable to do because he was used to sleeping on his right, and in his present state couldn’t get into that position. However hard he threw himself onto his right, he always rolled back to where he was. He must have tried it a hundred times, shut his eyes so that he wouldn’t have to look at the floundering legs, and only stopped when he began to feel a mild, dull pain there that he had never felt before.

One morning, after troubling dreams, Gregor Samsa woke up in bed to find that he had changed into some monstrous kind of insect. NOTE He was lying on his back, which had become as hard as steel; and when he raised his head a little, he could see a rounded brown belly, divided into arched ridges. The blanket perched precariously on top was about to slide off completely. Numerous legs, which were pitifully thin compared to the rest of his bulk, were wriggling NOTE helplessly before his eyes.

‘What on earth’s happened to me?’ he thought. It was no dream. There, between four quiet and familiar walls, was his room, an ordinary human room, NOTE even if rather on the small size. Spread out over the table was an unpacked collection of cloth samples – Samsa was a travelling salesman – and above it hung the picture that he had recently clipped out of a glossy magazine, and had mounted in a pretty, gilt frame. The picture was of a woman with a fur hat and a fur boa. She was sitting bolt upright, holding out to the viewer a heavy fur muff into which her entire forearm had disappeared.

Gregor’s eyes turned towards the window. The rain could be heard beating on the metal sill, and the dreary weather made him feel rather depressed. ‘Why don’t I just go back to sleep for a bit, and forget about all this nonsense?’ he thought. But that was completely impossible, because he was used to sleeping on his right side, and in his present state he couldn’t get himself into that position. However hard he tried to throw himself on to that side, he always rolled over on to his back again. He must have tried it a hundred times, shutting his eyes to avoid seeing the wriggling legs, and giving up only when he began to feel a faint, dull ache in his side that he had never felt before.

When Gregor Samsa woke one morning from troubled dreams, he found that he had been transformed – in his bed – into a kind of giant bug. He lay on his back, which had become as hard as armour. Raising his head a little, he saw the arch of a brown abdomen, divided into stiff, domed segments. The quilt was perched precariously on top, and looked as if it might slide off at any moment. A regiment of puny legs, horribly thin compared to the rest of him, quivered wretchedly before his eyes. ‘What on earth has happened to me?’ he wondered.

It was no dream. His room, which although too small was designed for human occupation, breathed peacefully within its four familiar walls. Above the table, where a collection of cloth samples lay scattered – Samsa was a commercial traveller – hung the picture that he had recently cut from an illustrated magazine and placed in a pretty gilded frame. It showed a lady sitting upright, wearing a fur hat and boa, with her forearm plunged up to the elbow in a heavy fur muff.

Gregor turned his gaze to the window. The dismal weather – raindrops rattled hard on the flashing – made him feel sad. ‘What if 1 just go back to sleep for a bit and forget all this nonsense?” he thought. But with things as they stood that was impossible. He was used to sleeping on his right side, and in his present state there was no way he could adopt that position. The more he tried to force himself over on to his right, the more he kept falling on to his back. He tried a hundred times, closing his eyes so that he did not have to look at his quivering legs, and only gave up when he began to feel a slight, dull ache in his side, of a kind that he had never experienced before.

Gregory Samsa woke from uneasy dreams one morning to find himself changed into a giant bug. He was lying on his back, which was of a shell-like hardness, and when he lifted his head a little he could see his dome-shaped brown belly, banded with what looked like reinforcing arches, on top of which his quilt, while threatening to slip off completely at any moment, still maintained a precarious hold. His many legs, pitifully thin in relation to the rest of him, threshed ineffectually before his eyes.

“What’s happened to me?’ he thought. This was no dream. His room, a normal human room except that it was rather too small, lay peacefully between the four familiar walls. Above the table, which was littered with a collection of drapery samples—Samsa was a traveller—hung the picture that he had recently cut out of a magazine and mounted in an attractive gilt frame. It showed a lady in a fur hat and boa, sitting up straight and holding out an enormous fur muff that entirely concealed her forearms.

Gregory’s gaze shifted to the window, and the murky weather-raindrops beat audibly on the zine windowsill -made him feel quite melancholy. ‘Why don’t 1 go back to sleep for a bit and forget all the fooling about?’ he thought, but this was impossible: he liked to sleep on his right side, and in his present state he was unable to assume that position. Try as he might to throw himself over to the right, he always rocked back into his previous position. He must have made a hundred attempts; he shut his eyes to keep out the sight of all those toiling legs; and he gave up only when he became aware of a faint, dull ache in his side of a kind he had never felt before.

When Gregor Samsa awoke from troubled dreams one morning, he found that he had been transformed in his bed into an enormous bug. He lay on his back, which was hard as armor, and, when he lifted his head a little, he saw his belly – rounded, brown, partitioned by archlike ridges — on top of which the blanket, ready to slip off altogether, was just barely perched. His numerous legs, pitifully thin in comparison to the rest of his girth, flickered helplessly before his eyes.

“What’s happened to me?” he thought. It was no dream. His room, a real room meant for human habitation, though a little too small, lay peacefully within its four familiar walls. Above the table, on which an unpacked sampling of fabric swatches was strewn — Samsa was a traveling salesman – hung the picture that he had recently cut out of an illustrated magazine and had placed in a pretty gilt frame. It depicted a lady who, decked out in a fur hat and a fur boa, sat upright, raising toward the viewer a heavy fur muff in which her whole forearm was encased.

Gregor’s gaze then turned toward the window, and the dismal weather – you could hear raindrops beating against the window gutter — made him quite melancholy. “What if I went back to sleep for another while and forgot all this foolishness?” he thought; but that was totally out of the question, because he was used to sleeping on his right side, and in his present state he couldn’t get into that position. No matter how energetically he threw himself onto his right side, each time he rocked back into the supine position. He must have tried a hundred times, closing his eyes to avoid seeing his squirming legs, not stopping until he began to feel a slight, dull pain in his side that he had never felt before.

As Gregor Samsa woke one morning from uneasy dreams, he found himself transformed into some kind of monstrous vermin.* He lay on his hard, armour-like back, and if he lifted his head a little, he could see his curved brown abdomen, divided by arch-shaped ridges, and domed so high that the bedspread, on the brink of slipping off, could hardly stay put. His many legs, miserably thin in comparison with his size otherwise, flickered helplessly before his eyes.

‘What has happened to me?’ he thought. It was not a dream. His room, a proper, human being’s room, rather too small, lay peacefully between its four familiar walls. Above the table, on which his collection of textile samples was spread—Samsa was a commercial traveller—there hung the picture he had recently cut out from an illustrated magazine and mounted in a pretty gilded frame. It showed a lady* posed sitting erect, attired in a fur hat and fur boa, and raising a heavy fur muff, which swallowed her arm right up to the elbow, towards the viewer.

Gregor’s gaze then turned towards the window, and the murky weather—one could hear the raindrops striking the window-sill—made him quite melancholy. ‘What if I went on sleeping for a while and forgot all these idiocies,’ he thought, but that was quite impossible, as he was used to sleeping on his right side and in his present state he was unable to get himself into this position. However energetically he flung himself onto his right side, whenever he did so he would rock onto his back again. He must have tried a hundred times, shutting his eyes so that he didn’t have to see his jittery legs, and he only gave over when he began to feel a slight ache in his side, something he had never felt before.

As Gregor Samsa awoke from unsettling dreams one morning, he found himself transformed in his bed into a monstrous vermin.1 He lay on his hard armorlike back and when he raised his head a little he saw his vaulted brown belly divided into sections by stiff arches from whose height the coverlet had already slipped and was about to slide off completely. His many legs, which were pathetically thin compared to the rest of his bulk, flickered helplessly before his eyes.

“What has happened to me?” he thought. It was no dream. His room, a regular human bedroom, if a little small, lay quiet between the four familiar walls. Above the desk, on which a collection of fabric samples was unpacked and spread out—Samsa was a traveling salesman—hung the picture that he had recently cut out of an illustrated magazine and put in a pretty gilt frame. It showed a lady, sitting upright, dressed in a fur hat and fur boa; her entire forearm had vanished into a thick fur muff which she held out to the viewer.2

Gregor’s gaze then shifted to the window, and the dreary weather—raindrops could be heard beating against the metal ledge of the window—made him quite melancholy. “What if I went back to sleep for a while and forgot all this foolishness,” he thought. However, this was totally impracticable, as he habitually slept on his right side, a position he could not get into in his present state; no matter how forcefully he heaved himself to the right, he rocked onto his back again. He must have tried it a hundred times, closing his eyes so as not to see his twitching legs, and stopped only when he felt a faint, dull ache start in his side, a pain which he had never experienced before.

When Gregor Samsa awoke one morning from troubled dreams he found himself transformed in his bed into a monstrous insect. He was lying on his hard shell-like back and by lifting his head a little he could see his curved brown belly, divided by stiff arching ribs, on top of which the bed-quilt was precariously poised and seemed about to slide off completely. His numerous legs, which were pathetically thin compared to the rest of his bulk, danced helplessly before his eyes.

‘What has happened to me?’ he thought. It was no dream. His room, an ordinary human room, if somewhat too small, lay peacefully between the four familiar walls. Above the table, on which an assortment of cloth samples had been unpacked and spread out – Samsa was a commercial traveller – there hung the picture which he had recently cut out of a glossy magazine and put in a pretty gilt frame. It represented a lady complete with fur hat and fur stole, who was sitting upright and extending to view a thick fur muff into which the whole of her forearm had vanished.

Gregor’s eyes turned next to the window, and the dull weather – raindrops could be heard beating on the metal window-ledge – made him feel quite melancholy. ‘Suppose I went back to sleep for a little and forgot all this nonsense,’ he thought, but that was utterly impracticable for he was used to sleeping on his right side and in his present state he was unable to get into that position. However vigorously he swung himself to the right he kept rocking on to his back again. He must have tried it a hundred times, he shut his eyes so as not to have to watch his struggling legs, and only left off when he began to feel a faint dull ache in his side which was entirely new to him.

As Gregor Samsa awoke one morning from a troubled dream, he found himself changed in his bed to some monstrous kind of vermin. He lay on his back, which was as hard as armour-plate, and, raising his head a little, he could see the arch of his great brown belly, divided by bowed corrugations. The bed-cover was slipping helplessly off the summit of the curve, and Gregor’s legs, pitiably thin compared with their former size, fluttered helplessly before his eyes.

“What has happened?” he thought. It was no dream. His room, a real man’s room–though rather small-lay quiet within its four familiar walls. Over the table, where a collection of cloth samples was scattered—Samsa was a commercial traveller—hung the picture that he had recently cut from an illustrated paper and had put in a pretty gilded frame. This picture showed a lady sitting very upright, with a small fur hat and a fur box ; she offered to the gaze a heavy muff, into which her arm was thrust up to the elbow.

Gregor looked toward the window; rain could be heard falling on the panes; the foggy weather made him sad. “How would it be if I go to sleep again for a while, and forget all this stupidity?” he thought; but it was absolutely impossible, for he was used to sleeping on the right side, and in his present plight, he could not get into that position. However hard he tried to throw himself violently on his side, he always turned over on his back, with a little swinging movement. He tried a hundred times, closing his eyes so that he should not see the trembling of his legs, and he did not give up until he felt in his side a slight but deep pain, never before experienced.

Als Gregor Samsa eines Morgens aus unruhigen Träumen erwachte, fand er sich in seinem Bett zu einem ungeheueren Ungeziefer verwandelt. Er lag auf seinem panzerartig harten Rücken und sah, wenn er den Kopf ein wenig hob, seinen gewölbten, braunen, von bogenförmigen Versteifungen geteilten Bauch, auf dessen Höhe sich die Bettdecke, zum gänzlichen Niedergleiten bereit, kaum noch erhalten konnte. Seine vielen, im Vergleich zu seinem sonstigen Umfang kläglich dünnen Beine flimmerten ihm hilflos vor den Augen.

»Was ist mit mir geschehen?« dachte er. Es war kein Traum, sein Zimmer, ein richtiges, nur etwas zu kleines Menschenzimmer, lag ruhig zwischen den vier wohlbekannten Wänden, über dem Tisch, auf dem eine auseinandergepackte Musterkollektion von Tuchwaren ausgebreitet war – Samsa war Reisender –, hing das Bild, das er vor kurzem aus einer illustrierten Zeitschrift ausgeschnitten und in einem hübschen, vergoldeten Rahmen untergebracht hatte. Es stellte eine Dame dar, die, mit einem Pelzhut und einer Pelzboa versehen, aufrecht dasaß und einen schweren Pelzmuff, in dem ihr ganzer Unterarm verschwunden war, dem Beschauer entgegenhob.

Gregors Blick richtete sich dann zum Fenster, und das trübe Wetter – man hörte Regentropfen auf das Fensterblech aufschlagen – machte ihn ganz melancholisch. »Wie wäre es, wenn ich noch ein wenig weiterschliefe und alle Narrheiten vergäße,« dachte er, aber das war gänzlich undurchführbar, denn er war gewöhnt, auf der rechten Seite zu schlafen, konnte sich aber in seinem gegenwärtigen Zustand nicht in diese Lage bringen. Mit welcher Kraft er sich auch auf die rechte Seite warf, immer wieder schaukelte er in die Rückenlage zurück. Er versuchte es wohl hundertmal, schloß die Augen, um die zappelnden Beine nicht sehen zu müssen und ließ erst ab, als er in der Seite einen noch nie gefühlten, leichten, dumpfen Schmerz zu fühlen begann.