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, slighted 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 happening to me?” he thought, it wasn’t a dream.
His room, a proper human room although a little too small, lay peacefully between
it’s four familiar walls.
A collection of textile samples lay spread out on the table - Samsa was a travellling
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.
