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One morning, as Gregor Samsa was waking up from anxious dreams, he discovered that in his bed he had been changed into a monstrous verminous bug. He lay on his armour-hard back and, raising his head a little, he could see his dome-like brown belly divided into stiff arched segments on top of which the blanket, already slipping off, could hardly stay in place. His numerous legs, which were pitifully 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 proper human room although a little too small, lay quietly between the four familiar walls. Above the table, on which a collection of cloth samples was spread out—Samsa was a traveling salesman—hung the picture which he had recently cut out of an illustrated magazine and placed in a nice, gilded frame. It was a picture of a lady, with a fur hat and a fur boa, who sat upright and held out to the viewer a thick, heavy fur muff into which her entire forearm had disappeared.

Gregor then turned to look out the window at the dull weather. Drops of rain could be heard hitting the metal window ledge, which made him quite melancholy. “What if I went back to sleep for a while and forgot all this foolishness?” he thought, but that was entirely impractical, for he was accustomed to sleeping on his right side, and in his present condition he could not get into that position. No matter how hard he threw himself onto his right side, he always rolled onto his back again. He must have tried it a hundred times, shutting his eyes in frustration, only to open them again and sigh at his hopeless predicament.

“Oh God,” he thought, “what a strenuous career it is that I have chosen! Traveling day in and day out. The stresses of business are much greater than they are in the home office, and on top of that, I have to endure the anxieties of train schedules, irregular meals, temporary and constantly changing human relationships that never come from the heart. The devil take it all!”

Feeling a slight itching on his belly, he slowly pushed himself nearer the headboard to see what was causing it. He found that he was covered in small, white spots, which he could not understand. He attempted to touch them with one of his legs, but as soon as he did, he shuddered with horror and withdrew the limb. “Better not think about it,” he told himself.

He tried once more to shift his position, this time using the lower part of his body to swing himself to the side, but it only led to a sharp pain in his side that left him gasping for breath. He lay there motionless, his tiny legs trembling in the air. “What in the world is happening to me?” he thought again, feeling panic rise in his chest.

The alarm clock on the dresser was ticking loudly—it was nearly a quarter to seven. “Good heavens!” he thought. “The office opens at seven! I must have overslept!” He tried to throw off the covers, but they were tangled around his strangely shaped body. It took several awkward, jerky movements to finally free himself.

He heard a knock at the door. “Gregor,” called his mother’s voice, “it’s nearly seven. You ought to have left for work long ago!” The sound of her gentle, worried voice filled him with a strange sadness. He wanted to respond, to tell her that everything was fine, but when he opened his mouth, only an odd hissing noise escaped.

“Gregor?” His mother called again, her voice now laced with concern. From the other side of the door, his father grumbled something about the young man’s irresponsibility, and his sister let out a nervous giggle. They had no idea what was happening to him.

Struggling, Gregor managed to inch himself forward, trying to shift his unwieldy new body. “I have to get up,” he told himself firmly. “I have to get up and go to work. Everything will be fine once I get out of bed.” But even as he thought this, he knew it was impossible.