I

           Onemorning,whenGregorSamsawokefromtroubleddreams,hefoundhimselftransformedinhisbedintoahorriblevermin.Helayonhisarmour-likeback,andifheliftedhisheadalittlehecouldseehisbrownbelly,slightlydomedanddividedbyarchesintostiffsections.Thebeddingwashardlyabletocoveritandseemedreadytoslideoffanymoment.Hismanylegs,pitifullythincomparedwiththesizeoftherestofhim,wavedabouthelplesslyashelooked.

           “What’shappenedtome?”hethought.Itwasn’tadream.Hisroom,aproperhumanroomalthoughalittletoosmall,laypeacefullybetweenitsfourfamiliarwalls.Acollectionoftextilesampleslayspreadoutonthetable—Samsawasatravellingsalesman—andaboveittherehungapicturethathehadrecentlycutoutofanillustratedmagazineandhousedinanice,gildedframe.Itshowedaladyfittedoutwithafurhatandfurboawhosatupright,raisingaheavyfurmuffthatcoveredthewholeofherlowerarmtowardstheviewer.

           Gregorthenturnedtolookoutthewindowatthedullweather.Dropsofraincouldbeheardhittingthepane,whichmadehimfeelquitesad.“HowaboutifIsleepalittlebitlongerandforgetallthisnonsense”,hethought,butthatwassomethinghewasunabletodobecausehewasusedtosleepingonhisright,andinhispresentstatecouldn’tgetintothatposition.Howeverhardhethrewhimselfontohisright,healwaysrolledbacktowherehewas.