The domain

Waking up one morning after restless dreams, Gregor Samsa found himself transformed in his bed into a monstrous insect. He was on his back, a back as hard as a shell, and, lifting his head a little, he saw, rounded, brown, partitioned by more rigid arches, his abdomen on the top of which the blanket, ready to slide off completely, was barely holding.

Waking up one morning after restless dreams, Gregor Samsa found himself transformed in his bed into a monstrous insect.

He was on his back, a back as hard as a shell, and, lifting his head a little, he saw, rounded, brown, partitioned by stiffer arches, his abdomen on the top of which the blanket, ready to slide off completely, was barely holding.

His many legs, pitifully thin compared to his otherwise corpulence, wriggled desperately before his eyes. “What happened to me?” he thought. This was not a dream. His room, a real human room, just a little too small, was there, quiet between the four walls he knew well.

Above the table where a collection of fabric samples was unpacked – Samsa was a salesman – one could see hanging the picture he had recently cut out of a magazine and put in a pretty gilded frame.

It showed a lady wearing a fur hat and a fur boa, who was sitting upright, holding out to the viewer a heavy fur muff, in which her entire forearm had disappeared. Gregor’s gaze then turned to the window, and the gloomy weather – the raindrops could be heard hitting the zinc sill – made him quite melancholy.

“What if I sleep a little bit more and forget all this nonsense?” he thought; but that was completely impossible, for he was accustomed to sleeping on his right side, and in his present state he was incapable of getting into that position. When Gregor Samsa woke up one morning after restless dreams, he found himself transformed in his bed into a monstrous insect.

He was on his back, a back as hard as a shell, and, lifting his head a little, he saw, rounded, brown, partitioned by stiffer arches, his abdomen on the top of which the blanket, ready to slide off completely, was barely holding. His many legs, pitifully thin compared to his corpulence elsewhere, wriggled desperately before his eyes.

“What happened to me?” he thought. This was not a dream. His room, a real human room, just a little too small, lay there quietly between the four walls he knew well. Above the table where a collection of fabric samples was unpacked – Samsa was a salesman – hung the picture he had recently cut out of a magazine and put in a nice gilded frame.

It showed a lady wearing a fur hat and a fur boa, who was sitting upright, holding out to the viewer a heavy fur muff, in which her entire forearm had disappeared. Gregor’s gaze then turned to the window, and the gloomy weather – the raindrops could be heard hitting the zinc sill – made him quite melancholy.

“What if I sleep a little bit more and forget all this nonsense?” he thought; but that was completely impossible, for he was accustomed to sleeping on his right side, and in his present state he was incapable of getting into that position. When Gregor Samsa woke up one morning after restless dreams, he found himself transformed in his bed into a monstrous insect. He was on his back, a back as hard as a shell, and, raising his head a little, he saw, rounded, brown, partitioned by more rigid arches, his abdomen on the top of which the blanket, ready