The Metamorphosis By Franz Kafka (1915)

ceived him on the evenings of his return in a sleeping gown
and arm chair, totally incapable of standing up, who had
only lifted his arm as a sign of happiness, and who in their
rare strolls together a few Sundays a year and on the important
holidays made his way slowly forwards between Gregor
and his mother (who themselves moved slowly), always a
bit more slowly than them, bundled up in his old coat, all
the time setting down his walking stick carefully, and who,
when he had wanted to say something, almost always stood
still and gathered his entourage around him?
But now he was standing up really straight, dressed in a
tight fitting blue uniform with gold buttons, like the ones
servants wear in a banking company. Above the high stiff
collar of his jacket his firm double chin stuck out prominently,
beneath his bushy eyebrows the glance of his black
eyes was freshly penetrating and alert, his otherwise disheveled
white hair was combed down into a carefully exact
shining part. He threw his cap, on which a gold monogram
(apparently the symbol of the bank) was affixed, in an arc
across the entire room onto the sofa and moved, throwing
back the edge of the long coat of his uniform, with his hands
in his trouser pockets and a grim face, right up to Gregor.
He really didn’t know what he had in mind, but he raised
his foot uncommonly high anyway, and Gregor was astonished
at the gigantic size of his sole of his boot. However,
he did not linger on that point. For he knew from the first
day of his new life that as far as he was concerned his father
considered the greatest force the only appropriate response.
And so he scurried away from his father, stopped when his
father remained standing, and scampered forward again
when his father merely stirred. In this way they made their
way around the room repeatedly, without anything decisive
taking place; indeed because of the slow pace it didn’t look
like a chase. Gregor remained on the floor for the time being,
especially as he was afraid that his father could take a
flight up onto the wall or the ceiling as an act of real malice.
At any event Gregor had to tell himself that he couldn’t
keep up this running around for a long time, because whenever
his father took a single step, he had to go through an
enormous number of movements. Already he was starting
to suffer from a shortage of breath, just as in his earlier days
his lungs had been quite unreliable. As he now staggered
around in this way in order to gather all his energies for
running, hardly keeping his eyes open, in his listlessness he
had no notion at all of any escape other than by running and
had almost already forgotten that the walls were available
to him, although they were obstructed by carefully carved
furniture full of sharp points and spikes—at that moment
something or other thrown casually flew down close by and
rolled in front of him. It was an apple; immediately a second
one flew after it. Gregor stood still in fright. Further flight
was useless, for his father had decided to bombard him.
From the fruit bowl on the sideboard his father had filled
his pockets, and now, without for the moment taking accurate
aim, was throwing apple after apple. These small
red apples rolled as if electrified around on the floor and
collided with each other. A weakly thrown apple grazed
Gregor’s back but skidded off harmlessly. However anoth-
0 The Metamorphosis
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