DUNG BEETLE
October 14th, 2007I read “The Metamorphosis” tonight. I think I thought I had already read it, but once I began tonight it didn’t feel familiar and so I do not think I have read it before, or if I have, I was too young and read it too quickly. Oh man, so heartbreaking! The best story!
The sister began to play. The father and mother,
followed attentively, one on each side, the movements of
her hands. Attracted by the playing, Gregor had ventured
to advance a little further forward and his head was already
in the living room. He scarcely wondered about the fact
that recently he had had so little consideration for the
others; earlier this consideration had been something he
was proud of. And for that very reason he would’ve had at
this moment more reason to hide away, because as a result
of the dust which lay all over his room and flew around
with the slightest movement, he was totally covered in
dirt. On his back and his sides he carted around with him
dust, threads, hair, and remnants of food. His indifference
to everything was much too great for him to lie on his
back and scour himself on the carpet, as he often had done
earlier during the day. In spite of his condition he had no
timidity about inching forward a bit on the spotless floor
of the living room.
In any case, no one paid him any attention. The family
was all caught up in the violin playing. The lodgers, by
contrast, who for the moment had placed themselves, their
hands in their trouser pockets, behind the music stand
much too close to the sister, so that they could all see the
sheet music, something that must certainly bother the
sister, soon drew back to the window conversing in low
voices with bowed heads, where they then remained,
worriedly observed by the father. It now seemed really
clear that, having assumed they were to hear a beautiful or
entertaining violin recital, they were disappointed, and
were allowing their peace and quiet to be disturbed only
out of politeness. The way in which they all blew the
smoke from their cigars out of their noses and mouths in
particular led one to conclude that they were very
irritated. And yet his sister was playing so beautifully. Her
face was turned to the side, her gaze followed the score
intently and sadly. Gregor crept forward still a little further
and kept his head close against the floor in order to be able
to catch her gaze if possible. Was he an animal that music
so seized him? For him it was as if the way to the
unknown nourishment he craved was revealing itself to
him. He was determined to press forward right to his
sister, to tug at her dress and to indicate to her in this way
that she might still come with her violin into his room,
because here no one valued the recital as he wanted to
value it. He did not wish to let her go from his room any
more, at least not as long as he lived. His frightening
appearance would for the first time become useful for him.
He wanted to be at all the doors of his room
simultaneously and snarl back at the attackers. However,
his sister should not be compelled but would remain with
him voluntarily; she would sit next to him on the sofa,
bend down her ear to him, and he would then confide in
her that he firmly intended to send her to the conservatory
and that, if his misfortune had not arrived in the interim,
he would have declared all this last Christmas (had
Christmas really already come and gone?), and would have
brooked no argument. After this explanation his sister
would break out in tears of emotion, and Gregor would
lift himself up to her armpit and kiss her throat, which she,
from the time she started going to work, had left exposed
without a band or a collar.
‘Mr. Samsa,’ called out the middle lodger to the father,
and pointed his index finger, without uttering a further
word, at Gregor as he was moving slowly forward.