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<P style="MARGIN-LEFT: 100px; MARGIN-RIGHT: 100px; TEXT-ALIGN: center"
align=center><B><SPAN style="FONT-FAMILY: Garamond"><FONT size=5>Franz
Kafka<BR>The Metamorphosis<BR></FONT>(1916)</SPAN></B></P>
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align=left><B><SPAN style="FONT-FAMILY: Garamond"></SPAN></B> </P><B><SPAN
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<P style="MARGIN-LEFT: 100px; MARGIN-RIGHT: 100px" align=left><SPAN
style="FONT-FAMILY: Garamond">One morning, as Gregor Samsa was waking up from
anxious dreams, he discovered that in bed he had been changed into a monstrous
verminous bug. He lay on his armour-hard back and saw, as he lifted his head up
a little, his brown, arched abdomen divided up into rigid bow-like sections.
>From this height the blanket, just about ready to slide off completely, could
hardly stay in place. His numerous legs, pitifully thin in comparison to the
rest of his circumference, flickered helplessly before his eyes.<O:P>
</O:P></SPAN></P>
<P style="MARGIN-LEFT: 100px; MARGIN-RIGHT: 100px" align=left><SPAN
style="FONT-FAMILY: Garamond">"What's happened to me," he thought. It was no
dream. His room, a proper room for a human being, only somewhat too small, lay
quietly between the four well-known walls. Above the table, on which an unpacked
collection of sample cloth goods was spread out<I>—</I>Samsa was a travelling
salesman<I>—</I>hung the picture which he had cut out of an illustrated magazine
a little while ago and set in a pretty gilt frame. It was a picture of a woman
with a fur hat and a fur boa. She sat erect there, lifting up in the direction
of the viewer a solid fur muff into which her entire forearm had
disappeared.<O:P> </O:P></SPAN></P>
<P style="MARGIN-LEFT: 100px; MARGIN-RIGHT: 100px" align=left><SPAN
style="FONT-FAMILY: Garamond">Gregor's glance then turned to the window. The
dreary weather<I>—</I>the rain drops were falling audibly down on the metal
window ledge<I>—</I>made him quite melancholy. "Why don't I keep sleeping for a
little while longer and forget all this foolishness," he thought. But this was
entirely impractical, for he was used to sleeping on his right side, and in his
present state he couldn't get himself into this position. No matter how hard he
threw himself onto his right side, he always rolled again onto his back. He must
have tried it a hundred times, closing his eyes so that he would not have to see
the wriggling legs, and gave up only when he began to feel a light, dull pain in
his side which he had never felt before...</SPAN></P>
<P style="MARGIN-LEFT: 100px; MARGIN-RIGHT: 100px" align=left><SPAN
style="FONT-FAMILY: Garamond"><O:P></O:P></SPAN> </P>
<P style="MARGIN-LEFT: 100px; MARGIN-RIGHT: 100px" align=left><SPAN
style="FONT-FAMILY: Garamond"><O:P></SPAN> <BR>Art Deco (Wayne A.
Fox)<BR><A
href="mailto:deco@moscow.com">deco@moscow.com</A><BR></P></O:P></SPAN></B></FONT><CR><CR></BODY></HTML>