Allgemeine Geschäftsbedingungen

One mor­ning, when Gre­gor Samsa woke from trou­bled dreams, he found hims­elf trans­for­med in his bed into a hor­ri­ble ver­min. He lay on his ar­mour-like back, and if he lifted his head a litt­le he could see his brown bel­ly, slight­ly do­med and di­vi­ded by ar­ches into stiff sec­tions. The bed­ding was hard­ly able to co­ver it and see­med re­a­dy to slide off any mo­ment. His many legs, pi­tiful­ly thin com­pared with the size of the rest of him, wa­ved about hel­p­less­ly as he loo­ked. ​„What’s hap­pen­ed to me? “ he thought. It was­n’t a dream.

His room, a pro­per hu­man room alt­hough a litt­le too small, lay peaceful­ly bet­ween its four fa­mi­li­ar walls. A coll­ec­tion of tex­ti­le samples lay spread out on the ta­ble – Samsa was a tra­vel­ling sa­les­man – and abo­ve it the­re hung a pic­tu­re that he had re­cent­ly cut out of an il­lus­tra­ted ma­ga­zi­ne and housed in a nice, gild­ed frame. It show­ed a lady fit­ted out with a fur hat and fur boa who sat up­right, rai­sing a hea­vy fur muff that co­ver­ed the who­le of her lower arm towards the view­er. Gre­gor then tur­ned to look out the win­dow at the dull weather.

Drops of rain could be he­ard hit­ting the pane, which made him feel quite sad. ​„How about if I sleep a litt­le bit lon­ger and for­get all this non­sen­se“, he thought, but that was so­me­thing he was unable to do be­cau­se he was used to slee­ping on his right, and in his pre­sent sta­te could­n’t get into that po­si­ti­on. Ho­we­ver hard he th­rew hims­elf onto his right, he al­ways rol­led back to whe­re he was.

He must have tried it a hundred times, shut his eyes so that he would­n’t have to look at the floun­de­ring legs, and only stop­ped when he be­gan to feel a mild, dull pain the­re that he had never felt be­fo­re. ​„Oh, God“, he thought, ​„what a stre­nuous care­er it is that I’ve cho­sen! Tra­vel­ling day in and day out. Do­ing busi­ness like this ta­kes much more ef­fort than do­ing your own busi­ness at home, and on top of that there’s the cur­se of tra­vel­ling, worries about ma­king train con­nec­tions, bad and ir­re­gu­lar food, cont­act with dif­fe­rent peo­p­le all the time so that you can never get to know an­yo­ne or be­co­me fri­end­ly with them.

It can all go to Hell! “ He felt a slight itch up on his bel­ly; pu­shed hims­elf slow­ly up on his back towards the head­board so that he could lift his head bet­ter; found whe­re the itch was, and saw that it was co­ver­ed with lots of litt­le white spots which he did­n’t know what to make of; and when he tried to feel the place with one of his legs he drew it quick­ly back be­cau­se as soon as he touch­ed it he was over­co­me by a cold shud­der. He slid back into his for­mer po­si­ti­on. ​„Get­ting up ear­ly all the time“, he thought, ​„it makes you stupid.

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