As his fingers became operational, the numbness that had enveloped his body withdrew. Little by little, he was learning how to make them work together. Nevertheless, after repeated attempts and failures, by closing his eyes and focussing his mind he was able to bring his fingers more under control. To make matters worse, his body felt numb, as though it were immersed in a sticky, heavy liquid, so that it was difficult to send strength to his extremities. Each was equipped with a number of joints, which made synchronizing their movements very complicated. There were ten of them, long things affixed to his two hands. ![]() ![]() As a first step, he tried to move his fingers. He had no chance of surviving an attack-by predatory birds, for example. The posture left him much too vulnerable. He couldn’t lie there staring up at the ceiling forever. In any case, he had to learn how to move his body. Trying to think anything through at this point was too great a burden. The column grew thicker and denser as it moved to a softer part of his brain, buzzing all the way. The moment he began contemplating that question, however, something like a black column of mosquitoes swirled up in his head. And how did he know that? Perhaps someone had whispered it in his ear while he lay sleeping? But who had he been before he became Gregor Samsa? What had he been? All he knew was that he was now a human whose name was Gregor Samsa. Samsa had no idea where he was, or what he should do. The only thing that remained was his solitary bed in the center. Yet now all vestiges of human life had been stripped away. The room had perhaps once served as a normal bedroom. The walls were covered with wallpaper of a complex design, but it was so old and faded that in the weak light it was next to impossible to make out what the design was. Nor could he make out any rug or carpet on the floor. No painting, clock, or mirror on the walls. He could see no furniture, apart from the bed on which he lay. Still on his back, he slowly turned his head and examined the rest of the room. Why was the window barricaded in such a rough fashion? Was a major storm or tornado in the offing? Or was it to keep someone from getting in? Or to prevent someone (him, perhaps?) from leaving? An inch or so of space had been left between the horizontal boards, whether on purpose or not wasn’t clear rays of morning sun shone through, casting a row of bright parallel lines on the floor. There was a tall window on one side of the room, to his left, but its curtain had been removed and thick boards nailed across the frame. It fulfilled its structural role but aspired to nothing further. ![]() It had no ornament, no defining characteristic. Years of dust and dirt, however, had given it the color of spoiled milk. Once, it had been painted white, or possibly a pale cream. The ceiling seemed to be a common, everyday ceiling of the sort one might find anywhere. It took time for his eyes to adjust to the lack of light. He lay flat on his back on the bed, looking at the ceiling. He woke to discover that he had undergone a metamorphosis and become Gregor Samsa.
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |
AuthorWrite something about yourself. No need to be fancy, just an overview. ArchivesCategories |