One morning, as Gregor Samsa was waking up from anxious dreams, he discovered that he had a monstrous verminous hangover. He lay on his back and saw, as he lifted his head up a little, his body, still fully clothed in the garments he had worn the night before. Images of drinking at his friend's house and later in numerous bars in the town centre, flickered painfully before his eyes.
"What happened to me," he thought. It was no dream. As he thought these things over, without being able to make the decision to get out of bed—the alarm clock was indicating exactly
"Gregor," a voice called—it was his mother!—"it's
He heard himself answer, "A slight indisposition, a dizzy spell, has prevented me from getting up. I'm still lying in bed right now. But I'm quite refreshed once again. I'm in the midst of getting out of bed. Just have patience for a short moment! Everything's alright. How suddenly this can overcome someone!"
Gregor's glance then turned to the window. The dreary weather—the rain drops were falling audibly down on the metal window ledge—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 still feeling slightly tipsy and the ensuing dizziness made it impossible to close his eyes without feeling a dull pain in the side of his head which was as strong as he had never felt it before.
He slid back again into his earlier position. "This getting up early," he thought, "makes a man quite idiotic. A man must have his sleep.
