Waking up one morning after a restless sleep, Gregor Zamza discovered that he had turned in his bed                   into a terrible insect. Lying on a hard-shell back, he saw, when he raised his head, his brown,                    a convex belly divided by arched scales, on top of which the finished one was barely held                    completely slide off the blanket.

His numerous, miserably thin legs compared to the rest of his body helplessly swarmed in front of him                  eyes. “What happened to me?” He thought. It was not a dream. His room is real, perhaps too                  a small but ordinary room, peacefully resting in its four well-known walls. Over the table where were                  laid out unpacked samples of cloth - Zamza was a traveling salesman, - hung a portrait that he recently carved                   from an illustrated magazine and inserted into a beautiful gilded frame.