- end_line
- 1170
- extracted_at
- 2026-01-27T20:59:33.331Z
- extracted_by
- structure-extraction-lambda
- start_line
- 1114
- text
- the writing desk with its place clearly worn into the floor, the desk
where he had done his homework as a business trainee, at high school,
even while he had been at infant school—he really could not wait any
longer to see whether the two women’s intentions were good. He had
nearly forgotten they were there anyway, as they were now too tired to
say anything while they worked and he could only hear their feet as
they stepped heavily on the floor.
So, while the women were leant against the desk in the other room
catching their breath, he sallied out, changed direction four times not
knowing what he should save first before his attention was suddenly
caught by the picture on the wall—which was already denuded of
everything else that had been on it—of the lady dressed in copious fur.
He hurried up onto the picture and pressed himself against its glass,
it held him firmly and felt good on his hot belly. This picture at
least, now totally covered by Gregor, would certainly be taken away by
no-one. He turned his head to face the door into the living room so
that he could watch the women when they came back.
They had not allowed themselves a long rest and came back quite soon;
Grete had put her arm around her mother and was nearly carrying her.
“What shall we take now, then?”, said Grete and looked around. Her eyes
met those of Gregor on the wall. Perhaps only because her mother was
there, she remained calm, bent her face to her so that she would not
look round and said, albeit hurriedly and with a tremor in her voice:
“Come on, let’s go back in the living room for a while?” Gregor could
see what Grete had in mind, she wanted to take her mother somewhere
safe and then chase him down from the wall. Well, she could certainly
try it! He sat unyielding on his picture. He would rather jump at
Grete’s face.
But Grete’s words had made her mother quite worried, she stepped to one
side, saw the enormous brown patch against the flowers of the
wallpaper, and before she even realised it was Gregor that she saw
screamed: “Oh God, oh God!” Arms outstretched, she fell onto the couch
as if she had given up everything and stayed there immobile. “Gregor!”
shouted his sister, glowering at him and shaking her fist. That was the
first word she had spoken to him directly since his transformation. She
ran into the other room to fetch some kind of smelling salts to bring
her mother out of her faint; Gregor wanted to help too—he could save
his picture later, although he stuck fast to the glass and had to pull
himself off by force; then he, too, ran into the next room as if he
could advise his sister like in the old days; but he had to just stand
behind her doing nothing; she was looking into various bottles, he
startled her when she turned round; a bottle fell to the ground and
broke; a splinter cut Gregor’s face, some kind of caustic medicine
splashed all over him; now, without delaying any longer, Grete took
hold of all the bottles she could and ran with them in to her mother;
she slammed the door shut with her foot. So now Gregor was shut out
from his mother, who, because of him, might be near to death; he could
not open the door if he did not want to chase his sister away, and she
had to stay with his mother; there was nothing for him to do but wait;
and, oppressed with anxiety and self-reproach, he began to crawl about,
he crawled over everything, walls, furniture, ceiling, and finally in
his confusion as the whole room began to spin around him he fell down
into the middle of the dinner table.
- title
- Chunk 9