This is the first sentence of The Metamorphosis of Gregor Samsa. The next few pages casually account that he notices the overcast weather, examines the appendages of his new body, and considers how he will get to work now that he is changed... Immediately his fate is accepted. Nothing is done. No one screams. All of which drive the reader mad. How many pages can you hold your breath before you realize the story will keep on like this? Will no one worry or investigate how or why he has transformed? His family quietly and courteously charge to feed and water and clean up after their insect son. This acceptance and alteration of the family dynamic becomes more bizarre than the occurrence itself. It is frustrating. The redefinition of humanity is the true metamorphosis.
But I will not tell you how it ends. You must ask Kafka himself what lies behind that closed bedroom door.
