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Yazar: Franz Kafka

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He was still hurriedly thinking all this through, unable to
decide to get out of the bed, when the clock struck quarter to
seven. There was a cautious knock at the door near his head.
"Gregor", somebody called-it was his mother-"it's quarter to
seven. Didn't you want to go somewhere?" That gentle voice!
Gregor was shocked when he heard his own voice answering, it
could hardly be recognised as the voice he had had before. As if
from deep inside him, there was a painful and uncontrollable
squeaking mixed in with it, the words could be made out at first
but then there was a sort of echo which made them unclear,
leaving the hearer unsure whether he had heard properly or not.

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