The Metamorphosis
Information
Story name: Þe Scapescifting (The Metamorphosis)
Author: Franz Kafka
English Translator: Ian Courtenay Johnston
English Translation: Wikisource
English Translation Licence: Public Domain
Anglish Translation Licence: CC BY-SA 4.0
Story (English spelling)
I
One morning, as Gregor Samsa was waking up from harrowing dreams, he found out that in bed he had been went into a fivelish wigsome1 bug. He lay on his harweed-hard back and saw, as he heaved his head up a little, his brown, inbowed belly shed into stiff bow-like deals. From this height the bedspread, nigh on ready to slide off altogether, could hardly abide still. His manifold shanks, armly thin next to the rest of his felly, flickered helplessly before his eyes.
“What's happened to me,” he thought. It was no dream. His room, a fitting room for a man, only somewhat too small, lay hushedly between the four well-known walls. Above the beed, on which an unpacked hoard of foresmack2 cloth goods was spread out (Samsa was a wayfaring seller) hung the meting which he had cut out of a meted monthly book a little while ago and set in a pretty gilt rim. It was a meting of a woman mid a wildwaren4 hat and a wildwaren shivel. She sat aheaved there, heaving up in the steer of the hower3 a stark wildwaren glove into which her whole forearm swound6.
Gregor's gander then trended to the eyedoor. The dreary weather (the rain drops were falling aloud down on the bloom eyedoor ledge) made him rather sorrowful. "Why don't I keep sleeping for a little while longer and foryet all this witlessness," he thought. But this was wholly outlandish, for he was wont to sleeping on his right side, and in his anward hoad he couldn't yet himself into this lie7. However hard he threw himself onto his right side, he always trended again onto his back. He must have fanded it a hundred times, shutting his eyes, so that he would not have to see the writhing8 shanks, and yielded only when he began to feel a light, dull smart in his side which he had never felt before.
“O God,” he thought, “what a tiring line of work I've chosen! Day in, day out on the road. The hardships of chaffer9 be much greater than the work going on at head workstead10, and, moreover, I have to deal mid11 the hitches of faring, the worries about train ties, unbiseny ghastly food, short-lived and always shifting man sibreds which never come from the heart. To hell mid it all!” He felt a whoonly itching on the top of his belly. He slowly poted himself on his back nearer to the bed stock so that he could heave his head more swimmingly, found the itchy bit, which was fully overlaid mid small white spots (he did not know what to make of hem), and wished to feel the spot mid a shank. But he withdrew it at once, for the nearness felt like a cold shower all over him.
Story (Anglish spelling)
I
One morning, as Gregor Samsa ƿas ƿaking up from harroƿing dreams, he fund ute þat in bed he had been ƿent into a fifelisc ƿigsum1 bug. He lay on his harƿeed-hard back and saƿ, as he heafed his head up a littel, his brune, inboƿed belly sced into stiff boƿ-like deals. From þis heigt þe bedspread, nige on ready to slide off altogeþer, could hardly abide still. His manifold scanks, armly þin next to þe rest of his felly, flickered helplessly before his eyes.
“Hƿat's happened to me,” he þougt. It ƿas no dream. His room, a fitting room for a man, only sumhƿat too small, lay huscedly betƿeen þe four ƿell-knoƿn ƿalls. Abufe þe beed, on hƿic an unpacked hoard of foresmack2 cloþ goods ƿas spread ute (Samsa ƿas a ƿayfaring seller) hung þe meting hƿic he had cut ute of a meted monþly book a littel hƿile ago and set in a pretty gilt rim. It ƿas a meting of a ƿuman mid a ƿildƿaren4 hat and a ƿildƿaren scifel. Sce sat aheafed þere, heafing up in þe steer of þe hoƿer3 a stark ƿildƿaren glof into hƿic her hƿole5 forearm sƿund6.
Gregor's gander þen trended to þe eyedoor. Þe dreary ƿeaþer (þe rain drops ƿere falling alude dune on þe bloom eyedoor ledg) made him raþer sorroƿful. "Hƿy don't I keep sleeping for a littel hƿile longer and forget all þis ƿitlessness," he þougt. But þis ƿas hƿolly5 utelandisc, for he ƿas ƿont to sleeping on his rigt side, and in his anƿard hoad he couldn't get himself into þis lie7. Huefer hard he þreƿ himself onto his rigt side, he alƿays trended again onto his back. He must haf fanded it a hundred times, scutting his eyes, so þat he ƿould not haf to see þe ƿriþing8 scanks, and gielded only hƿen he began to feel a ligt, dull smart in his side hƿic he had nefer felt before.
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Literally ƿildƿare 'furs (product)' + -en (adjectival suffix meaning "to be made up of"). ↩↩
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Despite not coming from historical /hw/, English whole formed the ⟨wh⟩ digraph due to disambiguation with English hole. In a world where ⟨wh⟩ was instead ⟨hƿ⟩, it is likely that they would use that instead. ↩↩
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From New/Modern English, this usage of lie here means “the way, direction, or position in which something lies”. ↩↩
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The original English word used here, wriggling, is not of Old English origin, and was instead borrowed in the late 15th century from Middle Low German wrigglen. It is likely we would've borrowed this anyway, but I opted to use an existing English synonym that was purely English instead. ↩↩
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chaffer/ceafer comes from English cheap + fare. cheap penultimately comes from Proto-Germanic *kaupo, which itself comes from Latin caupo. ↩
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A calque of English work + stead 'place'. ↩
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From Etymonline: “To deal with "handle, act toward (in some way)" is attested from mid-15c., from the notion of "engage in mutual intercourse, have to do with;" in late 14c. the phrase also mean "have sexual intercourse with."” This meaning came far later than 1066, having occurred around 1450, and came from the verb which came from Old English. Therefore, I think it is safe to use. ↩