The Metamorphosis

Books Of My Life

As a literature major, I was a fugitive riding on the spine of books, eager to escape into the milieu of fiction and secondhand dreams.  

This series features four of my top memorable books and a reconstruction of those glory days in college during which we probed into the minds of great writers, relished ideas, followed intricate thematic rhythms and imagery, and discerned recurring leitmotivs. This was the time when great literature was my solace. Indeed, to this day, it may well be for me the only true magic.

When Gregor Samsa awoke from troubled dreams one morning, he found that he had been transformed in his bed into an enormous bug.

Such is the opening sentence in Franz Kafka's The Metamorphosis. It is the literal depiction of man as insect. 

I can picture Gregor, silent, alone in the dark. He rushes up from sleep, fleeing a dozen ugly dreams. The expression on his face is one of anguish. A cold sweat has broken out on his back, which is hard as armor. His squirming, numerous legs are flickering helplessly before his eyes. He wills his body to awake from this nightmare.  

The novella has become to me one of the most intriguing masterpieces of modern writing, a hybrid of realism and the fantastic. It is powerfully insane and symbolic, and I relish reading and parsing it to no end. 

Analyze and critique. Cooly raising one brow, my professor in the 20th Century Literature class eyes us thoughtfully.

Several are quick to offer their appraisal. Guilt and absurdity. My seatmate's voice is expressionless.

Someone in back of the class grimaces in distaste, Alienation. 

The acknowledged guru of the group chooses his words with painful consideration. Existential anxiety. I love this catch phrase. Existentialism is a philosophy that emphasizes individual existence, freedom and choice. 

I listen to my professor's affirmation, a faint frown coloring his brow. It is the view that humans define their own meaning in life and try to make rational decisions despite existing in an irrational universe.

Perhaps inspired by the thought, a delicate-faced female classmate clears her throat and ventures an explication in a hoarse voice, as if she hadn't spoken in days. Gregor's transformation is a kind of wish-fulfillment. An extended metaphor.

I could have said that. What else can the bizarre transformation of a person into a huge bug be but a metaphor, I mutter, but I keep my mouth shut. Lost in my own gloomy thoughts, I scan my trusty notes. Trapped in a meaningless job and isolated from the human beings around him, Gregor has been thought of as an insect by himself and by others, so he becomes one. 

Or maybe the metaphor here is the automated life that Gregor led, another comments. His voice, completely devoid of cheer, is low and blank, almost a mumble. 

I recall that at first, Gregor denies his transformation. He tries to find the best way to walk, the best place to sit and sleep, the best food to devour. Why does he not once wonder why he has become what he is now? My eyes warm up as I ask myself the question. At different points in the story, he starts to talk with a squeaking, animal-like voice, loses control of his legs, hangs from the ceiling, starts to lose his eyesight, and wants to bite his sister.

My thought process is halted by a junior who's trying not to betray the excitement of his pronouncement. Feeling of insignificance!

I concur. Gregor has been drifting along for so many years.

Prof interjects thoughtfully, nodding to himself like he has just imparted some deep wisdom. The process of metamorphosis completely breaks all connections between Gregor’s mind and his body. While his body is that of an insect, with all the bodily processes and requirements that a body of an insect would have, his mind remains that of a coherent human.

Someone follows up with an impassioned rant.  Gregor's existence is void of any humane appreciation. Cold emotions and failed communication have turned him already into an insect, a working vermin to satisfy basic and material needs, just to provide for himself and his family.

A budding student writer from The Philippine Collegian chimes in with utmost politeness, Isolation. Insecurity. 

Perhaps trying to lighten the moment, a non-English major offers with a grin. He's spiraling downward in darkness for a dizzying eternity, like a snowfall blown down a bottomless well.

I scoff at the imagery. A bit delicate, I'm thinking, given the cruel circumstance surrounding the protagonist's dilemma.

Hopelessness, a peer from my core class says in a whisper.

Of course. Gregor has lost control over everything, even the places in his head. 

Someone takes a shaky breath and the words stream out. The metamorphosis is a very wicked and harsh critique of human existence, how we run our lives meaninglessly.

By the story's end, the world has closed in, pressing down on Gregor from every side. The cleaning woman sees him on the floor, curled up into himself, his head involuntarily sank down altogether, and his last breath issued faintly from his nostrils. She tears open the bedroom door, whistles, and shouts into the darkness, It's croaked; it's lying there, a total goner. Indeed, Gregor has faded away like an afterthought. 

Next week, Sartre's 'No Exit,' Prof announces, patting the back of his chair slowly, like comforting a ghost. 

I stash the library copy of The Metamorphosis into my book bag, feeling both horrified and deeply amazed. I sense a chill in the room, pointed toward me. Feeling suddenly fragile, I wobble my way out the door.