Reclaiming Kafka’s Die Verwandlung from a Century of Bad Translations

Not Metamorphosis. Not Transformation. The Change. Forvandlingen.

The literary world insists on naming Franz Kafka’s book Die Verwandlung to The Metamorphosis.

This is wrong. It’s a violation. The correct name is The Change. In Norwegian, it’s simply the same as the German one, Forvandlingen.

Metamorphosis and even Transformation, as has been suggested by recent scholars, imply a process—a caterpillar becoming a butterfly. But Gregor’s situation isn’t a process; it’s a sudden, blunt fact. He didn’t metamorphose; he just changed.

In my new translation of the book to Norwegian I write:

Da Gregor Samsa en morgen våknet av urolige drømmer, fant han seg i sengen forvandlet til et uhyrlig utøy. Han lå på ryggen, hard som et panser, og idet han løftet hodet litt, så han den hvelvede, brune buken, delt av bueformede avstivninger, så høyt at dynen, som var klar til å gli helt av, knapt ennå holdt seg. De mange beina hans, ynkelig tynne i forhold til resten av kroppen, flimret hjelpeløst for øynene hans.

The most common English translation from 1933 goes like this:

As Gregor Samsa awoke one morning from uneasy dreams he found himself transformed in his bed into a gigantic insect. He was lying on his hard, as it were armor-plated, back and when he lifted his head a little he could see his domelike brown belly divided into stiff arched segments on top of which the bed quilt could hardly keep in position and was about to slide off completely. His numerous legs, which were pitifully thin compared to the rest of his bulk, waved helplessly before his eyes.

Notice the bolded words. These are poor. My translation to english:

As Gregor Samsa awoke one morning from uneasy dreams, he found himself in bed changed into a monstrous piece of vermin. He lay on his back, hard as armor, and as he lifted his head a little, he saw his vaulted, brown belly, divided by bow-shaped stiffenings, so high that the duvet, which was ready to slide off completely, could hardly stay on. His many legs, pitifully thin in relation to the rest of his body, flickered helplessly before his eyes.

Notice that Kafka doesn’t say he gets transformed to an insect. The word is Ungeziefer. Not insect. Not biological. A vermin is close. A pest is better. Utøy is perfect, but you can’t expect English readers to understand a Norwegian word any more than you can expect them to understand German. They are stuck with Vermin—a weak word in a weak language. Vermin has a French origin (vermine) that feels distant. English lacks a singular, everyday word for "a disgusting creature that shouldn't exist." German has it; Norwegian has it; Mongrel English doesn’t. Translators have to use adjectives to make vermin/pest/”insect” harder. This changes the meaning.

Other English translations gets it wrong as well:

• Stanley Corngold (1972): “...When Gregor Samsa woke up one morning from unsettling dreams, he found himself changed in his bed into a monstrous vermin. He was lying on his back as hard as armor plate, and when he lifted his head a little, he saw his vaulted brown belly, sectioned by arch-like ribs, to whose height the blanket, about to slide off entirely, could barely cling. His many legs, pitifully thin compared with the size of the rest of him, were flailing helplessly before his eyes.” (armor plate→plate is not necessary and is in fact wrong, flailed → wrong, he did not flail)

• Susan Bernofsky (2014): “...transformed right there in his bed into some sort of monstrous insect.” (She adds “some sort of” to try and capture the confusion).

• Michael Hofmann (2007): “...changed into a monstrous cockroach.” (He picks a specific bug, which many people—and Kafka himself—would hate).

Und so weiter. The imprecise translations continue to wreck the original text. It’s a disgrace. But take heart. The New Kafka-true Norwegian translation by me is ready for publication and will be available soon. If there’s interest, I’ll make an English one too.

In the meantime, read my translation of A Hunger Artist.