The Meowmorphosis by Franz Kafka

was a little unsure compared to the others, did not always seem to enjoy being the one whose belly was kneaded rather than a kneader, who sometimes hesitated on the stroke of the downbeat, but yet was uncertain and lesser only by comparison with the superb performance of the others, and even if he had been much more uncertain, which is to say quite uncertain, indeed, he could not have done very much harm, the others, great maestros all of them, having kept the rhythm so precisely. But it is too much to say that I saw them, that I actually saw them at all. They appeared from somewhere; I greeted them as fellow cats. And although I was profoundly confused by the sounds that accompanied them, they were cats nevertheless—cats like you and me, and you may perceive being at least somewhat intelligent that I have a secondary narrative purpose in saying so. But I regarded them by force of habit simply as cats I happened to meet upon my way, and felt a profound wish to approach them and exchange scents and bristlings; they were quite near to me as well, cats certainly much older than I, and sleek, rather than of the woolly-haired breed shared by myself and yourself, yet not at all alien in size or shape, and indeed quite familiar to me, for I had seen many such or similar cats throughout Prague. But while I was still involved in these reflections—and reflections do involve me deeply, one might say I can hardly be shaken out of them no matter how much a soulmight wish to interrupt and silence me—no, he will not do it, or I will scratch him soundly, or have my fellows do it if I do not wish to dull my claws by the action!—the music gradually became deafening, literally knocking the breath out of me and pushing me by brute melodic force far from those little cats, quite against my will—why, just as you have been swept!—and while I howled as if some noxious pain were being inflicted upon me, my mind could attend to nothing but that music that seemed to come from everywhere at once, from the heights, from the depths, from everywhere, surrounding anyone who might listen—how can humans hear nothing of this?—overwhelming his senses, crushing him, and over his insensate body still blowing its quiet horns. And then a respite came, for I was too spent, too enervated, too beggared by their voices to endure any more, a respite came and I beheld again the seven cats carrying out their revolutions, making their circus leaps. I longed to call out to them despite their aloof natures, to beg them to enlighten me, poor kitten who still felt as a man of position feels that he could ask anyone anything and receive a sensible answer. But hardly had I begun my interrogation, hardly did I feel as if I was getting toward good and familiar cattish terms with the seven of them, when their psychic music began again, stole my wits away, whirled me in circles as if I were one of the musicians and not merely a victim of theirstrange spell, cast me here and there, no matter how I begged for mercy. The sounds rescued me finally from their own violence by driving me into a labyrinth of wooden boxes that rose around that alley, though I had never noticed them before, when my business as a man took me briskly from place to place—but then it trapped me wholly, kept my belly pressed to the earth, though that vibratory music still echoed in the space behind me, egging me on like a dog chasing me down. Briefly I thought I had escaped it, and I snatched a moment to get my breath back. I must admit that I was less surprised by the artistry of the seven cats—it was incomprehensible to me, and also quite definitely beyond my capabilities—at least then—than by their courage in facing so openly the music of their own souls—for surely that’s what it was, their power to endure it so calmly without turning away from its cacophony, its strength. But now from my hiding hole I saw more closely that it was not so much coolness or disinterest as the most