My friend, Dal, former golf-pro and now full-time thinker sent me a link to a long, verbose, dense book review of a book about Kafka--not sure if it was about Kafka or the misused word, kafkaeque, or a social treatise about how modern life has become kafkaesque. I couldn't bring myself to comment with any degree of seriousness. And I admit to never having used the word kafkaesque in my life--have you? Here was my reply:
And there are the literarily-timid like me, who would never deign to use the word Kafkaesque for fear of using it badly. And don’t think it’s just Murphy’s Lawesque of me to spout such pessimism, who, with my slightly Reubenesque figure and my Titianesque hair, stuck in this Danteesque inferno of self-doubt, Freudesque egotistical whisperings, that push my mind into a Proustesque hyper-fascination with details, sometimes inspired by anti-bureaucratic leanings, railing against Pavlovesque knee-jerk responses to media-supplied truths, however Thoreauesque my thoughts might be when outdoors, sadly, they disintegrate into Woody Allenesque thoughts when indoors. Think I’ll go eat some chocolate to make myself feel better about this lack of true originality. Or would that be too Cathyesque to do so?