I'm an "incurable fabulist"

Must be a Kafka-week or something. (Well...yesterday was his 125th birthday but still ...the timing is well... Austerian.)

First, I get this urge to read Kafka. Then I find out it's his 125th birthday while reading something yesterday; then I pick up a book by Kafka at the library and start reading it (just the Preface by Updike so far) last night.

Then, today, after getting to the New York Review of Books article by Dyson, I see that Zadie Smith has a review in this month's issue of a biography of Kafka: The Tremendous World I Have Inside My Head: Franz Kafka: A Biographical Essay by Louis Begley. Here's an excerpt from Smith's review:

Readers are incurable fabulists. Kafka's case, though, extends beyond literary mystique. He is more than a man of mystery—he's metaphysical. Readers who are particularly attached to this supra-Kafka find the introduction of a quotidian Kafka hard to swallow. And vice versa.

Indeed. I think I'm taken in by this idea of a supra-Kafka. The quotidian seems too ordinary (to be perfectly redundant) to be of interest to the incurable fabulist within me. :) Ok.. enough blogging and surfing around. Time to go read some Kafka. The Judgement beckons.