Kafka and Geertz

I never thought that the sad neurotic author Franz Kafka and the well-traveled anthropologist Clifford Geertz had much in common, and perhaps they don't. Yet strange things happen when I take to reading their works out in public...

While picnicking with Kafka in a park in one of those far off places of my past, I attracted too much attention. No one would have mistaken me for underfed, yet I was offered food. My foreign appearance may have linked me with a love of Mcfood, but I really wasn't in the mood. Kafka had a much bigger draw. In turn three men old enough to be my grandfather approached me offering me food or money. At first the language barrier confused me, but body language could not obscure what they were really after. The first, the most gregarious of the three, offered to take me for food, give me money, and take me back to his place just across the park. Now one would think that having rejected the first the remaining onlookers would feel discouraged. But no. The second waited less than ten minutes to slide into the space vacated by the first and take up the dirty sign language. A firm repeated 'no' in several languages and an insistence that Kafka was all the man I needed finally scared him off. The third waited even less time to seize the opportunity to conquer me and Kafka. But he too kept his money and got nothing. Since he refused to accept my refusal, I had no choice but to collect my things and leave. Later I learned from a coworker that the picturesque park I had chosen for my afternoon picnic was also frequented by prostitutes. They must have figured I was one of them. For some inexplicable reason I blame Kafka.

Geertz is another matter. And another story. Maybe the comparison isn't quite fair. But I can't help seeing similarities. But let's not retell that story now...