Franz Kafka understood at the deepest level the brute nature of life. He could never find peace in the world. Not mentally, not emotionally , not physically.
He wrote about it.
Millions of readers and people roaming the world synced to that feeling.
The ennui, the difficulty of being here but not of this world. Most people get over it, find an activity to keep them busy, make a family and bring other people to the world. In the end, they might take a last breath, looking back content for what they managed to do.
Kafka was at war, for as long as he was alive, trying to fit in, working a job drenched in bureaucracy hell. His soul was bleeding the whole time. His health was bad.
Nowadays, he probably would have been told to go for therapy. But would that solve the root conflict? Would that help him feel good while alive?
The world was Kafkaesque even before him, for sure, but only his writing, his impulse to express it gave it a name, a meaning. And so, everyone had at least a meaning for the their deepest feelings.
We are all Kafkaesque.
Prague during Kafka's days (and some curious, contemporary kids walking around :))
Franz Kafka Museum, Prague.