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One writer's name became an adjective because he mapped a nightmare the whole modern world would come to share. The novels gathered here are the great inheritors of that vision, from a fort awaiting an enemy that never comes to a ministry that harvests a nation's dreams. Each shows the kafkaesque wearing a different face, in a different tongue.
One ordinary morning, a man is arrested for a crime no one will name, and the deepest horror of his ordeal is that some part of him comes to believe he is guilty. Kafka's unfinished masterpiece is the great parable of modern guilt, of a bureaucracy without a face and a law without a door, and it has given its author's name to a whole condition of the modern soul.

Some experiences are so absurd, so airless, so exactly like a nightmare run by clerks, that only one word will do. We call them kafkaesque, and in reaching for a dead novelist's name we admit that he saw our world coming. This is what the word truly means, and why nothing else quite replaces it.