Kafka's relationship with his parents will never not be hilarious to me. Dude was maybe the single most influential writer of the twentieth century, but he felt physically ill when he saw his parents' rumpled bedclothes because they reminded him that his parents had sex sometimes. No wonder this guy couldn't get it together to get married. Perhaps surprisingly, Franz liked to have sex himself, but he did it decently, at brothels. Not at all surprisingly, he liked brothels because he figured he was hideous. Judge for yourself:
Lookit these two great big nerds! Kafka was a leggy cuss, wasn't he? Personally I don't think he was hideous, but I go for the skinny, pasty Ashkenazi type. (It's true that his ears stuck out like jug handles, but that's a minor issue.) And if you had to construct a mental image of the Famous Anxious Writer's Literary Executor, you might come up with something very like Max Brod there, mightn't you? Sitting up straighter than Kafka, smiling more easily than Kafka, more robust and definitely hairier than Kafka, his shins and collarbones contained respectably within his flesh rather than straining at his skin as his best pal's are. Which of these two great big nerds will live long enough to have to get the hell out of Nazi-dominated Europe, and, having done so, die an old man? There's no question. That's the moustache of a survivor.