“I saw, to my horror, an artfully worn, older-than-me copy of ‘Proust’ by Samuel Beckett.” That, Burroughs claims, was a deal breaker. “If there existed a more hackneyed, achingly obvious method of telegraphing one’s education, literary standards and general intelligence, I couldn’t imagine it.”

Um, yeah, so after my 48-hour imaginary fling with the handsome, young, Kierkegaard- and-critical-theory spouting Irish philosopher guy who spoke at our academic conference this weekend, I'm feeling sheepish at how precisely this article pegs my kind!