Idly googling myself some years ago, I came upon an unusually glowing reference to one of my academic papers. “Masterpiece is an overused word,” the reviewer wrote, “but this Proustian evocation is indeed a masterpiece.”
Something was amiss. My paper was good, but not that good. And there was nothing particularly Proustian about it either. Whatever exquisite sensibility I might possess was well hidden beneath a scholarly armour of logic, evidence and jargon.
Reading further resolved the puzzle. “Nicky Haslam has known everyone from Greta Garbo to Cole Porter to the Royal Family.” Curses! I had been confused with my namesake, the famous British interior designer and scourge of vulgarity, and my paper with one of his books.
