Yes, Wilbur gets a prize at the end of the book. Zuckerman gets twenty-five dollars. Fern gets Henry Fussy (or vice versa). And, above all, Charlotte reaps the rewards of all the writing she's been doing in her webs.
This morning, Peter Englund, Permanent Secretary of the Swedish Academy, announced the winner of the 2014 Nobel Prize in Literature in Stockholm. And the winner was...not me. It was some French novelist named Peter Modiano. I was going to say "obscure novelist," but then I risk sounding like some Anglo-centric, ignorant American. From what I've read, Modiano is one of the greatest French writers alive. He's published over thirty-plus novels. His subjects are memory, identity, and time. Blah, blah, blah.
I know all my disciples are crying foul tonight. Once again, I have been robbed of an award I so richly deserve. Instead, the Swedes have chosen to bestow their prize on yet another writer who will, no doubt, fade from memory faster than you can say "Pepé Le Pew." So what if the French people love him? The French awarded Jerry Lewis the Legion of Honor.
I am not bitter or jealous, however.
Peter Modiano won the Nobel Prize in Literature. Saint Marty's going to the Wisconsin Dells this weekend. Who's laughing now?
The winner of this year's Nobel in Literature |
No comments:
Post a Comment