October 9: A Special Award, 2014 Nobel Prize in Literature, Peter Modiano

"Attention, please!" it said.  "Will Mr. Homer Zuckerman bring his famous pig to the judges' booth in front of the grandstand.  A special award will be made there in twenty minutes.  Everyone is invited to attend.  Crate your pig, please, Mr. Zuckerman, and report to the judges' booth promptly!"

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

January 19: Poetry to Write, Classic Saint Marty, New Cartoon

I have some pleasant work to do tonight.  After I'm done with this post, I'm going to write in my journal for a couple of hours.  Poetry journaling exercises.  I don't usually have an excuse to simply sit and write.  Tonight, I do.  I'm preparing for the poetry workshop I'm teaching tomorrow night.

I hope I don't get too tired.  I spent the weekend cleaning for money, one house yesterday and one today.  I'm a little sore at the moment, but that's about all.  I'm thinking about having some special hot chocolate tonight.  Bailey's Irish Cream and warm cocoa.  It might get my creative juices flowing, or it might put me right to sleep.  It's a chance I'm willing to take.

I do have a Classic Saint Marty for you guys this evening, from the very first year of the blog.  This episode first aired on October 7, 2010.  It's sort of about disappointment, but mostly it's about unexpected blessings.  And the Nobel Prize in Literature.

Enjoy.  Saint Marty has to go mix up some inspiration for himself now.

October 7, 2010:  Our Lady of the Rosary

And the winner of the 2010 Nobel Prize in Literature was...

Not me.

It wasn't the unpronounceable African writer.  It wasn't even Cormac McCarthy, the writer who wouldn't have pissed me off if he had won.  In fact, I might have even been able to work up a little happiness this morning if McCarthy took home the big kahuna.

The winner is.....NOT YOU!!!!!!!!

As I sat at my computer at 6:45 a.m., watching the webcast from the Swedish Academy in Stockholm, I experienced a kind of excitement I used to feel on my birthdays and Christmases as a child.  Now, I knew I didn't stand a snowball's chance in Fiji of winning.  Don't think I'm some kind of delusional egomaniac.  I'm not delusional.  I just was excited.  I can be excited without being mentally unstable. 

Any way, the commentator on the webcast was saying, "And, in about five minutes' time, the Permanent Secretary of the Swedish Academy, Peter Englund, will walk through those doors into the Great Hall to announce the winner of the 2010 Nobel Prize in Literature."  I was sucking down my Diet Mountain Dew.  Then the commentator said, "Right now, the Permanent Secretary is calling the winner to congratulate him or her on being selected."

And the phone on my desk rang.

October 7 is the feast of Our Lady of the Rosary.  It originated  around 1571 as a celebration of a "naval victory over the Turks" by Don Juan of Austria.  Don Juan credited his success to the recitation of the rosary.  In 1716, Emperor Charles VI again defeated the Turks in battle, and Pope Clement XI extended the feast to the entire church.  Finally, in 1961, the day officially became known as the feast of Our Lady of the Rosary.  It's a day celebrating the power of prayer, of victory due to divine intervention.

Now my rational mind knew my ringing phone was pure coincidence, but the six-year-old-kid-on-Christmas-morning side of me thought, "IwonIwonIwonIwonIwonIwonIwonIwonIwonIwon!!!!!!"  For several seconds, I had a disconnect from reality as I reached for the phone.

I cleared my throat, picked up the receiver, and said, "Hello, this is Marty."

There was a pause.  Was that long distance static I heard?  Then a voice said, "Hi, daddy."

Five minutes later, Peter Englund entered the Great Hall and announced the Peruvian writer Mario Vargas Llosa had won the Nobel Prize.

My miracle was the conversation I had with my beautiful, nine-year-old daughter.

There's always next year.

Confessions of Saint Marty

October 11: Losing Once Mo

As most of you are probably aware by now, I did not win the Nobel Prize in Literature this year, despite my four-year-old son's prediction.  That phone call from the Swedish Academy never came this morning.  Instead, I had to watch Peter Englund, the permanent secretary of the organization, walk through those white doors into the great hall and announce that Mo Yan, a Chinese novelist, was the winner of the Prize for 2012.

Whatever.  He grew up poor, the son of farmers.  Whatever.  He lives under the censorship of communist China.  Whatever.  He's only 57 years old, and he's already won the Nobel Prize.  Whatever.  When Peter Englund called to tell Mo Yan that he had won the Nobel, Yan said he was "overjoyed" and "scared."  Whatever.  He made his literary debut in 1981, which means it took him only 30 years to get the attention of the Swedes.  Whatever.  He's the first Nobel laureate from China.  Whatever.

I guess my reaction today is "whatever."  If the Swedish Academy wants to honor a communist, that's fine.  If they want to award another novelist, big deal.  If they want to ignore my immense talent for yet another year, so be it.

Saint Marty is a patient man.  Sort of.

The man who stole my Nobel

October 11: Hour Was Passed, Wisest Resolution, the Announcement

Scrooge lay in this state until the chimes had gone three quarters more, when he remembered, on a sudden, that the Ghost had warned him of a visitation when the bell tolled one.  He resolved to lie awake until the hour was passed; and, considering that he could no mre go to sleep than go to Heaven, this was perhaps the wisest resolution in his power.

So, there Scrooge sits in his bed, waiting for the first of the Christmas Ghosts to appear.  He sits and listens to his clock chime the times.  It's a long wait for the old guy, but he's determined to prove to himself that Marley's visit was simply the result of some bad gruel.

I, myself, am playing the waiting game this morning, along with Scrooge.  You see, this morning, in approximately 36 minutes, the winner of the Nobel Prize in Literature is going to be announced in Stockholm at the Swedish Academy.  I have it from a good source that I will win this year.  (Of course, my good source was my four-year-old son who told me, "Daddy, you win.  Can I play your iPad now?")  Thus, I am sitting here with no less than two other computers plugged into the Nobel Prize site, waiting for the live Webcast from the Swedish Academy to start.  I'm expecting it to commence any moment.  According to the countdown clock, there are less than 29 minutes left until the announcement.

I'm thinking that I will take the rest of the day off work and teaching when I win at 7 a.m.  The media will be outrageous, and my phone will simply ring off the hook.  I won't have time to do anything else but talk to reporters and bask in the admiration and jealousy of other writers.  Sorry Cormac McCarthy and Philip Roth and Alice Munro.  It's my Nobel year.

The live Webcast just booted up, which means that in 20 minutes or so, Peter Englund, the permanent secretary of the Swedish Academy, will be calling to congratulate me, and then he will walk through the white doors into the great hall and release my name to the world.  It will be a great day for world literature.

Well, I must go and await my call from Sweden.

Saint Marty will see you on the other side of the Nobel Prize announcement.

I'm waiting for your call, Mr. Englund

October 7: Our Lady of the Rosary

And the winner of the 2010 Nobel Prize in Literature was...

Not me.

It wasn't the unpronounceable African writer.  It wasn't even Cormac McCarthy, the writer who wouldn't have pissed me off if he had won.  In fact, I might have even been able to work up a little happiness this morning if McCarthy took home the big kahuna.

The winner is.....NOT YOU!!!!!!!!

As I sat at my computer at 6:45 a.m., watching the webcast from the Swedish Academy in Stockholm, I experienced a kind of excitement I used to feel on my birthdays and Christmases as a child.  Now, I knew I didn't stand a snowball's chance in Fiji of winning.  Don't think I'm some kind of delusional egomaniac.  I'm not delusional.  I just was excited.  I can be excited without being mentally unstable. 

Any way, the commentator on the webcast was saying, "And, in about five minutes' time, the Permanent Secretary of the Swedish Academy, Peter Englund, will walk through those doors into the Great Hall to announce the winner of the 2010 Nobel Prize in Literature."  I was sucking down my Diet Mountain Dew.  Then the commentator said, "Right now, the Permanent Secretary is calling the winner to congratulate him or her on being selected."

And the phone on my desk rang.



October 7 is the feast of Our Lady of the Rosary.  It originated  around 1571 as a celebration of a "naval victory over the Turks" by Don Juan of Austria.  Don Juan credited his success to the recitation of the rosary.  In 1716, Emperor Charles VI again defeated the Turks in battle, and Pope Clement XI extended the feast to the entire church.  Finally, in 1961, the day officially became known as the feast of Our Lady of the Rosary.  It's a day celebrating the power of prayer, of victory due to divine intervention.

Now my rational mind knew my ringing phone was pure coincidence, but the six-year-old-kid-on-Christmas-morning side of me thought, "IwonIwonIwonIwonIwonIwonIwonIwonIwonIwon!!!!!!"  For several seconds, I had a disconnect from reality as I reached for the phone.

I cleared my throat, picked up the receiver, and said, "Hello, this is Marty."

There was a pause.  Was that long distance static I heard?  Then a voice said, "Hi, daddy."

Five minutes later, Peter Englund entered the Great Hall and announced the Peruvian writer Mario Vargas Llosa had won the Nobel Prize.

My miracle was the conversation I had with my beautiful, nine-year-old daughter.

There's always next year.