A literate complaint from a New Yorker writer about the unjust exclusion of non-fiction by the Nobel committee. Right on, brother!
http://www.newyorker.com/culture/cultural-comment/nonfiction-deserves-nobel
I am just back from my son’s birthday celebration. He opened presents at his sister’s while tossing her child around; among his gifts were a compass that belonged to his English great-grandfather and a hippo sculpture that was his grandma’s. And then we walked to his fab, trendy restaurant on Roncesvalles – he, his sister, her son, her new beau Matt, and their two best friends Holly and Vince.
When we arrived, we were given icy flutes, and a bottle of champagne appeared from Sam’s godfather Chris, who’d called from Vancouver to order it for us. And then a delicious feast in a place where everyone knew the guest of honour. This is his world, the world of trendy food and drink, and he swims in it like a comfortable fish. And we get to enjoy.
At one point, I said to Matt, “This is a family that knows how to eat, drink and enjoy.” And he said, “That’s the best thing I’ve heard all day.” We like him.
Bubbles! Big green bubbles!
Going home. Thirty and two.
