Just in case you missed the announcement:
http://www.economist.com/blogs/prospero/2012/04/pulitzer-prize-fiction
Needless to say, I was thrilled, but I was also surprised, since I never submitted an entry. I'm still waiting for the check. It's been a very long time, but the mail is very slow out here.
That's not my picture at the head of the article, by the way. It's apparently one of the runner ups, David Foster Somebody-or-other. Why would they do that?
I'm honored to say that I know the winner of the Pulitzer Prize in fiction personally. Truthfully, I can say that I know Nobody very well, and that Nobody is absolutely my favorite author. The best book ever written was written by Nobody. Truly, an accomplishment that I think only Nobody could manage.
Nobody knows the trouble I've seen. Nobody knows my sorrows.
If only I had a nickel for every time my name's been taken in vain:
"Honey, who were you talking to on the phone just now?"
"Nobody."
"Baby, if I can't make you happy, who can?"
"Nobody."
The expectations are burdensome at times.
I wish you would put up a picture of yourself. I really would like to see a picture of nobody.
Sally, dear, why would anyone call him or herself Nobody and then post a picture so anyone could point them out in a crowd?
Oh, no, no, no. I'd never have a moment's peace for all the mindless idolatry snd, my God, the paparazzi.
"Oh! Look!"
"Who's that?"
"It's Nobody!"
"Yaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhh!!!!!!"
Bedlam, chaos. Who wants that?
Nobody, that's who.
By the same token, it's often difficult when the trope becomes a giggle in a Mobius strip club.
David Foster Wallace is not really dead.
Would that it were so.
Now that I'm no longer Nobody, I suppose I'll have to relinquish the prize. Oh, well. It's okay. They never sent me the check.