The news has reported that the most recent Nobel Prize in Literature has been awarded to an author by the name of Herta Mueller who was persecuted for writing during the Romania Communist regime. The author of the article stepped up on their soapbox and demanded to understand what this prize has come to and why the Nobel Prize in Literature is continually given to non-American authors, saying that the “award seems to reinforce the notion that the Nobel is a sort of literary archeological dig, in which judges scour the world's libraries and academies for an obscure author, in the hopes of creating a broad, worldwide audience and righting wrongs. The judges liberally slather on their political values, as the winning authors often are known for social commentary that hits at authoritarianism and racism.” The part about it all that floored me the most was to learn that this author, being criticized for only being chosen because of a diverse ethnic background and writing under hardship, beat out such American authors such as Stephenie Meyer and Dan Brown. I think that if America wants a Nobel Prize in Literature so badly, that perhaps we should be producing and nominating much more talented authors than the massively popular Meyers and Brown. I must admit that I do enjoy reading Stephenie Meyers’ books, but to even entertain for a mere millisecond that she deserves a Nobel Prize nomination for such works? It’s absurd! And a complete abomination to the prestigious award, which heralds such great authors as V.S. Naipaul, Gabriel Garcia Marquez, J.M. Coetzee, Alexandr Solzhenitsyn, Hemingway, Faulkner, T.S. Eliot…to name a few.

So, here, to honor a Nobel-worthy author (though he never won one), a rather humorous excerpt (my favorite) from G.K. Chesterton’s The Man Who Was Thursday which we read last month for our book club:

            “I shall approach. Before taking off his hat, I shall take off my own. I shall say, ‘The Marquis de Saint Eustache, I believe.’ He will say, ‘The celbrated Mr. Syme, I presume.’ He will say in the most exquisite French, ‘How are you?’ I shall reply in the most ewquisite Cockney, ‘Oh, just the Syme.’”

            “Oh, shut it,” said the man in spectacles. “Pull yourself together, and chuck away that bit of paper. What are you really going to do?”

            “But it was a lovely catechism,” said Syme pathetically. “Do let me read it to you. It has only forty-three questions and answers, and some of the Marquis’s answers are wonderfully witty. I like to be just to my enemy.”

            “But what’s the good of it all?” asked Dr. Bull in exasperation.

            “It leads up to my challenge, don’t you see,” said Syme, beaming. “When the Marquis has given the thirty-ninth reply, which runs—“

            “Has it by any chance occurred to you,” asked the Professor, with a ponderous simplicity, “that the Marquis may not say all the forty-three things you have put down for him? In that case, I understand, your own epigrams may appear somewhat more forced.”

            Syme struck the table with a radiant face.

            “Why, how true that is,” he said, “and I never though of it. Sir, you have an intellect beyond the common. You will make a name.”

            “Oh, you’re as drunk as an owl!” said the Doctor.

            “It only remains,” continued Syme quite unperturbed, “to adopt some other method of breaking the ice (f I may so express it) etween myself and the man I wish to kill. And since the course of a dialogue cannot be predicted by on of its parties alone (as you have pointed out with such recondite acumen), the only thing to be done, I suppose, is for the one party, as far as possible, to do all the dialogue by himself. And so I will, by George!” And he stood up suddenly, his yellow hair blowing in the slight sea breeze.

Sunday evening my Mom and I are traveling to Indiana. Monday morning I get the pleasure of having all of my wisdom teeth pulled. Hooray! The rest of Monday, Tuesday, and I'm sure Wednesday will find me laying on my bed, drugged, and watching movies.

My birthday was pretty good. Harry Potter was excellent, and fun watching tons of people running around with my birth date on their t-shirts. The movie was great--definitely the best one yet.

Lately, I've been feeling more and more anxious about the Peace Corps. Really realizing what I'll be giving up for it. I think it's really hard right now in this stage not knowing where I"ll be going. On one hand, I think it might be easier knowing where--I can get to know about it and make my peace with it. On the other hand, I feel as though the reality of the whole situation will really set in and induce much greater anxiety. As long as I am sure this is where God is leading me--I shouldn't feel this way. At least not for long. Just pray that I am making the right decision.