As you may know, the National Book Awards are handed out tonight. The Oscars of the American book scene, with much of the glitz and the pomp, I'd love to be a fly (if they were not all swatted away at the door ... or killed by the New York cold) at the table of the nominee I expect, or perhaps hope, wants to be there least: Marilynne Robinson. I could be mis-reading what I know of her entirely, but I just have a hunch Robinson would not be star-struck at all. Oh, she'd be graceful about it all, for sure. But I suspect, too, she might look about, sipping her wine so as to glance at her watch, wanting most to return to her hotel room, where she might write the sentence she thought of in the cab. "My money's on you to win, Ms. Robinson," I'd say. To which she'd reply, "Oh, but you're a fly. You have no money. But I'm glad you made it in." And then her name would be called, and untold copies of Lila would wear that medallion sticker. This is what I imagine. You are invited to imagine quite differently.
In the meantime, this is a wonderful article about her latest novel from the UK Guardian.