Far from New Orleans, at the threshold of Cajun country, delayed by traffic and the weather, D and I missed David Sedaris speaking at a bookshop in our very own neighborhood last night. This morning, when I went in to collect my signed copy (and unwittingly to buy a copy of Children Playing Before A Statue Of Hercules out of pure dejection for having missed the signing), Amy said, “Oh, I remembered to find out if he is of Jewish ancestry, and no part of him is Jewish.” (We now have it on record that David Sedaris is not Jewish.) She also had to tell me that I could have come in at midnight when David was still signing books and talking to people. Ehhh, no thanks, I’m not into standing in Star Wars-like lines that loop back on themselves. Didn’t do it for Neal Stephenson, not about to do it for David Sedaris. What a sight it would have been for photographic purposes, however.
Without much else to report, I embarked on writing about the flood of feeling evoked by Khaled Hosseini’s splendid debut, The Kite Runner. Look for it in my next post. Fair warning: it will be long.