This is part of an interview with Jeffrey Eugenides - a favourite writer of thenewgreen - in the NYTimes Book Review, October 7, 2012. Eugenides mocks that super-clichéd question, What three authors, dead or alive, would you invite to dinner.
You’re organizing a dinner party of writers and can invite three authors, dead or alive. Who’s coming?
First I call Shakespeare. “Who else is coming?” Shakespeare asks.
“Tolstoy,” I answer.
“I’m busy that night,” Shakespeare says.
Next I call Kafka, who agrees to come. “As long as you don’t invite Tolstoy.”
“I already invited Tolstoy,” I tell him. “But Kundera’s coming. You like Milan. And you guys can speak Czech.”
“I speak German,” Kafka corrects me.
When Tolstoy hears that Kundera’s coming, he drops out. (Something about an old book review.) So finally I call Joyce, who’s always available. When we get to the restaurant, Kafka wants a table in back. He’s afraid of being recognized. Joyce, who’s already plastered, says, “If anyone’s going to be recognized, it’s me.”
Kundera leans over and whispers in my ear, “People might recognize us too if we went around with a cane.”
The waiter arrives. When he asks about food allergies, Kafka hands him a written list. Then he excuses himself to go to the bathroom. As soon as he’s gone, Kundera says, “The problem with Kafka is that he never got enough tail.” We all snicker.
Joyce orders another bottle of wine. Finally, he turns and looks at me through his dark glasses. “I’m reading your new book,” he says.
“Oh?” I say.
“Yes,” says Joyce.
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The truth is a lot of authors do like to get together for dinner, and it can be fun - especially if there is lots to eat and drink. I won't ask hubski the question.