Sure, he was an asshole, but I was in line to be his ninth wife

Ladies and Gentlemen, please let a drop of expensive whiskey fall to the hardwood floor of the Cedar Tavern, let your eyes scan the dregs of the Village, and pause appreciatively as Saul Bellow deigns to place his hand on your shoulder on his ascent to heaven.

I realize the heretofore greatest living writer was a ripe 89 (depite his bellicose young wife and Viagra-inspired toddler), but still, it makes you think. Mostly about who the greatest writer alive is now, as that slot has now opened up. I suppose it’s probably Günter Grass, but that would be the trite choice.

Hello. I "value" your comment. (No, really, I do!) Please don't be a dick, though.

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