Maybe the model should be the Prix Queneau, for the year's best writer (in French, naturellement, and Parisian). Once a year he would dress in a tuxedo and head for Les Halles in the wee hours and buy a large platter of fresh oysters, then proceed to the apartment of the winner, who bleary-eyed would answer the door. Queneau would hand over the oysters, announce "tu me plait," turn smartly, and leave. I don't think it even made the papers. And nobody got to refuse to attend.
-----Original Message-----
>From: David Lace <[log in to unmask]>
>Sent: Oct 23, 2016 1:20 PM
>To: [log in to unmask]
>Subject: Re: a bit much
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>Lol, trust Dylan to bring out humour in the situation. Didn't Bunuel once send a taxi driver posing as Bunuel to collect some award or other. Pure genius.
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>-----------------Original Message---------------
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>Kent Johnson wrote:
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>He hasn't said a public word since the announcement, nor even communicated with the Committee. The electors have begun to share their regret about choosing someone so "ungrateful"!
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