One. There is no reason to wait for any literary prize, any time, let alone the Nobel.
Two. Prizes are modern day shamanism.
Three. And as such not totally untrustworthy.
Four. It can be like watching a volcano; you may not like it, but there is nothing much you can do about it.
Five. It can be like Sudoku for the educated; and I don’t even like Sudoku for the uneducated.
Six. It can be a way to let total randomness take over.
Seven. Remember: There is no meaning.
Eight. Remember: You are small and worthless.
Nine. You are just the reader.
Ten. But this, this is destiny, this is history.
Eleven. This is stupid.
Twelve. And as such not totally boring.
Thirteen. Or wrong.
Fourteen. It is what it is.
Fiveteen. It just does not tell you very much, about literature, about the world, about anything bascially.
Sixteen. Apart, of course, from what it tells you about literature, the world, anything.
Seventeen. Which is: You are a fool.
Eighteen. If you really wait for this – you are either a literary critic who has to pretend that he has read any works of this eminent voice of the unheard and in 45 minutes produce something your boss will like in the morning.
Nineteen. Or, of course, you are a bookseller, nice fellows.
Twenty. Or, you are a writer; is there actually like a middle of the road kind of writer, say Michael Ondaatje, who expects to win, again and again, and is disappointed, again and again?
Twenty-one. Writers.
Twenty-two. Nice Fellows.
Twenty-three. So who, this year?
Twenty-four. Hahaha.
Twenty-five. Don DeLillo, safe bet!