Year after year, I wait expectantly for the announcement, and year after year, my name never appears
Once again it has happened. The Nobel Prize for literature has been awarded, and once again it was not yours truly who won the prize, but someone else entirely. Year after year, I wait expectantly for the announcement, and year after year, my name never appears.
It is obvious that the Nobel committee does not read Mishpacha magazine. If they did, one of us would certainly have captured the prize. If not I, then surely one of our other regulars — Eisenman or Kobre or Rosenblum — surely qualifies.
I must confess: Maybe I am just not good enough. I keep hoping, but chances are that I will never get that prize for literature. It is very possible that the quality of my writing is not up to the standards of the Nobel people. This is hard for me to admit, but in my humility, I must admit it.
But now an idea strikes me. If I cannot win the prize for literature, surely I could win it for humility. The Nobel committee does not have a prize for humility? Well, it is time they created one, and I am available to be the first recipient. To be perfectly frank, I know of no one who is more humble than I.
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