The most fascinating people I know are dead writers I’ve never met.
I often fantasize about dining and drinking with famed dead authors, poets and playwrights. I think about what we would talk about, what we would order, if they’d like my writing, and, most importantly, who’d pick up the tab.
I had a devil of a time narrowing down the list, but here are the ten dead writers with whom I’d most like to stuff my face, get drunk and have a chat:
1) William Shakespeare. Due to how much the English language has changed over the past four hundred fifty years, I’m sure Mr. Shakespeare would struggle to understand ninety percent of what I was saying, so we’d be even. I would take him to an English pub, ply him with wine, ask him if he really wrote all the plays that are attributed to him, or if the likes of Christopher Marlowe and Francis Bacon had a hand in any of them. Then I’d challenge him to a rap-off. I would also be sure to let him know he became one of the most famous and revered writers of all time following his death, though is still greatly despised by eighth- and ninth-graders across the U.S. In addition, I’d point out that the modern day Anne Hathaway is much hotter than his wife of the same name. If he argued, I’d introduce him to Google Images, Wikipedia and IMDb. Finally, I’d blog about the whole experience—in iambic pentameter—featuring a selfie of Shakes and me each knocking back a Jager Bomb.
2) Ernest Hemingway. What writer wouldn’t want to dine and drink with Papa? What an honor it would be to have this iconic literary legend personally insult me for sipping vodka instead of absinthe. What a privilege to have him punch me in the face for ordering a salad instead of a steak. And how thrilling to have him point a shotgun at me for using more than a single adjective in a paragraph. During our dinner, I’d tell Hemingway that A Farewell to Arms was the first novel I truly loved in high school, and then I’d quickly duck as he swung at me while accusing me of kissing up to him. I’d also tell him I occasionally post his quotes on Twitter and on my Facebook author page. I’d then spend the next hour showing him what Twitter and Facebook are, and the next hour in the emergency room having my iPhone surgically removed from my rectum.
3) Fyodor Dostoevsky. An existential literary pioneer with a gambling addiction who once faced a firing squad and did some serious prison time? DAMN STRAIGHT I want to hang with Fyodor! He being Russian, our meal would be infused with the finest vodka on offer, and thanks to that big beard of his we’d have no problem getting a seat and near-friendly service at any of the hot hipster establishments in town. I’d tell him how I cut my teeth on his novella Notes from Underground (112 pages) before tackling Crime and Punishment (448 pages) and The Brothers Karamazov (824 pages), and that his work had a profound impact on me as a reader and a writer. And he’d be all, “I no speak English. Shut up, drink!”
4) Anaïs Nin. Most remember Ms. Nin for the groundbreaking erotica she wrote—highly stylized, eloquent and sensual works that mesmerized men and women alike—but it's important to realize she also wrote a lot of other ... sorry, I can't stop thinking about her erotica. During my dinner with Ms. Nin (which I'd invite my wife to in order to eliminate any feelings of jealousy and to open the door for a ménage a trois that Ms. Nin might decide to immortalize beautifully in writing), I'd ask her about her bohemian days in Paris with Henry Miller. I’d also ask her if it's true she had a physical relationship with Miller's wife, June, and, if so, what they were wearing and if a pillow fight was involved. At some point in the evening I'd show Ms. Nin a copy of what's passing for erotica these days, after which I'd accompany her to London to egg E.L. James’ house.
5) Oscar Wilde. I could sit and listen to Wilde's unparalleled wit and brilliant observations all evening long, particularly if he's springing for the reckless extravagance of cucumber sandwiches he'd no doubt insist we eat. I'd let him know his is the only Irish writing I can stomach from his era, and how close I've come to getting one or more of his sardonic quotes about life and art tattooed on my daughter. In addition, I'd tell him how heartbroken I was after learning all about his trial and imprisonment, and that I even mentioned it in my first novel, which I'd have him read in front of me on a Kindle over dessert.
6) Mark Twain. Having dinner with the greatest American humorist would be a little intimidating, but I'm sure Mr. Twain would soon relax and realize I'm quite approachable. We'd feast on oysters and steamed mussels, which were his favorite foods as far as Wikipedia knows. I'd tell Mr. Twain how reading The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn woke me up to great literature at age eleven and even made me miss Saturday morning cartoons once. Adhering to good etiquette, I'd wait until he'd had at least three or four whiskey cocktails before I informed him that his famous quote "The report of my death is an exaggeration" no longer was an exaggeration. Being sober when finding out you've been deceased for more than a century can ruin a perfectly enjoyable evening.
7) Sylvia Plath. Most people would assume that someone as deeply depressed and as successfully suicidal as Ms. Plath would make a miserable dining companion, but most people don't think they know Sylvia the way I think I know her. After all, her ghost figured prominently in my debut novel—a fact I'd be sure to point out to her during our meal while keeping her away from any cutlery and the kitchen. I’d let her know her words—particularly all the white-hot ones she wrote in Ariel just before she spun off the planet—sparked a fire in me and compelled me to stop watching so many goddamn episodes of Friends and Everybody Loves Raymond.
8) William S. Burroughs. I being born with tongue firmly in cheek, it would be crazy cool to break bread and bottles with the man Jack Kerouac called the "greatest satirical writer since Jonathan Swift." (I thought about adding Swift to this list, but he, unlike Burroughs, was never addicted to heroine and didn't kill any wives William Tell style, and thus I feared he might be a bit of a bore.) While dining with Burroughs, I wouldn’t ask or say much. I’d just sit there and listen. That’s what you do when you’re with a Harvard grad who helped build the Beat Generation and the 1960s counterculture, and who inspired not only some of the greatest writers of his time and ours but also such musicians as Lou Reed, Patti Smith, Tom Waits and Kurt Cobain. Even if he ended up speaking in sentences and fragments that were totally out of sequence, like in his masterpiece Naked Lunch, I'd shut the hell up and just smile and wave.
9) Maya Angelou. During my dinner with Ms. Angelou, I’d say even less and listen even more than during my dinner with Burroughs. It seems every word—hell, every burp—that ever left this lady’s mouth was a beautiful and courageous poem. (Speaking of poems, she recited a pretty phenomenal one—“On the Pulse of Morning”—at Bill Clinton’s presidential inauguration in 1993, making her the first poet to do so since Robert Frost at JFK’s inauguration in 1961. Not too shabby for someone who once worked as a fry cook and as a prostitute.) Just to be sure I kept quiet during my dinner with the honorable Ms. Angelou, I’d order a very chewy steak and/or a huge peanut butter sandwich, and then just bask in the light and the eloquence and the power her syllables. Naturally, though, I’d live-Tweet the whole experience.
10) Theodor Seuss Geisel (a.k.a., Dr. Seuss). Upon greeting the Great Doctor for the first time, it would take all the power I could muster to not ask, "Is that a wocket in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?" After overcoming that ridiculous urge, I'd spend too much of the evening fawning over the writer who taught me at a tender age to fully embrace all the beauty and wonder and absurdity of the human experience, and to be open to trying odd-colored breakfast foods on a boat or with a goat. As for the actual meal, I'd recommend we bounce around to different restaurants and sample little plates at each locale in hopes of inspiring Seuss to write a book called Oh The Places You'll Go To Dinner.
What dead writers do you think would make intriguing dining companions? Feel free to share in the comments section below.
I often fantasize about dining and drinking with famed dead authors, poets and playwrights. I think about what we would talk about, what we would order, if they’d like my writing, and, most importantly, who’d pick up the tab.
I had a devil of a time narrowing down the list, but here are the ten dead writers with whom I’d most like to stuff my face, get drunk and have a chat:
1) William Shakespeare. Due to how much the English language has changed over the past four hundred fifty years, I’m sure Mr. Shakespeare would struggle to understand ninety percent of what I was saying, so we’d be even. I would take him to an English pub, ply him with wine, ask him if he really wrote all the plays that are attributed to him, or if the likes of Christopher Marlowe and Francis Bacon had a hand in any of them. Then I’d challenge him to a rap-off. I would also be sure to let him know he became one of the most famous and revered writers of all time following his death, though is still greatly despised by eighth- and ninth-graders across the U.S. In addition, I’d point out that the modern day Anne Hathaway is much hotter than his wife of the same name. If he argued, I’d introduce him to Google Images, Wikipedia and IMDb. Finally, I’d blog about the whole experience—in iambic pentameter—featuring a selfie of Shakes and me each knocking back a Jager Bomb.
2) Ernest Hemingway. What writer wouldn’t want to dine and drink with Papa? What an honor it would be to have this iconic literary legend personally insult me for sipping vodka instead of absinthe. What a privilege to have him punch me in the face for ordering a salad instead of a steak. And how thrilling to have him point a shotgun at me for using more than a single adjective in a paragraph. During our dinner, I’d tell Hemingway that A Farewell to Arms was the first novel I truly loved in high school, and then I’d quickly duck as he swung at me while accusing me of kissing up to him. I’d also tell him I occasionally post his quotes on Twitter and on my Facebook author page. I’d then spend the next hour showing him what Twitter and Facebook are, and the next hour in the emergency room having my iPhone surgically removed from my rectum.
3) Fyodor Dostoevsky. An existential literary pioneer with a gambling addiction who once faced a firing squad and did some serious prison time? DAMN STRAIGHT I want to hang with Fyodor! He being Russian, our meal would be infused with the finest vodka on offer, and thanks to that big beard of his we’d have no problem getting a seat and near-friendly service at any of the hot hipster establishments in town. I’d tell him how I cut my teeth on his novella Notes from Underground (112 pages) before tackling Crime and Punishment (448 pages) and The Brothers Karamazov (824 pages), and that his work had a profound impact on me as a reader and a writer. And he’d be all, “I no speak English. Shut up, drink!”
4) Anaïs Nin. Most remember Ms. Nin for the groundbreaking erotica she wrote—highly stylized, eloquent and sensual works that mesmerized men and women alike—but it's important to realize she also wrote a lot of other ... sorry, I can't stop thinking about her erotica. During my dinner with Ms. Nin (which I'd invite my wife to in order to eliminate any feelings of jealousy and to open the door for a ménage a trois that Ms. Nin might decide to immortalize beautifully in writing), I'd ask her about her bohemian days in Paris with Henry Miller. I’d also ask her if it's true she had a physical relationship with Miller's wife, June, and, if so, what they were wearing and if a pillow fight was involved. At some point in the evening I'd show Ms. Nin a copy of what's passing for erotica these days, after which I'd accompany her to London to egg E.L. James’ house.
5) Oscar Wilde. I could sit and listen to Wilde's unparalleled wit and brilliant observations all evening long, particularly if he's springing for the reckless extravagance of cucumber sandwiches he'd no doubt insist we eat. I'd let him know his is the only Irish writing I can stomach from his era, and how close I've come to getting one or more of his sardonic quotes about life and art tattooed on my daughter. In addition, I'd tell him how heartbroken I was after learning all about his trial and imprisonment, and that I even mentioned it in my first novel, which I'd have him read in front of me on a Kindle over dessert.
6) Mark Twain. Having dinner with the greatest American humorist would be a little intimidating, but I'm sure Mr. Twain would soon relax and realize I'm quite approachable. We'd feast on oysters and steamed mussels, which were his favorite foods as far as Wikipedia knows. I'd tell Mr. Twain how reading The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn woke me up to great literature at age eleven and even made me miss Saturday morning cartoons once. Adhering to good etiquette, I'd wait until he'd had at least three or four whiskey cocktails before I informed him that his famous quote "The report of my death is an exaggeration" no longer was an exaggeration. Being sober when finding out you've been deceased for more than a century can ruin a perfectly enjoyable evening.
7) Sylvia Plath. Most people would assume that someone as deeply depressed and as successfully suicidal as Ms. Plath would make a miserable dining companion, but most people don't think they know Sylvia the way I think I know her. After all, her ghost figured prominently in my debut novel—a fact I'd be sure to point out to her during our meal while keeping her away from any cutlery and the kitchen. I’d let her know her words—particularly all the white-hot ones she wrote in Ariel just before she spun off the planet—sparked a fire in me and compelled me to stop watching so many goddamn episodes of Friends and Everybody Loves Raymond.
8) William S. Burroughs. I being born with tongue firmly in cheek, it would be crazy cool to break bread and bottles with the man Jack Kerouac called the "greatest satirical writer since Jonathan Swift." (I thought about adding Swift to this list, but he, unlike Burroughs, was never addicted to heroine and didn't kill any wives William Tell style, and thus I feared he might be a bit of a bore.) While dining with Burroughs, I wouldn’t ask or say much. I’d just sit there and listen. That’s what you do when you’re with a Harvard grad who helped build the Beat Generation and the 1960s counterculture, and who inspired not only some of the greatest writers of his time and ours but also such musicians as Lou Reed, Patti Smith, Tom Waits and Kurt Cobain. Even if he ended up speaking in sentences and fragments that were totally out of sequence, like in his masterpiece Naked Lunch, I'd shut the hell up and just smile and wave.
9) Maya Angelou. During my dinner with Ms. Angelou, I’d say even less and listen even more than during my dinner with Burroughs. It seems every word—hell, every burp—that ever left this lady’s mouth was a beautiful and courageous poem. (Speaking of poems, she recited a pretty phenomenal one—“On the Pulse of Morning”—at Bill Clinton’s presidential inauguration in 1993, making her the first poet to do so since Robert Frost at JFK’s inauguration in 1961. Not too shabby for someone who once worked as a fry cook and as a prostitute.) Just to be sure I kept quiet during my dinner with the honorable Ms. Angelou, I’d order a very chewy steak and/or a huge peanut butter sandwich, and then just bask in the light and the eloquence and the power her syllables. Naturally, though, I’d live-Tweet the whole experience.
10) Theodor Seuss Geisel (a.k.a., Dr. Seuss). Upon greeting the Great Doctor for the first time, it would take all the power I could muster to not ask, "Is that a wocket in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?" After overcoming that ridiculous urge, I'd spend too much of the evening fawning over the writer who taught me at a tender age to fully embrace all the beauty and wonder and absurdity of the human experience, and to be open to trying odd-colored breakfast foods on a boat or with a goat. As for the actual meal, I'd recommend we bounce around to different restaurants and sample little plates at each locale in hopes of inspiring Seuss to write a book called Oh The Places You'll Go To Dinner.
What dead writers do you think would make intriguing dining companions? Feel free to share in the comments section below.
