Alice Munro Nobel Diploma
Copyright © The Nobel Foundation 2013
Artist: John Stenborg
Calligrapher: Annika Rücker
Book binder: Ingemar Dackéus
Photo reproduction: Lovisa Engblom
“Yes, dear reader, farewell!” he began at once from the manuscript without sitting down again in his chair. “Farewell, reader; I do not greatly insist on our parting friends; what need to trouble you, indeed. You may abuse me, abuse me as you will if it affords you any satisfaction. But best of all if we forget one another for ever. And if you all, readers, were suddenly so kind as to fall on your knees and begin begging me with tears, ‘Write, oh, write for us, Karmazinov — for the sake of Russia, for the sake of posterity, to win laurels,’ even then I would answer you, thanking you, of course, with every courtesy, ‘No, we’ve had enough of one another, dear fellow-countrymen, merci! It’s time we took our separate ways!”Herd, mem, merci!”
Fyodor Dostoevsky, The Possessed
(making fun of Turgenev)
And this I believe: that the free, exploring mind of the individual human is the most valuable thing in the world. And this I would fight for: the freedom of the mind to take any direction it wishes, undirected.
There is exquisite pleasure in subduing an insolent spirit, in making a person predetermined to dislike acknowledge one’s superiority.
André Kertész - New York, 1974.
He’s always got a book with him, and if there’s a lull in the conversation he may pull a book out and start reading it. He just knows an amazing amount of things but he complains about his bad memory. On a daily basis he probably does have a bad memory, and I think that has something to do with his interest in questions of memory and bringing back the past and things of that sort in his books. But he does remember an amazing amount of what he’s read and what he’s heard.
Bodily dragging myself through this book. I can see Calvino is doing a thing but I just don’t care.
Only in dreams was I venturesome, while in reality I instinctively quailed before the future. […] I unconsciously decided to be content for the time being with the world of dreams, in which I alone was master, in which there were only temptations and joys, and where misfortune, if it were admitted at all, played only a passive, evanescent role necessary for the delicious contrasts and unexpected turns of fate that led to the happy endings of all my enthralling, imaginary romances.