The idea of the author as an entertainer has become widely accepted.
For more information on this notion, see for example Lesson Two, “The Novel in Africa,” in Coetzee’s Elizabeth Costello. In this lesson, the author (Elizabeth Costello), has some interesting encounters on a cruise ship, where she has been invited in order to amuse the passengers.
In the Netherlands, there is a small foundation that organizes a dinner on Christmas Eve every year. Before dessert is served, an author reads a Christmas story specially written for this event.
The definition of “Christmas story” is rather broad. Everything with a beginning, a middle and an end will do.
This year, the foundation has invited me.
Not a cruise ship, but one has to start somewhere.
I accepted without much hesitation. The financial conditions were reasonable, but more importantly, I was not sure what to do on Christmas Eve.
The Foundation Christmas Story (Stichting Het Kerstverhaal) provided me with the perfect excuse not to spend the evening alone, or with my mother who, anyhow, believes that a Jew should not celebrate Christmas, and therefore she refuses to cook for the last two weeks of December.
My fantasy was that I would eat an elaborate dinner (the event took place at the Amsterdam Hilton), after that I would read my story, and then I would spend some time in the bar surrounded by educated people who were willing to comfort me.
The organizers argued that it would be more theatrical if I would appear only after the guests were done with their main dish.
So I ate soup alone in my hotel room, waiting for the phone call that the time had come for me to take a taxi to the Hilton.
After the reading, a few people approached me. Now, I didn't expect to receive nothing but kudos. My story wasn’t really cheerful in the traditional meaning of that word.
But neither had I expected that I would receive complaints about the food.
One woman told me the pasta was cold. A family suggested that the dinner was a rip off, and another woman said that the ravioli were supposed to contain crab meat, but that hers were empty.
I learned my last lesson of 2005. The responsibility of an author is not limited to his work. Many readers, rightly or wrongly, assume that an author is responsible for the fillings of their ravioli, too.