Arnon Grunberg



The last evening in Accra: we had dinner at a Lebanese restaurant. Timme cried, there were speeches -- there was a lot of food, almost as good as in Lebanon.
It’s easy to be ironic about a few tears or a short but intense feeling of melancholy, but as Timme said: "When I entered this contest I was sure that the winners would never go on a trip with you."
You can be proud of books you have written, or matches you have won, but I’m proud, and if that word is too big, I’m happy that the winners of the contest traveled with me to Ghana. This is my modest revenge on life: from time to time you have to turn your fantasies into reality, if only to confuse your enemies, and to add some happiness to a few pariahs and outcasts who were willing to write an essay for this particular contest. (Although I have to admit that one of the winners of the contest managed this evening to judge a novel, well a novella written by me as flawed but I ignored his words as a loving father.)
I will go to sleep, but the gentlemen (they prefer to be called "swines") in the living room will drink for quite a few hours to come, I’m sure.
It's hard to leave a temporary family. Also for me.