It was a Sunday morning and I'd been up since 7 am to get ready for a flight. I was tired from Saturday night, and really, I am not, nor will I probably ever be, a morning person. And I had been coming down for a cold for some time, so every now and then a death rattle would throw itself out of my mouth, trying most likely to escape out of me and into one of the other airway patrons.
I say this so you will understand this: I was not in a happy or pleasant mood. And on a normal day, I am never, never, rude. My mother and father taught me better than that.
So I go to a Border's to get a book and I pass the clerk talking to a customer. The clerk referred to a book (and this is a short paraphrase of his wordy overfilled speech) as the greatest book ever by a living author today. And what did I do as I passed?
I snorted. Very audibly. Glares by clerk followed (also a nice conversation when I bought a book where he slowly read my books back cover before sarcastically commenting on it. ah, i make friends), and I felt a little bad because of the parents and the politeness agenda.
But look - it is ridiculous to say anything about a greatest living author of all times. Reading is subjective (and of course the clerk meant "in his opinion" - this issue is bigger than him), and for anyone to advertise such things as a greatest living author is beyond silly (oh and said author the clerk was advertising wrote a book that sounds like "the toad.").
Besides, everyone knows the greatest living author is Joyce Carol Oates. No question about it. :^)