grandfather him in under the Nobel clause
Эмили Йоффе из Слейта рассказывает про romantic moment.
The summer I was 34, I was adrift. I had just left a great job of four years at Texas Monthly in Austin, and I had also ended a long (for me) and tumultuous relationship. In Boston to visit family, I went to Logan Airport to pick up a long-time friend coming through town.
These were the days you could stand outside the gate for arriving passengers and a small knot of us were waiting. Scanning the crowd, I noticed a striking and familiar looking older man with a large leonine head. It was Saul Bellow, the Nobel Prize-winning novelist. What a coincidence; I had just finished a collection of his short stories and had seen that face every evening on my nightstand. I must have been staring because Bellow returned my gaze, and smiled. I smiled back and in a moment he was stepping toward me, hand out, introducing himself. I said I was a huge fan.
“Are you a student?” he asked me. Was I a student! This man was smooth, even at 74. I replied I was a journalist. He told me that one of his sons was a journalist. I already knew he’d had a series of sons by a series of wives.
As we talked-he stood very close-I tried to make sparkling conversation while wrestling with an internal dilemma. Through my 20s I had been involved with considerably older men. But I had gotten help for this daddy issue and was reformed. I now only dated men around my own age. But here I was getting the full Bellow treatment, the heavy-lidded bedroom eyes, the sly smile. I thought to myself, “Maybe I can grandfather him in under the Nobel clause.”
I lost track of time and purpose and then suddenly passengers started arriving. Out of the corner of my eye I saw my friend. I could see him do a double-take as he immediately recognized Bellow. I tried to furtively wave him off with my left hand, but either he didn’t see my gesture or ignored it. I found myself introducing him to Saul Bellow. It was clear Bellow thought he was more than a friend. The spell was broken, and we all parted.
One morning that fall, my alarm clock woke me up to the news on NPR that Saul Bellow had married for a fifth time. His new wife was 31. I lay there in the gloom facing the brutal truth: I was too old for Saul Bellow.
The summer I was 34, I was adrift. I had just left a great job of four years at Texas Monthly in Austin, and I had also ended a long (for me) and tumultuous relationship. In Boston to visit family, I went to Logan Airport to pick up a long-time friend coming through town.
These were the days you could stand outside the gate for arriving passengers and a small knot of us were waiting. Scanning the crowd, I noticed a striking and familiar looking older man with a large leonine head. It was Saul Bellow, the Nobel Prize-winning novelist. What a coincidence; I had just finished a collection of his short stories and had seen that face every evening on my nightstand. I must have been staring because Bellow returned my gaze, and smiled. I smiled back and in a moment he was stepping toward me, hand out, introducing himself. I said I was a huge fan.
“Are you a student?” he asked me. Was I a student! This man was smooth, even at 74. I replied I was a journalist. He told me that one of his sons was a journalist. I already knew he’d had a series of sons by a series of wives.
As we talked-he stood very close-I tried to make sparkling conversation while wrestling with an internal dilemma. Through my 20s I had been involved with considerably older men. But I had gotten help for this daddy issue and was reformed. I now only dated men around my own age. But here I was getting the full Bellow treatment, the heavy-lidded bedroom eyes, the sly smile. I thought to myself, “Maybe I can grandfather him in under the Nobel clause.”
I lost track of time and purpose and then suddenly passengers started arriving. Out of the corner of my eye I saw my friend. I could see him do a double-take as he immediately recognized Bellow. I tried to furtively wave him off with my left hand, but either he didn’t see my gesture or ignored it. I found myself introducing him to Saul Bellow. It was clear Bellow thought he was more than a friend. The spell was broken, and we all parted.
One morning that fall, my alarm clock woke me up to the news on NPR that Saul Bellow had married for a fifth time. His new wife was 31. I lay there in the gloom facing the brutal truth: I was too old for Saul Bellow.