Probably not. It's not fair to all my other favorite authors, like John Steinbeck, John Irving, Ernest Hemingway, William Faulkner, Anne Tyler, Barbara Kingsolver, Kurt Vonnegut Jr., Charlotte Brontë, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Robert Penn Warren, Richard Llewellyn, Willa Cather, and about 50 others. Or more. I didn't even include any really contemporary authors, like Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie or Khaled Hosseini or Ian McEwan. Or favorites from childhood like C.S. Lewis, Laura Ingalls Wilder, or Roald Dahl.
Perhaps I wouldn't like any of these people in real life, over a cup of coffee in a "clean, well-lighted place" (although it's hard to imagine not liking Lewis and Wilder). Perhaps they'd all seem like pretentious snobs, like one Pulitzer-Prize winning author I once had to drive to her office when her leg was broken.
But really, in spite of their fame and oftentimes their burden of addiction or emotional distress, aren't they, or weren't they, all just writers at heart? Surely we'd have something to talk about. Or perhaps it would be easier to sit across the table and write notes to one another on tiny scraps of paper.
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