Two years ago, I was invited to a dinner party in New York. It took place on the Upper East Side of Manhattan, in a penthouse apartment. Our host was not merely rich: she had a name that through long association with money had itself become a shorthand for wealth. The dinner was being held in honor of a writer, by now old and famous, on the publication of his latest and perhaps final book. And because the book was about Africa, and because as a man ages his thoughts circle around questions of legacy, the writer, who was not himself African, had requested, in lieu of a normal book launch, a quiet dinner with a group of young African writers. This was how I came to be invited.
Read more http://www.newyorker.com/online/blogs/books/2012/09/natives-on-the-boat.html#ixzz26CgUU390
Read more http://www.newyorker.com/online/blogs/books/2012/09/natives-on-the-boat.html#ixzz26CgUU390
- Ikhide
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