In the New Yorker profile of Colm Tóibín, which I just read, this being the time of year when I try to get through old issues, the author D.T. Max tells the story that after The Blackwater Lightship was shortlisted for the Booker Prize, the author returned to Dublin and, finding the fridge in his house empty, went out to by some groceries. As he headed down the street, he was serenaded by the honking of car horns and the flashing of headlights – a public acknowledgment of his literary achievement.
