Offering without the anguish of choosing wrong,

such is the eternal dilemma of family celebrations. 

Invoking literary geniuses to master the art of savoir-plaire may prove futile,

so reluctant are some authors to displays of filial affection! 

Like Proust, some refuse to join the party:

“For a long time I went to bed early.”

Others arrive late, like Duras:

“Very early in my life it was too late”

Or leave too early, as Camus tells us:

“My mother died today. Or maybe yesterday, I don't know.”

Tolstoy's family is too singular: “All happy families are alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way”.

Gide's revolts him: “Families, I hate you!”

Vallès also has doubts: “Was I fed by my mother?”

But “many years later”, Garcia Marquez recalls “that distant afternoon when his father took him to discover ice”.

Don't take a leaf out these admirable killjoys' books,

but put a whole volume of their works

twenty times under the tree…

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