If you're from New Jersey," Nathan had said, "and you write thirty books, and you win the Nobel Prize, and you live to be white-haired and ninety-five, it's highly unlikely but not impossible that after your death they'll decide to name a rest stop for you on the Jersey Turnpike. And so, long after you're gone, you may indeed be remembered, but mostly by small children, in the backs of cars, when they lean forward and tell their parents, 'Stop, please, stop at Zuckerman-I have to make a pee.' For a New Jersey novelist that's as much immortality as it's realistic to hope for.
Nathan reflects on the concept of legacy and remembrance, particularly for those from New Jersey who achieve great success, like writing numerous books or winning prestigious awards. He suggests that even with such accomplishments, the likelihood of being honored posthumously is slim. While it is not entirely impossible, it offers a rather modest form of immortality.
This immortality stems from the simple, everyday experiences of children recalling the name of a rest stop, highlighting the fleeting nature of fame and how it can be reduced to mundane moments in life. For a New Jersey novelist, this scenario epitomizes the kind of recognition one can realistically expect after death, connecting their literary contributions to everyday life in a humorous and poignant way.
