Sarah E. Moffett

This weekend I visited the Twilight Zone. It was suppose to be the National Book Festival, but I must have made a wrong turn off Constitution Avenue. Instead of stumbling onto a somber, sparsely attended book fair, I found the Mall overtaken by the masses, who were beaten back from overrunning authors by platoons of Junior League members. Even more terrifying were the forty-people-deep lines for the vegetarian vendors (and believe me, half the people in those lines were not vegetarians), rivaled only by the wait to purchase books in the sales tents. People, everywhere, were carrying armfuls, bags, and strollers of books.

America reads. Who knew?

Once I got my bearings in this alternate universe of a bibliophile palooza, my first stop was at the Mystery and Thrillers to hear D.C. resident and frequent New York Times’ Bestseller Daniel Silva. He spent thirty minutes fielding questions and sharing insights filled with wit, anecdotes, and humor. After wrapping up, he waited until the final applause died before adding, “if you like the National Book Event, tell your congressman. I’m concerned what will become of this event after First Lady Laura Bush returns to Texas…” It was an oddly apolitical, sincere request. The crowd responded. (So should everyone else.) 

After an intense thirty minutes of listening, I was parched. And covered in dust. 120,000 sets of plodding feet in dry dirt meant I could have strolled past Harper Lee or Britney Spears and not had the first clue. Like a good local, I skipped the Library of Congress vendors and their insanely long lines to cross a block to Independence and patron the local hot dog vendor for cold cokes and stale snacks.

Note to self: bottles of Purell and packets of baby wipes would sell for a fortune at next year’s book festival.

Strolling back into the haze-o-dust, I wandered into the only tent that had chairs available. This would be the poetry tent. There I stumbled upon Emory Professor Kevin Young. The man’s poetry would have made an anorexic park it at a Southern buffet. He called boudin the “chewing gum of God,” and wrote in his Ode to Pork that “I know you are the blues, because you are going to kill me.” Young also read a moving eulogy to his friend, Phillipe, which was laced with Bob Marley lyrics that let the sadness resonate to an instantaneously familiar rhythm. He was brilliant. (Interview with Kevin Young.)

After Young, the poetry tent rounded out its day with Anne Stevenson, who observed that “poetry is more than therapy” and confided that “the only reason I ever write a poem is I hear the sound first. This is especially ironic since I am almost entirely deaf.” She took listeners down a more traditional poetic path, reading Inheriting My Grandmother’s Nightmare, which discussed her Grandmother’s memories and perspective after World War II. Heads were nodding as she described her grandmother as “she who was a climate in herself.”

Leaving the poetry tent, I walked back into the haze to begin my walk back home. (Apparently, missing a slew of hysterical, witty one liners, recapped by Mark Athitakis here.)  Along the way, I contemplated the power and influence of the National Book Festival. It promoted literacy, excitement about reading, introduction to new genres, authors, and ideas, and, simply put, made reading cool. For me, I received a gift of a different kind. I was touched by the unexpected, renewed spark of appreciation for oral story telling that evoked new understanding and contemplation of various authors’ emphasis, humor, and sadness. It reintroduced me to a tradition I experienced as a child, but forgot about in the pragmatism of adulthood. It was beautiful to come back to not just mine, but the world’s storytelling roots.

One last note on the National Book Festival. The C-Span2 Bookmobile. I’m here to say it got to keep its hubcaps. But just barely. Oh’, and the protestors. Yeah, they were out. Saturday afternoon in D.C. is not complete unless one attends a national event on the mall, gets asked for spare change, lapped by some over zealous joggers, and yelled at by protestors.  I can’t wait to do it again next year.

For other views on the National Book Festival, check out these sites.

Analysis of Terry Pratchett’s Beard from Emily.

Impressions and Memories by Cynthia Leitich Smith.

Scenes from National Book Festival at Biblio’s Bloggins and more scenes at Sara Lewis Holmes.

Librarian’s Photos and Commentary at Biblio File.

Mom’s Perspective by Throwing Marshmallows.

Highlight Reel by PR Newswire.

*Special thanks to Biblio’s Bloggins for use of 2007 National Book Festival photograph.  See Biblio Bloggins site for more great photos.

Share This