Tonight a bookstore hosting six writers at once brought out an aisle-busting, chair-exhausting fervency of fans. There were revelations throughout the evening—of voice, of diction, of storytelling purpose. There were stories, snatches and fragments, that I'll be thinking on for a long time now—the lyric Sri Lanka of Ru Freeman; the caretaking of Lise Funderberg; the terrible and lovely grab at connection in a Josh Weil novella; the searching for Christ in a Jim Zervanos church; the disconnections of Rachel Pastan's wearied women; the high suspense of Elizabeth Mosier. But what I suspect will remain longest with me is the resounding and wonderful crowdedness of this suburban bookstore on a Tuesday night at the height of vacation season—the idea (simple, complicated) that writers did this, writers were show, entertainment, stars.
We hear too much about the death of things—of books, of readers, of intellectual life. Tonight was tonic and proof that those who love books still rally on behalf of books, and that those who can write very much do.
In May, we were discussing books in class and the likelihood that books (solid, tangible books) will continue to be popular in future generations. Most people were saying that they thought the internet and computers would eventually dominate books, but I disagree. Like you said, there are still so many people who love books and are willing to "fight" for them.
Wish I was there!
And one of the most wonderful parts of the evening was looking out in the audience and seeing you there. Thank you, Beth, for making the time -- and for this lovely reflection, which I'll forward to the gang!
xo
Libby
Hear, hear! Who was it who said that a room without books is like a body without a soul? Was it Cicero? I think so...and that still holds true today as you have just witnessed. Wonderful, wonderful!