A Leak In The Safe

Aristophanes shows us the most hideous images of human madness only in the laughing mirror of wit; Goethe ventures to utter the agony of the thinker who understands his own nullity only in the doggerel verses of a puppet-play; and Shakespeare places the most deadly lament about the misery of the world in the mouth of a fool, shaking his cap and bells in terror. They have all modeled themselves on the great primal poet, whose world tragedy in a thousand acts carries humor to its highest pitch. As we see every day: after the death of the hero the clowns and buffoons come on stage with their custard pies, after the bloody revolution scenes and the imperial action the fat Bourbons come waddling along with their stale jokes and delicately legitimate bon mots, and the old noblesse come gracefully mincing with their half-starved smiles, and after them troop the pious monks in their cowl with candles, crosses and banners; – touches of comedy tend to creep even into the supreme pathos of the world tragedy, the despairing republican who plunges a dagger into his heart, like Brutus, may have smelt the dagger beforehand in case it had been used to cut up a herring, and the world’s great stage is just like our small-town theaters in other respects: it too has drunken heroes, kings who forget their lines, backdrops that get stuck, prompters with voices everyone can hear, dancers who rely on the poetic effect of their thighs, costumes which are shiny and not much else – And up in heaven, in the front row of the stalls, sit the little angels, eyeing us earthly comedians through their opera-glasses, and God sits solemnly in his box, perhaps bored, or calculating that this theater cannot stay in business much longer, since one actor is paid too much and another too little, and all of them act execrably.

– Heinrich Heine

May no one say that I lack religion. Opium, too, is a religion.

The town itself is beautiful, and looks its best when you turn your back on it.

By and large the inhabitants of Gottinger may be divided into students, professors, philistines and cattle; which four classes are by no means sharply distinct.

There is a wonderful murmuring and babbling, the birds sing fragmentary sounds of yearning, the trees whisper like a thousand girls’ tongues, the strange mountain flowers gaze like a thousand girls’ eyes, stretching out their wondrous broad leaves with their comical serrations, the merry sunbeams flash playfully to and fro, the wise herbs tell one another green fairy-tales, everything seems enchanted, the sense of cozy seclusion grows even stronger, an ancient dream comes to life, the beloved appears – but alas, she soon disappears again!

Her face resembled a palimpsest where the half-erased verses of an ancient Greek love-poet peep from under the monastic black letters of a text by a Father of the church.

He looked like a life-sized reproduction of a fool.

It is a feeling of infinite bliss when the visible world converges with that of our hearts, and green trees, thoughts, birdsong, melancholy, the blue of heaven, memory and fragrance are twined together in sweet arabesques.

It is still morning, the sun has already traversed half its course, and my heart is already giving off such a fragrance that it is going to my head and making me so giddy that I can no longer tell when irony stops and the sky starts, I populate the air with my sighs, and I myself should like to dissolve into sweet atoms, into the uncreated divinity; what will happen when night falls, and the stars appear in the sky…

Life is too, too comically sweet; and the world is so delightfully confused; it is the dream of an intoxicated god, who took French leave from the company of divine wine-bibbers, and lay down to sleep on a lonely star, and does not know himself that he creates everything he dreams of – but it will not be long before the god wakes up, and rubs his sleepy eyes, and smiles – and our world will fade into nothingness, indeed it will never have existed.

To me, every woman is the gift of a world, I revel in the melodies of her face, and with a single glance from my eye I can enjoy more than others can with their whole bodies in all their lives.

— Heinrich Heine

Another successful Kerrytown Bookfest – a crowd estimated at 4,000, big time attendance at the panels, good sales by the vendors…a hit…

But yet despite all the outer trappings of success I still have a little bit of a bad taste in my mouth. Most of it is probably because of the fact that the boyscout troops that were supposed to help us didn’t show up at set up or, even more critically, at tear down when we are all already dead tired. But that’s happened before in the past and even then, bone weary and sore, I still had a glow of success, something I just ain’t feeling right now.

I could do a USA today style think piece on the death of civility, my personal Joe Wilson, Serena and Kanye being that fat black lady who punched me repeatedly in the back shrieking I can’t see! I can’t see! as I stepped to the speakers table to tell the food superstars panel that they were already ten minutes into the next panel’s time. Although that charming citizen was the most violent, I certainly got disrespected many times that day for the sin of attempting to keep everybody happy. Jane and Michael Sterns themselves were delightful people and very good sports, but by in large the food crowd made me really appreciate the mystery lovers I usually deal with. My theory is that the foodies are stuck at the oral level of development and can’t help behaving in a passive aggressive infantile manner. Even though the panel was clearly over, the public still couldn’t help bawling out their questions or even just their random memories of the bacon fat and zwieback of their youth, behavior that continued in the book signing line, the people who’d been forced to wait due to it unable to stop themselves from repeating the very same behavior. I felt like a maitre d’ in an extremely fancy restaurant who is suddenly besieged by the entire social register, each swell expecting the best table in the house. And no tips, either.

Another thing that bummed my bliss is that a lot of my motivation in the past has been to be part of a better book festival that the other one in town. That’s not necessarily a negative thing – a healthy rivalry inspires both parties to greater heights – though I’ve always thought they considered us beneath their notice, that is until we opened a can of whip ass on them. I always so enjoyed the pained expressions on their faces as they saw all the people, vendors and writers that turned out for our event. But they didn’t even drop by this year, and it definitely seems like the war’s over and we’ve won – despite all their advantages in funding, publicity and fancy backers (of course, two of their main props, The Shaman Drum and The Ann Arbor News are no more) they’ve really become a non-factor, struggling to get a quarter of the attendance we do and failing to get any authors anybody wants to see and not promoting the ones they manage to get. Their whole publicity platform this year was based on the necessity of downsizing while we just keep growing. I recognize the pettiness of my desire to outdo them, but it’s still kind of a letdown, as I’ve always been more comfortable as an underdog.

Jeffery Deaver and Some Fat Guy

Photo:ANTHCO

The best thing by far was getting to hang with and hear Jeffery Deaver who is not only a mega-best selling author, but also a very smart and way cool guy. Getting to know the authors has always been the thing that made it all worthwhile for us, and Jeff is really a guy worth getting to know, as are his books which I have been devouring.

So ANYWAY, as the muscles become less sore and the bruises fade, things seem better than they did not so long ago. Counting the profits also tends to brighten the mood. Usually we don’t make that much at the Bookfest and it’s always more important to us that the event is a success than if our store makes money, BUT thanks to the Sterns and their devoted fans we did do pretty darn well this year, which always makes back breaking work and the indignities of dealing with the public a lot more palatable, if you will. I don’t really want to think about it now, but yeah, as I slowly get the old UBU mojo back, I’m sure this ass will be hitched up to the cart again next year…