I’m still radiating that BookFest glow and will be for some time to come, I’m sure. On Thursday evening, I was captivated by Marty Gervais’ account of the seventh son of a seventh son, warmed by Peter Hrastovec’s unabashed love of family, alternately tickled and saddened by John B. Lee’s story of the 87 year old hockey player, entranced by Bruce Meyer’s uncommon insights into why the dog wags his tail, and so intrigued by Ray Robertson’s reference to his book “Why Not? Fifteen Reasons to Live” I went right out and bought it.
Friday evening, I sat in the cool darkness of the Pentstar Theatre and caught the fever of John Ralston Saul’s passionate patriotism.
Saturday afternoon, I listened to Thomas Lynch read with such vividness from Apparition and Late Fictions, a scene of a debauched minister singing his love to his bewildered congregation, I had to hold my eyes wide against tears.
Finally, the Poetry Cafe, where I was born again in the powerful verse of George Elliott Clarke, transfixed by Phil Hall’s elegiac words and plainschant singing, and transported back to the Trojan War by E. Alex Pierce’s enchanted Vox Humana.
I left the Capitol Theatre with books in my arms and many more gifts in my heart, and grateful, oh so grateful! for it all. If you missed this year’s BookFest, my sympathy. If you have resolved to attend next year’s, my congratulations on a wise decision.
