christmas for bookworms

I think our bodies are ill prepared to be sliced open, tampered with and sewn back together. Our collective unconscious just wasn't made for this, it's an experience that hits me at a purely primal level. This time, as with last, my response was to sequester myself in a soft corner of my apartment hidden under piles of blankets and sleep the experience away. Four days of sleep. My body needed deep, deep silence to be still and make sense of what had been done to it.

This being the case, I slept away most of the International Festival of Authors (otherwise known as Christmas for bookworms across the city) including an evening with one of my favourite authors, a woman I'd like to be when I grow up. I did get to the readings for the Very Big Prize on Saturday night. Sitting in the dark having gorgeous stories read to you - what could be better? Nothing, except perhaps this...

Before the readings started a friend was sharing a story about one of our most famous authors who was also the Father of one of the evening's nominees. It was a story about meeting a literary hero only to be disappointed, a story that might have included the word "asshole". Repeated many times. Loudly. As a prelude to introducing the (alleged) asshole's nominated son, the host noted that the (alleged) asshole himself (though she referred to him as 'one of our most beloved authors') was in attendance. When she asked him to stand and make himself known it was the man sitting directly in front of us who rose to his feet. Awesome.

Sleep and laughter, food for the well-stitched but slightly traumatized soul.

In related news. Today I finally started reading the book of one of last year's nominees and I'm absolutely and completely mesmerized by it. It's partly set in Cambodia, a country I loved so much that I left it three times only to turn around and fly right back the very next day. A part of me belonged there, this book transports me back. The Disappeared, read it.