I was supposed to go to a literary event in my town tonight. But plans changed, and at the last minute I found myself back in the car, heading over the
GW for a different literary event at
BN on 66.
Tonight, Jonathan
Safran Foer (my
favorite writer as you know, second to my
other favorite writer, Nicole
Kraus) was introducing/interviewing/supporting another writer named Howard Jacobson.
Foer is a 30-something, Brooklyn-dwelling, shaggy haired,
bespeckled writer with an incredible talent and a very rich agent. His books are personal, Jewish, pondering, painful, and hysterical. Jacobson is a much older, just as funny, just as Jewish, introspective, intelligent writer from England.
I escalated all the way up to the top floor of the bookstore to grab a hot chocolate before the talk began. I had
Foer's book in my bag -- the final novel I bought in Italy during my last lonely but powerful days in Florence. I devoured this book while traveling, and embraced it like a companion.
Standing in line, waiting for my drink to arrive, I suddenly noticed
Foer amongst the group of patrons, talking with a friend. I knew it was him immediately. At first my mouth broke into a huge grin, and then I quickly looked away. It was almost odd. I think the gleam of seeing one of your "favorites" becomes tarnished when you see them standing in the same consumer line you are in, simply a pedestrian waiting for coffee.
I wanted to hand him my book. I want to say something. I wanted to ignore him, or call his name, or pretend I didn't notice, or smile in his direction. But, I did nothing. The line passed by me. Because of some confusion behind the counter, people's drinks were coming out before mine and I was left standing to the side watching confused cashiers try to untangle the mess of lattes and skim milks. I was in no rush. With each drink that was handed out,
Foer and his friend stepped closer to the front.
And, as fate would have it (can you call it fate?), eventually he was standing next to me, and we were reaching for our hot beverages at the same time. I seized the moment.
"Forgive me for becoming a dork," I said, with a smile, "but I am a huge fan of your work." I didn't introduce myself. I didn't acknowledge him by name. I just, spoke, before I could loose the nerve, here, in the line for coffee.
He smiled, and thanked me kindly. He looked like such a modest man. Somewhat reserved, not as rambunctious as the characters he writes about. "I just loved your book so much, it meant so much to me," I said, words bumping against one another. He told me quickly that I should come to the talk downstairs so I would meet a different writer who was really great. "I know!" I said, "That's why I'm here." And then I added, "And please, tell your wife, if you don't mind, that her book,
Man Walks Into A Room, just moved me so much. I mean, I just loved it so much." He said, "I'll tell her." That was it, and I turned away.
I headed down the stairs, boasting with excitement. I took a seat with the 50 or so people who had filled the room for the talk. When it began,
Foer started with an introduction of Jacobson and his new book,
Kalooki Nights, which couldn't have been a more effusive, hilarious and gushing pronouncement. It was honorable praise, one I imagine an author could wait a lifetime hoping to hear. Genuine reverence is hard to come by these days.
Jacobson was a delight to listen to, and I got the sense that if I were up to date on the English Jewish writer's scene, I would be falling over myself to make his acquaintance. He read a few excerpts from his book, talked excessively and poignantly about the Jewish persona and the valour of comedy (his true religion, he said). He was even bold enough to take a question from someone who asked, "When did anti-
semitism against Jews begin?" Jacobson fell back into his chair and inhaled his gasp. "Could you ask me a heavier question please?" he asked. The audience laughed with empathy. It was an interesting moment because so much of their discourse seemed structured around the assumption that everyone in the audience was a
bonafied kvetcher, a Hebrew school drop out, a
shayna punim. After all, it was the upper west side. But apparently that wasn't the case, and the man who asked the question seemed bewildered by everything that was so nonchalantly being said about Jewish existence that evening. The room was filled with subtle references and innuendos that only a card-carrying member of the tribe had the
luxury of taking for granted. But Jacobson answered the question slowly, thoughtfully, and at times, perversely. There were more sex jokes thrown around than
kugel references.
After the talk, the lined formed for autographs. I picked up Jacobson's book, and once I saw others do the same, pulled out my copy of
Foer's book that had been touched by the Tuscan sun.
When I reached the table, I said hello again to
Foer, and handed him my book. He commented on the origin of my name, and then signed the inside cover, personalizing his signature and writing the letters of my name with a curvaceous flair. I told him to look at the back so he could see the
Italia sticker marking the geographic source of its purchase. "It even has the European cover," I pointed out. I couldn't have been more excited, more filled with gratitude for this moment. It felt like it all had come full circle.
July. I remember holding the book tightly, reading it under the pink shadows of the
Duomo and under the stern glares of Medusa's head in Piazza
Signoria. I remember clutching it on the plane as we took off, heading back to the States, the threatening rumble of jet engines below my feet. Who would have known that 4 months later the book would be in the hands of the person who had written it, inscribing his name below the title? And then, with a twist of the pen, my own name would appear, like a final stamp of declaration that this story, my story, had really occurred.
Sarah Walker's paintings, now showing at PIEROGI gallery in Brooklyn, are a mind bender. You don't simply see her paintings, you enter them. They seem like a vision of what the eyes sees before it registers what it is. Her images, though abstract, seem familiar. I can look at one and think that I see a cabin in a woods, the sky between the trees, an ethernet, a web. But the image she has created is more complex than that, more puzzling, more advanced than a simple representation of a thing.
