Children’s workbooks stacked alongside Urdu poetry | Emaan Rana, White Star
After the 1980s, more and more cities caught on to the notion that literary festivals were a fairly cheap investment that paid off handsomely: festivals brought them global attention, boosted their economy, entertained their population, made the cities feel an important part of the international scene and,best of all, enhanced the image of the nation by portraying it as culturally advanced. We were now in the middle of the digital revolution and though e-books were yet to begin supplanting the traditional book, publishers found literary festivals a significant component of their marketing strategy.
While virtual reality was about to overwhelm us, literary festivals maintained our sense of the old physical reality, for there we could pick up a real book, meet the real person who had written it and get the writer to sign the book, which would be a prized possession to pass on to our grandchildren who would gaze at it with wonder and pride.
But here’s the flip side. Before literary festivals became common, similar events were rare and usually involved only internationally acclaimed writers. In London in the 60s, there were many local poetry readings attended by 30 or 40 people who listened politely, applauded softly and quietly went away, there being no book signing. But only two major events remain in one’s memory from that decade: one that filled the Festival Hall on the South Bank and another that packed the Albert Hall, where it was thrilling to see and hear the likes of W H Auden and Pablo Neruda. Only writers of established international repute were invited to perform.
At present, with the proliferation of festivals, that thrill has been vastly diminished since festivals are overrun by hordes of writers whose only distinction is that they have recently published a book which they have come to promote; and among them the few familiar names are of writers who are currently popular or have acquired some notoriety unconnected with literature and this group appears almost everywhere,from Toronto to Sydney, Paraty to Jaipur, Edinburgh to this small provincial city where I live — Austin,Texas, which too has a literary festival that attracts scores of writers each November.
Where great writers like Neruda appeared to enrich our experience of their work when we heard them read, writers at literary festivals are primarily there to promote their work — and much of that work, I'm sorry to say, is destined for the trash heap. The popular obsession with wanting to possess a book with the autograph of the author on the flyleaf helps drive up sales, and therefore book signings at literary festivals are of important commercial significance to publishers.I am aware that my reference to ‘hordes of writers’must sound snootily elitist; I know, of course, that among them there could be the next Neruda and that democratically, it is appropriate and politically correct for every new writer to be given a chance in the spotlight.
But the model for such indiscriminate inclusiveness is the capitalist notion of letting the market decide what holds the most value; and the occasion –instead of being a festival that celebrates literature – becomes a promotional fair given the rather grand title of ‘Literary Festival’ that prompts in the mind of the public making its annual pilgrimage the charming illusion that it is privileged to be among the elect.
Publishers urge writers to goon a book tour, appear at as many literary festivals as possible and give interviews on local public radio stations.Festivals have become an important part of public relations, but not to promote good literature as much as to sell more books to a public attract-ed by the personality of a writer and no longer by a reasoned critical evaluation.
A former literary agent of mine once said that one small paragraph of gossip in People magazine sold more books than a favourable full-page review in the New York Times.Personality sells.
Literary festivals play to the cult of personality. The first time I appeared in Toronto, it was only to read and sign books. The second time, it was also to sit before an audience and be interviewed. I expected that no one would want to buy an entrance ticket in order to hear me answer questions put by an interviewer and was shocked, when I went on stage,to see that there was quite a full house with a television camera set up to record the event. I realised that we now lived in the age of television talk shows, that trivial gossipy chat now passed for intellectual relevance and that banality was confounded with seriousness.
Personality interviews are everywhere. A tennis player wins a match and is instantly interviewed; a soprano is about to go onstage for an opera that is being televised and is interviewed with such profound questions as how she has prepared for the role — wherever there is a personality, there is someone nearby, microphone in hand, with a question which is invariably inane and often downright stupid. During public performances, I have never been asked a question of any literary significance; what most people in any audience seem to want is trivial chit-chat as if that is some-how going to illuminate one’s literary work.