Long Haul For Writers At Festival
The Age
Tuesday October 22, 1996
LAST YEAR, it was Ukrainian Darville burgers; this year, the fast food at the Writers' Festival was a Pauline Hanson chinky burger. Inside the Malthouse the crowds were less chaotic than in 1995, when foyer traffic jams on rainy days saw the bookshop become gridlocked.
But this year the weather was more clement, both physically and intellectually. There were none of the tensions of previous festivals about literary hoaxes or the question of fiction versus faction.
As readers and writers mingled around the bar, festival director Simon Clews sported a selection of ties featuring bookish patterns, surveying the activity with an impassive expression. During the week, however, he was gratified when, while walking up Collins Street, a driver yelled out "Great festival mate, you should be proud!".
While Melvyn Bragg was clearly a favorite, particularly among female audiences, my highlight was the session between Clive James and Peter Porter: a seamless conversation between equals about poetry, peppered with quotes and references, full of erudition but without ego. These two men have not only a profound affection and respect for each other, but a truly passionate commitment to verse. They recited lines in many languages to the delight of the largest audience I witnessed, which listened, spellbound.
As a result of their performance, I predict a resurgence of interest in poetry, bolstered by the hilariously laconic acceptance speech from Peter Bakowski at the Premier's Literary Awards dinner. That event was lifted by the quality of speeches from all the winners, but particularly from Joanna Murray-Smith, whose tribute to her late father, Stephen, moved many to tears.
Lorraine Elliott, representing the Premier, made an elegant and sincere plea for tolerance, which was warmly received. Although the dinner is considered an important highlight of the literary calendar, I was surprised at how many publishers did not attend: for the first time in years, Reed, a local company, was not represented, while several key publishers preferred to go to the evening of readings at the Town Hall or slip away quietly for a night at home.
For writers, the festival can be something of an endurance test.
Unlike Adelaide, which gives them a couple of days in retreat at a winery to get to know each other and recover from their long journeys, Melbourne expects its guests to jump right in. Poor Graham Swift, the Booker-nominated British author, was suffering from terrible jet lag and with each passing day increasingly resembled a startled possum.
On the other hand, Mr Bright Lights Big City himself, Jay McInerney, lived up to his reputation and finally managed to exhaust his publicists with late night revelling in St Kilda. By the time he left town, he had business cards from all the grooviest restaurants and clubs and he'd also managed to fit in a visit to the zoo, with Metro writer Shane Maloney as his guide.
I heard high praise for Spotlight sessions with two of the more exotic visitors: Israel's AB Yehoshua, and Nigeria's Ben Okri. (One waggish overseas publisher informed me that, when the letters of Okri's name are rearranged they spell Ken Biro - "his pen name"). In the bookshop, Victoria Glendinning generated the most heat with her aptly titled novel, Electricity.
PS: Suggestions for next year's keynote address speaker -George Steiner or Janet Malcolm.
© 1996 The Age