There’s a lot to say about the fair, and about it’s impact on international publishing, and I’ll try and do more of this over the next couple weeks, but for now, I want to point out that it’s absolutely true that the Hof is the nerve center of the FBF nightlife, and if you’re going to be in the “in-crowd” you have to be there mingling, sipping a drink, chatting, all night. Four hours sleep becomes a luxury.
But it was by hanging out there that E.J. and I randomly met the agent for a South African novelist we’re interested in (until that moment we had no idea who represented this author), and it is the place that info from meetings gets amplified, connections are made, books are discussed, and so on.
John Freeman—my new blog idol for the amazing work he did covering the fair—has a nice post about this scene, and a great urban publishing legend:
According to a friend, a dutch publisher coming home in a blackout once made the mistake of giving his business card to the taxi driver, not the card for his hotel. He woke up 8 hours later in Amsterdam with a rather large bill. He then got on a plane and flew back to Frankfurt and went right on with his fair.
While looking back at an episode in his life, twenty-year-old Taguchi Hiro remembers what his friend Kumamoto Akira said about poetry.
Its perfection arises precisely from its imperfection . . . . I have an image in my head. I see. . .
The central concern of Sorj Chalandon’s novel Return to Killybegs appears to be explaining how a person of staunch political activism can be lead to betray his cause, his country, his people. Truth be told, the real theme of the. . .
Spoiler alert: acclaimed writer Stefan Zweig and his wife Lotte kill themselves at the end of Lauren Seksik’s 2010 novel, The Last Days.
It’s hard to avoid spoiling this mystery. Zweig’s suicide actually happened, in Brazil in 1942, and since then. . .
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After a mysterious woman confesses to an author simply known as “R” that she has loved him since she was a teenager, she offers the following explanation: “There is nothing on earth like the love of a child that passes. . .
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One hundred years have passed since the start of World War I and it is difficult to believe that there are still novels, considered classics in their own countries, that have never been published in English. Perhaps it was the. . .
In the London of Hédi Kaddour’s Little Grey Lies, translated by Teresa Lavender Fagan, peace has settled, but the tensions, fears, and anger of the Great War remain, even if tucked away behind stories and lies. Directly ahead, as those. . .
One of the greatest services—or disservices, depending on your viewpoint—Bertrand Russell ever performed for popular philosophy was humanizing its biggest thinkers in his History. No longer were they Platonic ideals, the clean-shaven exemplars of the kind of homely truisms that. . .