I.F.O.A. Day the First - Part One

Yesterday, Ragdoll and I engaged in the annual delirium that is Toronto's International Festival of Authors. Now in its 27th year, I was introduced to it last year by the aforementioned Ragdoll and it is now an event I eagerly anticipate.

What I do not eagerly anticipate is the rain, which seems without fail to accompany Ragdoll and I to every reading we attend. Shall we break our soggy curse this coming Thursday evening? It remains to be seen Dear Reader.

Yesterday's festivities were started off with a delightful brunch with girlfriends. We've recently reunited with some women of old, handmaidens if you will of Zesty and Ragdoll lore. "Attwood" couldn't make it as she had a cold, but "Alcott" and "Pavlova" were in attendance. We brunched and kevetched whiling away our 2 hours with Remembrances of Meadowvale Past and well brewed coffee.

It was one of those meetings where I had a singular moment. I mentioned in passing that I'd had a nervous breakdown when I turned 35. Granted, it only lasted about 5 minutes but that's besides the point. Alcott asked me why and I warbled on about how I felt I'd had plans, they hadn't worked out, I'm not doing what I'm meant to do, yadda yadda yadda.

Then Alcott said that she thought age was just a state of mind. That she'd gotten through a divorce that at the time seemed overwhelming and that in the end, there is always the possibility of renewal, of a new beginning for everyone.

I'm a total dweeb. Thank you for inspiring me Alcott and giving my mental keister the kick it needed.

At any rate, off to our readings...

I should mention that Ragdoll sported a rather fetching black pea coat and a gorgeous Roots bag. It was fierce y'all. I had green sneakers on and wore ill advised blue eye shadow. But everything essentially matched, and Ragdoll told me that she thought my pilates was doing wonders. My ass is disappearing. That is truly a wonder.

The first author was Bernice Eisenstein who read from her book I Was a Child of Holocaust Survivors. It is both a prosiac and visual novel, and she showed the visuals in the book that accompanied her sections as she read. Ms. Eisenstein delivered two fascinating excerpts that to me were metaphorically brilliant. The first examined the Holocaust as drug like, something she needed continuing hits of in order to define herself. "H" as she called it. The second was envisioning her father as a cowboy liberating Auschwitz. He had loved American Westerns, and she reimagines him, not as a human being who can barely recount his tale, but as an avenging angel of sorts that paces into the camp to defeat his Nazi enemies in one fell swoop, or as she brilliantly put it "It was time to Arbeit and Macht some Frie." It was her laser like wit in relating such horrifying events that I found incredibly moving. The applause for her reading was sustained, and I doubt there was a dry eye in the house.

The next author Ami McKay was honest, and indicated she needed a moment to compose herself as Ms. Eisenstein's reading had been so moving. Ms. McKay's novel The Birth House centers around a female midwife protagonist contending with amongst other things, the explosion in Halifax Harbour in 1917. The explosion occurred when a WWI munitions ship collided with another, and it is the most devasting non-nuclear explosion ever recorded in terms of the carnage that occurred. She read two excerpts, one with her protagonist contending with the spontaneous labour of the city's women that was brought on by the explosion. She then read another excerpt about vibrators.

No I'm not telling you. BUY THE DAMN BOOK.

After a brief break where I picked up my requisite amount of informational brochures with which I shall do nothing, we returned for the two remaining readings.

The third reading was by Rosemary Sullivan who read from her most recent non-fiction work Villa Air-Bel: World War II, Escape and a House in Marseille. It is the true story of a collective of artists who fled Paris as the Nazis advanced. The house was their haven as they awaited rescue. My impression of Ms. Sullivan [and it is just that - I don't know her from a hole in the ground] is that she personifies to a great degree that somewhat sanguine, "aren't we clever" quality that you pick up at events such the festival. But if I'm honest, I'm really just jealous of her more than anything. She is obviously brilliant, a fierce intellectual and the sense of drama and emotion she brings to her non-fiction work is simply exceptional. I would say that despite Ms. Eisenstein's beautiful reading, it was Ms. Sullivan's book I was most interested in reading later. If I am ever any kind of writer, I would want to be one like Rosemary Sullivan, one that has complete command of my work's subject. She interjected her excerpts with observations from instances in her life, compellingly making the point that the approach of all dictatorships seem obvious in retrospect.

The fourth author, and one I keenly anticipated as Ragdoll raved about her book The Night Watch, was Sarah Waters. What can I say? She is British and utterly adorable. You just want to pinch her cheeks and put her on your mantle piece because she's so cute. I know in writing this that I am being absolutely ridiculous, insulting even, but folks the woman is damn cute. Like I'm talkin' Bambi cute here.

Ok now that that's out of the way, on to Ms. Waters' book. It's about several characters in London during the blitz. The compelling aspect of this book is that it starts in 1947 and then goes back in time to 1941 as the book progresses. It is only at the end that the characters' eventual states make sense. She read one excerpt of two lesbians wandering through London's ruins in the black of night, on the cusp of declaring their mutual affection for each other. It was brilliant. The second dealt with another main character, a female ambulance worker named Kay who is called to a bomb site to rescue survivors.

After that, it was off to our next session with eight minutes to spare.

Tune in tomorrow for Part Two: Ragdoll and Zesty enter Redundant Roundtable Hell. Abandon all hope, ye who enter this discussion.