The Dalkey Book Festival is a genteel event where concerned book lovers turn up in droves to sit at the feet of a distinguished cast of international writers from the worlds of literature and politics. The format is usually an interview followed by a Q & A. Aside from the odd bore, these Q & A sessions are mild affairs with gentle lobs aimed at the distinguished guests. Controversy is rare, these are love-ins where the converted are being preached to. Even the comedians are treated with reverence. A tired-looking Dylan Moran did a set in a packed hall at the Cuala GAA club that, apart from 10 minutes or so where he slagged of those lucky enough to live in the area, was distinctly weak. He clearly ran out of energy and material as the show went on and finished up early. Nonetheless the packed hall gave him a generous ovation at the premature end.
However, I am sad to report these tranquil proceedings were disrupted yesterday by this writer when I managed to turn that benign elder statesman of US letters Richard Ford into a snarling beast. Here’s how it happened.The well-known literary hatchet-woman Claire Lowdon had recently published a vicious attack on the man and his work in the Times Literary Supplement. Amongst the many literary crimes cited she accused him of being racist, sexist and boring. There seemed to be a tendency in her review to conflate Ford with his character Frank Bascombe in Be Mine (his latest) and other novels. She also encouraged her readers not to buy Be Mine.
I’m an admirer of Ford’s meandering style and have enjoyed most of his books. I was pissed off by the flagrant unfairness of this review. When it came to Q & A I was first up. I asked him had he read the abusive review and if so what was his response. “I never read reviews”, he answered, “my wife does and filters the contents before I see them”. I then started to try give him a précis of the review but he interrupted me in an agitated fashion and there was much hand waving from interviewer Merve Imre (a great hand waver generally by the way even in the most placid of situations). “Stop stop!” was the message. The microphone bearer was sent to wrest the organ of discourse from my blood-stained hands but I motored on about Lowdon’s urging us not to read his book. The mood in the room turned ugly, lynching was never on the cards, but much tutt-tutting and turning around and glaring. (My poor wife sat frozen with mortification beside me.) I reluctantly handed it over but not before declaring limply “I thought this was a Q & A.” A clearly maddened Ford barked “grow up” from the stage. Lacking the mike I was unable to respond. If I had been, I might have made the point: “you’re telling me to grow up and yet you get your wife to read your reviews.” So perhaps it was for the best.
My big mistake of course was mistaking the nature of the game we play at these events. Instead of giving the great man a gentle lob, I executed a sliced backhand that he found unplayable. Poor show.
