Anodyne
Saturday, October 08, 2005
 
A pretty spectacular pileup on I-5 made me late for Zadie Smith's reading. I scooted downstairs at Elliott Bay only to find the cafe packed, standing room only. So I squeezed a chair into a corner and hung my head around the door as the alternately droll & articulate Ms. Smith discussed her favorite writers (George Saunders; Hillary Mantel); the nature of literary celebrity in the UK; an uncomfortable stint in Jamaica as a "visiting writer" on the Jamaican government's tab, & etc.

"Please form a line behind me for the signing," said the woman next to me, holding up her hand.

"Haw," I said. "As if."

"Who should I make it out to?", queried Zadie, who'd popped up at the table while I was still trying to get my head around going from being fifteen minutes late to first in line.

"There's a whole room of people waiting," I said, "Plain signatures are fine, thanks very much."

Zadie Smith eyeballed me, pursed her lips, seized On Beauty's Brodart between thumb and forefinger. "Are you a...book collector?"

"I'm a book reader," I said, "and I admire yours a lot. They've kind of restored my faith in realistic fiction. I drove down from Canada just to meet you."

"Thanks," said a smiling Zadie Smith, and signed my copy of On Beauty with a flourish.
- posted by cjb @ 12:15 AM


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