Wrapping up my Having Touched the Face of God Tour, I had a few days to kill before embarking on my Manifest Destiny Tour. In the brief interim, I attended the Wisconsin Book Festival, and was left with a lasting impression concerning the matter of spoilers.Spoiler Alert: I love spoilers. Does the Old Man get the fish? Does Luke kill Vader? Does Juliet get Romeo? Does Seabiscuit win? Oh, do tell.
J'accuse
Under the shadow of a "milwaukee blogger's" accusation that she had a tendency to give too much away, author Daphne Beal expressed nervousness about reading an excerpt from the latter half of her novel. Was this an effort to connect with the audience? Did she suffer from outsized self-importance? Did she think this little nervous act cute?
No to all. Unlike me, she had faced that loose confederacy roaming reading festivals, their hatred over the spoliation of novels equaled only by their desire for the opportunity to be indignant. I only had to wait another day.
Disclosure
I am a book festival virgin. Being touched for the very first time, I felt something thaw out that had been scared and cold.
Interesting side comment
The Wisconsin Book Festival concocts a theme for each panel of readers, attempting to link what a sane person would identify as disparate novels: loving and leaving the Tri-State Area; railroads and sexual mores in the 19th century; when predator becomes prey, and vice-versa. These themes proved to be as arbitrary as they were useless.
It was a clear Sunday afternoon . . .
. . . when I biked over to the Orpheum Theatre to see CJ Hribal. I expected a tribal-like gathering. I had yet to see a turnout that would rival that of a Rocky Horror Picture Show matinee. The auditorium, however, was packed and pungent - reminiscent of Longs Drugs on Senior Tuesday. Folk smoldered over my not being there a half-hour early.
The "theme" was How Ya Gonna Keep 'em Down on the Farm? I am not from real America. But authors CJ Gribal and Michael Perry seemed cut from the Jeffersonian mold: they sought an undistracted inner life and found answers sprout from cultivating the land. A commanding presence, CJ Hribal offered up an affecting piece on the inevitability of injuring those we love. Michael Perry's account of farming life was like drinking hot cocoa on a wet day.
If the third author had lived on a farm, he had left and never looked back. I looked down at my packet. David Wroblewski. My eyes widened. "Oprah's latest author."
To hushed intensity, Mr. Wroblewski began reading a chapter written from the point of view of a dog. I liked Old Yeller, Where the Red Fern Grows, and even The Trouble with Tuck - where a dog was a dog and loved for being a dog. But something was wrong. This dog, was, well, politically correct.
One cannot write for Oprah and expect to be chosen. But one can write for Oprah. It is no secret Oprah loves dogs. And because of Oprah, dogs are better off. And because of Oprah, so was Mr. Wroblewski. Well, I thought, woof, woof, woof.
Calling Mr. Wroblewski
All questions in the swollen auditorium were for Mr. Wroblewski. He had made the trip into a dog's consciousness. He had been to the mountaintop. Speak, diviner of dog thoughts!
He talked of inspiration. His parents had purchased a farm, failed at farming, and turned to kennels. "So," he says, "I grew up around dogs [insert thoughtful pause] dogs that, well, weren't necessarily obedient." Oooohs, uhhhs, and mmms of deeply felt satisfaction followed this profundity.
Where was Werner Herzog?
I wished for Werner Herzog to emerge, like a dark angel: "you give much to zees dog of yours, no? When I look into zee eyes of a dog, I see ze love for meat. Appetite, Mr. Wroblewski, appetite, defines nature. And zees dog of yours iz no exception. Your dog, it wants meat.""But!" someone would scream. "My dog cares for me!"
"No!" would boom Mr. Herzog. "You are nothing but a purveyor of meat!"
But Herzog did not show, and, as the insightful CJ Hribal and Michael Perry shrunk into the shadows, the dogs ran wild. What, you might be asking, does this have to do with spoilers? Relax. I don't want to spoil the surprise.
Torches and pitchforks
Mr. Wroblewski was a master of the demographic. "After years of being away, I finally, wherever I go, proudly identify myself as a Midwesterner." Subdued hysteria particular to the Midwest ensued. Most did not hear his whispered caveat, "where appropriate."Mr. Wroblewski was flying as high as Icarus when a woman raised her hand.
"What," she asked, "happens to the dog?" A tsunami of grumbles suggesting impending violence rose up around the woman. I looked for an exit.
"Who," he asked, playing with fire, "doesn't want me to answer that?" The arms of the agitated reached for the sky, some holding up two hands to over-represent the crushing majority.
"Don't answer that question!" commanded a lady, serious as the plague.
"I," he said courageously, "have never been a fan of spoilers." People clapped and hooted as Molotov cocktails were returned to Farmers' Market satchels.
What I would say if I wanted to die by way of mob
If, I wanted to ask audience members, I told you that you were going to die, would that make your life not worth living? One doesn't go to church and say, I know Jesus died . . . can we hear something else? If knowing the cliff notes of a book really ruins the book, I suggest the book isn't worth reading. And if you attend a reading, then it should be at your own risk. And if that doesn't make you feel better . . . just remember, old books are like old friends.
To conclude
Does the Old Man get the fish? He gets respect. Does Juliet get Romeo? She did at first glance. Does Luke kill Vader? Vader killed Vader. Does Seabiscuit win? Wondering whether Seabisquit might lose is like wondering whether Bond gets the girl.
Photos: Werner Herzog (romiphoto)
Posts
