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| Humanities Montana chair and Mr. Montana PBS William Marcus opens the Friday night gala readings |
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| Mayor John Engen welcomes the throng...more than 1,000; Hizzoner's welcomes have become an event in themselves, and this year's edition dwelt on Missoula's horribly hot, dry, fiery and smoky August and September, and particularly the 42 days without rain; it's below... |
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| Ivan Doig, one of the patriarchs of western writing, reading from his new novel The Bartender's Tale |
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| Personal favorite David Quammen (Song of the Dodo, Monster of God) reading from his newest, Spillover: Animal Infections and the Next Human Pandemic |
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| Pam Houston, reading from her new Contents May Have Shifted; definitely from the "why didn't I think of that?" genre; a great night of readings, great western fiction, thought-provoking contemporary commentary, insightful and amusing travel fare... |
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| Saturday night, after a day's worth of panels, readings, etc., Festival Goddess Kim Anderson introduces |
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| Lois Welch and composer Wayne Horvitz, discussing Horvitz' Heartsong of Charging Elk Song Cycle, based on the novel by James Welch, to be performed that evening |
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| At the conclusion of the performance; the Song Cycle was serious, contemporary music, probably something never heard before in the venerable Wilma Theatre; not Welch's cup of tea, I suspect, but he knew his words moved and transformed people, and he would have been gratified at this sincere tribute |
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| Almost any reason is good enough to visit Missoula, but on this occasion we went primarily for me to be declared a "humanities hero" |
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| Of course we found time to transfer items to and from our home/storage unit in east Missoula |
I was introduced to a Missoulian reporter as the founder of the book festival, and the following story resulted: http://missoulian.com/news/state-and-regional/festival-of-the-book-founder-pleased-with-effort-to-promote/article_97c42694-0fff-11e2-b8ad-0019bb2963f4.html. Indeed I am very pleased still to be associated with this great Montana event.
And here's Mayor's Engen's weclome to the 2012 festival:
Why I Have a Degree in Journalism and not an MFA in Creative Writing
John Engen, Mayor
Forty-two days gone and not a drop of rain, mountains appearing and disappearing depending on the day and the breeze and the smoke and the people, my people, miss the comfortable landscape, the familiar, abrupt horizon rendered dull by the haze through which Russell Chatham must see the world.
And, you know, we’re not in goddam Livingston. Our writers wear smaller belt buckles and are prone to overt suffering and higher-rent drinking problems. There are fewer horses and a lot more ennui here; thick, milky ennui. We’re not Livingston. We’ve got cloudy winters and a peace center, so don’t bring your lonesome doves around here, because we have a French restaurant and an aloof squab could easily be the dinner special.
We’re not used to all that dryness. Every story’s about what springs from water: the timber and the ore and the booze and the punitive snow and these rivers carrying the fish, which, when combined with a dry fly and a decent cast will give you all the Universal Truth you could ever need. We write what we know or hope to know and we don’t know this. The smoke is all about young men and fire, but all that should burn in memory, from a distance, and not interfere with the hot, sunny August that’s still cool at night and smells just like it did when you were a kid.
Red suns are for Martians. Red sunsets for sailors. We don’t get that here. The righteous night sky in August is black but for the countless stars and the moon, somewhere.
Forty-two days gone and not a drop of rain. The sky’s gone missing, missing, I tell you and the people, my people, miss their place, their home. The last time we were dry this long was in 1896, and they may or may not have lynched the mayor, a purportedly jolly fellow right until the end.
Then, silently, in the middle of the night, snow. And we’re not and never were Livingston. And we’re not dry. Not hazy. Not smoky. Not angry. We’re chilly and it’s October and it’s finally OK and, coincidentally, the Festival of the Book begins tonight, in Missoula, Montana, the place we miss when it’s gone.
Welcome back, Missoula, and welcome to the Festival of the Book.
Oct. 5, 2012
And here's Mayor's Engen's weclome to the 2012 festival:
Why I Have a Degree in Journalism and not an MFA in Creative Writing
John Engen, Mayor
Forty-two days gone and not a drop of rain, mountains appearing and disappearing depending on the day and the breeze and the smoke and the people, my people, miss the comfortable landscape, the familiar, abrupt horizon rendered dull by the haze through which Russell Chatham must see the world.
And, you know, we’re not in goddam Livingston. Our writers wear smaller belt buckles and are prone to overt suffering and higher-rent drinking problems. There are fewer horses and a lot more ennui here; thick, milky ennui. We’re not Livingston. We’ve got cloudy winters and a peace center, so don’t bring your lonesome doves around here, because we have a French restaurant and an aloof squab could easily be the dinner special.
We’re not used to all that dryness. Every story’s about what springs from water: the timber and the ore and the booze and the punitive snow and these rivers carrying the fish, which, when combined with a dry fly and a decent cast will give you all the Universal Truth you could ever need. We write what we know or hope to know and we don’t know this. The smoke is all about young men and fire, but all that should burn in memory, from a distance, and not interfere with the hot, sunny August that’s still cool at night and smells just like it did when you were a kid.
Red suns are for Martians. Red sunsets for sailors. We don’t get that here. The righteous night sky in August is black but for the countless stars and the moon, somewhere.
Forty-two days gone and not a drop of rain. The sky’s gone missing, missing, I tell you and the people, my people, miss their place, their home. The last time we were dry this long was in 1896, and they may or may not have lynched the mayor, a purportedly jolly fellow right until the end.
Then, silently, in the middle of the night, snow. And we’re not and never were Livingston. And we’re not dry. Not hazy. Not smoky. Not angry. We’re chilly and it’s October and it’s finally OK and, coincidentally, the Festival of the Book begins tonight, in Missoula, Montana, the place we miss when it’s gone.
Welcome back, Missoula, and welcome to the Festival of the Book.
Oct. 5, 2012
