Sideways: That's the best approach to Lit Fest.
When you're perusing row upon row of books offered by the many fine booksellers who spread their wares, new and used, before a page-hungry public, you turn your head to the side. Reading titles on spines requires it. And thus, at the end of Lit Fest weekend, I always feel a little crick in my neck, from hours of curious head-tilting.
I love the lectures and panels, but it's the books I live for. Table by table, merchant by merchant, I make my happy way across the roped-off streets. In years past, I've unearthed, among many treasures, a lost H.P. Lovecraft, an unknown (to me) Sebastian Faulks, a to-die-for short story collection by Stendhal.
Don Quixote tilted at windmills. I tilt - my head, that is - at Lit Fest. Maybe you have to be a dreamer to understand.
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