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.
Don Quixote tilted at windmills. I tilt - my head, that is - at Lit Fest. Maybe you have to be a dreamer to understand.