Some months ago I posted a dream in which I found a bookstore with shelf after shelf of small press poetry and home-made editions. Perhaps it's a version (vision?) of heaven. (Another being a busy French brasserie where the angels are waiters dashing through revolving doors carrying seafood platters, cassoulet, steak du patron et frites.)
So it's been a bit like going to Paradise & back - or the suburbs at least - the past two days.
The Marché du Livre de Mariemont - Salon de la petite édition et de la création littéraire.
In other words, a festival of Artist's Books just down the motor way from Brussels. Table after table of the most fascinating works - word-based, image-based, xerox-basic through to luxurious thousand euro limited editions.
Fingers trembling, I'm left with the question: Why do anything else?
Fingers trembling, I'm left with the question: Why do anything else?
3 comments:
Mr Jones,
You sometimes remind me of Stephen Clarke in your writing, but a wittier, brighter version. I think that you should write a book!!!
Katya
Very much a fan of your idea of heaven. The brasserie that is. Mixing the two would only end with me spilling a Jupiler on a priceless manuscript.
Very much a fan of your idea of heaven. The brasserie that is. Mixing the two would only end with me spilling a Jupiler on a priceless manuscript.
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