Let’s help Ian McEwan write

We are, more or less, at the mid-point of the literary festival season… Thirty years ago, such events were virtually unknown. When, during the early sixties, W.H. Auden went to Sheffield to read from a selection of his poetry — offending Australians, during his opening remarks, with the terrible old joke about Emma Chizzit — his willingness to perform in the provinces was regarded as a sensation. Now the most distinguished writers regularly discuss their work with eager audiences all over (Britain). Last week in Buxton — where literature has been added to music — Ian McEwan told his audience about work in progress and asked for their help in confirming that the incident on which the plot turned was credible. When his next novel is published, 600 people will claim part ownership.

Not surprisingly, McEwan is invited to enough festivals to take up his weekends for the whole year. Most are declined with thanks. The miracle is that he — and writers like him — accept any at all. Few festivals pay, and those which do offer only a pittance. Books are sold at the end of each talk, but a writer who sells 50 and signs another dozen for the bookshop’s stock has done well. The stars of the circuit have sales figures in the hundreds of thousands. Most writers turn up because they enjoy meeting their readers. The boost to their egos is a very innocent form of self-indulgence.

Naturally enough, politicians (past and present) are attracted to book festivals for less straightforward reasons. They have spent their lives speaking to people who hate and distrust them. The audiences at Hay and Edinburgh buy their tickets because they like the speaker or the speaker’s work. My first appearance at Dartington was a profound cultural shock. Everyone was nice to me…

The enthusiasm of the literary festival’s ticket-buying public can easily be dismissed as capitulation to the modern cult of personality: a book is no more enjoyable to read because the author’s signature is on the title page. But literary curiosity is not new. Charles Dickens could fill any town hall in Britain and America — and he only read from his work. Today’s audiences hate readings. They can do that for themselves. They come to festivals in the hope that they will see inside an author’s head. Purists may argue that the text is all that matters, and whether the hero is taken from real life or is the creature of pure imagination is of no consequence. But the desire to talk to writers about writing is a mark of the civilised mind. The more the literary festival prospers, the greater the hope for a literate future.

Excertped from an article by Roy Hattersley in ‘The Guardian’, July 24