Sri Lanka's literary festival: a diary

I am on board for the fourth annual Galle Literary Festival, held in Sri Lanka. Until a few days ago the only sold-out events were the piss-ups, the concerts, and the sit-down dinners with famous authors—so don’t try telling the local literati that drinking isn’t where it’s at.

Partial list of famous authors: Wendy Cope, Antony Beevor, Artemis Cooper, Rana Dasgupta, Gillian Slovo, Michael Frayn, Claire Tomalin, Louise Doughty, Shyam Selvadurai, Ian Rankin. “Partial” because not impartial. The other day someone asked me who the biggest name was going to be this year. I tried Cope, Frayn, Beevor, Slovo… WG Sebald… Antoine de St Exupéry… ASH Smyth… but nothing. Eventually I gave in and mentioned Rankin. Big reaction, followed by confession of ignorance regarding Rankin’s actual output. Horrifying conclusion: you’re not famous if they haven’t heard of you in Sri Lanka.

I have my own event to prepare for, “The literature of post-war Sri Lanka,” a panel discussion relegated to the fringe festival since it’s deemed not to be as relevant a topic as the private life of a royal mistress living in 18th century London. So naturally, I have spent the past few days indulging in any and all diversionary activities.

Saturday: went to watch an Erich Kastner movie at the Goethe-Institute, where my girlfriend introduced me to an elderly Sri Lankan poet called Clive James. He informed her that he studied only the Romantic languages—the ensuing confusion was fun to watch. Went to meet an architect for advice on a book we’re writing on Geoffrey Bawa: he tells us that Geoffrey’s famously gay brother, Bevis, once killed a woman during sex (this was told to us in what you might call “Colombo confidence”: a story told in hushed tones but clearly intended for repetition).

Sunday: composed a poem in honour of Wendy Cope, and had a local design studio print it up as a postcard for distribution around Galle. I also sneaked into the festival’s official bookshop and slipped a few copies into Making Cocoa for Kingsley Amis. Wendy Cope is my heroin(e)—a writer who showed me that poetry could be funny.

Monday: email from Wendy Cope, consenting to interview request. Score! (Question: what is the etiquette for presenting tribute poems? Should I go down on one knee, or climb something very tall?)



Tuesday: email reminders to other writers I have been harassing (probably all in Jaipur). Half day, courtesy of presidential elections. No beer, ditto.

Wednesday: wrote 1000 words on Brazilian photographers in Colombo, for Sri Lankan Sunday Times. Phonecall from Delhi: Rana Dasgupta, confirming interview. I ask if he’ll be at tomorrow’s booze-up. “Yes,” he says, “I’ll be at all the parties... I’m bringing my wife.” Is he worried I’m gay? Clearly hasn’t heard about me and Wendy Cope.

The TV says that the president has secured re-election. My girlfriend finds a day-old mail from her mother informing her of election violence, and telling her not to go out in the street. Through the plate-glass, the street is so quiet that even the beggars have gone home.

Read Frayn’s latest, Travels with a Typewriter, a collection of pieces that turn out to be from the 1960s. Mot du jour: snickarglädje – carpenter’s delight (nothing to do with getting wood). Wrote up notes for "post-war lit" panel. Evening spent trying to find/take a suitable photo to accompany my bio on the festival’s site. The one of me on the roof, wearing nothing but a pink towel, probably will not make the cut. Call from Ashok Ferrey, whose first novel, Serendipity, I recently finished editing… two months after its publication. He reminds me I have to come up with a three-minute funny story by Saturday evening.