Sophie Lewis is managing editor of Dalkey Archive Press (UK). This week she is blogging for First Drafts from the Frankfurt Book Fair, the world’s largest book trade event.
The weather has been stunning here: bright sunshine during the day; fresh, dark nights. I know about the sunshine mostly through hearsay, and the odd gleam through plate glass. Today was another marathon, a fast-forward tour of Scandinavian and eastern European literature with a couple of French and Mexican wildcards thrown in.
A number of these meetings are courtesy calls and can be done on autopilot. We were relieved not to find the Czech book centre’s rep at home when we called; no doubt he had chosen to disappear knowing we had nothing to talk about since our last meeting. Similarly, ten minutes was enough with the wonderful Iris Schwank of FILI, the Finnish literature society. We congratulated each other, again, on finally achieving the publication of Maria-Liisa Vartio’s The Parson’s Widow, one of the masterpieces of modern Finnish literature, which has been 30 years in the translation and preparation. Iris told us about the huge success of the theatre adaptations and television series that have been made of Vartio’s work in Finland. I pictured a kind of 20th century Pride and Prejudice filmed under Scandinavian white nights. We fell silent and beamed at each other, shook hands and headed off to our next appointment.
Some encounters were unexpectedly exciting. On our way to find rebarbatively titled Mexican press the Fondo de Cultura Economica, we ran across the tiny stand of Sexto Piso. This unassuming house began only five years ago, has offices in Mexico, across Latin America and Spain, and publishes writers as diverse and brilliant as Orwell, Robert Musil, Theophile Gautier, Nadine Gordimer and Henry James in Spanish. We exchanged compliments, and they ended up recommending to us an avant-garde Serbian author for whom they handle the rights.
Finally at the Fondo, we discovered an erudite and discerning outfit, publishing the best of Carlos Fuentes alongside books about jazz and architecture—and somehow smitten with Hugh Kenner, one of our best literary critics. How does a Mexican publisher decide he wants to publish critical essays about the toughest of French and Irish modernists written by an American and published by an indie non-profit press working in Illinois? We don’t know, but it was a pleasure to discuss Kenner’s writing with Joaquin.
As for today’s French experience, this one was no outsider. A contact from the French book office in New York had suggested Paul could be good for tips on new funding avenues for French books. We found him on the main French publishers’ stand, simultaneously fielding questions in three languages and receiving a long contract by fax. While continuing to do this he listened to our request, then whipped us to a table, furnished us with lists of books and contacts, described a ten-person tour of French writers that he’s planning, offered us coffee, downed his and sent us on our way with a “bonne foire,” all in less than five minutes. A model Frankfurt man.
The weather has been stunning here: bright sunshine during the day; fresh, dark nights. I know about the sunshine mostly through hearsay, and the odd gleam through plate glass. Today was another marathon, a fast-forward tour of Scandinavian and eastern European literature with a couple of French and Mexican wildcards thrown in.
A number of these meetings are courtesy calls and can be done on autopilot. We were relieved not to find the Czech book centre’s rep at home when we called; no doubt he had chosen to disappear knowing we had nothing to talk about since our last meeting. Similarly, ten minutes was enough with the wonderful Iris Schwank of FILI, the Finnish literature society. We congratulated each other, again, on finally achieving the publication of Maria-Liisa Vartio’s The Parson’s Widow, one of the masterpieces of modern Finnish literature, which has been 30 years in the translation and preparation. Iris told us about the huge success of the theatre adaptations and television series that have been made of Vartio’s work in Finland. I pictured a kind of 20th century Pride and Prejudice filmed under Scandinavian white nights. We fell silent and beamed at each other, shook hands and headed off to our next appointment.
Some encounters were unexpectedly exciting. On our way to find rebarbatively titled Mexican press the Fondo de Cultura Economica, we ran across the tiny stand of Sexto Piso. This unassuming house began only five years ago, has offices in Mexico, across Latin America and Spain, and publishes writers as diverse and brilliant as Orwell, Robert Musil, Theophile Gautier, Nadine Gordimer and Henry James in Spanish. We exchanged compliments, and they ended up recommending to us an avant-garde Serbian author for whom they handle the rights.
Finally at the Fondo, we discovered an erudite and discerning outfit, publishing the best of Carlos Fuentes alongside books about jazz and architecture—and somehow smitten with Hugh Kenner, one of our best literary critics. How does a Mexican publisher decide he wants to publish critical essays about the toughest of French and Irish modernists written by an American and published by an indie non-profit press working in Illinois? We don’t know, but it was a pleasure to discuss Kenner’s writing with Joaquin.
As for today’s French experience, this one was no outsider. A contact from the French book office in New York had suggested Paul could be good for tips on new funding avenues for French books. We found him on the main French publishers’ stand, simultaneously fielding questions in three languages and receiving a long contract by fax. While continuing to do this he listened to our request, then whipped us to a table, furnished us with lists of books and contacts, described a ten-person tour of French writers that he’s planning, offered us coffee, downed his and sent us on our way with a “bonne foire,” all in less than five minutes. A model Frankfurt man.
