The last National Book Festival, which has a laudable 18 year history, was remarkable; the largest since its inception with 200,000 bibliophiles bustling, bumbling, and bumping into each other like bumper-cars in the corridors of Walter E. Washington Convention in proximity of the iconic Capitol. Nerdy, bespeckled bookworms writers were drawing rock n’ roll luminaries crowds, which were stuffing auditoriums to capacity and demanded, unfortunately, turning away serpentine lines of enthusiastic, literary groupies.
Exalted dignitaries spiced the soup of literary conjurers: adjudicator, Supreme Court Justice Sonia Sotomayor plugging her new children’s book, Turning Pages: My Life Story–and–former Secretary State Madeleine Albright promoting her book that premonishes the insidious garrison state, “Fascism: A Warning”. A record number of authors–a quantity which was not devulged–an esoteric statistic tantalizingly coveted for a mystery waiting to be written, I’m sure, ushered in their books of an array of genres. The book festival was a metropolis for every facet of the printed word: writers that distinguished themselves recieved alcolades, to include remunerative compensations; and, there was the hawking of their precious word wares of phrases and clauses amounting to an eye bulging, jaw dropping record of 17,000 books purchased.