Books: September 2006 Archives

Sometimes the enthusiasm that flows from borough president Marty Markowitz's office can be a let-down. I mean, not everything can be great about Brooklyn, right?

And so it was with a little initial skepticism that I responded to the announcement of the first ever Brooklyn Book Festival, to be held at Borough Hall Plaza on 16 September. At the kick-off party in May there were plenty of speeches and hand claps and those mini ham sandwiches, but no Web site to speak of and the staff seemed at times as confused as I was as to why we were all assembled.

But four months later, the line-up for this Saturday's festival looks smart, impressive, and fun. More than just readings, there are performances, lectures, and lots of vendors on tap. I'll be out of town this weekend and am disappointed to miss out on the chance to listen to some of my favorite authors (hello, Patrick McDonnell) talk about what they love--something that I love too.

Below, the official Subway Reads suggested itinerary:

Many of you are probably MUG subscribers. Those of you who haven't yet signed up, you'll want to subscribe for your daily dose of joesnyc and all around good New York info. MUG posted today, in honor of 9/11, an amazing poem by one of my favorite poets. It made my day a little better, gave a little space of silence to my busy morning. I hope you appreciate it too.

Riding the Elevator Into the Sky

by Anne Sexton (1975)

As the fireman said:
Don't book a room over the fifth floor
in any hotel in New York.
They have ladders that will reach further
but no one will climb them.
As the New York Times said:
The elevator always seeks out
the floor of the fire
and automatically opens
and won't shut.
These are the warnings
that you must forget
if you're climbing out of yourself.
If you're going to smash into the sky.
Many times I've gone past
the fifth floor,
cranking upward,
but only once
have I gone all the way up.
Sixtieth floor:
small plants and swans bending
into their grave.
Floor two hundred:
mountains with the patience of a cat,
silence wearing its sneakers.
Floor five hundred:
messages and letters centuries old,
birds to drink,
a kitchen of clouds.
Floor six thousand:
the stars,
skeletons on fire,
their arms singing.
And a key,
a very large key,
that opens something--
some useful door--
somewhere--
up there.