PARADISE

My book and heart
Must never part.
- The New England Primer

Prologue:

I get a 30% coupon from Borders Bookstore from time to time and everytime I get one I follow the same routine. I go to the store closest to my condo and do a quicksearch for the bargain buy. First-hand books are expensive and a 30% coupon is something to behold. If a book sucked, I felt I betrayed the coupon in a wickeder fashion than the 70% cash outlay could ever suffer.

To make sure I get the right book, I try to posses the same level of eagerness as a jerk's in some online-sponsored quick-dating scheme. I look at clues appearing on its face (the author; the capsule reviews; the awards garnered), and try to quick-peek the contents by reading the first few paragraphs. The kick must be there, up front; You don't dilly dally with this reader, Writer!

Which means out of all the books I recently bought, there were corresponding wildcards that were left out, some books I have strongly considered but did not buy for one reason or another, or have committed to buy when the next 30% coupon comes in. Among the most recent ones that I did not bring to the cash register with a heavy heart were three paperbacks: The Harmony Silk Factory by Tash Aw ($15.00), Cludsplitter by Russell Banks ($16.00), Too Far From Home, The Selected Writings of Paul Bowles ($15.95); and one hardbound, Brother, I'm Dying by Edwidge Danticat ($23.95).
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I went to the Miami International Book Fair in downtown Miami yesterday, 10 November, as I have done so in the past six years. MIBF is Miami's greatest gift to booklovers this part of the reading world, and the irony here is that if you don't read, you may soon find yourself doing otherwise after going to this event. Which means this weeklong event is really a blessing for both readers and non-readers alike: the workshops, the lectures, the readings, the games, the concerts, and of course - the booksales, will make even the most hardened of non-reader examine his literary conscience for all these pages he had missed nurturing during all his non-reading life.

The climate was gorgeous. It was in the cool upper 60's (F) at past 9:00am when I entered the NE 1st gate. I paid the $5.00 admission fee and had my hand red-stamped by the cutie volunteer, and as soon as I was in I headed straight to the booth of pennyworthbooks.com with no particular title to buy in mind. My impulse buying button was in the "on" setting, and I was ready to buy books like there was no tomorrow (which would be today, silly). After half an hour I was already carrying my first stash in two bags: National Geographic's Complete Birds of North America (hard-bound, 664 glossy-pages, $7.00); Go!, The Whole World of Transportation, edited by Bos, Hunt, and Mills (coffee table book, $7.00); Travels with Charley by John Steinbeck ($5.00); Selected Writings of Paul Bowles ($5.00); Cloudsplitter ($5.00); and The Harmony Silk Factory ($5.00).

When I got out of the booth, I was so proud of myself for the big savings, specifically for the three books which I were so close to previously buying at regular prices three times as much.

Then I walked around and walked around and walked around and was amazed by all the fanfare, at the same time wondering why non-locals always thought Miamians only cared for salsa and Gloria Estefan. People from all ages and health, races and credos, were in attendance and having fun. There was an 80-ish lady (wo)manning a radical booth while wearing a placard hanging from her neck that said "Impeachment Is Sexy"; I approached her to relay my amusement, and she quipped, "I got your attention, didn't I, didn't I?"

Then I passed by the booth of Words Without Borders (www.wordswithoutborders.org) and decided to hop in and take a closer look. I chit-chatted with a nice fellow and told him how grateful I was of their aspiration in bringing to English-only reading peoples of the world the great literary works of not-so-known masters which were previously untranslated - while at the same time offering my two-cents' worth of thoughts on certain things that do get lost in the course of translation.

At the booth of Books and Books, I quickly noticed the hanging blue and black t-shirts with a print that says FREADOM, the letters READ being in bold red letters. I bought one. Black. Medium.
There was only one person in my mind when I paid for it. Angela Solis.

By 11:30am I was famished and aching on the shoulders so I proceeded to the food court and got 2 sticks of shish kebab - succulent, spicy, dripping, the works - and a glass of frozen lemonade. I slumped on the pavement right at the spot where the sun penetrated to rid off the nagging chill, and then started to pig out. Kids passed me by and everytime they looked I teased their little curiosities with a quick pointing of the stick that seemed to tickle and say, Want some? want some? One toddler raised her tiny hand, palm up, and I was tempted to stick out my tongue. I did not because her daddy was kind of bulging in the chest and biceps.

Time check, 12:00 nn. I stood up burping and farting - spiced air was coming out of my body in different directions and through different outlets. I felt like a warrior trained in the art of two-pronged attacks, and realized I still had a long time to wait before I head on to the auditorium for my prime agenda. I decided to go the courtyard fronting the auditorium where I'll find me a spot to read one of the books I purchased. Along the way I passed by the booth that sold anthologies from university presses. I scanned ten of them, and then narrowed my final selection to three: Seneca Review (Hobart and William Smith Colleges, Fall 2007 issue); New England Review (Middlebury College, Vol. 28, Number 3, 2007); and Salmagundi (Skidmore College, Summer-Fall 2007) which I got for $2.00 each, way down from their original prices between $7.00-$8.00.

At the courtyard I sat down, catching my breath after all that walking and book-carrying (I felt I was in 1st grade, carrying my back-breaking textbooks on my walk to school) and before I finally settled I saw this booth selling rare books, and some second hand books, and what were generally considered hurt books (first-hand books with torn covers or missing flap jackets). What do I care about the flap-jackets? I thought, and so I bought two: Best American Short Story of the Century, John Updike, ed. (as a gift; I have this anthology already from 10 years ago and which I still proudly possess) for $6.00 or down from the original price of $18.95, and The Treasury of American Poetry, Nancy Sullivan, ed, for $8.00, or down from the original price of I don't know, could be $25.00? At that moment the poetry book was my most prized possession.

I took a seat at one of the four benches forming a square fronting the auditorium. I dug my finger randomly on the poetry book and found Stephen Crane -

A Man Said to the Universe

A man said to the universe:
"Sir, I exist!"
"However," replied the universe,
"The fact has not created in me
A sense of obligation."

I smiled. In only 5 lines, that poem was nothing short of awesome.

Then I noticed a low-key interview going on at the bench to my right; two seemingly African-American ladies conversing and a cameraman poking a huge tv camera at their faces for close-up shots gave me the assumption. Must be some documentary for some film school, I thought. Suddenly, the public address system boomed and the interview was interrupted. When the announcement was over, both me and the trio went to our respective personal businesses.

In a short while I noticed the interview to be over. One of the ladies, the one wearing black, walked in front of me, then stopped, and that's when I noticed a nametag on her chest. Oh my good gosh. The tag says, Edwidge Danticat.

I stood up and said, Miss Danticat, can I just go and buy your book, will you sign it for me, please? Yes of course, she said, I'll wait. I rushed to Books and Book's accross the street and asked for Brother, I'm Dying, Danticat's auobiographical book which was shortlisted for the National Book Award. The guy said they only had one copy left, hard-bound, and it was pre-autographed. "I'll take it", I half-screamed, panting.

"Miss Danticat", I said a little sheepishly, aware that I had to have her wait and compromise her tight schedule, "this is already signed...". Before I went further, she already knew my intentions. "Don't worry" she quipped while flashing a little girl's smile, "I'll make it a little more personal". And she did.

Dear C,

Nice to meet you.
All the best.

Edwidge Danticat

I went back to my bench and tried to retrace the path of my day, from 9:00 to that time check of around 2:00 pm. I was probably an inch above the ground, the moment of my rising unnoticed by the rest of humanity. These are the things I love, these are the people I revere, we must never ever part until the day I can read no more - and all these connotations were circling around my head as costumed students from Miami-Dade College roamed around, spewing lines straight out of Shakespearean tragedy. One character, a woman dressed a la medieval babe, deliberately bungled up the script and in a thick played-up British accent said, Which is better, Visa or Mastercard? The people laughed. I laughed, but I was laughing more at the abrupt character of my luck.

2:30pm I stood up. Time to go to my main agenda. At the auditorium I met this Chinese-looking guy from the Carribean, a friend of Derek Walcott's, and we talked about short stories (his published stories mostly) and his sense of urgency on my own manuscripts which, I told myself silently, won't be ready in twenty years time. Then we kept quiet after the two guests were called onstage.

They were my main agenda for the day. South African poet Breyten Breytenbach. Chinese novelist Ha Jin.

The experience requires a second chapter.