I can’t believe it. The day after I wrote my thoughts about Clive James and his ability to write about anyone and anything without letting self-doubt censor him, I saw listed in my Time Out New York that the man himself was appearing in conversation with the editor in chief of Slate magazine at the New York Public Library.
“Now this is why I’m in this city!” I thought to myself, salivating at the prospect of an hour or so of (hopefully) witty exchanges between two erudite chaps. James’s Cultural Amnesia has just been published here. He must be winging his way to Australia for a Writers Festival launch there in July … which, come to think of it, I’ll also miss.
This afternoon in preparation for my cultural excursion I looked up the NYPL website to find out more details about the location, and found to my dismay that the event has been sold out for weeks. I am devastated. Why bother listing the event? To rub my ill-preparedness in my face? Having learned my lesson the hard way, I have now subscribed to the Library’s listserv for announcements of future events. Harrumph.
