A great writer of our times.

The first time I ever heard of Marilynne Robinson was way back, in Nick Hornby's book column of The Believer. He was praising Gilead to the skies. Intrigued, I got it and read it and I've been in love ever since. I now own and have read all Marilynne Robinson's books - and three of them signed copies! I was lucky enough to see her last year in Edinburgh, in a New College lecture, and then again yesterday in Edinburgh, in a packed Assembly Roxy at an out-of-season Edinburgh Book Festival event. There is nothing I can say in praise of her books myself that hasn't been said before. In such cases, the pleasure of reading them oneself cannot be equal to anything anyone might say about them.  

Marilynne Robinson and devoted fan.

Yesterday she was asked many questions, and she answered them all, within the constraints of the one (only!) allocated hour. I understand that we, the reading public, are a bit cannibalistic, and would not spare our favourite writers, who are, after all, human beings and do get tired and cold and hungry (and bored), like everyone else. But I would have liked a bit more time to ask her to elaborate on some of the things she said, particularly about her surprising (but was it?) statement that she rarely rewrites, that everything comes to her pretty much as it ends up in the page, and that she give a lot of thought to things before writing them up. 

The queue for the book signing was very long, and I can't imagine anything more tedious than sitting down and writing your name over and over again in people's copies, in a cold and lofty building made of stone (which increases the cold) in a dreary (dreich is the lovely, perfectly descriptive word) November afternoon in Edinburgh. Ian Webster from Waterstones was kind enough to take this picture on his iphone and even kinder to send it to me. (Thank you, Ian - I consider every penny I've ever spent in Waterstones well-spent after this!)

When I left, she, kind and patient, was still there signing, signing. And the queue was still long. Outside it was misty, and hazy blurs of light were popping up in the falling darkness.  There was that particular feel and smell of Edinburgh in the air, the excitement of the city getting ready for Christmastime; people in and out of the shops holding red-ribboned gift bags (5p each with the new - and correct - regulations); decorations already on some windows. By the time I arrived at Waverley Station to catch the train back home, it was properly dark - just before five in the afternoon. As the train moved westbound, I could discern strings of festive lights in Princes Gardens. All the way to Glasgow Queen Street station, I was reading When I Was a Child I Read Books,  still dazed. 

Back to work today. Tomorrow at 1pm I'm giving an Insight Talk on Enchanted Places at the Hunterian Art Gallery. More info on my official Hunterian project blog historyfictionfantasy.wordpress.com. And that (sort of) concludes my personal appearance obligations for the project. Finally, I'll be able to concentrate on the blog itself, once all that - not unpleasant, but distracting -  stuff is out of the way.