Interest is expressed, but if any one had their chequebooks set to Stun and Impress, I didn't hear about it. I n these heady, post-Potter days, we have all found ourselves working in one of the coolest occupations since merchant banking in the 80's. Good will abounds, the espresso flows, champagne corks pop after 5.00 p.m, and the general mood is ebullient. F or anyone, especially writers and illustrators, going to Bologna for the first time is an overwhelming experience. Thousands of books vie for attention, each publisher's stand adorned with enlarged and glossy artwork advertising what is forthcoming, what is hip and happening, and, regrettably, what has been dressed up, reassembled and revamped from what has gone before.
Some publishers lead, and others follow.
The sheer numbers of books on display make a Bologna-virgin wish to return to the sanctuary of their hotel for a quick weep, swiftly followed by the consumption of quantities of alcohol. Pass the gin, I feel a fit of the vapours coming on. After a day spent gazing depressedly at the wealth of talent on offer, the virgin finds that, in fact, out of the 1000's of books on display, there are perhaps ten or twelve books of outstanding merit. The remaining thousands include some good, some indifferent and some just plain awful. A Bologna-virgin draws great comfort from this discovery, and suddenly the retreat to the hotel no longer holds the same appeal.