D.C. bars had better bring their A games this weekend: the authors are coming to town.
On Saturday, legions of writers will descend on the Mall for the National Book Festival, the country’s annual celebration of, by, and for bibliophiles of all stripes.
Authors will sit in the crisp fall air, arrayed in all manner of worn cardigans and tortoise-shell glasses, signing autographs for eager book-lovers in Tevas and socks, for batty school librarians, and for scarf-draped “aspiring playwrights,” and they will all be yearning for a strong drink.
Of course, alcohol has been closely tied to the literary tradition ever since Irish scribes found respite from their work of saving civilization in the bottom of a pewter mug. American writers, in particular over the last century or so, have demonstrated a keen knack for knocking one back. From time to time, therefore, it is helpful while reading a book or story to recreate the conditions under which the tale was written. Often this involves a drink. Read on: the thirst for knowledge just got literal.
F. Scott Fitzgerald was what you’d call in laymen’s terms a “lush.” Along with his schizophrenic wife/muse, Zelda, ole Fitz basically drank himself silly up and down the East Coast for most of his short, cirrhotic life. When he wasn’t making love to the business end of a high-ball glass, however, the guy could write up a storm. Who hasn’t read, and loved, The Great Gatsby? Bet you’d love it even more if you read it while sipping a Gin Fizz—gin, lemon juice, sugar, and seltzer—a drink as appropriately glitzy and effervescent as the superficial lives of the Long Island elite described by Fitzgerald. Just be sure to suck on that lemon wedge as well, though. Scotty and his stories had a bitter edge to them.
Looking for something a bit more substantial? Papa Hemingway is your man. In between big-game hunting, deep-sea fishing, bull fighting, and love-making, Ernest found quite a bit of time to get tight on absinthe and do knife tricks. A Hemingway yarn, however, is best enjoyed with wine, preferably one that’s full-bodied and brooding like the man himself. Swirl a nice civilized Bordeaux while you ponder Ernest and his Parisian posse in A Moveable Feast, but throw social norms to the wind and break out the sheep-skin flask when you enjoy Hemingway’s passionate descriptions of bloodied bulls and tight pant-wearing matadors in The Sun Also Rises.
Sometimes we all feel a little glum. Usually the feeling passes. This never happened for Edgar Allan Poe, the famous American author of short stories. A tortured soul, Poe found relief only in the bottle and in the arms of his 13-year-old bride and cousin, Virginia. Bizarre conjugal preferences aside, Poe’s stories have been enjoyed for years as delightfully creepy reads. Peruse one of his finest examples of the power of a twisted mind and the lure of alcohol, “The Cask of Amontillado,” with a glass of brandy or sherry, or any other foul-tasting beverage with the power to induce melancholia.
From fizzing cocktails to hearty spirits, America’s liquefied literary canon is as diverse and far-reaching as the individuals that comprise the great nation itself. This weekend is your chance to celebrate that famed diversity, so head down to the mall and get bibliophilic. Don’t forget to pack a flask.
Read it and weep with Clare at ckm27@georgetown.edu
