Austin Clarke, cornered.

Following last night's David Foster Wallace tribute, I had hoped to go straight home to bed with a hot water bottle and my new mackinaw lap robe, but as fellow blogger Nikki pointed out, it was only 11 pm and contrary to my preferred lifestyle, I am not eighty years old. Enlivened by the reminder, Nikki and I made a plucky dash to the hospitality suite of the Granville Island Hotel in search of conversation and cut vegetables. How nice to have found both, and Austin Clarke, too.

I led Mr. Clarke into a quieter part of the room and asked him what he, as a writer, enjoys most about literary festivals.