The book ball has the name, but it happens on the afterparty in the counter. It does not come out because visitors cannot and want to remember anything later.
I have to walk with a group, something like that, but it may also be that I wanted to celebrate that I was sober, so I can still relate to socially without drinks and drugs.
I came in through the side entrance. It was as if I was walking into a painting by Jeroen Bosch, with desk director Yoeri Albrecht as a tipsy jailer. I kept the jacket on, man on passing.
It turned out to be a meeting for people who were evaluating their own behavior on the book ball. It was as if they could finally relax. Everything came out, it smelled every now and then, but everyone could smell it.
A writer who told me on the book ball that she finally won cocaine for the first time at the age of 45, it did her well, wanted to have conversations through an intermediary. I saw someone from television sitting at a table at the window, on the floor in front of him they lay on the floor on the floor. At the toilets, two toilets were fucked at the same time. They were unknown writers.
I started a series of short conversations in the café area.
Employees of it Volkskrant Magazine Occasionally came to bring a hug to their editor -in -chief, later they sat on each other like a mountain. The literary reviewer of NRC Sat with himself behind a table. I wanted to order something, but at the bar they were all kissing, behind the bar too. Someone wanted to take a picture with me, another came to show me that she finds me a dick.
I could never catch up with the backlog, even though I drank four gin-tonics in succession, but I apparently couldn’t leave either. I was standing like a self -imposed punishment. Did I go to Ukraine soon?
The question came unexpectedly. It would be good for me. Everyone who once went along had done well. I monstered some writers who had been. Curious how we would relate to the trenches. A little further on a war correspondent, who also went along. I had laughed at him several times on television, he turned out to be 2 meters 10 in real life and at least not hateing.
To the dance floor, it was more than dancing. A woman I didn’t know asked, “Why do you always ignore me?” I had never seen her, moreover I reacted now? A furious disposable gesture. I did it again!
I did not win here, wanted to leave, but the case was already swept empty. Afterwards they stood in front of the counter with sixty, names were called to whose house they would go. It was nice to leave them behind, maybe I had to go to Ukraine to forget them.
Marcel van Roosmalen Writes a column on Monday and Thursday.