It will be my most important participation at the Writers Festival.
It is 10am; the auditorium is filled.
John Felton, a local writer, will interview me. I step on the stage with the apprehension of always.
Felton introduces me and starts asking me questions. Before I can finish my thoughts, he interrupts me and asks me a new question.
When I answer, he says something like “this answer wasn’t very clear.”
Five minutes later, a discomfort can be felt in the audience — everyone notices there is something wrong. I recall Confucius and do the only thing possible:
“Do you like what I write?” I ask him.
“That doesn’t matter,” he answers. “I am the one doing the interview, not the other way around.”
“It does matter. You don’t let me finish a thought. Confucius said: ‘whenever possible, be clear.’ Let’s follow this advice and leave things clear: do you like what I write?”
“No, I don’t like it. I have read only two books and I didn’t like them.”
“Ok then, we can go on.”
The fields were now defined. The audience relaxes, the atmosphere is charged with electricity, the interview becomes a true debate and everyone, even Felton, are satisfied with the result.