{"id":11227,"date":"2011-02-09T07:00:11","date_gmt":"2011-02-09T12:00:11","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=11227"},"modified":"2011-02-09T00:45:38","modified_gmt":"2011-02-09T05:45:38","slug":"a-week-in-culture-jacques-testard-editor","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2011\/02\/09\/a-week-in-culture-jacques-testard-editor\/","title":{"rendered":"A Week in Culture: Jacques Testard, Editor"},"content":{"rendered":"

\"\"<\/p>\n

DAY ONE<\/h3>\n

11:45 A.M.<\/strong> I\u2019ve just landed in Delhi. I\u2019m here for the Jaipur Literature Festival<\/a>, starring Orhan Pamuk, J. M. Coetzee, Richard Ford, and Candace Bushnell. I haven\u2019t been in Delhi for close to three years. The Commonwealth Games have left their mark: the new airport terminal is gigantic, crisp, and shiny. I step outside into the crowd and am greeted with silence. A few years back fifty drivers would have competed for my custom but now they wait in an orderly fashion. My father, who has lived in Delhi for close to a decade, picks me up. Our driver is a Hindu; Ganesh stickers adorn his windscreen. <\/p>\n

\"\"3:00 P.M.<\/strong> I have an afternoon in the city and have decided to revisit the old town. I go to the Jama Masjid, a legacy of Delhi\u2019s Mughal past. An auto-rickshaw drops me off a few hundred yards away, and I walk up the central walkway toward the towering minarets and white-marble domes, carefully treading my way past the crouching lepers and stray cows. The mild January weather tempers the overwhelming olfactory experience that is India. A man with hennaed hair tells me the mosque is closed for prayers. He asks me if I want to visit a haveli<\/em> hidden out in Old Delhi. He says it is bigger than the Jama Masjid and has a magical tree hovering in its central courtyard. It will cost me five hundred rupees. I decline. <\/p>\n

\"\"5:15 P.M.<\/strong> I\u2019m in Khan Market at the Full Circle bookshop. Books are cheaper in India. I\u2019m looking for David Foster Wallace\u2019s Infinite Jest<\/em>. The girl at the till has not heard of it. She recommends Shantaram<\/em> by Gregory David Roberts. I decline, this time politely. I forgot how much time one spends declining in India. <\/p>\n

8:20 P.M.<\/strong> My father and I visit the Nizamuddin Dargah before dinner. Nizamuddin, a thirteenth-century Sufi saint, is buried here. Millions visit every year. To get there one has to walk through a maze of alleys among scores of bearded pilgrims and rose-garland vendors. The pilgrims buy the flowers and deposit them on the holy man\u2019s grave. Everyone wants to sell me flowers or look after my shoes while I step into the shrine. Pilgrims sit in rows singing Sufi songs. It is colorful, convivial. Children run freely, friends and families chat happily on the periphery. I imagine that churches in medieval Europe would have felt similarly chaotic. We must be the only non-Muslims. Most people don\u2019t seem to notice us and those who do smile and hold out their hands in greeting. <\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

DAY TWO<\/h3>\n

\"\"10:15 A.M.<\/strong> We\u2019ve just left for Jaipur. I learn the name of our driver: Ravi. He worships Rama and Hanuman, the Monkey God who can change his size at will. In the Ramayana, Hanuman grows into a giant monkey and hops from south India to Lanka in search of Rama\u2019s wife, Sita, who was kidnapped by the evil king Ravana. Most of these deities are blue. Christianity pales by comparison.<\/p>\n

4:30 P.M.<\/strong> Jaipur. I\u2019m due to interview festival director and writer William Dalrymple some time over the next few days. He\u2019s been accused<\/a> of neocolonialism over his running of the event. I’m not chasing him for that reason, but it does mean he is particularly in the limelight this year. Many of the young Indian writers and poets at the festival have dismissed the attack, saying they “see him as one of ours.”<\/p>\n

\"\"10:30 P.M.<\/strong> I\u2019m in bed trying to plow my way through Dalrymple\u2019s latest, Nine Lives<\/em>. I\u2019m on the first life. It\u2019s the story of a Jain nun. I read American Pastoral<\/em> a few months back and can\u2019t help but compare Prasanammati Mataji to Merry, the Swede\u2019s daughter. \u201cI was a very obstinate girl: whatever I wanted to do I did,\u201d says Mataji. \u201cI think everyone was rather amazed at my stubbornness, and my determination.\u201d I\u2019m determined to get through this book tonight. Testard, my surname, is French Proven\u00e7al dialect for stubborn. I am not a practicing Jain. <\/p>\n

DAY THREE<\/h3>\n

\"\"10:30 A.M.<\/strong> I\u2019m registering as a journalist at the Diggi Palace<\/a>, where the festival is held. The brochure says it is \u201can oasis in the heart of Rajasthan\u2019s famous Pink City of Jaipur … surrounded by acres of beautifully manicured gardens.\u201d It also boasts of a \u201cfrills-free toilet.\u201d I cannot wait to use it. <\/p>\n

11:55 A.M.<\/strong> Orhan Pamuk has just pontificated on \u201cThe Art of the Novel\u201d for close to an hour in front of a large and adoring crowd. He handled the Q & A session somewhat brutally but he must have to field so many awkward questions that I\u2019m inclined to indulge his cruel side. One elderly Indian man asks whether the philosophical aspect of love is deeper than the physical aspect. \u201cWell, I want to say it depends on the penetration,\u201d says the bespectacled Turk. <\/p>\n

\"\"12:03 P.M.<\/strong> A middle-aged woman in a purple sari asks my father to autograph her copy of My Name is Red<\/em>. My father is a sixty-year-old Frenchman with glasses. He is not Orhan Pamuk. I love you, Dad.<\/p>\n

12:35 P.M.<\/strong> Jon Lee Anderson\u2019s talk on Che Guevara is sponsored by Goldman Sachs.<\/p>\n

5:05 P.M.<\/strong> Junot Diaz erupts onto the Jaipur scene: \u201cI couldn\u2019t think of anything weirder to Indian reality than Dominican\u2013Jersey fiction, but I realized that white people were looking for you when they found us so we do have something in common.\u201d<\/p>\n

\"\"5:13 P.M.<\/strong> Junot makes a lot of sense. The word \u201cauthor\u201d comes from the Latin augment<\/em>\u2014to add something new by a critical insight. This should be done subversively, but without being a cretinous renegade: \u201cThe good artist is not looking to make friends.\u201d<\/p>\n

5:22 P.M.<\/strong> It\u2019s difficult to call him anything but Junot, as opposed to, say, Mr. Amis. Unlike Mr. Amis, Junot has to contend with questions on how he became a writer despite his minority background. \u201cDon\u2019t ask me how race affects my writing,\u201d he fumes. \u201cAsk fucking Rick Moody.\u201d<\/p>\n

5:51 P.M.<\/strong> Junot\u2019s advice to young writers: \u201cEndure your badness, have a high tolerance for how wack you are, and you\u2019re on your way.” Apparently The New Yorker<\/em> changed its style guide because of Junot Diaz. He resisted the editorial italicization of Spanish words in his fiction and that now applies across the board. <\/p>\n

\"\"11:38. P.M.<\/strong> I\u2019m sitting in an auto-rickshaw outside the Diggi Palace. I spent the evening chasing Dalrymple\u2014unsuccessfully\u2014drinking Indian wine, and watching hijras<\/em><\/a> dancing to Rajasthani music on stage at the festival. The hijras<\/em> are eunuchs who live in marginalized communities and make a living from dancing and casting spells on credulous Indians. They also show up whenever there is a wedding, a birth, a death\u2014any major family event\u2014and demand money. If you refuse, they get naked and cast a spell on you. When my friend Rahul was born in London close to twenty-six years ago, the hijras showed up at his grandparents\u2019 house in Delhi two days later. They coughed up. <\/p>\n

\"\"11:40 P.M.<\/strong> I\u2019m still sitting in my auto-rickshaw. My driver claims his name is Forty, like the number. \u201cWhen are we going?\u201d I ask. \u201cOne minute Mr. Jack,\u201d retorts Forty. He is holding a plastic cup full of a brownish liquid in one hand and a spliff in the other. \u201cWhisky, Mr. Jack?\u201d
\n\u201cNo, thank you Forty.” He downs what must be at least five shots of whisky, takes a huge drag of his spliff and passes it on to a nearby driver. \u201cLet\u2019s go, Mr. Jack.\u201d According to my mum, Indian liquor makes you go blind. <\/p>\n

12:05 A.M.<\/strong> I was supposed to be promoting my new magazine here in Jaipur, but we were delayed by illness and snow and are only going to press on our first issue tomorrow in London. My coeditor, Ben, has sent one last query: should we be putting an accent on the e<\/em> of Andr\u00e9<\/em> when capitalized? ANDRE<\/em> or ANDR\u00c9<\/em>? We opt for the latter despite my (Gallic) inclination that this is Not the Correct Thing To Do. Do not start a literary magazine if these things bore you. <\/p>\n

Jacques Testard is the cofounder of<\/em> The White Review<\/a>, a London-based arts and literature quarterly. Check back tomorrow for the second installment of his culture diary. <\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

DAY ONE 11:45 A.M. I\u2019ve just landed in Delhi. I\u2019m here for the Jaipur Literature Festival, starring Orhan Pamuk, J. M. Coetzee, Richard Ford, and Candace Bushnell. I haven\u2019t been in Delhi for close to three years. The Commonwealth Games have left their mark: the new airport terminal is gigantic, crisp, and shiny. I step […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":119,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[23],"tags":[1844,1840,829,1839,1841,1842,1843,1838,1845],"class_list":["post-11227","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-the-culture-diaries","tag-candace-bushnell","tag-delhi","tag-j-m-coetzee","tag-jacques-testard","tag-jaipur-literature-festival","tag-orhan-pamuk","tag-richard-ford","tag-the-white-review","tag-william-dalrymple"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\nA Week in Culture: Jacques Testard, Editor by Jacques Testard<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"February 9, 2011 \u2013 DAY ONE 11:45 A.M. I\u2019ve just landed in Delhi. I\u2019m here for the Jaipur Literature Festival, starring Orhan Pamuk, J. M. 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