An epilogue, a few closing words, a look back at Crossing Border: that’s what this is supposed to be. But what should I write about? About the musicians I heard perform? The people I met? The interviews I saw? I wouldn’t know which ones to choose. Since I’ve been back in Amsterdam, all of the performances and conversations have gradually merged into one big memory. A particularly pleasant memory, for sure, but still just one single memory.

As a rule, details stick in my memory much better than the main events themselves. All the things I did on holiday in England three years ago, for example: not a clue. But the man sitting beside me on a boat trip with a pint of beer in his hand, turning to his son and saying, in deadly serious tones, ‘I’m a bit of an alcoholic’ – I’m not going to forget that in a hurry.

The same is true of virtually all of my excursions and Crossing Border is no exception. For hours, I did my best to note down the best performance, the most fascinating speaker, the most skilful interviewer and the most interesting quote, but I didn’t manage to get any of them. I don’t mean they weren’t there, simply that they didn’t stick with me. When I think of Crossing Border, I think of the pin-sharp picture on the television in my hotel room; the bus journey we all took together to Antwerp; the expression on the cleaner’s face when she came into my room and found me still in bed; the gigantic dish of doughnuts smiling up at us at a lunch with the ‘international press’ (although ‘international’ turned out to be stretching it a bit); or the rock-hard croissants at the breakfast in Antwerp. Not to forget the DJ who suddenly started playing the Star Wars tune at the after-party, destroying what little atmosphere there was.

These are the kind of details that come to mind when I think of Crossing Border. I realised this even on the way back from Antwerp, when I tried and failed to jot down a few key words about my stay.

I looked around, in search of a central theme, a face that would give me an idea. But the bus was practically empty. Only the people from the Netherlands were still around: the rest had left Antwerp under their own steam. This meant I didn’t get the chance to say goodbye to about half of the Chronicles group. I did get to say goodbye to the others though, in the form of an awkward handshake or even more awkward kisses.

Although ‘saying goodbye’ actually sounds a little too final; I imagine I won’t be forgetting this project any time soon. That’s not to suggest that I carry it with me in my heart; I’m referring more to practical things, such as the printed version of the columns that’s on the way, and, above all: the internet. The majority of my fellow Chroniclers were on my Facebook friend list the day after it was all over; these friends have put photos of the festival online, in which most of the participants are tagged; there are lots of photos, nice photos, photos that I’ll save and look at often until the day my computer gives up the ghost. But as for the details I remember most vividly, I still haven’t found them anywhere.

The trip to Antwerp reminded me a bit of a school trip. There was a list of names to check everyone was there; an organiser addressed the whole group and told us how long the journey was going to take; some people immediately started chatting away and, alternatively, others cut themselves off by sleeping for the entire length of the journey – while other passengers did something in between and spent most of the time staring ahead in silence. These were the exact same behaviour patterns that I’ve observed on every school outing I’ve ever taken; I think you could safely say they’re the features of any trip with a large group of people.

And so the bus left The Hague. I looked around and recognised a few faces. A singer I’d seen performing the previous night, a writer who’d read from his work. My mind began to wander, to a birthday party I recently went to. I spoke to this man at the party, or actually I should say the man just struck up a conversation with me. He was wearing this strange, purple jacket and had a peculiar fluffy moustache. I guessed he was about fifty and wondered why he didn’t go and talk to someone his own age instead. He said hello and told me he was a professor – which I thought was a rather strange introduction, particularly because he didn’t tell me what subject he lectured in or what his name was. The idea was probably that I’d ask him, but I didn’t say anything. I also kept quiet when, after a brief moment of silence, he explained with great enthusiasm that research had led him to the conclusion that literature is dying and that, little by little, books are being replaced by other media.

He seemed satisfied with his hypothesis, a satisfaction that made me determined to forget him as quickly as possible. I’d been successful, until this moment, until I saw this union of literature and music around me. I wondered what the professor would think about the situation; would he say that at similar festivals in a few centuries’ time the writers will have made a permanent exit, that there’ll only be space left for musicians?

I jumped. My phone was vibrating. A text message – someone asking how it was going, what I thought of Crossing Border. I considered the question. As a rule, I don’t really like giving my opinion. Mostly I don’t see the point – everyone has their own opinion, after all. There’s a reason why Thomas Rosenboom said in his interview last Friday that he rarely comments on current issues in his books. The fact is, he doesn’t find them very interesting; he’d rather talk about characters, about things that are not specifically connected to this day and age.

Without sending a reply to the text, I looked around the bus again. A poet sitting across from me had fallen asleep. I thought of the professor at the birthday party again; when he’d finished his monologue, which lasted at least twenty minutes, I asked him whether he didn’t think there were certain writers who would still be read in centuries to come. But he seemed to find eternity a rather absurd concept. He snorted and said, ‘In a thousand years’ time, no one will know the writers of today. By then, everything will be visual and auditory.’ He took obvious delight in the word ‘auditory’.

The bus stopped. Just like on my old school trips, everyone picked up their own luggage, and walked with it to the accommodation that had been reserved for us; writers and musicians all mixed together again. We passed the venue where the festival was going to be held later that day. The posters were already out. They were going to be selling both CDs and books. It would be just as Crossing Border intended: literature and music together. And suddenly I thought: let’s hope this festival says nothing about this day and age, let’s hope in a thousand years’ time buses full of musicians and writers will still be able to come together and sell out concert halls. Even if only to prove that the professor with the purple jacket and the fluffy moustache was wrong.

He sat there, looking pretty relaxed. I didn’t know who he was; I only knew he came from America. And that he’d written a new book, a collection of short stories. That’s why he was being interviewed. He greeted every question with the same engaging smile and his answers were shot through with an infectious, boundless enthusiasm.

Crossing Border really got going yesterday. Eleven rooms, lots and lots of writers, interviewers, musicians. There were so many that I circled the essential names for myself on the programme, so that I wouldn’t miss them, no matter what. But with those kinds of plans, the question is always how long it’s going to take for you to realise you can’t stick to them. Sometimes the realisation doesn’t hit until afterwards, when you look at the programme again; sometimes it comes when someone else starts talking about a particular performance that you were determined to see. This time it came a lot sooner, when, ignoring the performances I’d circled, I went to listen to the American I didn’t know and stayed there for nearly an hour.

He seemed to be well known, although you couldn’t have told that from the half-full room. Perhaps you could have seen it in his smile, but that appeared to be pretty much a fixed feature of his face. When I bumped into him later by the loos, the smile was still in full force at any rate.

During the interview, the American spoke mainly about the writing process. He was particularly honest. For example, he said sometimes he suddenly realises that the story he’s working on is ‘total shit’, no matter how hard he tries to make something out of it. A scene that he evocatively described as putting lipstick on a dead baby.

I think it was that puzzling sentence that finally stopped me from leaving to watch the performances I’d circled.

Shortly after that, the American said that writing a book takes him about three hours. So as to leave no doubt, he repeated a few times that he wasn’t joking. I tried to picture it and saw him in my mind’s eye, sitting in front of his computer, bashing away on the keys at breakneck speed. All over the world, people are busy sleeping, preparing mediocre meals, watching anonymous action films, while he, in the same period of time, writes a new book.

He did say though that, all in all, it often takes quite a lot longer before his books are completed. Revision takes him six months, for example. And during the writing itself there are days when he may be sitting at the computer, but all he does is visit Facebook, play computer games or check his email. It’s interesting that technological developments are distracting increasing numbers of people from what they actually want to do. A few days ago, I heard a German writer say something on this subject, ‘Kafka was lucky. He had no Twitter, Facebook or e-mail address. He was simply free to write.’

But the American said that it all actually helped him to organise his thoughts. He saw it as a blessing. But then he saw everything as a blessing, or so it seemed. Because he just kept on smiling. And I just kept on watching.

Hours later, someone in my group told me about the bands he’d seen performing. I confessed that I’d missed all of the music. Somewhat surprised, he asked me what I’d been up to for all that time. I recited a list of the writers I’d seen talking. I was about to add an amusing anecdote, a one-liner from the American, but I realised I didn’t even know what he was called.

Back in my hotel room that night, I looked at the programme. His name was one of the few that I hadn’t circled. I put down the programme and glanced at the clock. It was late. Between the point when I’d first heard the American speak and the moment I’d found out he was called Kevin Canty, he could easily have written two books.

‘Just tell them something. They’ll listen. You’re the writer.’ With these words, I was led into the classroom. The students followed, nine of them in total. They sat down and looked expectantly in my direction. I introduced myself and told them about Crossing Border, the Chronicles project, about publishing a book, about writing in general. I wasn’t under the illusion that I’d really be able to teach them much in an hour. I hoped I’d say one sentence that might stick, one thought that might be useful to one of them in some way, whatever that might be. Even that was aiming too high.

My words had no effect; the only response was a rather chilly and standoffish stare. I didn’t know whether to make a joke to break the ice, but I decided not to, because as I stood there telling my story, I suddenly started to identify with the students. It so happens that eighteen months ago, I was still at school myself, and more or less the same age; an age when you slowly begin to realise that you’re becoming an adult and so you don’t want to have anything to do with younger people but, at the same time, you look down your nose at older people for the simple reason that they’re older and so have seen more than you. But, even more than that, it’s an age of boredom. And if one thing was true of this class, that was it: an unmistakable, intense boredom.

I decided to try a different approach, so I asked whether there was anything specific they wanted to know about writing, or about another subject.

Silence.

I carried on talking for a few minutes. Then came a question from the back of the class. Did I still live with my mum? A few people sniggered and someone saw the question as a reason to embark on a noisy conversation, but when I said yes, their expressions froze and the room fell silent again.

I handed out worksheets; after all, the idea of the session was that everyone would write something by the end of it. But they didn’t start writing.

I tried to motivate them by talking about what they were interested in, about everyday sources of irritation. After a while, I said, ‘So, do any of you actually like writing, books, reading?’

The only reaction was an isolated shake of the head.

‘Is this a compulsory subject?’

A resounding ‘yes’.

I carried on talking and gave them as many tips as I could. I even got pretty enthusiastic for me. There was a moment when I thought: hey, this is going well, this ambassador from the Chronicles is doing a really good job. But I soon noticed that nothing had changed for the students; by the end most of them had managed to squeeze out just a few lines. The word ‘lazy’ definitely wouldn’t have been out of place. I once heard someone say that laziness is a desirable quality, because it forces you to look for creative solutions. But no creative solutions were forthcoming, and, what’s more, the students’ laziness turned out to be relative: the moment the sign came to join the rest of the class, they leaped up and swiftly took to their heels.

As we walked back to the meeting point, I told the teacher about how the lesson had gone, the things we’d discussed, the advice I’d given them.

But afterwards, when a student from my group had to summarise what we’d done in front of the whole class, all she could come up with was, ‘The writer talked a lot and he still lives with his parents.’

A little over a year ago, I turned on my laptop and just started typing something. I was on holiday in France and I was bored. It was raining and by that time I was familiar with most of the books and films I had with me. So I just started writing any old thing and pretty soon it turned into a short paragraph. I didn’t have the remotest suspicion that, four months later, that paragraph would form the beginning of a novella and that the novella would be published in October this year.
So the question of what I think about my work being translated sounds a little strange to my ears. I finished secondary school eighteen months ago, without any specific plan for the future. I’m still trying to get used to the idea that any people out there are actually taking the time to read what I’ve written, let alone the thought of someone considering every word and then translating it. I’m not the sort of person who’s likely to stand there gaping at anything, but if I were, I’d certainly be gaping at this.
There’s a kind of suspense as well – what if the person who has to work on my columns doesn’t think much of them? Over the course of my life, I’ve read all kinds of things about the meanings of translations, about the way the process makes the writer and the translator become one and actually turns the translator into a writer too, but the only thing I’ve ever really wondered about the subject is something I’ve never heard anything about: what do translators do when they start working on a text and immediately realise it’s not up to much?
Other than an answer to this question, there’s nothing in particular that I’m hoping to find at Crossing Border. I love reading and I love music, and there are certainly enough festivals with a focus on one of the two, but as far as I know there are no other festivals involving both music and books. That’s really interesting – or rather, it has the potential to be really interesting. I’m curious about the stories that the various writers will tell and about the performances of the musicians, none of whom I know, incidentally. So I could write now that this opportunity to expand my horizons is one of the main attractions for me, but I think it’s wise to tell the truth in my first column or, at least, not to lie: I’d rather see performers I do know well, but I’ve long been aware that hiphop and literature don’t really go together. There are some days when I go to both a ‘literary’ affair and to a hiphop show – you can hardly imagine a greater contrast. Although I do have to say that I normally behave the same way and wear the same clothes at both kinds of event.
As well as that, I’m going to be meeting other young, or at least youngish, writers during Crossing Border. I wonder what kind of stories they’ll have to tell, how they’ll view the Netherlands as foreigners from all over the world. For me it’s a train journey of less than an hour, so Crossing Border won’t give me any new experiences in that respect – but it probably will in enough other ways. After all, the whole business is new for me and it still feels a bit odd, as though it was actually meant to happen to somebody else, because I’m now being asked to write columns as a young, talented author, but it was only a year ago that I started typing something out of boredom one rainy holiday.