burn between us
Hay-on-Wye in May.
The town was in full bloom, a riot of green and bright spring flowers spilling from the gardens, window boxes, and the edges of the river Wye. Bookshops had their front doors propped open, and the smell of paper, ink, and the tang of river air mingled in the breeze. The festival ran for its usual ten days, a gathering of writers and readers and thinkers, a place where ideas were both currency and celebration. Elian and Dante were scheduled for the Saturday of the second weekend—a main stage conversation that Elian's publisher had negotiated months before, once the invitation was confirmed. The festival director had been precise about the framing: a conversation about the r
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