Letter From America.(literature as pop culture)(Brief Article)

Americans, the conventional wisdom has it, do not read. At least not as much as they used to. Television, movies, computer games, the Internet- -all have driven people away from books. And when they do read, it seems it's not literature they want. The best-seller lists are overflowing with diet books, books on self-improvement, books on how to play the dating game. The fiction lists seem to consist of nothing but steamy romances and formulaic thrillers. "Americans," a British academic once growled to me, "don't know the difference between wanting to read a book and wanting a book to read."

So it was with decidedly mixed feelings that I found myself at what is billed as America's largest literary gathering, the Los Angeles Times Festival of Books, an annual event that overwhelms the UCLA campus on the last weekend in April. Could the home of Hollywood and Burbank, capital of the mass-entertainment industry, better known for its trivial game shows and glittering but insubstantial soirees, truly celebrate something as solitary and unglamorous as reading?

Apparently 400 authors and 250 exhibitors thought so. So did an astonishing 125,000 people who thronged the festival to hear authors ranging from Salman Rushdie to Sharon Roan, author of "Our Daughters' Health." There were the usual readings and signings, as well as discussions on topics from "Is Geography Fate? Reflections on the East," featuring two British writers and your faithful correspondent, to "Do Books Have a Future?" (The answer was apparently a qualified yes.) But this being L.A., the truly Big Moment was an awards ceremony: the year's Los Angeles Times Book Prizes, from poetry to fiction.

Entering from Sunset Boulevard, I couldn't help thinking of that other L.A. awards ceremony--the Oscars. But the invitation prosaically required "business attire," and there wasn't a shimmering blonde in sight. Instead of the collagen-enhanced, serenely Botoxed faces and figures that would be on hand to celebrate the silver screen, one floated on a sea of wrinkles, furrowed brows, eyes narrowed from squinting at the page. (Author Frank McCourt last year took the mike to plea for more cleavage at the event, but he evidently did not get his way.) Even so, Hollywood casts a long shadow. A giant fake bookcase dominated the stage, framing a high-resolution TV featuring the photos and book covers of shortlisted nominees. As the prizes were announced, there was the inevitable fumbling with the envelope--then the sweet high of triumph. Gasps and shrieks rose from the audience, none louder than those greeting the winner of "Best Mystery/Thriller." A ...