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Bent's Notes Horace Bent @horacebent


Lessons in liquid agenting A


a more downmarket Rite Aid). Heading out to the Messe with colleague Peter “Slumdog Millionaire” Straus, the RCW stalwart/“the next J K Rowling” was stopped by eagle-eyed Heathrow securit because he was so laden down with gear for his morning, aſternoon, evening and late-night ablutions, far too abundant for the plane to carry. There was a moment of panic: what to throw away? He made it a priorit to keep the moisturiser, chiefly because it is so expensive owing to its secret source ingredient: the tears of editors who have lost out at RCW auctions. He also managed to sweet-talk his way through secu- rit with two aſtershaves, and that, ladies and gentlemen, is why the LitAg this year has a sort of Copelandic muskiness, rather than its usual scent of panic and despair. No moisturiser was needed at the annual Hachete Hessicher Hof Hootenanny (or Quadruple-H, as the kids call it). The unex- pectedly balmy Frankfurt weather turned the popular ’do so steamy that I thought Jamie Hodder Williams and Clare Harrington were going to don their yoga pants and lead us through a hot Bikram sesh. (It is, I confess, a fantasy that oſten creeps into the mind, unbidden and shameful; sometimes, Larry Finlay and Bill Scott-Kerr are in the background, smoking and talking about the new Jack Reacher.) The most steam yesterday, though, was coming from the LitAg itself, as hardened rights professionals contemplated the arduous walks they will be forced to embark upon when the agent and scout area moves “to Siberia” next year. You know, the gulag that is the gorgeous listed building at the entrance to the fair, situated a torturous five-, all right, maybe 10-minute saunter away from the rest of the fair. I mean, it’s like the bleedin’ Bataan Death March. It reinforces a lesson I learned when the London Book Fair moved from Earl’s Court to Olympia: hell hath no fury like a rights professional mildly inconvenienced.


My father lade down with gear act, that the


evst name and the-nighu


awliutions, mar middle naa e, Paul


He was so said,n quite matter of for his morning, problem w


afternoon,as my firening and latat I shot ld sb tch to fy too abundmnt for the plane to carry... what to throw away?


In tomorrow’s magazine Horace divests the gossip overheard during his 5.30 a.m. cross-city 10km run, having celebrated a personal best with a kale and ginger juice.


TheBookseller.com


Horace Bent At FBF 2018


gents, what’s in your Frankfurt briefcase? Aside the caviar, the centuries-old vintage chablis, and more caviar. Nor the rights to that zeitgeist manuscript that you’re pitching as “Eleanor Oliphant meets Sapiens—on steroids!” by someone called Gail Yuval Honey-Harari. I’m talking about your actual briefcase (or your new Sir Peter Blake Books Are My Bag tote). For Sam Copeland, it’s toiletries. Lots of ’em. I mean a Boots-and- Superdrug-worth (for our American readers: Boots is the CVS of Britain, Superdrug


BEST-GROOMED,MED, SAM COPELAND


BEST-GR AM CO


FRANKFURT’S





SOME FAIRGOERS BELIEVE THE HARRINGTON-HODDER WILLIAMS HOT YOGA METHOD COULD BE A LIFESTYLE PUBLISHING TREND


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