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I went to ConFusion yesterday, just the one day. the highlight of the afternoon was getting the chance to speak with Peter S. Beagle for a short time while he was autographing. He had a chair set next to him, and each autograph-seeker would sit down, drinking in his soft storyteller’s voice, best appreciated side-by-side rather than across a huckster’s table.

He spoke touchingly of his heroes, some of whom I’d heard of (Harriet Tubman, King Christian X of Denmark and Eleanor Roosevelt), and some I hadn’t (Hugh Thompson, Jr. [Beagle wrote Thompson a letter, and when an editor wanted to include it in a book about Thompson, Beagle had the opportunity to speak to Thompson on the phone]). I’d just purchased his first book, and while I was waiting in line, I’d read the first chapter, which began with a raven fetching a ring of baloney for a man named Mr. Rebeck. Seeing both together on the same page, I couldn’t resist asking if Mr. Rebeck was named after the man with the sausage-machine, and Mr. Beagle said the version he’d learned was about Mr. Dunderbeck, but that he’d heard it sung both ways. He sang a verse for good measure, then told me about his dear aunt who’d taught him the song, how much he loved her as a boy, and how well and beautifully she lived her life.

I ceded the chair to another friend who had a writing question for Mr. Beagle, but I left feeling that despite its brevity, I’d had a very intimate and deep conversation with an artist with a deeply kind and loving soul — and also that everyone else who sat in that chair would say the same thing. When I related the story to John Scalzi later that evening, he said, “Ah yes. And that’s the magic of Peter Beagle.”

And so it was.

On a vaguely similar note, Virus sent me this lovely story about a man searching for Kurt Vonnegut.