Mary Karr, The Art of Memoir No.

1 Interviewed by Amanda Fortini For a writer who has shared herself with the public in three memoirs, Mary Karr is an extraordinarily elusive interview sub ect. Nearly two years passed between our initial contact, in !uly of "##$, and our first session. There were numerous reasons for this%she was travelin&' she was teachin&' she lives across the country from me%but perhaps the main reason was that Karr is surprisin&ly diffident when it comes to tal(in& about herself. )Are you sure * have that much to say+, she wrote in one preinterview email. .he was finishin& her third memoir, Lit, which was published in November of "##/. .he had started the boo( over twice, throwin& away nearly a thousand pa&es, and had been wor(in& lon& hours to meet her deadline. )0ho (nows about the memoir,, she wrote, when * as(ed if * could read it, )*t circles me li(e a &nat. * circle it li(e a do& sta(ed to a pole. 1ears it2s &one on that way., Finally, this sprin&, * flew to meet Karr in upstate New 1or(, where she has tau&ht at .yracuse 3niversity since 1//1. .he had not yet warmed to the idea of a formal interview, so we toured her life in .yracuse instead. * observed two &raduate seminars4 The 5erfect 5oem, and 6ead 0hite 7uys, in which she discussed the poetry of 0allace .tevens. Karr is an ener&etic, en&a&ed, and wry teacher, and her students are fond of her. That ni&ht, she introduced a readin& by the poet 8harles .imic, a lon&time friend. 9er loud, hearty lau&hter at his dry wit could be heard above the ambient noise in the room. The followin& day, on our way to the airport, Karr drove me past the house 6avid Foster 0allace once rented in .yracuse. 0allace and Karr were involved for a time' he proposed to her and had her name tattooed on his arm. 0e also viewed her old house, previously owned by Tobias 0olff. .he had painted the wooden porch herself4 it was purple. Two days later in Manhattan, where Karr has lived since "##:, she was ready to ta(e ;uestions. .he is a slim, soi&n< woman with an intense manner and dar(, penetratin& eyes. 6ressed in a flower-patterned sil( shirt and red pants, she slipped off her &old sandals and sat on her white leather couch with her le&s tuc(ed beneath her. 9er apartment is small, but stylish and efficiently put to&ether' a lon& des( rests a&ainst a wall of built-in boo(shelves. =i(e her writin&, Karr2s conversation is heavy on Texas-based idiomatic expressions4 )mud bu&s,, ) u& butt,, )li(e a pair of walruses bein& schnu>>ed on the same hot roc(., .he is self-deprecatin& and has a bawdy sense of humor. At one point, she leaped up from the couch to retrieve her childhood ournal and read a passa&e4 )* am not very successful as a little &irl. * will probably be a mess., Not exactly. The Liars Club, Karr2s 1//? memoir of her 7othic childhood in a swampy @ast Texas oil-refinin& town, won the 5@NAMartha Albrand Award for First Nonfiction, sold half a million copies, and made its forty-year-old author, who was then an obscure poet, a literary celebrity. BThe boo( ta(es its title from the motley collection of men with whom her father, an oilman, used to drin( and tell tales.C Karr has been credited with, and often blamed for, the onslau&ht of confessional memoirs published durin& the late nineties. Thou&h many of them matched The Liars Club for &rotes;ue sub ect matter% the youn& Karr is raped, molested, and made to witness her mother2s monstrous nervous brea(down% few were as unsentimental, as lyrical, or as mordantly funny. Five years later Karr published a second memoir, Cherry, which detailed her intellectual and sexual awa(enin&s. *n Lit, Karr tac(les her early adulthood and what she calls her ourney )from blac(-belt

sinner and lifelon& a&nostic to unli(ely 8atholic., Ta(en to&ether, Karr2s memoirs, written in a sin&ular voice that combines poetic diction and Texas vernacular, form a trilo&y that spans the thematic ran&e of the &enre4 harrowin& tale of childhood, comin&-of-a&e story, conversion experience. Karr has also published four celebrated volumes of poetry4 Abacus B1/D$C, The Devils Tour B1//:C, Viper Rum B1//DC, and Sinners elcome B"##EC. )0or(in& on poems is li(e cheatin& on your husband,, she said. )*t2s what * really want to do but they won2t pay me for it., 9er poems, li(e her prose, are witty, astrin&ent, and often autobio&raphical. .he is a controversial fi&ure in the poetry establishment for her 5ushcart 5ri>eFwinnin& 1//1 essay, )A&ainst 6ecoration,, in which she lamented the shift toward neoformalism in contemporary poetry4 )the hi&hbrow doily-ma(in& that passes for art today., Karr ar&ued that this sort of poetry%allusive, impersonal, obscure%had )ceased to perform its primary function,, which was to )move the reader., And she named names. For our final session, last Au&ust, we met in a hotel room in *rvine, 8alifornia. Karr had driven up from 5hoenix a few days earlier with her older sister, =ecia. They had read !ne "undred #ears o$ Solitude aloud in the car. 0e discussed her experiences teachin& poetry to prisoners in @n&land, truc(in& crawfish in Texas, and han&in& out in the Minneapolis pun( scene. After an hour and a half, =ecia, who is tall and has hair the color of copper, appeared at the door and announced, in the nononsense tone that distin&uishes her in the boo(s, that it was time for them to leave. *n that instant, Karr seemed to revert from assertive middle-a&ed author to the obedient (id sister of The Liars Club. To see these two characters from the memoirs come to life was an eerie reminder of the obstinate &rip of the past.

*NT@GH*@0@G 0hy did you feel a need to document your life+ 6id you write The Liars Club in order to &et the story off your chest+ MAG1 KAGG Iy the time * wrote The Liars Club, it was off my fuc(in& chest. *2d slo&&ed throu&h therapy, and my family was fairly healed, in no small part due to my mother2s own hard-won sobriety. * was divorced and sober and, remar(ably enou&h, employed as a colle&e professor teachin& poetry. My sister2s family was the picture of prosperity. My dad had died after bein& paraly>ed for five years. My son was thrivin&. Iut our story was nonetheless standin& in line to be written. 5lus * needed the ca(e. =i(e .amuel !ohnson said, )No man but a bloc(head ever wrote, except for money., * was newly divorced, a sin&le mom feelin& around for chan&e in poc(et lint. * didn2t have a car, which meant ta(in& my (id to the &rocery store in his red wa&on, and two hours of bus time to pic( him up after school on days * tau&ht. *n some ways * was resourceful. My students would move out of town and *2d scaven&e their old furniture to sell at a &ara&e sale. My son, 6ev, and * used to snea( into the pool at the .heraton. 0e2d par( ille&ally in the snowy lot with our bathin& suits on under our winter clothes. 0e2d call it )&oin& to the Iahamas., That was our vacation. * was thin(in& about movin& 6ev2s bed into my room so we could rent out the other bedroom%&raspin& at straws, really.

9opin& to &et a boo( advance was li(e sayin&, Maybe *2ll be an Jlympic &ymnast. * envisioned some small press mi&ht cou&h up a few thousand buc(s after the boo( was finished. *2d been publishin& poetry with small presses and when !ames =au&hlin at New 6irections paid seven hundred and fifty buc(s for The Devils Tour, * was tic(led. That exceeded my lifetime poetry income. *2d watched some very fine fiction writers do well4 Tobias 0olff and 7eoffrey 0olff, Gichard Ford, Gaymond 8arver. Iut till Gay &ot the MacArthur, he would still crash in a sleepin& ba& in my spare room in .omerville when he came to town to read. Iein& a famous writer was a little li(e bein& a famous coc(tail waitress%nobody dressed in diamonds. And what did * (now about writin& a boo( of prose+ *NT@GH*@0@G 6id you tell your family you were &oin& to write about them+ KAGG *2d warned my mother and sister in advance that * wanted to cover the period of Mother2s psychotic brea( and her divorce from 6addy. .he2d inherited a sum of cash that was vast by our standards, and she bou&ht a bar and married the bartender%her sixth husband. .he was an outlaw, and really didn2t &ive a rat2s ass what the nei&hbors thou&ht. .he dran( hard and pac(ed a pistol. 0hen * tested the waters about doin& a memoir of the period, she told me, 9ell, &o for it. .he and my sister probably fi&ured nobody2d read the boo( but me and whomever * was sleepin& with. Also, my mother was a portrait painter. .he understood point of view. My sister, who2s a very sophisticated reader, si&ned off too. For our people to do anythin& to &enerate income that won2t land you in prison, it2s a win. *NT@GH*@0@G 9ow lon& did it ta(e you to write The Liars Club+ KAGG Two and a half years. * was teachin& full-time, and * had 6ev. * wor(ed every other wee(end, which is when 6ev2s father came to visit. And every school holiday, includin& the whole summer vacation. *NT@GH*@0@G That seems fast. 0as it difficult+ KAGG Awful. The emotional sta(es a memoirist bets with could not be hi&her, and it2s physically enervatin&. * nap on a daily basis li(e a cross-country truc(er. *NT@GH*@0@G

*n the first section of The Liars Club, you inhabit the mind of a seven-year-old to an uncanny de&ree. 9ow were you able to capture what it was li(e to be a child+ KAGG 8hildhood was terrifyin& for me. A (id has no control. 1ou2re three feet tall, flat bro(e, unemployed, and illiterate. Terror snaps you awa(e. 1ou pay (een attention. 5eople can ust pic( you up and move you and put you down. Jne of my favorite poems, by Nicanor 5arra, is called )Memories of 1outh,4 )All *2m sure of is that * (ept &oin& bac( and forth. A.ometimes * bumped into trees,Abumped into be&&ars.A* forced my way throu&h a thic(et of chairs and tables., Jur little crac(er box of a house could &ive you the adrenaline rush of fear, which means more frames of memory per second. @motional memories are stored deep in the sna(e brain, which is probably why aphasics in nursin& homes often cuss so much%that lan&ua&e doesn2t erode in a stro(e. *NT@GH*@0@G 9ow do you account for your artistic sensibility+ The environment you describe would seem to discoura&e one. KAGG Mother%cra>y as she was%had an ex;uisite sensibility. .he read nonstop. =oads of history, Gussian and 8hinese particularly, and art history. There was nothin& else to do in that suc(hole of a town. 1ou &o outside, you run around, people throw dirt balls at you, you &et your ass beat. Iut readin& is socially accepted disassociation. 1ou flip a switch and you2re not there anymore. *t2s better than heroin. More effective and cheaper and le&al. 5eople who didn2t live pre-*nternet can2t &rasp how devoid of ideas life in my hometown was. The only boo(stores sold Iibles the si>e of coffee tables and dashboard Hir&in Marys that &lowed in the dar(. * stopped in the middle of the .AT to memori>e a poem, because * thou&ht, This is a &reat wor( of art and *2ll never see it a&ain. *NT@GH*@0@G 0as this a practice test+ KAGG No, it was the .AT itself%maybe the literature test. * ust put my pencil down and started memori>in&. =ater * came across the poem in a library. *t was ).torm 0indows,, by 9oward Nemerov. * wrote him a fan letter, to which he replied on 0ashin&ton 3niversity stationery%it was li(e the 9oly 7rail, a note from a livin& poet. 0hen * was twenty * met him at a readin& he &ave in the Twin 8ities, and he said, 1ou2re that little &irl from TexasK

*n &rade school * memori>ed Frost and 8ummin&s and *2d s(im the plays of .ha(espeare to find the speeches. *2d &et dressed up in a sheet and do )Friends, Gomans, countrymen, lend me your ears, or )Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow, for my hun&over mother. .o that lan&ua&e was weavin& around my house li(e a cat throu&h chair le&s. At a&e twelve, * memori>ed @liot2s )5rufroc(., *NT@GH*@0@G *f there were no real boo(stores in your hometown, where did your mother &et the boo(s she &ave you+ KAGG My mother went bac( to school for a teachin& certificate, to a little colle&e about forty-five minutes away. There was a colle&e boo(store there. .he too( a class on existentialism and &ave me %ausea and The Stran&er and The 'la&ue. *NT@GH*@0@G 9ow old were you+ KAGG Twelve. 0ho &ives %ausea to a twelve-year-old+ .he brou&ht home lots of thin&s she read in class4 Faul(ner, .imone de Ieauvoir, Ietty Friedan, 9emin&way, Flannery J28onnor, and poetry%she (new * loved it. *NT@GH*@0@G 6id your mother push you to be a writer+ KAGG *t wasn2t li(e Mo>art2s daddy%she wasn2t a sta&e mother. .he wasn2t that invested in child rearin&. * was li(e a terrarium li>ard you chec(ed out from time to time with distracted curiosity. Iut anytime * called to run a poem by her, she2d deliver the full focus of her attention. .he2d say, Jh, that2s &reatK *t reminds me of the poem by so-and-so. My sister too. They were both &reat pom-pom sha(ers. *NT@GH*@0@G 0hat did you inherit from your father+ KAGG 9e was an unbelievably &ood raconteur. .pellbindin&, and his idiom was pure poetry%)rainin& li(e a cow pissin& on a flat roc(, or )she2s &ot a butt li(e two bulldo&s in a ba&.,

*NT@GH*@0@G 6id he train you to tell a &ood story, or did you ust learn throu&h observation+ KAGG 6addy2s family told stories. @verybody was a spot-on mimic%name a politician or a public fi&ure, and my aunt 7ladys could nail every intonation. Maybe it2s a Texas thin&, or maybe it2s a .outhern thin&, or maybe there2s more of an oral tradition amon& the poor. .tranded out there on the prairie, settlers had to amuse themselves. 0hen * went to 8alifornia at seventeen, * wrote bac( to my sister sayin&, These people are borin& because the weather2s so &ood they never had to develop an inner life. My mother couldn2t tell a story if she had a &un to her head, but she was a master of the one-liner. 6avid Foster 0allace once called her and said, *2m &oin& to marry your dau&hter. 9e2d been hospitali>ed for depression, and she said, 6idn2t you ust &et let out of somewhere+ * mean, 7od, MotherK Jr when she was dyin&, one of her boyfriends showed up at the hospital and the nurse said, 1our husband2s here, and she said, 9e must loo( li(e hell%he2s been dead twenty years. .he always said the thin& you wish you2d said. *NT@GH*@0@G 6id you feel that when you told a &ood story you were rewarded with attention+ KAGG Absolutely. Iut there wasn2t much attention to &et. Not a lot of dinner-table scenes. 1ou2ve &ot to understand the de&ree to which *2m feral. 0e ate dinner in bedK Jff our laps or on TH trays. 0e never spo(e. 3sually we ate with boo(s in our hands. Jr *2d find blac(-eyed peas and rice on the stove and ust stand there eatin& out of the pot li(e no one else was in the house. * bit into raw onions li(e they were apples. *NT@GH*@0@G 7rowin& up, did you thin( you were poor+ KAGG No%in fact, in my nei&hborhood, we were considered rich. My mother had a ob as a reporter and columnist at the local paper, then later she tau&ht at the unior hi&h school. 0e also had two bathrooms and two cars%er&o, we were rich. *NT@GH*@0@G *n your memoirs you use a fictional name, =eechfield, for your hometown. 0hy didn2t you use the town2s real name+

KAGG Ioth boo(s had minor characters out the wa>oo%the mayor, my &rade-school principal, the speech teacher. Those characters deserved privacy. *NT@GH*@0@G *n your memoirs you barely mention your colle&e years, or the years ust followin&. 0hy+ KAGG 1ou remember throu&h a filter of self. The periods in your life when that self is half formed, your memories are half formed too. *n Lit * wrote in passin& about lurchin& around, &ettin& drun( in pun( bars. My best friends had a band called the .uicide 8ommandos who toured with the Gamones, so * hun& out with them a bit. Iut &ettin& drun( with the Gamones%who cares+ The throu&h-line has to be a chan&e in your character, and bein& loaded seldom involves psycholo&ical advancement. No character chan&e, no plot. *NT@GH*@0@G 6id you not develop as a writer at all durin& that time+ KAGG * wrote in a scattered, undisciplined way. Iut * read the way a un(ie shoots dope. After colle&e * &ot a poetry &rant *2d applied for from the state of Minnesota. * used it to move to @n&land, which was partly an attempt to cure my drin(in&. 9ow ridiculous is that+ * was drin(in& too much in Minneapolis, so * emi&rate to one of the most alcohol-sodden islands on the planet. Iut it ended up bein& a cure for my i&norance about the history of literature. 0hen * went to 0ordsworth2s &rave, * reali>ed *2d never read him. * hadn2t studied 8haucer, thou&h * could ;uote the prelude to The 8anterbury Tales in Middle @n&lish. * (new a few .ha(espeare speeches but not whole plays. * wasn2t a natural scholar. 0hile * was there * met .eamus 9eaney at a writers2 festival and bou&ht him a beer. =istenin& to him tal(, * learned about poetry that existed before @lvis. .o at a&e twenty-two, * applied to an MFA pro&ram at 7oddard 8olle&e. *NT@GH*@0@G 1ou had dropped out of Macalester. 9ow did you &et into a &raduate writin& pro&ram+ KAGG 7oddard accepted me on probation. *n fact, * never pic(ed up my hi&h-school diploma. 0hy2d Macalester accept me+ * wrote some philosophical essay that my best friend, who was at Gice, edited for me and probably half concocted. .he was the &enius )Meredith, in Cherry. Maybe her edits shoehorned me into colle&e. 7oddard let me &o for a year to prove * wasn2t a complete chowderhead before * could

matriculate. *t was a low-residency pro&ram so * lived in Minneapolis and went bac( and forth for twowee( sessions. *NT@GH*@0@G 0as 7oddard important to your development as a writer+ KAGG *mmensely. 5eople were havin& serious, into-the-ni&ht-over-co&nac conversations, and they wor(ed hard4 real ri&or, real commitment. The faculty &ave written lectures. They weren2t ust puttin& on red lipstic(, &oin& to bars at ni&ht with scarves on, and smo(in& 7auloises ci&arettes. 0hen you2re a youn& writer, you ust want someone to loo( at you and say, .he2s a poet. *t feels li(e bein& called a mermaid or a &riffin or somethin&. Iut at 7oddard, it was about the wor(. 5lus a lot of world-class writers came throu&h4 the brothers 0olff, Gichard Ford, Gaymond 8arver, Fran( 8onroy, Thomas =ux, 8harles .imic. To be able to wor( with those peopleK *NT@GH*@0@G 0hy haven2t you written about your time there+ KAGG *t sounds name-droppy since all those writers wound up so famous. * do write about it a little bit in Lit. *NT@GH*@0@G 6id you have a mentor at 7oddard+ KAGG Gobert 9ass, @llen Iryant Hoi&t, .tephen 6obyns, 9eather Mc9u&h, and =ouise 7lLc( were all hu&ely influential. * hun& out a lot with 7eoffrey and Toby, and Gay 8arver%* ust followed them around and listened to their stories. 0hen * first &ot to 7oddard, my poetry was all &ee&awed up% Haseline on the lens, references to Niet>sche. * called it experimental, but that ust meant it made no sense. *f you don2t say what you mean in a readable way, you actually ris( nothin&. Iefore that, at Macalester, *2d wor(ed with @therid&e Kni&ht%a blac( poet who2d published his first boo( in prison. @therid&e encoura&ed my autobio&raphical impulse. *NT@GH*@0@G 0hat was the sub ect matter of your early poetry, if it wasn2t your life+ KAGG

0hat most youn& women write about4 wantin& to &et laid, not havin& &otten laid, havin& &otten laid badly. 0antin& someone to leave, not wantin& him to leave, then he finally leaves. Iut characters other than me. Jr *2d write unbelievably pretentious shit%some world-weary &ambler at a horse race tryin& to ma(e stiff, faux Mallarm< statements on the nature of chance. The autobio&raphical )*, everybody hates so much these days was somethin& * hated too, yet each poem was a bi& arrow pointin& bac( at some self * wanted to be. * was a !ohn Ashbery fan then%did my thesis on Sel$('ortrait in a Conve) *irror, thou&h later * recanted my support. 9e2s a pollutant of the art form by my yardstic(%nice &uy, &reat ear, but his surrealistic devices and pinballin& free association are amon& of the most pernicious and ne&ative influences on American poetry. Most youn& poets cannot reproduce the interestin& rivulets made by Ashbery2s stream-of-consciousness. *n my early wor( * tried to sound cool, li(e Ashbery% thou&h *2m profoundly devoid of cool. * remember a poem about a suicidal do&, which be&an, )6on2t do it, do&., .o many close friends had (illed themselves, and Mother was suicidal a lot. The do& was an attempt to beat bac( the confessional impulse. Iecomin& an autobio&raphical writer was anathema to me. .tevens was my favorite poet%still is. Any sub ect that compelled me emotionally &ot dis&uised and repac(a&ed to fit this be eweled surface * was cultivatin&, very New 1or( .chool. *NT@GH*@0@G 6id you ever write directly about your family in those days+ KAGG .ometimes they2d ed&e in, and *2d thin(, JK, *2ve done that Texas stuff. *NT@GH*@0@G 6id your teachers at 7oddard push you to write about Texas and your family+ KAGG They responded more positively to the poems they could understand. The other wor( felt false. *t2s difficult to accept what your psyche or history dooms you to write, what Faul(ner would call your posta&e stamp of reality. 1oun& writers often mista(enly choose a certain vein or style based on who they want to be, unconsciously tryin& to blot out who they actually are. 1ou want to escape yourself. For almost ten years it didn2t occur to me that * should exploit 6addy2s blue-collar idiom. * was tryin& to pass for ed&e-u-(ated. *NT@GH*@0@G 0as there a specific moment when you reali>ed you should write about your family+ KAGG

* wasn2t ;uite thirty%6addy was dyin& and Mother couldn2t care for him. .he was sleepin& with his male nurse, who was surely &ay and addicted to dru&s. 9e wore these awful pin( velvet bell-bottoms that made him loo( li(e 0illy 0on(a. .he wore span&led se;uined shirts and they2d &o out disco dancin&. .he called once with the music from Flashdanceplayin& in the bac(&round to as( for money% we called it her Flashdance period. After 6addy died, * was wor(in& in the computer business, flyin& bac( from .ilicon Halley on the red-eye, and * &ot shit-faced drun( and scrawled all this mournful, ele&iac stuff for 6addy. My husband found my notes and said, * was wonderin& when you were finally &oin& to deal with this sub ect matter. 9e2d noticed that every poem * wrote had an old man in it, fumblin& with a chan&e purse to &et a penny out for a &um-ball machine or somethin&. Those scrawlin&s wound up in my first collection. *NT@GH*@0@G *n your childhood ournal you say you want to write half poetry, half autobio&raphy. 0here did you learn the word autobio&raphy+ 6id you read a lot of memoirs &rowin& up+ KAGG There2s somethin& fascinatin& about a sin&le voice tellin& you its life. * read writers2 autobio&raphical wor(s%Neruda, .artre, @udora 0elty, Montai&ne2s +ssays%the way people read Lives o$ the Saints. * was tryin& to fi&ure out how to be a writer. As a child, * also read a lot of boo(s about bein& blac(4 ,lac- Li-e *e, ,lac- ,oy,Invisible *an. The Autobio&raphy o$ *alcolm /. My mother had marched with 6r. Kin& in .elma. Iein& estran&ed from the culture resonated with me. A bi& personal discovery came in the fall of 1/$1, when * read Maya An&elou2s I 0now hy the Ca&ed ,ird Sin&s and thou&ht, 1ou can write about these people+ They weren2t li(e !ohn 8heever characters with the dec( shoes and 1ale de&rees and pools in the yard and sprin(lers &oin& whis(-whis(%well-bred do&s and sad, martini-drin(in& individuals who somehow (ept their clothes dry-cleaned. Those people sounded li(e fodder for literature in ways we weren2t. Mother subscribed to The New 1or(er, so * was exposed to the literary *vy =ea&ue, even in our little armpit of the universe. * corresponded with Toby 0olff after This ,oys Li$e. Toby nud&ed me to read 9arry 8rews2s A Childhood. * also read Mary Mc8arthy2s *emories o$ a Catholic 1irlhood, 9emin&way2s A *oveable Feast, Gobert 7raves2s 1ood(bye to All That, Maxine 9on& Kin&ston2s The oman arrior, and Nabo(ov2s Spea-. *emory. * read loads of bio&raphies, too%0.!. Iate2s boo(s on Keats and .amuel !ohnson. *an 9amilton on =owell. 9enri Troyat on 8he(hov and Tolstoy. The letters of Flannery J28onnor%The "abit o$ ,ein&. *NT@GH*@0@G 6id you (now you were &oin& to write a memoir yourself+ KAGG

*t never occurred to me. Thou&h * do remember Toby su&&estin& * try memoir, because * dined out on stories about my mother. *NT@GH*@0@G 9ow did you start writin& The Liars Club+ *n Lit, you say it be&an as a novel. KAGG *t did, but the novel is a much more complicated art form structurally. Memoir is episodic%a looser construct than a bona fide novel. 1ou start with an interestin& voice' the rest follows. For a real novelist, the fiction provides a mas( that permits honesty. For me, a novel became an excuse to ma(e myself loo( better%my stand-in did volunteer wor( at the nursin& home and (new differential calculus in the sixth &rade. And my mother wasn2t my sloppy, turpentine- and vod(a-redolent mother, but the complete opposite%a ballerina, very prim. * also didn2t want to have to deal with the familial complications. My mother was still alive, my sister was a prudent 9ouston businesswoman. The memories were painful for them. *NT@GH*@0@G .o how did you ma(e the transition from novel to memoir+ KAGG * was in this writin& &roup that met at 9arvard2s =amont =ibrary on .unday ni&hts. The critic .ven Iir(erts was in it alon& with the poet Iill 8orbett, the novelist .tratis 9aviaras, and the poet and critic Gobert 5olito. * turned in ei&hty pa&es of fiction, and they brutali>ed it%nobody minced words. They said, 1ou should try memoir. At first * thou&ht, 1ou ust don2t (now how &reat * amK Iut their messa&e had the stench of truth. *NT@GH*@0@G Iy the time you wrote Cherry, your approach was much broader. *ts sub ect matter was more universal%adolescent &irls everywhere, in a sense. *s that how you conceived of the boo(+ KAGG There really aren2t any &reat boo(s about female adolescence. * tau&ht memoir classes with &reat male teena&e texts%nonfiction versions of The Catcher in the Rye, really. Most women2s boo(s polevault over unior hi&h and hi&h school. They flip from childhood to colle&e. * really wanted a &irl2s point of view. *NT@GH*@0@G The only &reat boo( about female adolescence * can thin( of is Memories of a 8atholic 7irlhood.

KAGG Iut Mc8arthy misses on the sexual stuff% ust s(ids past it. .he &oes off to visit a friend in Montana and she wa(es up in the bed of a married man. 9er line is incredible to me4 )* &rew a little tired of his (isses, which did not excite me., *t2s so delibidini>ed. .he has no a&ency, no ur&e. Jne pa&e, she2s fifteen, then all of a sudden she2s &oin& off to colle&e. *t may be a problem of lan&ua&e. 0hen * started Cherry, * reali>ed there were no words to describe an awa(enin& female libido. Ioys have these childli(e words li(e chubby and woody, but the parlance for female &enitalia and female desires is too porno. =oo(in& at an early draft of Cherry, * said to myself, Jh my 7od, you2re superimposin& a forty-yearold woman2s libido on a twelve-year-old &irl. *t seemed perverse. =i(e it2d inspire pedophiles to thin( that every youn& &irl was =olita. @ventually * reali>ed *2d misrepresented the experience. A twelve-yearold writin& a boy2s name on her noteboo( over and over doesn2t want to &et boffed into &uacamole. .he wants the boy to brin& her a valentine and put it in her lunch box. *NT@GH*@0@G *t2s a different (ind of lon&in&. KAGG *t2s as powerful as a sexual ur&e but it2s not so &enital. *t2s somewhat about bein& seen%what feminist critics mi&ht call a lon&in& for the male &a>e. Iein& loo(ed at in this culture invents you as a woman lon& before you2re &ettin& laid. *t was about love more than sex%about beauty, desire. *NT@GH*@0@G 9ow did you ultimately &et to the core of the experience+ KAGG * started writin& about seein& !ohn 8leary at the couples2 s(ate and thin(in&, That2s what * want. * want him to come as( me to the couples2 s(ate and brin& me a lon&-stemmed red rose, that would be so thrillin& for me. And * remember sayin& to my editor, 9ow could * say that+ .he said, 1ou2ve &ot to ma(e that as vivid, as intense as the other thin&. *NT@GH*@0@G The lan&ua&e of the sexual awa(enin& in Cherry is some of the most lyrical lan&ua&e in the boo(. 1ou massa&e !ohn 8leary2s le&s, and then &o home and drift off into a reverie in your bed at ni&ht4 )* don2t con ure !ohn2s body stretched over mine, or under it, or even the lon& muscles of his thi&hs hard under my hands. The fact of that body is too carnal for this sharp luminosity in me. *nstead * picture !ohn leadin& me under the span&led li&ht of this mirrored ball for a slow dance.,

KAGG * didn2t want sex. There was no steamy porn scene in my head. * mostly wanted him to (iss me and hold my hand. *2d hypnoti>e myself writin& his name over and over. * wanted a candlelit vision of myself as lovely, as a woman. *NT@GH*@0@G There are also stylistic differences between the first two memoirs. Cherry is less aunty, and a little smoother%you use fewer commas, includin& in places where they seem necessary. 0as that intentional+ KAGG The self * was writin& about was older in that boo(, and it would have seemed coy to use the same type of sentence structure as * did for the (id in The Liars Club. Also, * had a comma stutter in the first boo(, which * corrected in the second. *NT@GH*@0@G *n Cherry you describe readin& boo(s as a (ind of entry into a fantasy life, an escape from =eechfield. 6o you thin( you were depressed+ KAGG * was depressed out of my &ourd from childhood onward. *t2s ama>in& that *2m not now. .obriety2s helped a lot%alcohol2s a depressant. *NT@GH*@0@G 0hat are your feelin&s about ta(in& medicine for depression+ KAGG * don2t thin( you should &ee>e morphine in your nec( with a tur(ey baster to ad ust your mood. Iut *2ve ta(en antidepressants off and on and wouldn2t hesitate to ta(e a prescribed dru& so lon& as it didn2t alter consciousness. No Halium or Manax for me%too similar to alcohol. Iut *2m a bi& fan of the mental-health profession. They (ept me alive%shrin(s and librarians, teachers and boo(sellers. *NT@GH*@0@G .ome writers say that ta(in& mood stabili>ers or antidepressants alters your perception. That the natural artistic self is the depressed self. KAGG

6epression ma(es you half alive%how does that shape a better writer+ 5eople have different ideas of what natural is. .ince the romantics we2ve all been bi& fans of the natural, as thou&h natural e;uals &ood. .hittin& in your pants is natural, wantin& to boin( the pi>>a-delivery (id is natural. .tabbin& people who &et in front of you at the cafeteria line%that2s probably a natural impulse. 0here do you draw the line between what2s &ood natural and what2s bad natural+ *NT@GH*@0@G 6o you have any writin& rituals, thin&s you have to do in order to write+ KAGG * pray. * as( 7od what to write. * (now that sounds insane, but * do. * say4 0hat do you want me to say+ * have a sense that 7od wanted these boo(s written. That doesn2t mean they2re meant to be bestsellers. Nor am * hearin& voices. Iut a lot of times *2ll &et stuc( and *2ll ust say, 9elp me. A nonbeliever mi&ht thin( of it as tal(in& to my supere&o, or some better self. Iut * do have a sense of bein& &uided. *NT@GH*@0@G 0hat does it sound li(e when you &et stuc(+ KAGG Fuc(. .hit. 6on2t. Fuc(. 1ou dumb bitch%who ever told you that you could write+ That2s what it sounds li(e. *NT@GH*@0@G 0hen did you start prayin&+ KAGG 0hen * &ot sober, in 1/D/%twenty years a&o now. Jnly with prayer could * stop drin(in& for more than a day or two. Jnce * made three months clean, but it was a white-(nuc(led horror show. 8all it self-hypnosis, prayer, whatever. To s(eptics * say, !ust try it. 5ray every day for thirty days. .ee if your life &ets better. *f it doesn2t, tell me *2m an asshole. 5eople tend to ud&e a faith2s value based on its do&ma, which i&nores reli&ion in practice. *t2s li(e believin& if you watch enou&h porn or read enou&h &ynecolo&y boo(s, you2ll (now about pussy. For me, bein& a 8atholic is a set of activities. 8ertain do&ma seems nuts to me too. *2m not the 5ope2s favorite 8atholic. *NT@GH*@0@G 6o you pray before you write, or durin&+ KAGG

Ioth. * try to pray formally mornin& and ni&ht startin& with breathin& exercises or centerin& prayer. Then the =ord2s 5rayer or the 5rayer of .t. Francis4 )=ord, ma(e me an instrument of your peace ..., .ometimes * listen to the daily litur&y on my i5od from 5ray-As-1ou-7o.com, or * &o online at .acred .pace%both !esuit sites. * say than( you a lot. This mornin& * wal(ed out sayin&, Than( you for the wind, than( you for the blue s(y. Geally dumb, puerile stuff. At ni&ht * do what !esuits call an examen of conscience, plus * (eep a list of people to pray for. *n times of pressure or anxiety%li(e when Mother was dyin&%*2ll do a daily rosary for everybody. Jr *2ll li&ht candles and climb in the bathtub, try to put my mind where my body is%the best prayers are completely silent. Jtherwise, * do a lot of be&&in&. * ust be&, be&, be&, be& li(e a do&, for myself and those * love. And * do the cursory, )*f it2s your will ..., but 7od (nows that * want everythin& when * want it. 9e (nows *2m selfish and want a >illion buc(s and bi& tits and to be five-ten. .o *2m not foolin& him with that )*f it2s your will, shit. The real prayer happens when *2m really desperate, li(e when * was &oin& throu&h a period of illness last year. Ama>in& what power there is in surrender to sufferin&. Most of my life * dod&ed it, or tried to drin( it away%)it, bein& any reality that discomfited me. * turned down the earliest offers from publishers for Lit years a&o because * had a sense that it was what 7od wanted me to do. *n prayer, * felt steered to write a boo( of poems. There was all this ;uiet ener&y around the poetry, thou&h it meant flushin& down the drain this bi& pile of memoir money * needed to pay for my son2s private school tuition and colle&e. That was scary, but writin&2s always scary. The prospect of failure after a bi& success is scary%the pa&e is very blan(, and you feel conspicuous, and plenty of detractors want you to fail from sheer spite. *2m a fearful person by nature. *NT@GH*@0@G 0hat are you afraid of+ KAGG Failure. * (eep Iec(ett2s motto above my des(4 Fail better. A priest once as(ed me a very smart ;uestion, which *2ve yet to answer, or have only answered in small increments4 0hat would you write if you weren2t afraid+ 5rayer lessens fear. *t reduces self-consciousness, so * attend to the wor( and (ind of for&et myself. *t2s stran&e, thou&h%* (now prayin& a steady hour a day would ma(e me a happier human unit, but * don2t do it. 6o you (now why+ *NT@GH*@0@G No. KAGG Me neither. *t2s li(e, 0hy not floss every day+ * thin( it2s because my bi& smart mind li(es the idea that it2s runnin& the show, and any conscious contact with 7od plu&s me into my own radical powerlessness.

*NT@GH*@0@G 0hat do you feel when you pray+ KAGG 0hen * feel 7od, it2s ;uiet. * can2t hear anythin&%it2s li(e balancin& in air in some vast, windless space. *f *2m tryin& to discern 7od2s will, *2ll feel a leanin& sensation toward what *2m supposed to do. =i(e a dowser2s wand. *t2s a solid tu&. @ven if that direction is scary for me%li(e refusin& the first offers for Lit, or li(e the writin& of it was. There2ll be ;uiet around it. This ta(es days, sometimes wee(s. The tric( is not to act until you have a solid leanin&, and not to obsess until you &et that%really &ive the problem up, in a way. 1ou mi&ht say you leave it to your intuition. * say * leave it to the 9oly .pirit. The 7od-centered choices tend to stay solidly ;uiet. * never re&ret or recant. * prayed when * threw out most of the manuscript of Lit%both times. The first time, four years a&o, * tossed almost five hundred pa&es, leavin& ust ei&hty%the early chapters. Then, in Au&ust of "##D, * threw out another five hundred pa&es, and * was left with only about a hundred and twenty. * was nearin& my deadline, and my tit was in a wrin&er, timewise. A sane person mi&ht2ve bar&ained with my publisher for more time, but * didn2t. *t was as if 7od were sayin&, 1ou2re in this now4 do it. 0hich, by the way, my publisher said too. 1et the boo( felt impossible. * had to surrender the outcome. Iut surrender is hard for me. *2m a willful little beast. *NT@GH*@0@G 6o you have any methods other than prayer for &ettin& throu&h a bloc(+ KAGG An endless New 1or( wal(. Music helps%Iach and Ieethoven played by Awada&in 5ratt. Jpera. Tan&os. Nothin& with lan&ua&e in it. Also, * call and whine. *NT@GH*@0@G 0hom do you call+ KAGG * have a couple of writers, but * don2t do it fre;uently. * call the way the president would push the red button for nuclear armament. *2ve called 6on 6e=illo more than once. 9e sent me a postcard after one such call. *t read4 0rite or die. * sent one bac( sayin&4 0rite and die. * also &ive bi& chun(s to my editor, 8ourtney 9odell, who reminds me that * always wrestle with this demon. .hovel up and throw away%over and over. .he ma(es encoura&in& noises but doesn2t hesitate to say, This is not it. For the second batch of pa&es * threw out, *2d been encoura&ed to write a how-to boo( about prayer. They wanted another )@at, 5ray, Ma(e Money., Iut the pa&es were duller than a rubber (nife. 0ritin& about

spiritual stuff for a secular audience is li(e doin& card tric(s on the radio. *t nearly bro(e me to start over a&ain. *NT@GH*@0@G 0as it easier to throw out the manuscript the second time+ KAGG No. The second time devastated me. * felt so scooped out and lost. * moped around for three days in scu>>y clothes, orderin& *ndian food and &ivin& 7od the fin&er and &ettin& phone calls from my publishin& house and a&ent sayin&, 0hen will it be done+ 0hen they &ive you money up front, this interests them a lot. About midni&ht of day three, * was sobbin&, listenin& to Ieethoven really loud. .o * called my old teacher Gobert 9ass in Ier(eley to tell him, *2m afraid that no matter what * do, this is &oin& to be a bad boo(. And Iob said, That doesn2t worry me one bit. * said, 0hat the fuc(+ *s that some Nen 8alifornia shit+ * &ot really irritated. * said, *2m here cryin& at midni&ht. And he said, *f you write a bad boo(, it2ll be a bad boo( with some &ood sentences in it. Then he said an interestin& thin&. 9e said, 0ill a bad boo( rob you of power and money and status+ And * said, Absolutely. * would li(e to say * couldn2t care less, but yeah, * want more money and fancier shoes and more trips to 8orsica in the sunshine. Iut that2s not even the scariest thin&. The scariest thin& for me is that * won2t &et to have the conversation, this marvelous conversation about literature *2ve been havin& for thirty years now. *NT@GH*@0@G The conversation with other writers+ KAGG 0ith other writers and with the wor(. 1ou2re in this bi& stadium with these ama>in& pitchers and hitters, and then you2re bac( in the farm-club du&out. *NT@GH*@0@G 0hen you abandoned all of those hundreds of pa&es, did you save them somewhere+ KAGG No, * literally threw them all out. Iecause * thou&ht, 0hat am * savin& these for+ *NT@GH*@0@G 5osterity+ KAGG 1eah, ri&ht. * live in an eleven-hundred-s;uare-foot apartment.

*NT@GH*@0@G 6id you save your drafts for The Liars Club and Cherry+ KAGG 1es, but * have no idea where they are. *n stora&e, or at my sister2s maybe. *NT@GH*@0@G 1ou wrote at len&th about your ex-husband in Lit. 0as that difficult+ KAGG 0hat a ;uandary, to write about adorin& this &uy enou&h to bear his child, then how we imploded to such a point that * wanted to run him over while he moved the &arba&e cans. *n the first draft he was perfect, and * was horrible%worse than * actually was. * &uess * felt &uilty writin& it at all. 9e2s a discreet person, and * didn2t want to dra& him into the public eye. *NT@GH*@0@G 0hat does your son thin( of your boo(s+ KAGG 9e2s made a conscious decision not to read them, and * respect that. * am the source of waffles and .unday dinner, not literature. 0hen Cherry came out, he confessed he was consciously avoidin& it. =ast year, he read the openin& to The Liars Club%he2s twenty-three now. 9e (nows * wrote about bein& sexually assaulted. 9e (nows all about my nervous brea(down in Lit from bein& there and tal(in& to me over the years. 9e (nows * was suicidal, but that as lon& as he was on the planet, * couldn2t afford to (ill myself. 9e (nows the boo(s2 events in outline%* wouldn2t want him hearin& about somethin& we hadn2t discussed. 9e did read the prolo&ue directed at him in Lit. *NT@GH*@0@G 0hen you finish a boo(, do you ever hear from people that you2ve &otten thin&s wron&+ KAGG .tran&ely, that hasn2t happened very much. Minor points of fact from time to time. Jne reason * do so many drafts is that * po(e and prod and ;uestion. *NT@GH*@0@G 6o you have an unusually &ood memory+

KAGG 0hen * was youn& * did, yes. * can only compare my early memories with my sister =ecia2s. .he2d admit that mine are (eener than hers. .he2ll say, Jh my 7od, that2s ri&ht, that did happen. .he doesn2t remember many details until * write them%which seems, by the way, li(e a much better way to be. .he ust moves forward throu&h the world. *f * could do it her way, * would. *t2s much more functional. Time never passes for me. *t2s scary how my memory became the family memory. My mother, before she died, and my sister both remember events as * rendered them. They2re carved in stone, in a way. That2s a lonely feelin&. *t2s too much power. *2m sure * misremember a lot. *NT@GH*@0@G There are a few moments in Lit where you write that =ecia remembers thin&s in a different way. KAGG .ure%* didn2t remember my mother2s paramour 0ilbur Fred Iailey bein& particularly &ood-loo(in&. =ecia said, Jh yes, he had steely white hair, blue eyes, and he was muscular. Thin&s li(e that. More important than rememberin& the facts, * have to po(e at my own innards4 what were your hopes+ * remember &oin& to wor( in business, for instance. At first, wearin& a suit and totin& a briefcase, * felt promoted to bein& an actual citi>en. Gobert 9ass has a poem about 0allace .tevens wal(in& e;uably to wor( each mornin&, smellin& faintly of shavin& lotion, that )pure exclusive music Ain his mind., * wanted to be this businessperson who scribbled poems li(e .tevens. *NT@GH*@0@G 6o you do any (ind of hypnotic re&ression in order to return, in your mind, to the place where you were, the person you were+ KAGG There2s no ma&ic in it. !ust one moment at a time, one detail at a time. *2m ust as(in& myself as * &o alon&4 0hat was it li(e when * came home for 8hristmas+ * remember 6addy came to fetch me at the bus station%a &reasy bus station if ever there was one. 9e passed me a pint bottle of whis(ey, which surprised me. *f you had as(ed me whether my father had ever &iven me whis(ey, *2d have said no. Iut once * revisited that instant, * could see him offer me a bottle across the truc( cab. 0hat a stran&e thin& to offer your seventeen-year-old, whis(ey. *t2s what wor(ed for him. Many memories are dead ends. That2s why * throw away a thousand pa&es. *f you haven2t thrown away a thousand, then you don2t have four hundred that are worth a shit. 1ou have to edit ruthlessly. *NT@GH*@0@G

*n Lit you wrote about an affair you had with 6avid Foster 0allace, whom you met while livin& in 8ambrid&e in 1/D/, but who came to live near you when you were teachin& in .yracuse. 0hy did you decide not to use a pseudonym for him+ 6id his death have anythin& to do with this choice+ KAGG * had a pseudonym &oin& in, but anybody who2d &ive a rat2s ass (new the u&lier details. 0e were in touch before he died, and *2d intended to show him the pa&es. 9e first came to .yracuse loo(in& for someplace cheap to live on his boo( advance for In$inite 2est% which * saw a chun( of early on, ust as he saw the first chapters of The Liars Club. 6avid rented this weensy room less than a bloc( from me. 7uys you &et sober with are li(e &uys you were in 2Nam with. 1ou plodded throu&h the flames to&ether. The past few years, * thou&ht he2d been snatched from the flames. 0hich was how * felt, and still feel. 3ltimately, * showed my manuscript to a former dru& counselor of his. 5lus * had his best friend from colle&e, the novelist Mar( 8ostello, &o throu&h the relevant pa&es. Mar( (new both of us extremely well durin& the period * chronicled. 9e ud&ed the renderin& fair, insofar as he could ud&e events he didn2t often witness. *NT@GH*@0@G *t seemed to me that Lit is a conversion memoir%about your conversion to 8atholicism in 1//E. KAGG *t2s about all the ways * &ot lit%by lan&ua&e, boo>e, etcetera, till * &ot lit by baby !esus. * was a natural s(eptic, and it2s about that ourney from blac( cynicism into awe. *NT@GH*@0@G 0hy did you convert to 8atholicism+ KAGG My son was in second &rade and he announced he wanted to &o to church )to see if 7od2s there., * started callin& friends to ta(e us to various citadels of worship. 8atholics came dead last. 0e went to !ewish temples and to a Nendo. 7od-o-rama, we called it. *t was solely for my son. * usually too( alon& a paperbac( to read li(e * did when he played soccer. * was prayerful at the time, but cynical about reli&ious hierarchies. !esus is a tric( on poor people, my daddy used to say. *NT@GH*@0@G 1ou ac(nowled&ed earlier that when you2re drin(in&, it2s harder to remember conversations and events. Iut in Lit you write about a time in which you dran( heavily.

KAGG 9ence the boo(2s stran&e blan( spaces%the conversation my husband and * had about separatin& the first time, for instance. * don2t remember it. 8ertain events stay Technicolor, thou&h. =i(e the time he said, 1ou smell li(e a bum. *2d been out smo(in& and drin(in&, *2m sure. *t was memorable partly because he never spo(e to me that way. 9e was a very controlled spea(er, but *2m sure if he were writin& about this period, *2d be reelin& drun(enly throu&h the house, raisin& hell. 8ertain moments are vividly conceived durin& adrenaline rushes%fallin& in love, thin(in& you2re about to &et hit by a bus. Iut the brain isn2t a file cabinet. As * a&e, my memory fades. Maybe it2s all the =.6 * too( as a (id or there2s ust less blood in my head. *NT@GH*@0@G *n your boo(s you readily admit to for&ettin& certain scenes or details, sometimes important ones. 0hy do that+ KAGG Memoirists can ma(e the mista(e of treatin& readers as an enemies and tryin& to dupe them. * feel li(e the reader has &iven up twenty-plus dollars, and * owe her a vivid experience without lyin&. Iut certain events she expects aren2t there. 1ou have to collude with her if your head is blan(. 5lus sometimes what you for&et says as much psycholo&ically as what you remember. * don2t try to reconstruct empty spots. *2ve been vi&orously encoura&ed by various editors to fictionali>e. They would say, *t must have been a very dramatic scene, sayin& &oodbye to your mother. And * remember readin& that Hivian 7ornic( said to her students, )!ust ma(e it up and see if it2s true., Iullshit. *n fiction, you manufacture events to fit a concept or an idea. 0ith memoir, you have the events and manufacture or hopefully deduce the concept. 1ou don2t remember somethin&+ 0rite fiction. *t pissed me off when * saw !ames Frey on =arry Kin& sayin&, 1ou (now, there2s a lot of ar&ument about the distinction between fiction and nonfiction. 1ou (now what+ There isn2t. *f it didn2t happen, it2s fiction. *f it did happen, it2s nonfiction. *f you see the memoir as constructin& a false self to sell to some chump audience, then you2ll never (now the truth, because the truth is derived from what actually happened. 3sin& novelistic devices, li(e reconstructed dialo&ue or telescopin& time, isn2t the same as &innin& up fa(e episodes. *NT@GH*@0@G Iut memory is faulty, of course. 0hat if you &et somethin& wron&+ KAGG * thin( of Mary Mc8arthy in *emories o$ a Catholic 1irlhood sayin&, * chan&ed some of these names, or, * thou&ht that we all had the flu that one time but my uncle has corrected me. None of her

corrections were relevant or betrayed a reader2s confidence. *n the forties, memoir was a(in to history, which was absolute. Jne reason for a sur&e in memoir is the &radual erosion of ob ective notions of truth, which ma(es stuff li(e assembled dialo&ue seem more acceptable. 0e mistrust the old forms of authority%the church and politicians, even science. The sub ective has power now. 1ou read how Gobert McNamara fabricated body counts in Hietnam, how Nixon lied, then suddenly Full *etal 2ac-et or Apocalypse %ow or Michael 9err2s psychedelic experience in Dispatches has new authority. Not because it2s not corrupt, but because it admits its corruption. For me, internal landscapes are where *2ve spent much of my time. *f *2d lived with a video camera strapped to my head, it mi&ht represent events in clearer external detail, but it wouldn2t reveal my inner life. * (now better than anybody else how * felt at fifteen or at forty. 1ou mi&ht remember somethin& * did that * don2t remember, but * (now how * felt. The moral dan&er that *2m in every time * write a sentence is that *2ve interpreted somebody2s motivation incorrectly. * li(e the story%maybe apocryphal %about Melville devourin& an entire ba& of oran&es in front of his dau&hter without sharin&. 9ow could such a person not be an asshole+ 0ell, say he had scurvy. The trauma of my mother losin& her first children doesn2t mean it2s no bi& deal that she tried to stab my sister and me with a butcher (nife, but it in some way clarifies the action. Ioo(s offer what TH and film often s(ip over%the internal and historical truths. *NT@GH*@0@G 9ow important is the content of the memoir to its success+ KAGG 5eople mista(enly believe the best memoir is the one in which the &rossest stuff happens. *f that were true then everybody who was at Auschwit> would have written a best seller. 5eople had way worse childhoods than * did and they didn2t sell as many boo(s. 9ow it2s written counts for somethin&. *NT@GH*@0@G 6o you do much research before be&innin& to write a memoir+ KAGG None before. 0hen people say they2re doin& research, * say, 1ou2re ust postponin& writin&. * prepare by notifyin& people, tal(in& to people who are still alive, and seein& if they would be offended if * wrote about them. Jnce * have a draft, * may visit places and chec( stuff out, to clarify details. *NT@GH*@0@G 1ou don2t &o throu&h old letters, or archives, or newspaper accounts from the time about which you2re writin&+ KAGG

* do some of that, but only after the first draft is written. 1ou want to capture your own memories, not someone else2s. After the first draft of The Liars Club, * called my mother for factual details4 what year she married a certain husband, his profession. 6urin& Cherry, * called my friend 6oonie and we tal(ed about our roommate Forsythe &oin& cra>y in 8alifornia%dramatic events * could2ve brou&ht up if external drama were all * was trollin& for. 9e threw a paint can throu&h a dru& dealer2s window, then he tried to (ill himself. 9e hitchhi(ed na(ed with a cardboard box around him. At one point he scrawled the walls with toothpaste and sprin(led a pound of pot on a sleepin& infant and set his father2s photo on the turntable so it spun round and round. The relevant info+ 9e went cra>y and (illed himself. 1ou don2t put in whatever you can dred&e up. *NT@GH*@0@G 9ave you always (ept ournals+ KAGG Jff and on, sloppily. Most were lost. Mine was an itinerant life for many years. My mother didn2t even (eep many photos of us. *NT@GH*@0@G 1et you2ve never had someone tell you that you2ve &otten somethin& seriously wron&+ KAGG 1ou love this ;uestion. Jne &uy corrected the year that 9urricane 8arla hit Texas. 0hich doesn2t feel li(e a betrayal of the reader. 1ou can as( me that another ei&ht hundred and seventy-five times. * (now *2m supposed to say, All the time. * must &et a million thin&s wron&, but *2ve not had people come up and say, * was there and that didn2t happen. Never. Not one time, not once. * remember an interviewer as(in& me, 1ou expect me to believe you opened a trun( in your attic, and your &randmother2s prosthetic le& was in it+ * said, 0hy don2t you chec( it out%* bet it2s still there. 1ou thin( * have that &ood an ima&ination+ *f * did, *2d be writin& novels. *NT@GH*@0@G 0hen do you write+ KAGG Mostly mornin&s at home. * made a habit in &rad school of &ettin& up at five in the mornin& to wor(. 0hen my son was born, in 2DE, * had to &et up really early, li(e four. * was teachin& six sections of comp at three different schools, and that was the only time * had. For ten years there, * didn2t have time to shave both le&s the same day. *f * had even an hour, * could wor( anywhere. * was very unpersnic(ety. Iut * usually can2t write bi& prose while teachin&. * can write ournalism or lectures. And *2m always scribblin& poems.

*NT@GH*@0@G .o you can2t wor( on a boo( while you2re teachin&+ KAGG *t would be hard. * fi&ured out early on that *2d resent the students. *f the students don2t seem human to you, then it2s an adversarial relationship. *NT@GH*@0@G 6o your poetry and your memoirs influence each other+ KAGG Autobio&raphy is mostly contin&ent on voice. *f the voice is stron& enou&h, the reader will &o anywhere with you. And who2s better at syntax and diction than a poet+ *NT@GH*@0@G 0hat are the ma or differences between the two forms for you+ KAGG * always say that a poet loves the world, and the prose writer needs to create an alternative world. 5oetry relates more closely to my present experience, and it2s aesthetically harder, because you2re tryin& to create a form that embodies the content. 0ith prose, you spend so much time evo(in& a place that it2s emotionally more catastrophic. *t2s li(e someone2s holdin& the bac( of your head and puttin& your nose ri&ht in it. 0hen you do prose, you are deep in another element for months or years. *2m sure that private intensity is no different for novelists. *NT@GH*@0@G 9as your writin& method chan&ed over the years+ KAGG * wrote The Liars Club lon&hand in noteboo(s. Then *2d type them up. * rewrite a lot, even as * &o alon&. *2m a compulsive rewriter. * have a poet2s sense of perfection. 5rose always seems inade;uate to me because every line isn2t a ewel. Iut it can2t be. 5rose favors information' poetry favors music and form. *NT@GH*@0@G 6o you revise in the noteboo(s+

KAGG * cross stuff out, and then * type it up, and * print it, then * lon&hand that, and then * write a&ain. Jften * rewrite the same thin& over and over, lon&hand. * did Cherry that way, but * developed a repetitivestress disorder%not exactly carpal tunnel, but a shoulder thin&. The sports-medicine dude said watchma(ers and sur&eons, people who do very fine wor( with their hands, build up a little (not there. .o * had to teach myself to touch-type, which was traumatic for me. *n lon&hand, if it really suc(ed, * didn2t feel too &risly about it. Then when * typed it up it loo(ed li(e someone else had written it, which &ave me some distance. Iut with Lit, * faced such time pressure, * had to write lyin& down. *f * sat up and typed with this in ury, *2d last maybe six or seven hours. =yin& down with my laptop on my (nees, * could &o from seven in the mornin& until ei&ht or nine at ni&ht. * did that seven days a wee(. * felt li(e a Tur(ish pasha. *2d lie around in sil( pa amas. And eat pistachios all day. *NT@GH*@0@G Actual sil( pa amas+ KAGG 1es. Fancy lin&erie matters to me. *2ve always spent money on it, even when * was poor. And my mother and sister always &ave me nice lin&erie for 8hristmas or birthdays. .o *2d lie around feelin& va&uely fancy, thin(in&, 1ou (now, life doesn2t suc(. *2m not failin& at my art, twelve hours a day. @ventually, the boo( &ot traction. * found what it was about. *NT@GH*@0@G And what was that+ KAGG A boo( is never about what * thin( &oin& in. At first * thou&ht it was about romances *2d had, and it ust wasn2t. * (ept bein& drawn to material that focused on my separatin& from my mother and reconnectin& with her%the psycholo&ical implications of that. Iut * couldn2t ima&ine writin& a therapy boo(. *t ust felt so 5at 8onroy, very 'rince o$ Tides. *t was about bein& Jdysseus%havin& to leave home to find home. *t2s about ma(in& peace with Mother to become a mother. @verywhere * &o, people as(, 9ow2d you &et out of there+ They notice *2m not an&ry and bitter, which *2m not. Not anymore. Iut * was. * didn2t sashay out with my fishin& pole over my shoulder and a cardboard si&n sayin& poetry or bust. .ome of the readers of my first two memoirs deduced%wron&ly%that there had been no ardent sufferin& or confusion or psychic trial. * felt li(e * owed it to them to connect the dots between disease and healin&. From fury and doubt to faith. A hard slo&. My nervous brea(throu&h. *NT@GH*@0@G

0hat are you wor(in& on now+ KAGG *2m wor(in& on a textboo( about memoir. *2m also writin& poems about !esus that involve New 1or( street life. The poems feel less autobio&raphical. *NT@GH*@0@G 9ave you been critici>ed for writin& autobio&raphical poems+ KAGG 1es. 5eople say that it2s small-minded and stupid. 0ritin& about oneself is thou&ht to be very lowrent. * ust read a 7abriel 7arcOa MPr;ue> bio&raphy, and also his memoir. 0hat2s truest and most resonant in his wor( is the surreal stuff, and that has its roots in autobio&raphy. The characters, the milieu, even the ma&ic &rows from experience. * wish * had 8he(hov2s ear, that cool ob ectivity. Iut the truth is, that2s not my nature. *2m very self-involved. *NT@GH*@0@G 0hat do you thin( are the bi&&est problems with memoirs today+ KAGG They2re not reflective enou&h. They lac( self-awareness. * always tell my students that if the reader (nows somethin& about your psycholo&y that you do not admit, you2re in trouble. The reader will notice that you2re an asshole because instead of &oin& to your mother2s deathbed you2re out buyin& really nice desi&ner boots. *f you don2t ac(nowled&e the assholery of that choice, then there2s a rift, a dis unction between narrator and reader. And in autobio&raphy, that intimacy is part of what readers want. They have to trust your ud&ment. The memoir2s anta&onist has to be some part of the self, and the self has to be different at the end of the boo( than it was at the be&innin&. Jtherwise you have what * call the sound-bite memoir or the asswhippin& memoir. 1ear one4 ass-whippin&. 1ear two4 ass-whippin&. Then they slap )Mommy 6earest, on it and shove it into the boo(stores. Those memoirs cover a sin&le aspect4 so-and-so2s a drun(, or a sex slave, or has been hit on the head with a bric( by her mother every day of her life%and that2s it. The character of the writer is a dull steady state till he &ets old enou&h to &et car (eys and leave. That2s not a literary memoir any more than a 9arle;uin romance is a &reat novel. *NT@GH*@0@G 0hat was your own conflict+

KAGG My own bitterness and cynicism had to be pried away for the li&ht to &et in. The fury that * thou&ht protected me from harm actually sealed me off from oy. Also, * sensed *2d betrayed my father and our rednec( bac(&round by livin& at 9arvard with my ex-husband and his polo-playin& family. That my mother had &iven me a &reat love of art, truth, boo(s, conversation, and beauty, and * was too an&ry at her to feel &ratitude. * had to start livin& with some modicum of wonder, a state of praise rather than blame. *t2s a ourney from complaint to praise. *NT@GH*@0@G *s one of the ways in which the novel differs from the memoir that the characters in a novel are not obli&ated to disclose their motives+ KAGG *n most crap memoirs, motives are s(ipped over too. They are very surface-oriented. *n a novel, characters can be two-dimensional as lon& as they2re interestin& or there2s a &ood plot%thin( of 6ic(ens. *n memoir, the only throu&h-line is character represented by voice. .o you better ma(e a reader damn curious about who2s tal(in&. *f thin, shallow characters were interestin&, we2d all be watchin& !erry .prin&er. 1ou watch .prin&er because you don2t identify with those people. There2s no depth of connection to their narratives%they2re &rotes;ues. Memoirists shouldn2t exa&&erate the most &ruesome aspects of their lives. Jtherwise, a reader can2t enter the experience. .he can only &aw( from afar. 1ou have to normali>e the incredible. 5rimo =evi in Survival in Auschwit3 writes more vividly about his own faults than the Na>is2, whose evils are common (nowled&e. That is what2s powerful about the boo(. 1ou have to correct for your own selfish motives. * want to loo( li(e a nice person, so * paint my exhusband as a saint. Iut in truth, * wanted to hit him over the head with a mallet. Jnce * render that, * don2t come out seemin& so nice, which is more accurate. *NT@GH*@0@G .o when you2re writin& a memoir, you can2t allow yourself to be an unreliable narrator+ KAGG 1ou have constantly to ;uestion, *s this fair+ No life is all blea(. @ven in 5rimo =evi2s camp, there were small sources of hope4 you &ot on the &ood wor( detail, or you &ot on the ri&ht soup line. That2s what2s so &or&eous about humanity. *t doesn2t matter how blea( our daily lives are, we still fi&ht for the li&ht. * thin( that2s our divinity. 0e lean into love, even in the most hideous circumstances. 0e mana&e to hope. *NT@GH*@0@G

Iut we remember the blea(ness. KAGG That2s mostly what we remember.

Author photo&raph by *arion +ttlin&er4 !or&e .emprQn, The Art of Fiction No. 1/" Interviewed by Lila A3am 5an&aneh .hare on print5G*NTR.hare on twitterT0*TT@GR.hare on faceboo(FA8@IJJKRMJG@ .9AG*N7 .@GH*8@.MJG@RHiew a manuscript pa&e *n 5aris, in the winter of 1/S:, !or&e .emprQn, a twenty-year-old .panish-born philosophy student and a member of the 8ommunist 5arty, was arrested by the Na>i occupiers, tortured, and sent to Iuchenwald. Althou&h he survived to lead an extraordinarily eventful life, to this day .emprQn describes his deportation as )the only thin& that truly defines me., 1et unli(e other survivor-writers%Gobert Antelme, say, or 5rimo =evi%it too( .emprQn nearly two decades to write about his experience of the camps. )* had to for&et,, he has said. )Jtherwise life would have been impossible., Followin& his liberation at the end of the war, .emprQn returned to 5aris, where he wor(ed for 3N@.8J as an interpreter, a cover he used to coordinate the clandestine activities of the .panish 8ommunist 5arty. *n 1/?$ he be&an travelin& secretly to Franco2s .pain, wor(in& on and off for five years as an under&round 8ommunist a&ent under the pseudonym Federico .Pnche>. *t was there, after nearly twenty years of voluntary amnesia, that .emprQn felt the undercurrents of memory pullin& him bac( to the camps, promptin& him, as it were, to write his first boo(, The Lon& Voya&e B1/E:C, a fictionali>ed account of his experiences as a deportee. The boo(, written in French, traces the narrator2s thou&hts durin& his seemin&ly endless train ride to Iuchenwald, as his mind moves bac( and forth throu&h time, reachin& from the years before his arrest to his life after liberation. As he explored his own experience with totalitarian repression, .emprQn became an outspo(en critic of .talin2s terror, and a year after his literary debut he was expelled from the .panish 8ommunist 5arty. For the next two decades he lived in France, writin& novels, memoirs, and screenplays Bfor 8onstantin 8osta-7avras, 8hris Mar(er, and Alain Gesnais, amon& othersC. Then, in 1/DD, ea&er to participate in .pain2s new democratic &overnment, he accepted an appointment as Minister of 8ulture under 5rime Minister Felipe 7on>Ple>. 9e held office for three years before returnin& to 5aris and writin& his best(nown and most important wor(, Literature or Li$e B1//SC. .emprQn published the boo( as a memoir, but in it he declares that )the essential truth of the concentration camp experience is not transmissible., 9is literary solution is to introduce fictional scenes and details whenever his own memory is too faint, too incoherent, or when it simply fails to evo(e what he feels to be the truth of his experience.

.emprQn2s decision to meld fiction with memory in recountin& his concentration camp experience spar(ed heated debate in France, where critics accused him of callin& allmemory and eyewitness accounts into ;uestion. .emprQn2s fiercest critic was 8laude =an>mann, the director of the epic documentary film Shoah, who ar&ues that his own approach to recordin& the experience of survivors% throu&h direct testimony%is the only le&itimate method, and that art and ima&ination can have no part in such an endeavor. Jthers complained that it was impossible to distin&uish between what .emprQn experienced and what he invented. For instance, did Maurice 9albwachs, a well-(nown French sociolo&ist, really die as the boo( recounts, in .emprQn2s arms+ *s .emprQn2s literary techni;ue selfa&&randi>in&+ And how does it serve history+ .emprQn allows that testimony is vital to historians, but he notes that testimony, too, is not always precisely reliable, and that historians, alas, are never ;uite as effective as novelists at conveyin& the essence of experience. )9orror is so repetitive,, he says, )and without literary elaboration, one simply cannot be heard or understood., 9ence he ar&ues, )The only way to ma(e horror palpable is to construct a fictional body of wor(., * met .emprQn at his home in 5aris, where in "##S he wrote his third boo( in .panish, Veinte a6os y un d7a. BThe novel2s title, which translates to )twenty years and a day,, refers to the sentence &iven to political prisoners in Franco2s .pain.C .emprQn lives in an ele&ant two-story apartment in the heart of .aint-7ermain, the city2s elite literary district. 9is French, althou&h perfect in syntax and pronunciation, still possesses a faintly .panish cadence. As for the camps, he hastened to tell me that he would never be done )writin& all this death., 1et he remains, at the a&e of ei&hty-three, a dashin& man, and very much alive.

*NT@GH*@0@G 0hy did you be&in to write at the a&e of forty, after devotin& your life to political action+ !JG7@ .@M5GTN Two reasons. The first is that fifteen years had passed since my release from Iuchenwald, and * felt that * finally had sufficient distance from my experience of the camp to tal( about it without slippin& bac( into an obsession with death. * had become a different person. .o it was almost as if * were tellin& someone else2s story. The second reason was somethin& concrete, and rather extraordinary. *n 1/E# * was sharin& an apartment with a 8ommunist militant named Manolo, who did not (now that * was also a member of the under&round 8ommunist movement. 9e had fou&ht in the .panish Gepublican Army and had been a refu&ee in France before bein& ta(en prisoner by the 7ermans in 1/S# and sent, li(e many other captured .paniards, to Mauthausen, which was a very harsh Austrian camp. *n the evenin&s, he told me about his experience at Mauthausen. Iut * did not thin( that he was able to convey the experience as * had understood it at Iuchenwald, a similar sort of camp. Jf course there was no way * could say, 9ey Manolo, excuse me, that2s not how it was%because * couldn2t &ive up my cover. This frustration &ave me the impulse to loo( bac( on the past. * be&an writin& my first boo(, The Lon& Voya&e, in that

apartment. *t was as thou&h * suddenly needed to say what Manolo could not. .o * tal(ed about my camp, and this boo(, which * was morally incapable of writin& in 1/SE, unspooled all by itself in a matter of days in 1/E1. *NT@GH*@0@G *t wasn2t published until 1/E:. 0hy did it ta(e two years+ .@M5GTN * couldn2t publish it as lon& as * was a member of the under&round 8entral 8ommittee. * couldn2t ris( havin& my photo in the newspaper while * was crossin& the border ille&ally. *NT@GH*@0@G .o you owe it to Manolo that you became a writer. .@M5GTN 1es. To him, and to countless others. * remember one time in 5aris when * was ei&hteen, * saw a woman on the street, ust a re&ular woman in wooden-soled shoes, and she2d turn around every time someone passed her, loo(in& carefully at each person as thou&h she were expectin& someone. * fi&ured she needed to as( a favor but wanted first to determine whether she could trust the person she was &oin& to as(. And * thou&ht to myself, * must be that person, she must trust me. And when * passed her, she as(ed me the most ordinary ;uestion4 0here is the Montparnasse train station+ 0e exchan&ed a few cryptic words, and * sensed that she was !ewish and was on her way to a house near the station where she could be hidden, that this was her last hope of escapin& the raids. * wal(ed with her to the station and left her there. .o it was for her, too, that * be&an writin&. Many years later, in The Lon& Voya&e, * ima&ined * saw that woman a&ain, after the liberation of France. * ima&ined she was alive but did not reco&ni>e me, and that we continued the conversation we had started that day. *n my mind, this ima&ined scene embraces the historical truth and allows me to deepen my reflection on the !ewish experience in France durin& the war. *n fact, * often feel that fiction is necessary in my writin&%even in my historical memoirs%within appropriate moral limits, because it enables me to explore the full dimension of an event or a moment. Iut * don2t believe * have ever invented anythin& that was not historically true. *NT@GH*@0@G )9istorically true, seems a slippery phrase. 9ow do you define it+ Jne could ar&ue that your ima&ined conversation with the woman is historically false, since it never happened. .@M5GTN .ure, my conversation with this woman, in a sense, is historically )false,, since it never happened. Iut the conversation is entirely plausible. * would put it this way4 the conversation is at once a literary

invention and a possible historical truth. 5erhaps she survived, perhaps she wasn2t deported. .o as far as *2m concerned, to ima&ine her later, and to ima&ine my conversation with her, is necessary in order to bear witness to what is historically true4 that !ews had this experience of utter loneliness and abandonment, as opposed to members of the Gesistance li(e myself, who functioned in networ(s and were constantly helped. This is why in the boo( * feel compelled to tell her, years later, that now and a&ain *2ve desired to be !ewish myself, in order to have &one to the end of this experience with her. * will always defend the le&itimacy of literary fiction in expoundin& historical truth. *n the case of deportation, both !ewish and non-!ewish, it is simply not possible to tell, or write, the truth. The truth we experienced is not credible, and this is a fact the Na>is relied upon in terms of their own le&acy, for future &enerations. *f we tell the raw, na(ed truth, no one will believe us. This is why * mentioned Manolo in that Madrid apartment. 9e was tellin& the raw truth, which was incomprehensible because it was bereft of verisimilitude. *t needed to ac;uire a human shape, an actual form. This is where literature be&ins4 narration, artifice, art%what 5rimo =evi calls a )filtered truth., And * believe ardently that real memory, not historical and documentary memory but livin& memory, will be perpetuated only throu&h literature. Iecause literature alone is capable of reinventin& and re&eneratin& truth. *t is an extraordinary weapon, and you2ll see that in ten or fifteen years, the reference material on the destruction of the !ews of @urope will include a collection of literary testimonies%ours, possibly, but also those of youn&er &enerations, who have not witnessed but will be able to ima&ine. *NT@GH*@0@G 0hat were the roots of your political activism+ .@M5GTN * was born in .pain in 1/":, so * was twelve when the .panish 8ivil 0ar bro(e out. 0hen the war ended, * was fifteen and livin& in exile. Two years later * had started my philosophy de&ree, and * oined the anti-Na>i Gesistance in France. These historical facts determined my entire life, of course. 9ad * been born a few years earlier or later, my life would have been completely different. This doesn2t mean that * didn2t ma(e any choices. * did, but within a specific historical context, to which the .panish 8ivil 0ar was as vital as my wor( in the anti-Na>i Gesistance. *t all be&an, in fact, with my father, a liberal 8atholic who in 1/:1 chose the Gepublicans over the Fran;uistas. The Gepublic assi&ned him a post in the .panish @mbassy in the Netherlands in 1/:$. As an adolescent there, the first thin& * did every mornin& before ridin& my bicycle to school was buy the papers to find out the latest news of the war in .pain. *t was always bad. The Gepublic was bein& crushed, day after day. *n 1/:/, when we finally lost the war, my parents and * moved to 5aris. * wanted to be a philosopher, and * was preparin& for the entrance exam to the Ucole Normale .up<rieure when * decided to oin the Gesistance and abandon my studies. *NT@GH*@0@G 0hat was your &oal as a member of the Gesistance+ .@M5GTN

0hen * si&ned up to fi&ht Na>ism, * was not fully aware of who * was, and * didn2t have a clear idea of the society that would emer&e afterward. 0e (new that the invasions of 0estern @uropean countries had to stop. The ;uestion of what mi&ht happen afterward%would there be a revolution+ a peaceful return to democracy+%was more or less secondary and only became ur&ent many years later, after the war. At that moment, when * oined, * considered the Gesistance to be the natural prolon&ation of the .panish war a&ainst fascism. Iut my dream ended abruptly in .eptember 1/S:, when * was arrested by the 7estapo. * was deported to a camp in 8ompiV&ne, then sent directly to 7ermany, to Iuchenwald. *NT@GH*@0@G 9ow lon& were you there+ .@M5GTN A lifetime. * was imprisoned for sixteen months. * was not allowed to spea( my native ton&ue. Iuchenwald was a peculiar camp, an acute cataly>er of moral conflicts. *t was built by the Na>is in 1/:$ to house their political opponents, mostly 8ommunists and .ocial 6emocrats, with a small minority of 8hristian 6emocrats. There were more than fifty thousand prisoners at Iuchenwald%it was a veritable city, with its own wor(s department, infirmary, (itchens, storerooms%and very ;uic(ly the internal administration of the camp was ta(en over and run by the inmates themselves, with an .. officer in char&e of each production unit. *t was not an extermination camp li(e Auschwit>, which was built entirely around the &as chambers and the crematoria. Iuchenwald was a wor( camp. 0e were inte&rated into the 7erman war industry and fed enou&h to sustain us for a few months%in a state beyond exhaustion, but alive. A dead person can2t wor(, you see. *t was, alon& with the .panish 8ivil 0ar, the most powerful upheaval that * have ever &one throu&h. The experience of the camps was absolute. Jnce, lon& after the war, a man as(ed me what * was% French or .panish, a novelist or a politician+ * said, spontaneously, that * was a deportee of Iuchenwald. * was only twenty when * &ot there, you understand. *t was a turnin& point in my life. There was no &oin& bac(. *NT@GH*@0@G Iut you couldn2t tal( about the experience afterward+ .@M5GTN No, not for many years. Thou&h when * &ot bac( from Iuchenwald in 1/S?, * did want to write. * lon&ed for it, to be honest, but stran&ely enou&h * found it impossible. * reali>ed that in order to do so * would have to delve deep inside the memory of the camp, which was the memory, and the womb, of our deaths. And * ust (new * could neither relive that experience nor survive it if * wor(ed on the memoir at that time. *t is a contradiction * reali>e%and althou&h sayin& it today feels almost indecent, * will say it anyway because it is the truth%but for me, rememberin& would have meant death with absolute certainty, suicide that is, and * was very much aware of it.

*f one sets out to describe the experience of the camps, if one must spea( about it, it can never stop. *t will never be )done., *t is not essential to spea( of the horror in all its detail, or about our hun&er, our lac( of sleep, how we clun& to&ether, our fraternity. *t is however essential to spea( of freedom, of our experience of &ood and evil. 1ou mi&ht ob ect, and you would be ri&ht, that there is no need to actually experience a concentration camp in order to ascertain the existence of &ood and evil. 1ou can ascertain it in other ways, of course, in the most banal portions of our everyday lives, but the camp, because it focuses all experience around the constant ris( of death, renders visible what is ordinarily more faint% that a human bein& is free by definition, that he has the freedom to be &ood or evil in every circumstance. *NT@GH*@0@G 0hat did you do to survive after the war+ .@M5GTN My distraction was to &o into politics, to oin the .panish anti-Franco movement, the antidictatorial militants screamin&, TomorrowK Tomorrow we will winK Tomorrow, &eneral stri(eK *t was always )tomorrow., 0ithout &ivin& it much thou&ht, * went to wor( for the .panish 8ommunist 5arty to fi&ht a&ainst the Franco re&ime. * had read Marx in my youth and was impressed by his clear, ri&orous thin(in&. 9e dared to as( the &reat impassioned ;uestions that one is consumed by at ei&hteen. The philosophers have interpreted the world, now it is up to us to chan&e it, as Marx wrote. And ri&ht after readin& him, than(s to some Austrians who were hidin& us in the early sta&es of the war, * discovered the 1/": edition of a boo( by 7eor& =u(Pcs called "istory and Class Consciousness, which for me opened entirely new vistas. *NT@GH*@0@G 0hat exactly did you do for the 8ommunist 5arty in .pain+ .@M5GTN * split my time between Madrid, where * was ille&al, and 5aris. *n France * was officially a translator for the 3N and 3N@.8J. .o when * disappeared to wor( under&round in Madrid, my wife would say, Jh, he2s off translatin& at an international conference, he2ll be bac( in a month. * was leadin& a double life. My mission for the 8ommunists was to reor&ani>e the under&round anti-Franco cells, mostly those made up of intellectuals and academics. 0hen * first &ot to Madrid in 1/?:, there were almost no cells left, Franco2s repression had been so brutal. Iut there was deep discontent, and one felt that culturally and politically there was a &rowin& thirst for freedom, for democracy. * spo(e to the &eneration of people who had not lived throu&h the .panish 8ivil 0ar, and * found hundreds of them ea&er to build another future for their country. My under&round alias was Federico .Pnche>. .o while !or&e .emprQn remained un(nown, Federico .Pnche> became a notorious insti&ator of the anti-Franco movement. =ater * wrote boo(s about that anonymous time in .pain4 The Autobio&raphy o$ Federico S8nche3 and Federico S8nche3 se despide de ustedes.

*NT@GH*@0@G *s that why there are so many doubles, alter e&os, and narrators who stand in for you in your literary wor(+ .@M5GTN * lived twenty years of my life under&round, and to live under&round is, by definition, to be a double. *n .pain * never introduced myself as !or&e .emprQn. * was always someone else, and * &ot ;uite used to it. =ater * found that when * referred to myself as you, as in The Lon& Voya&e, * was able to convey a more ob ective sense of my experience. * observed myself as my own double%not as the actor, but as the witness of my own life. *NT@GH*@0@G 1ou constructed a dialo&ue with yourself+ .@M5GTN 1es, * did, but * also found instinctively that it was easier to spea( of oneself from the outside than to be 7od proclaimin&, Jn the first day this happened, and on the second day ...This is why * find it more artificial to tell thin&s in chronolo&ical order than randomly, followin& the va&aries of memory. And while * have often used the second person in order to achieve &reater narrative freedom, in the novel * am writin& now *2m tryin& to find a different approach. There will be different (inds of narrators%one will be an invented writer-narrator who says, he did this, she moved. The characters in the boo( will be people who wor(ed with me in the 8ommunist under&round, French men and women who drove the cars and shuttled the ille&als across the border. They meet a&ain years later and spea( of me, this man they (new. .o the &a>e of others will cause me, !or&e .emprQn, to appear. *NT@GH*@0@G *n your boo(s on the camps, The Lon& Voya&e, Le *ort 9uil $aut, and Literature or Li$e, you do use the first person. .@M5GTN *n those boo(s, there is indeed a narrative I, which is there all the time but is sometimes doubled. Then the I becomes a you, and now, in this latest wor(, even a he. *NT@GH*@0@G 7iven that most of your wor( is unmista(ably autobio&raphical, do you consider yourself a novelist in the traditional sense+ .@M5GTN

* have often said * am not a )real, novelist, because for me the true novelist can use elements of reality to create a world that is more true to reality than reality itself, precisely because it is completely ima&inary. * love that line by Ioris Hian, )*n this novel everythin& is true because * made it all up., That, in my view, is a novel. And * will never be able to do that because * feel pulled inexorably toward the autobio&raphical material. * have written four boo(s about the camps, but * could write countless others. There are still a thousand stories to tell. And * have more to say, to write, in the fourth boo( than on the day * be&an writin&The Lon& Voya&e. 0hen * first undertoo( this wor( of rememberin&, a flood of memories lon& hidden and nearly obliterated suddenly came bubblin& to the surface. *NT@GH*@0@G 0hat (ind of stories interest you+ .@M5GTN .tories of survival, whether heroic or tra&ic. .tories of confrontation between man and the historical period in which he lives. * am especially fascinated by the tenacity of the human will. *NT@GH*@0@G 6oes writin& these stories down come easily to you+ 6o you write ;uic(ly+ .@M5GTN * am often sidetrac(ed by other stories * want to tell, so * find it difficult to &et to the end of a novel. There is a stron& narrative tension in the boo(s, includin& the last one, Veinte a6os y un d7a, which * decided to write in .panish. And now * &ive in, * reali>e * don2t have enou&h time to tell myself that * am writin& a novel in which everythin& is true because it is all made up. * am too haunted by my own life to be able to spea( about anythin& else. *NT@GH*@0@G Adieu. vive clart:, published in 1//D, is not about the camps. .@M5GTN Adieu. vive clart: was written with one &oal in mind%to avoid mentionin& the camps. *n order to do that * had to write about a time be$ore the camps. .o this boo( is a m<lan&e of fiction and reality &oin& bac( to certain events of my adolescence, from the time of my arrival in France in 1/:/. The summer of 1/:/ was way too brief. *t mar(ed the end of the .panish 8ivil 0ar, the war of my adolescence, and the be&innin& of 0orld 0ar **, the war of the youn& man *2d become. *t was a summer between two wars. And * wrote this memoir because * desperately needed to &et away from the curse of Iuchenwald. *t had infiltrated all of my writin&, even La *onta&ne blanche, which had nothin& to do with the war. 1et one of the characters in Adieu. vive clart: is suddenly overwhelmed by his memory of the camps. * couldn2t help itK .o * had to push most of my story bac( to 1/:/, when, in my own eyes, the very notion of deportation as a possible future was unthin(able. Iut then there2s this moment when the narrator says

that in his boo(s he systematically condemns the characters with false names to die, li(e a sacrifice, a ritual to &et on with life. *NT@GH*@0@G And you have done that in several of your boo(s. .@M5GTN *n LAl&arabie, Arti&as%one of the aliases * used in Madrid%dies. And the narrator of Adieu. vive clart: says at one point, )Now * have no more aliases who will die in my place. *t is finally my turn. Now * am na(ed, destitute., *n short, he is afraid. * (new so many men and women who were forced to assume false names and false identities, and in doin& so experienced all (inds of fantastic adventures. Any one of their lives could be the stuff of a &reat novel. 3ltimately, however, * came to believe that 8ommunist rule was the most tra&ic event of the twentieth century. 5erhaps this is the reason * seem so difficult to understand in the 3nited .tates, because for most Americans today, 8ommunism seems li(e somethin& almost alien, unfathomably distant. 0hereas, ;uite blatantly, it was the beatin& pulse of my life. *n the stories * tell, there are always two specific ideas%deportation and 8ommunism. Two thin&s Americans do not understand. *NT@GH*@0@G 9ave you ever been influenced by American literature+ .@M5GTN 1es, the way *2ve approached these themes in my boo(s was heavily influenced by my readin& of American novels. * admire 9emin&way, for instance. 0hen 9emin&way is at the top of his form, in his short stories and in some of his novels, his wor( has the nearly divine ability to con ure up the present4 she stands up, she is sad, she is in love. Iut stylistically, * can2t do that. * am incapable of writin& in the present tense li(e he does. *n terms of pure craft, * have always been drawn to the Faul(nerian style of writin&, where an old lady starts off tellin& a story and then that story se&ues into another story, which sends us bac( to the distant past and then loops around to the present. *t2s a specific way of perceivin& time, and this is why Faul(ner has always been one of my most si&nificant literary influences. *NT@GH*@0@G 0hich boo( by Faul(ner did you discover first+ .@M5GTN * read Sartoris when * was finishin& my philosophy de&ree at the .orbonne, in 1/S". =ater * found Absalom. Absalom; in the Iuchenwald library, in a 7erman translation. There were people who were ama>ed when * would tal( about this library. They would say, 0ell, if they had a library over there, it couldn2t have been that bad. They didn2t &et it. Jnly a few of the camps had libraries, and they

were created by the .. themselves, since a priori, they were meant to be reeducation camps, <mschulun&sla&er. At Iuchenwald there were several hundred Na>i boo(s, li(e *ein 0amp$ and The *yth o$ the Twentieth Century by Alfred Gosenber&. Iut for most deportees the library was useless, because you had to (now 7erman to read the boo(s. More to the point, you had to have the time and the desire to read, and most deportees, obviously, did not. 1ou had to be in a sli&htly privile&ed situation. * was luc(y enou&h to be on ni&ht duty every three or four wee(s, where * was able to read because there wasn2t much wor(. .o * mana&ed to read Faul(ner. * remember it well, because * wanted to be a writer but * was in the camp and had ust turned twentyone, so * didn2t (now when *2d be able to be&in writin&. Iut there * said to myself, that2s how you should write, li(e Absalom. Absalom; That is why, * suspect, my writin& style can seem at times a little complicated%some mi&ht say overwrou&ht%compared to traditional, linear French writin&. *t2s Faul(ner2s influence. *NT@GH*@0@G *n Literature or Li$e, you say you read .chellin&, 9e&el, and Niet>sche at Iuchenwald as well. .@M5GTN * was &iven a volume from the collected wor(s of .chellin&, about human liberty, by a 7erman !ehovah2s witness. *t affected me, because * had already read it in French, in a Marxist translation. *t is written in an idealistic, metaphysical lan&ua&e, but there are words about freedom, about &ood and evil that are deep and troublin&. And also about the individual2s efforts to survive the tyranny of the crowd. *NT@GH*@0@G 6o you spend a lot of time readin& now+ .@M5GTN Not enou&h. * prefer to read history boo(s, essays, boo(s about economy or philosophy rather than novels. *t is so much easier to chance upon a &reat essay than a &reat novel. 0hen * read essays, *2m hopin& to find somethin& that will reveal certain elemental particles to me, unveil thin&s as yet unseen. * see( out novels that will (eep the world alive for me, but * have less and less faith in findin& such novels. * am appalled in particular by French novels4 petty, pathetically sub ective, navel-&a>in&, e&otistical stories written around an insi&nificant adolescent or senescent experience but never, or rarely, in touch with reality. *n the An&lo-.axon novel there is much more contact with the political, the concreteness of the world, so to spea(. 0hen a novel accomplishes that, it is worth more than a philosophical treatise or a historical essay, because the form of the novel is infinitely supple and flexible and can express more varie&ated aspects of reality, usin& characters, speech, and style. *NT@GH*@0@G

*n the past you described yourself as a )stateless bilin&ual, writer. 1ou have written most of your boo(s in French, and three boo(s in .panish. 0hat is it that prompted you to write your latest boo( in .panish a&ain+ .@M5GTN * wrote the first two .panish boo(s, the Federico .Pnche> boo(s, for historical, practical reasons. * wrote them about the .panish political experience, primarily for my .panish readers, since the sub ect would interest other readers only episodically. The French translation of The Autobio&raphy o$ Federico S8nche3 sold fifteen thousand copies, whereas in .pain hundreds of thousands of copies have now been sold. As for Veinte a6os y un d7a, it2s apples and oran&es4 * had already published many boo(s in French and was thus in a rather bi>arre situation in .pain, where * am considered a .panish writer who writes in FrenchK The whole thin& is either comic, tra&ic, or ust plain silly, dependin& on your point of view, since technically * am a .panish writer whose wor(s are translated into .panish. *NT@GH*@0@G 6o you chec( the translations for accuracy+ .@M5GTN * read them, but it2s difficult. The .panish translation of Literature or Li$e is very &ood. Iut * (now * would not have written it li(e that in .panish. * proofread them, * ma(e sure there are no heinous mista(es or mistranslations, but * can2t correct for style, and the translations are not in my style. * do not write in .panish the way * do in French. * would use other words. .o it2s always painful to loo( at translations. Jnce * was tal(in& with the Mexican writer 8arlos Fuentes, after The Lon& Voya&e was published in French. 9e as(ed me if * had done the .panish translation myself, and * explained that * hadn2t because it would have felt strained, and ;uite insane in a sense, li(e writin& the same boo( twice. 9e immediately replied, =isten, you are wron&. 1ou write The Lon& Voya&e, and when you translate it into .panish it will be a different boo(. Then you translate it bac( into French, and it2s an entirely different boo( all over a&ain. 1ou2ll spend your entire life on the same boo(%that2s the ideal life for a writerK Jne boo( lastin& a lifetime, yet different each and every time. 9e was ri&ht, in a way. *NT@GH*@0@G 6oes one lan&ua&e affect the other+ .@M5GTN * thin( so. *t isn2t for me to ud&e, but * thin( there is a cross-pollination, a contamination, an enrichment, not necessarily of the lexicon but of the lin&uistic form. This is because .panish is a richer, more flexible, and less systematic lan&ua&e than French. And * suppose my French is a touch more baro;ue than contemporary French. *NT@GH*@0@G

And conversely, does French at times influence your .panish+ .@M5GTN 1es, because .panish is an ornate, splendid lan&ua&e with extraordinary variety, but it is also a dan&erous lan&ua&e. *f you don2t master it, .panish ;uic(ly becomes a cra>y, ;uixotic lan&ua&e, it &ets ahead of itself, sounds shamelessly &randilo;uent, turns into a divine voice, the very voice of 7od. *t is ideal for oratin&, definin& &ood and evil, dividin& worlds. All you have to do is compare French and .panish political speeches to see what *2m tal(in& about. .o * feel that my French reins in my .panish. *NT@GH*@0@G 1our wor( contains fre;uent di&ressions, and you often rewrite certain sentences to remind the reader that you are reformulatin& a previous thou&ht or abandonin& it in order to say somethin& else. 0hy do you do this+ .@M5GTN * cannot write any other way. *t would feel false to write my memoirs in chronolo&ical order. 1ou (now4 * was born in Madrid in 6ecember of 1/":, on Alberto =ista .treet, which is now called !os< Jrte&a y 7asset. That is a reconstruction of an event at which * was not present%a completely artificial action. *t would be more natural to spea( of my birth in the middle of a passa&e that has nothin& to do with it, to insert it as a di&ression and tell the story within the story. *f * am tellin& a story to a &roup of friends at the 8af< de Flore, where every .unday mornin& we meet for brea(fast, that is how * would do it. * would try to spea( succinctly, * &uess, but in the end * cannot tell the story any other way. *NT@GH*@0@G 6o you ever worry that this techni;ue mi&ht excessively complicate, even obscure, your writin&+ .@M5GTN 0hen * write, * try on the one hand to be as complicated as possible, insofar as * perceive life as complication, and on the other hand, to be as limpid as possible, since clearly * will have no readers if * am not understood. *NT@GH*@0@G And yet in Veinte a6os y un d7a, which tells the story of a country under Francoist fascism still sufferin& from the le&acy of the .panish 8ivil 0ar, you don2t use any of these techni;ues. .@M5GTN There is a limit4 there are novels whose structure is so arbitrary that they seem to be sneerin& at the reader. The reader needs a master2s de&ree in narratolo&y to be able to read them. *n my case, there is the ris( that, since my storytellin& style is )natural,, it could also become a tic, which worries me a &reat

deal. Iut * am unable to use a different narrative style because then * would feel * was no lon&er myself. At the same time, * am constantly ad ustin&, with &limpses of clarity and strai&htforward narration, so that we are not completely lost. *n my upcomin& boo(s * am tryin& to blend passa&es of reflection with events of personal si&nificance, adventures, and memories, framed for once in a linear chronolo&y. *NT@GH*@0@G 0hat themes dominate your writin&, and your ima&ination, these days+ .@M5GTN 0hat was the Gesistance2s ethic in the camps+ .hould we have used to our political advanta&e the responsibilities the .. dele&ated to the deportees when they allowed us to administer the camp at Iuchenwald+ This is a fundamental moral ;uestion. The chief of the .. wor( unit orders the Kapo of the prisoner command, The day after tomorrow, Thursday, at six o2cloc(, * need three thousand men assembled in the yard to be sent to 6ora. The Kapo consults with me, and * (now that 6ora is a harsher camp, where these men will li(ely die%so what do * do+ .hould * answer, No, * do not want to select three thousand men, they are all my comrades, * cannot choose+ The idiot who says this is shot on the spot, and there will still be three thousand men chosen the followin& mornin& at six o2cloc(. The choice is not between three thousand prisoners and no prisoners at all. The choice is as follows4 either the .. will ma(e the selection or we will do it in their place, thereby usin& the process to save some prisoners. 0e will ma(e up a list of three thousand men who are already dyin&, who are ;uarantined, or who have not yet been assi&ned to obs. And we will confer secretly with the national or&ani>ations in the camp, as(in& them if there is anyone on this list we should save. Iut years later * &ot these hate letters sayin&, 1ou collaborated, you are a war criminalK *NT@GH*@0@G *n France you have been publicly accused of havin& spared the lives of your 8ommunist 5arty comrades over the lives of others. .@M5GTN 6o we have the ri&ht to ma(e a choice in those circumstances+ 8an we apply an ethic to the Gesistance that we don2t apply to everyday ethics+ 0hat is considered moral in this context+ 0hat is moral is that we were re;uired to save those who were closest to the ethic of the Gesistance, meanin& the heads of the networ(s, the ones wor(in& in transport, and so on. 1ou as( what haunts my writin&. 0ell, after the camp, there was the moral ;uestion of bein& a 8ommunist. Tryin& to explain the folly and the necessity of that choice. Tryin& to show how it came to be my raison d2Wtre, and why this dead star hovered for so lon& above the previous century. 9ere are my obsessions, in no particular order4 torture, the camps, the !ewish experience durin& the 9olocaust, the sin&ularity of that experience in the lar&er context of deportation. *t is not easy to reflect on these issues today. 9istorically, the most si&nificant pitfall has been the most dan&erous%silence, the refusal to tal( about what happened.

*NT@GH*@0@G The Gesistance was a vast movement, made up of many factions. *s it possible to tal( about a shared experience amon& those who too( part in it+ .@M5GTN 1es, and that experience is torture. .ometimes * find myself at a dinner with old men wearin& their military decorations%not that they2re much older than * am, but * still thin( of them as old men, decorated, noble%and in the middle of the conversation, we find out that of the five of us, three were in the GesistanceK Jne was a leftist and one was more from the ri&ht, the third was a teacher or the head of some administrative council, but what all three of us had in common was the experience of bein& tortured. The shared experience of the !ewish and the 7ypsy communities was selection. They were not tortured, they were arrested en masse and sent directly to the death camps. .o the experience of selection for the crime of merely bein& born, that belon&s to the !ews and to the 7ypsies%and also the experience of bein& deported collectively, entire families, entire @astern @uropean villa&es, entire nei&hborhoods from 5aris. These people arrived at the camps in 5oland already (nowin& each other, and to their left and to their ri&ht stood the henchmen of the .., the an&els of death, who would say, 1ou% this way. 1ou%that way. And who is bein& sent to die+ *t is not simply a friend, a comrade, it is a mother, a brother, a child. Jnly the !ews and 7ypsies experienced that. The members of the Gesistance were arrested separately and their experiences were essentially solitary. *NT@GH*@0@G 1ou were expelled from the 8ommunist 5arty in 1/ES. 0ould you now call yourself an anticommunist+ .@M5GTN No, * wouldn2t &o that far. * would say * have become a stran&er to communism. * suppose * am anticommunist in the theoretical critici>in& of communism as a solution to socioeconomic issues, but not militantly anticommunist. 8learly the fi&ht a&ainst dictatorship was ustified, in spite of whatever tactical errors we in the Gesistance may have committed. Iut what%and who%would ta(e over in its place+ This is where * be&an to en&a&e in the discussion, examinin& the &aps between the monolithic, seamless visions we had built for ourselves and the reality of our situation%the fadin&, tarnished ima&e of a .pain that was not at all as we had ima&ined it. Then there were all the events ta(in& place in the 3..G, the Twentieth 8on&ress, the so-called secret report by Khrushchev, a whole series of thin&s that undermined our fiercest hopes. .o the day came when that contradiction became intolerable, when * refused to perform self-censorship and was thus definitively expelled from the 8ommunist 5arty. * would put it this way4 * didn2t choose to become a writer, but * did choose to ;uit bein& a man of action. And that opened up the possibility of becomin& a writer. *NT@GH*@0@G

6o you thin( you would have mana&ed to survive bein& expelled had you not be&un writin&+ .@M5GTN No, not at all. * am sure * would have disinte&rated emotionally. *NT@GH*@0@G The boo( you2re wor(in& on now, )@xercice de survie,, is made up of memoir as well as reflections on memory. *s this a response to your critics who ob ected to your addin& fiction to your memoirs of the camps+ 8laude =an>mann went so far as to ar&ue that the use of fictional detail renders the narrative of the deportee entirely counterfeit. .@M5GTN * thin( it is very difficult to enter into a discussion with 8laude =an>mann. Jnce he said, All .emprQn does is literatureK Shoah is indeed a remar(able film, but he would li(e us to believe that it is not a film composed partly of fiction+ The disturbin& truth, the &reat paradox of the &as chambers, is that it left no survivin& witnesses. And that chan&es everythin&. All the other massacres of history have left a few survivors who could serve as witnesses. Iut no one survived the &as chamber. 0e have never been inside the &as chamber, because had we been there, we would be dead. There are a few cases where someone was pulled out at the last minute, but then that person did not experience the &as chamber, ust the entrance into the chamber. 0e only have the testimony of those who ran the &as chambers and dra&&ed out the bodies of the dead. .o in a sense, =an>mann2s film is also fictional. *t ta(es place years later, and people are tellin& their stories with the measure of artifice it necessarily entails. * find this approximation both artistic and fascinatin&, but it is a strict reconstruction of the truth. *NT@GH*@0@G Iut that poses the problem of &enre, obviously. Literature or Li$e is a memoir that detours occasionally into novelistic territory. 6o you consider it an authentic memoir+ .@M5GTN 1es. *NT@GH*@0@G 0as the ;uestion of &enre%of fact versus fiction and how it should be labeled%relevant in your mind at the time you were writin& the boo(+ .@M5GTN Jf course, and * would say * tried even harder with Literature or Li$e to step away from the traditional &enres%my boo(s are &enerally both memoirs and novels, both fiction and first-hand testimony. My aim was to create a synthesis of the two &enres. This is what spea(s to me, this synthesis that cannot be

defined accordin& to the rules of traditional literary criticism. Iut in Literature or Li$e * pushed the hybrid form much farther. 0hen * was wor(in& on the most painful parts of the autobio&raphical narrative, the ones * had postponed for so lon&, * forced myself to be as strin&ent as possible, to be absolutely faithful to the historical truth. * did not want to romantici>e any of the details, or to distract the reader with dramatic turns of event or artificial moments of narrative tension. .o * decided to use my ima&ination only when it felt necessary in order to produce a more lucid ima&e of my overall experience of the camp. *NT@GH*@0@G *n your boo(s you discuss the paradoxical nature of pleasure as somethin& that mi&ht have reconnected you to life after the camp but which in fact drew you bac( to the memory of death. .@M5GTN 1es, pleasure was, in reality, the complete opposite of oblivion. * could see the shadow of Iuchenwald in the &a>e of the &irls who loo(ed at me after *2d left the camp. And so to me pleasure became, to put it bluntly, a reminder of the life * had stolen from others. The sheer &uilt of bein& in the world, of havin& survived the collective hell of the camp. *NT@GH*@0@G 6o you feel more at peace today, more than fifty years and fifteen boo(s later+ .@M5GTN =iterature has played a dual and contradictory role in my life. The act of writin& appeases one2s memories and eases the act of for&ettin&. 0hen * write, * ma(e my memories tan&ible, and in this way * can &et rid of them. Jn the other hand, writin& is but a ploy to convulse memory bac( into life. And the more * write, the more my memories return to inhabit me. For a lon& time * only dreamt stran&e, penetratin& ni&htmares, whereas now * no lon&er have ni&htmares at all. =iterature has appeased my anxieties. The memories are there, but they remain ;uiescent. .ome of them, the difficult moments, the free>in& cold, the hun&er, the horror of death%* am &oin& to say somethin& rather brutal here%have become nearly fictional in my eyes, as if * had invented them in order to write about them, as if they had never actually happened to me. Iut then *2ve come to reali>e that this process of dred&in& up old memories never ends. 9ere2s an idea that presents itself, clearly and concretely, in my boo( =uel beau dimanche; when * tell the story of a do& stew we made and ate in the camp. Iut * could write a whole boo( about ust that one memory, about people2s reaction to the stew, the 8>ech who says, No, * will not touch it, and another man who says, No, it is ust theidea of the do& that revolts you, and so on. There are so many episodes li(e that, which remain so vivid in my mind. 9ence literature, in the end, has caused me new anxieties as well, because the idea that * may still have thin&s to say and not have the time in which to say them is terribly unsettlin&. Iut that2s how it is. *NT@GH*@0@G

*n Le *ort 9uil $aut, there is an extraordinary instant when all of a sudden this other voice comes echoin& out of you, spoutin& poetry. *s that somethin& that really happened to you in the camp+ .@M5GTN Absolutely. That is not fiction. *n a concentration camp you2re not really afraid of loo(in& cra>y by tal(in& to yourself, since everyone there has somethin& or other affectin& them. 0hisperin& poetry to yourself or recitin& it out loud lends you a sort of solitude, allows you to ima&ine for an instant that you belon& to yourself a&ain. *t2s li(e therapy. *n fact, the richer and more complex the poetry, the more effective. 1ou2re in the middle of the communal bathroom, bein& shoved by people tryin& to &et to the water basin. That2s a discipline you must (eep up, because if you don2t wash, you let &o of yourself and be&in loo(in& li(e a tramp. .o everyone is pushin& to &et to the &iant sin(s where the water is runnin&, and in the middle of that formidable stench, those inhumanly foul odors, you are sayin&, )8alm, calm, stay calmK Feel the wei&ht of a palm,%you are recitin& 5aul Hal<ry and suddenly you are alone, autonomous, private. Jf course thirty seconds later somebody (nees you in the le& and you2re ri&ht bac( in that roilin& mass of people, but for that one second you2ve mana&ed to escape. 1ou went deep inside yourself to find stren&th, and you alone (now that it too( incredible resourcefulness to be anythin& but yourself. *NT@GH*@0@G 6id you learn a lot of poetry by heart in your youth+ .@M5GTN * am from the time when students were tau&ht to do that. Gecitin& poetry is a peda&o&ical instrument. *t certainly had its wretched aspects%it is mechanical, repetitive. Iut on the other hand, you do have permanent access to your own private antholo&y. *NT@GH*@0@G 1ou use a line by Andr< Malraux as an epi&raph to Literature or Li$e4 )The crucial re&ion of the soul where absolute @vil and fraternity clash., This clash seems to be a recurrin& idea in your wor(. .@M5GTN 1es, perhaps. The only problem is that we would need our own 6ostoyevs(y to shed li&ht on that matter, absolute evil. The force that shaped the twentieth century. *NT@GH*@0@G 6o you fear that you have not succeeded in depictin& absolute evil in your wor(+ .@M5GTN

* thin( * have helped people see that it is a fundamental theme of our era. Iut * have not been able to articulate it in my novels. At least not yet, and * don2t (now that * ever will. 5erhaps in bursts, in the corners of some of my anecdotes, my adventures, my tales. Man2s liberty resides in his freedom to do &ood as well as evil. *n the camps, which ;uite literally collected and concentrated souls, it was all the more stri(in&. * saw men who would turn a comrade in to the .. ust to obtain a few supplementary morsels of bread and live a few days lon&er. Iut * also saw men who shared their bread with a comrade, even thou&h that meant they would lose days of their own lives. * prefer spea(in& of the man who shares his bread, but we can also spea( of the others. And we can spea( about how men of hi&her social ran( were capable of committin& horrendous acts in order to survive, while at times men of modest ori&ins were capable of heroic acts of self-sacrifice. The privile&es of class and education were thorou&hly shattered in the face of the conditions at the camps. And humanity lay revealed, completely bare, terrifyin&, eerily beautiful. *NT@GH*@0@G At ei&hty-three years of a&e, you seem astonishin&ly youn&. 9ave you any idea why+ .@M5GTN * am not blas<, that much * (now. * find somethin& or someone new every day, or perhaps at my a&e every wee(. Jne must revel in the effort, of course% (eep ma(in& choices, lust after life. *NT@GH*@0@G Are there any literary forms you haven2t yet tried that you wish to pursue+ .@M5GTN * once thou&ht of writin& futuristic boo(s, science fiction that would be based on the anticipation of political events in the distant future. Iut *2m not sure * can do it. * always tiptoe bac( to memory. %Translated $rom French by Sara Su&ihara Iernard Malamud, The Art of Fiction No. ?" *nterviewed by 6aniel .tern Iernard Malamud lives in a white clapboard house in Iennin&ton, Hermont. .pacious and comfortable, it sits on a &entle downward slope, behind it the rise of the 7reen Mountains. To this house on April "E, 1/$S, came friends, family, collea&ues, and the children of friends to celebrate Malamud2s sixtieth birthday. *t was a sunny wee(end, the weather and ambience beni&n, friendly. There were about a half-do>en youn& people ta(in& their rest in sleepin& ba&s in various bedrooms and in a home volunteered by a friend and nei&hbor. Three of them, from nearby universities, were children of friends who were on the faculty of Jre&on .tate 3niversity more than a do>en years a&o.

Jn .aturday ni&ht there was a birthday party, with champa&ne, birthday ca(e, and dancin&. At the end of the evenin& the youn& people drummed up a show of slides4 scenes of past travels' in particular, scenes of 8orvallis, Jre&on, where Malamud had lived and tau&ht for twelve years before returnin& @ast. Iernard Malamud is a slender man with a &rayin& mustache and in;uisitive brown eyes that search and hide a little at the same time. 9e is a ;uiet man who listens a lot and responds freely. 9is wife, Ann, an attractive, articulate woman of *talian descent, had planned the party, assisted by the youn& people from Jre&on and the Malamuds2 son, 5aul, and dau&hter, !anna. The tapin& of the interview be&an late Friday mornin&, on the bac( porch, which overloo(s a lon&, descendin& sweep of lawn and, in the distance, the encirclin& mountains. *t was continued later in the boo(-filled study where Malamud writes. B9e also writes in his office at Iennin&ton 8olle&e.C At first he was conscious of the tape recorder, but &rew less so as the session%and the wee(end%continued. 9e has a ;uic( lau&h and found it easy to discourse on the ;uestions as(ed. An ironic humor would seem to be his mother ton&ue.

*NT@GH*@0@G 0hy sixty+ * understand that when the 5aris Geview as(ed you to do an interview after the publication of The Fixer, you su&&ested doin& it when you hit sixty+ I@GNAG6 MA=AM36 Gi&ht. *t2s a respectable round number, and when it becomes your a&e you loo( at it with both eyes. *t2s a &ood time to see from. *n the past * sometimes resisted interviews because * had no desire to tal( about myself in relation to my fiction. There are people who always want to ma(e you a character in your stories and want you to confirm it. Jf course there2s some truth to it4 @very character you invent ta(es his essence from you' therefore you2re in them as Flaubert was in @mma%but, peace to him, you are not those you ima&ine. They are your fictions. And * don2t li(e ;uestions of explication4 0hat did * mean by this or that+ * want the boo(s to spea( for themselves. 1ou can read+ All ri&ht, tell me what my boo(s mean. Astonish me. *NT@GH*@0@G 0hat about a little personal history+ There2s been little written about your life. MA=AM36 That2s how * wanted it%* li(e privacy, and as much as possible to stay out of my boo(s. * (now that2s disadvanta&eous to certain le&itimate (inds of criticism of literature, but my needs come first. .till, * have here and there tal(ed a little about my life4 My father was a &rocer' my mother, who helped him, after a lon& illness, died youn&. * had a youn&er brother who lived a hard and lonely life and died in his fifties. My mother and father were &entle, honest, (indly people, and who they were and their affection

for me to some de&ree made up for the cultural deprivation * felt as a child. They weren2t educated, but their values were stable. Thou&h my father always mana&ed to ma(e a livin&, they were comparatively poor, especially in the 6epression, and yet * never heard a word in praise of the buc(. Jn the other hand, there were no boo(s that * remember in the house, no records, music, pictures on the wall. Jn .undays * listened to somebody2s piano throu&h the window. At nine * cau&ht pneumonia, and when * was convalescin& my father bou&ht me The Ioo( of Knowled&e, twenty volumes where there had been none. That was, considerin& the circumstances, an act of &reat &enerosity. 0hen * was in hi&h school he bou&ht a radio. As a (id, for entertainment * turned to the movies and dime novels. Maybe The Natural derives from Fran( Merriwell as well as the adventures of the Iroo(lyn 6od&ers in @bbets Field. Anyway, my parents stayed close to the store. Jnce in a while, on !ewish holidays, we went visitin&, or saw a !ewish play%.holem Aleichem, 5eret>, and others. My mother2s brother, 8harles Fidelman, and their cousin, *sidore 8ashier, were in the 1iddish theatre. Around the nei&hborhood the (ids played 8hase the 0hite 9orse, Gin&olevio, Iuc(-Iuc(, punchball, and one o2cat. Jccasionally we stole tomatoes from the *talian dirt farmers, &ypped the @l to ride to 8oney *sland, smo(ed in cellars, and played blac( ac(. * wore snea(ers every summer. My education at home derived mostly from the presence and example of &ood, feelin&ful, hard-wor(in& people. They were worriers, with other faults * wasn2t much conscious of until * reco&ni>ed them in myself. * learned from boo(s, in the public schools. * had some fine teachers in &rammar school, @rasmus 9all 9i&h .chool, and later at 8ity 8olle&e, in New 1or(. * too( to literature and early wanted to be a writer. *NT@GH*@0@G 9ow early+ MA=AM36 At ei&ht or nine * was writin& little stories in school and feelin& the &low. To anyone of my friends who2d listen *2d recapitulate at tedious len&th the story of the last movie *2d seen. The movies tic(led my ima&ination. As a writer * learned from 8harlie 8haplin. *NT@GH*@0@G 0hat in particular+ MA=AM36 =et2s say the rhythm, the snap of comedy' the reserved comic presence%that beautiful distancin&' the funny with sad' the surprise of surprise. *NT@GH*@0@G 5lease &o on about your life. MA=AM36

.chools meant a lot to me, those * went to and tau&ht at. 1ou learn what you teach and you learn from those you teach. *n 1/S" * met my wife, and we were married in 1/S?. 0e have two children and have lived in Jre&on, Gome, Iennin&ton, 8ambrid&e, =ondon, New 1or(, and have traveled a fair amount. *n sum, once * was twenty and not so youn&, now *2m sixty inclined on the youn& side. *NT@GH*@0@G 0hich means+ MA=AM36 =ar&ely, the life of ima&ination, and doin& pretty much what * set out to do. * made my mista(es, too( my lumps, learned. * resisted my i&norance, limitations, obsessions. *2m freer than * was. *2d rather write it than tal(. * love the privile&es of form. *NT@GH*@0@G 1ou2ve tau&ht durin& the time you were a professional writer+ MA=AM36 Thirty-five years% *NT@GH*@0@G There are some who say teachin& doesn2t do the writer much &ood' in fact it restricts life and homo&eni>es experience. *sn2t a writer better off on the staff of The New 1or(er, or wor(in& for the II8+ Faul(ner fed a furnace and wrote for the movies. MA=AM36 6oesn2t it depend on the writer+ 5eople experience similar thin&s differently. .ometimes *2ve re&retted the time *2ve &iven to teachin&, but not teachin& itself. And a community of serious readers is a miraculous thin&. .ome of the most extraordinary people *2ve met were students of mine, or collea&ues. .till, * ou&ht to say * teach only a sin&le class of prose fiction, one term a year. *2ve tau&ht since * was twenty-five, and thou&h * need more time for readin& and writin&, * also want to (eep on doin& what * can do well and en oy doin&. *NT@GH*@0@G 6o you teach literature+ MA=AM36

*f you teach prose fiction, you are teachin& literature. 1ou teach those who want to write to read fiction, even their own wor(, with &reater understandin&. .ometimes they2re surprised to find out how much they2ve said or not said that they didn2t (now they had. *NT@GH*@0@G 8an one, indeed, teach writin&+ MA=AM36 1ou teach writers%assumin& a talent. At the be&innin& youn& writers pour it out without much (nowin& the nature of their talent. 0hat you try to do is hold a mirror up to their fiction so, in a sense, they can see what they2re showin&. Not all who come forth are fully armed. .ome are &ifted in narrative, some shun it. .ome show a richness of metaphor, some have to di& for it. .ome writers thin( lan&ua&e is all they need' they mista(e it for sub ect matter. .ome rely on whimsy. .ome on &ut feelin&. .ome of them don2t ma(e the effort to create a si&nificant form. They do automatic writin& and thin( they2re probin& themselves. The odd thin& is, most youn& writers write traditional narrative until you introduce them to the experimental writers%not for experiment2s sa(e, but to try somethin& for si>e. =et the writer attempt whatever he can. There2s no tellin& where he will come out stron&er than before. Art is in life, but the realm is endless. *NT@GH*@0@G @xperiment at the be&innin&+ MA=AM36 .ometimes a new techni;ue excites a flood of fictional ideas. .ome, after experimentin&, reali>e their stren&th is in traditional modes. .ome, after tryin& several thin&s, may &ive up the thou&ht of writin& fiction%not a bad thin&. 0ritin&%the problems, the commitment, the effort, scares them. .ome may decide to try poetry or criticism. .ome turn to paintin&%why not+ * have no (ic( a&ainst those who use writin&, or another art, to test themselves, to find themselves. .ometimes * have to tell them their talents are thin%not to waste their lives writin& third-rate fiction. *NT@GH*@0@G Fidelman as a painter+ The doubtful talent+ MA=AM36 1es. Amon& other thin&s, it is a boo( about findin& a vocation. For&ive the soft impeachment. *NT@GH*@0@G *n 5ictures of Fidelman and The Tenants you deal with artists who can2t produce, or produce badly. 0hy does the sub ect interest you so much+ 9ave you ever been bloc(ed+

MA=AM36 Never. @ven in anxiety *2ve written, thou&h anxiety, because it is monochromatic, may limit effects. * li(e the drama of nonproductivity, especially where there may be talent. *t2s an interestin& ambi&uity4 the force of the creative versus the paralysis caused by the insults, the confusions of life. *NT@GH*@0@G 0hat about wor( habits+ .ome writers, especially at the be&innin&, have problems settlin& how to do it. MA=AM36 There2s no one way%there2s so much drivel about this sub ect. 1ou2re who you are, not Fit>&erald or Thomas 0olfe. 1ou write by sittin& down and writin&. There2s no particular time or place%you suit yourself, your nature. 9ow one wor(s, assumin& he2s disciplined, doesn2t matter. *f he or she is not disciplined, no sympathetic ma&ic will help. The tric( is to ma(e time%not steal it%and produce the fiction. *f the stories come, you &et them written, you2re on the ri&ht trac(. @ventually everyone learns his or her own best way. The real mystery to crac( is you. *NT@GH*@0@G 0hat about the number of drafts+ .ome writers write only one. MA=AM36 They2re cheatin& themselves. First drafts are for learnin& what your novel or story is about. Gevision is wor(in& with that (nowled&e to enlar&e and enhance an idea, to re-form it. 6. 9. =awrence, for instance, did seven or ei&ht drafts of The Gainbow. The first draft of a boo( is the most uncertain% where you need &uts, the ability to accept the imperfect until it is better. Gevision is one of the true pleasures of writin&. )The men and thin&s of today are wont to lie fairer and truer in tomorrow2s memory,, Thoreau said. *NT@GH*@0@G 6o you teach your own writin&+ MA=AM36 No, * teach what * (now about writin&. *NT@GH*@0@G 0hat specific piece of advice would you &ive to youn& writers+ MA=AM36

0rite your heart out. *NT@GH*@0@G Anythin& else+ MA=AM36 0atch out for self-deceit in fiction. 0rite truthfully but with cunnin&. *NT@GH*@0@G Anythin& special to more experienced types+ MA=AM36 To any writer4 Teach yourself to wor( in uncertainty. Many writers are anxious when they be&in, or try somethin& new. @ven Matisse painted some of his Fauvist pictures in anxiety. Maybe that helped him to simplify. 8haracter, discipline, ne&ative capability count. 0rite, complete, revise. *f it doesn2t wor(, be&in somethin& else. *NT@GH*@0@G And if it doesn2t wor( twenty or thirty times+ MA=AM36 1ou live your life as best you can. *NT@GH*@0@G *2ve heard you tal( about the importance of sub ect matter+ MA=AM36 *t2s always a problem. Hery youn& writers who don2t (now themselves obviously often don2t (now what they have to say. .ometimes by stayin& with it they write themselves into a fairly rich vein. .ome, by the time they find what they2re capable of writin& about, no lon&er want to write. .ome &o throu&h psychoanalysis or a ob in a paint factory and be&in to write a&ain. Jne hopes they then have somethin& worth sayin&. Nothin& is &uaranteed. .ome writers have problems with sub ect matter not in their first boo(, which may mine childhood experience, or an obsession, or fantasy, or the story they2ve carried in their minds and ima&ination to this point, but after that%after this first yield%often they run into trouble with their next few boo(s. @specially if the first boo( is unfortunately a best seller. And some writers run into difficulties at the end, particularly if they exclude important areas of personal experience from their writin&. 9emin&way would not touch his family beyond &limpses in short stories, mostly the

Nic( Adams pieces. 9e once wrote his brother that their mother was a bitch and father a suicide%who2d want to read about them+ Jbviously not all his experience is available to a writer for purposes of fiction, but * feel that if 9emin&way had tried durin& his last five years, let2s say, to write about his father rather than the bulls once more, or the bi& fish, he mi&htn2t have committed suicide. Mailer, after The Na(ed and the 6ead, ran into trouble he couldn2t resolve until he invented his mirror ima&e4 A;uarius, prisoner of .ex, doppel&Xn&er, without whom he can2t write. After he had invented )Norman Mailer, he produced The Armies of the Ni&ht, a beautiful feat of prestidi&itation, if not fiction. 9e has still to write, Gichard 5oirier says, his Moby 6ic(. To write a &ood bi& novel he will have to invent other selves, richly felt selves. Goth, since 5ortnoy, has been huntin& for a fruitful sub ect. 9e2s tried various strate&ies to defeat the obsession of the hated wife he almost never ceases to write about. 9e2ll have at last to bury her to come up with a new comedy. *NT@GH*@0@G 0hat about yourself+ MA=AM36 * say the same thin& in different worlds. *NT@GH*@0@G Anythin& else to say to writers%basic stuff+ MA=AM36 Ta(e chances. )6are to do,, @udora 0elty says. .he2s ri&ht. Jne dra&s around a ba& of fears he has to throw to the winds every so often if he expects to ta(e off in his writin&. *2m &lad Hir&inia 0oolf did Jrlando, thou&h it isn2t my favorite of her boo(s, and in essence she was avoidin& a sub ect. .till, you don2t have to tell everythin& you (now. * li(e 3pdi(e2s 8entaur, Iellow2s 9enderson. 7enius, after it has &ot itself to&ether, may &ive out with a 3lysses or Gemembrance of Thin&s 5ast. Jne doesn2t have to imitate the devices of !oyce or 5roust, but if you2re not a &enius, imitate the darin&. *f you are a &enius, assert yourself, in art and humanity. *NT@GH*@0@G 9umanity+ Are you su&&estin& art is moral+ MA=AM36 *t tends toward morality. *t values life. @ven when it doesn2t, it tends to. My former collea&ue, .tanley @d&ar 9yman, used to say that even the act of creatin& a form is a moral act. That leaves out somethin&, but * understand and li(e what he was drivin& at. *t2s close to Frost2s definition of a poem as )a momentary stay a&ainst confusion., Morality be&ins with an awareness of the sanctity of one2s life, hence the lives of others%even 9itler2s, to be&in with%the sheer privile&e of bein&, in this miraculous cosmos, and tryin& to fi&ure out why. Art, in essence, celebrates life and &ives us our measure.

*NT@GH*@0@G *t chan&es the world+ MA=AM36 *t chan&es me. *t affirms me. *NT@GH*@0@G Geally+ MA=AM36 Blau&hsC *t helps. *NT@GH*@0@G =et2s &et to your boo(s. *n The Natural, why the baseball-mytholo&y combination+ MA=AM36 Iaseball flat is baseball flat. * had to do somethin& else to enrich the sub ect. * love metaphor. *t provides two loaves where there seems to be one. .ometimes it throws in a load of fish. The mytholo&ical analo&y is a system of metaphor. *t enriches the vision without resortin& to monta&e. This &uy &ets up with his baseball bat and all at once he is, throu&h the a&es, a (ni&ht%somewhat battered% with a lance' not to mention a &uy with a blac( ac(, or someone attemptin& murder with a flower. 1ou relate to the past and predict the future. *2m not talented as a conceptual thin(er but * am in the uses of metaphor. The mytholo&ical and symbolic excite my ima&ination. *ncidentally, Keats said, )* am not a conceptual thin(er, * am a man of ideas., *NT@GH*@0@G *s The Assistant mytholo&ical+ MA=AM36 .ome, * understand, find it so. *NT@GH*@0@G 6id you set it up as a mytholo&y+ MA=AM36

No. *f it2s mytholo&ical to some readers * have no ob ection. 1ou read the boo( and write your tic(et. * can2t tell you how the words fall, thou&h * (now what * mean. 1our interpretation%pace .. .onta&% may enrich the boo( or denude it. All * as( is that it be consistent and ma(e sense. *NT@GH*@0@G *s it a moral alle&ory+ MA=AM36 1ou have to s;uee>e your brain to come up with that. The spirit is more than moral, and by the same to(en there2s more than morality in a &ood man. Jne must ma(e room in those he creates. .o far as ran&e is concerned, ultimately a writer2s mind and heart, if any, are revealed in his fiction. *NT@GH*@0@G 0hat is the source of The Assistant+ MA=AM36 .ource ;uestions are piddlin& but you2re my friend, so *2ll tell you. Mostly my father2s life as a &rocer, thou&h not necessarily my father. 5lus three short stories, sort of annealed in a sin&le narrative4 )The 8ost of =ivin&, and )The First .even 1ears,%both in The Ma&ic Iarrel. And a story * wrote in the forties, )The 5lace is 6ifferent Now,, which *2ve not included in my story collections. *NT@GH*@0@G *s The Fixer also related to your father2s life+ MA=AM36 *ndirectly. My father told me the Mendel Ieilis story when * was a (id. * carried it around almost forty years and decided to use it after * &ave up the idea of a .acco and Han>etti novel. 0hen * be&an to read for the .acco and Han>etti it had all the ;uality of a structured fiction, all the necessary elements of theme and narrative. * couldn2t see any way of re-formin& it. * was very much interested in the idea of prison as a source of the self2s freedom and thou&ht of 6reyfus next, but he was a dullish man, and thou&h he endured well he did not suffer well. Neither did Ieilis, for that matter, but his drama was more interestin&%his experiences' so * invented 1a(ov Io(, with perhaps the thou&ht of him as a potential Han>etti. Ieilis, incidentally, died a bitter man, in New 1or(%after leavin& 5alestine, because he thou&ht he hadn2t been ade;uately reimbursed for his sufferin&. *NT@GH*@0@G .ome critics have commented on this prison motif in your wor(. MA=AM36

5erhaps * use it as a metaphor for the dilemma of all men4 necessity, whose bars we loo( throu&h and try not to see. .ocial in ustice, apathy, i&norance. The personal prison of entrapment in past experience, &uilt, obsession%the somewhat blind or blinded self, in other words. A man has to construct, invent, his freedom. *ma&ination helps. A truly &reat man or woman extends it for others in the process of creatin& his or her own. *NT@GH*@0@G 6oes this idea or theme, as you call it, come out of your experience as a !ew+ MA=AM36 That2s probably in it%a hei&htened sense of prisoner of history, but there2s more to it than that. * conceive this as the ma or battle in life, to transcend the self%extend one2s realm of freedom. *NT@GH*@0@G Not all your characters do. MA=AM36 Jbviously. Iut they2re all more or less en&a&ed in the enterprise. *NT@GH*@0@G 9umor is so much a part of your wor(. *s this an easy ;uality to deal with+ *s one problem that the response to humor is so much a ;uestion of individual taste+ MA=AM36 The funny bone is universal. * doubt humorists thin( of individual taste when they2re enticin& the lau&h. 0ith me humor comes unexpectedly, usually in defense of a character, sometimes because * need cheerin& up. 0hen somethin& starts funny * can feel my ima&ination eatin& and runnin&. * love the distancin&%the &uise of invention%that humor &ives fiction. 8omedy, * ima&ine, is harder to do consistently than tra&edy, but * li(e it spiced in the wine of sadness. *NT@GH*@0@G 0hat about sufferin&+ *t2s a sub ect much in your early wor(. MA=AM36 *2m a&ainst it, but when it occurs, why waste the experience+ *NT@GH*@0@G

Are you a !ewish writer+ MA=AM36 0hat is the ;uestion as(in&+ *NT@GH*@0@G Jne hears various definitions and insistences, for instance, that one is primarily a writer and any sub ect matter is secondary' or that one is an American-!ewish writer. There are ;ualifications, by Iellow, Goth, others. MA=AM36 *2m an American, *2m a !ew, and * write for all men. A novelist has to, or he2s built himself a ca&e. * write about !ews, when * write about !ews, because they set my ima&ination &oin&. * (now somethin& about their history, the ;uality of their experience and belief, and of their literature, thou&h not as much as * would li(e. =i(e many writers *2m influenced especially by the Iible, both Testaments. * respond in particular to the @ast @uropean immi&rants of my father2s and mother2s &eneration' many of them were !ews of the 5ale as described by the classic 1iddish writers. And of course *2ve been deeply moved by the !ews of the concentration camps, and the refu&ees wanderin& from nowhere to nowhere. *2m concerned about *srael. Nevertheless, !ews li(e rabbis Kahane and Korff set my teeth on ed&e. .ometimes * ma(e characters !ewish because * thin( * will understand them better as people, not because * am out to prove anythin&. That2s a ;ualification. .till another is that * (now that, as a writer, *2ve been influenced by 9awthorne, !ames, Mar( Twain, 9emin&way, more than * have been by .holem Aleichem and *. =. 5eret>, whom * read with pleasure. Jf course * admire and have been moved by other writers, 6ostoyevs(y and 8he(hov, for instance, but the point *2m ma(in& is that * was born in America and respond, in American life, to more than !ewish experience. * wrote for those who read. *NT@GH*@0@G Thus .. =evin is !ewish and not much is made of it+ MA=AM36 9e was a &ent who interested me in a place that interested me. 9e was out to be educated. *NT@GH*@0@G Jccasionally * see a remar( to the effect that he has more than a spoonful of you in him. MA=AM36

.o have Goy 9obbs, 9elen Iober, 0illie .pearmint, and Tal(in& 9orse. More to the point%* prefer autobio&raphical essence to autobio&raphical history. @vents from life may creep into the narrative, but it isn2t necessarily my life history. *NT@GH*@0@G 9ow much of a boo( is set in your mind when you be&in+ 6o you be&in at the be&innin&+ 6oes its course ever chan&e mar(edly from what you had in the ori&inal concept+ MA=AM36 0hen * start * have a pretty well-developed idea what the boo( is about and how it ou&ht to &o, because &enerally *2ve been thin(in& about it and ma(in& notes for months, if not years. 7enerally * have the endin& in mind, usually the last para&raph almost verbatim. * be&in at the be&innin& and stay close to the trac(, if it is a trac( and not a whale path. *f it turns out *2m in the open sea, my compass is my narrative instinct, with an assist by that astrolabe, theme. The destination, wherever it is, is, as * said, already defined. *f * &o astray it2s not a lon& excursis, &ood for &ettin& to (now the ocean, if not the world. The ori&inal idea, altered but reco&ni>able, on the whole remains. *NT@GH*@0@G 6o characters ever run away from you and ta(e on identities you hadn2t expected+ MA=AM36 My characters run away, but not far. Their &uise is surprises. *NT@GH*@0@G =et2s &o to Fidelman. 1ou seem to li(e to write about painters. MA=AM36 * (now a few. * love paintin&. *NT@GH*@0@G Gembrandt and who else+ MA=AM36 Too many to name, but 8<>anne, Monet, and Matisse, very much, amon& modernists. *NT@GH*@0@G 8ha&all+

MA=AM36 Not that much. 9e rides his nostal&ic na& to death. *NT@GH*@0@G .ome have called you a 8ha&allean writer. MA=AM36 Their problem. * used 8ha&allean ima&ery intentionally in one story, )The Ma&ic Iarrel,, and that2s it. My ;uality is not much li(e his. *NT@GH*@0@G Fidelman first appears in )=ast Mohican,, a short story. 6id you already have in mind that there would be an extended wor( on him+ MA=AM36 After * wrote the story in Gome * otted down ideas for several incidents in the form of a picares;ue novel. * was out to loosen up%experiment a little%with narrative structure. And * wanted to see, if * wrote it at intervals%as * did from 1/?$ to 1/ED%whether the passin& of time and mores would influence his life. * did not thin( of the narrative as merely a series of related stories, because almost at once * had the structure of a novel in mind and each part had to fit that form. Gobert .choles in The .aturday Geview has best explained what * was up to in Fidelman. *NT@GH*@0@G 6id you use all the incidents you otted down+ MA=AM36 No. *NT@GH*@0@G 8an you &ive me an example of one you left out+ MA=AM36 1es, Fidelman administerin& to the dyin& Keats in Gome%doin& .evern2s ob, one of the few times in his life our boy is en&a&ed in a purely unselfish act, or acts. Iut * felt * had no need to predict a chan&e in him, especially in a sort of dream se;uence, so * dropped the idea. The paintin& element was to come in via some feverish watercolors of !ohn Keats, dyin&.

*NT@GH*@0@G Fidelman is characteri>ed by some critics as a schlemiel. MA=AM36 Not accurately. 5eter .chlemiel lost his shadow and suffered the conse;uences for all time. Not Fidelman. 9e does better. 9e escapes his worst fate. * disli(e the schlemiel characteri>ation as a taxonomical device. * said somewhere that it reduces to stereotypes people of complex motivations and fates. Jne can often behave li(e a schlemiel without bein& one. *NT@GH*@0@G 6o you read criticism of your wor(+ MA=AM36 0hen it hits me in the eye' even some reviews. *NT@GH*@0@G 6oes it affect you+ MA=AM36 .ome of it must. Not the crap, the self-servin& pieces, but an occasional insi&htful criticism, favorable or unfavorable, that confirms my ud&ment of my wor(. 0hile *2m on the sub ect, * disli(e particularly those critics who preach their aesthetic or ideolo&ical doctrines at you. 0hat2s important to them is not what the writer has done but how it fits, or doesn2t fit, the thesis they want to develop. Nobody can tell a writer what can or ou&ht to be done, or not done, in his fiction. A livin& death if you fall for it. *NT@GH*@0@G That narration, for instance, is dead or dyin&+ MA=AM36 *t2ll be dead when the penis is. *NT@GH*@0@G 0hat about the death of the novel+ MA=AM36

The novel could disappear, but it won2t die. *NT@GH*@0@G 9ow does that &o+ MA=AM36 *2m not sayin& it will disappear, ust entertainin& the idea. Assume it does' then someday a talented writer writes himself a lon&, heartfelt letter, and the form reappears. The human race needs the novel. 0e need all the experience we can &et. Those who say the novel is dead can2t write them. *NT@GH*@0@G 1ou2ve done two short stories and a novel about blac(s. 0here do you &et your material+ MA=AM36 @xperience and boo(s. * lived on the ed&e of a blac( nei&hborhood in Iroo(lyn when * was a boy. * played with blac(s in the Flatbush Ioys 8lub. * had a friend%Iuster' we used to &o to his house every so often. * swiped dimes so we could &o to the movies to&ether on a couple of .aturday afternoons. After * was married * tau&ht for a year in a blac( evenin& hi&h school in 9arlem. The short stories derive from that period. * also read blac( fiction and history. *NT@GH*@0@G 0hat set off The Tenants+ MA=AM36 !ews and blac(s, the period of the troubles in New 1or( 8ity' the teachers stri(e, the rise of blac( activism, the mix-up of cause and effect. * thou&ht *2d say a word. *NT@GH*@0@G 0hy the three endin&s+ MA=AM36 Iecause one wouldn2t do. *NT@GH*@0@G 0ill you predict how it will be between blac(s and !ews in the future+ MA=AM36

9ow can one+ All * (now is that American blac(s have been badly treated. 0e, as a society, have to redress the balance. Those who want for others must expect to &ive up somethin&. 0hat we &et in return is the affirmation of what we believe in. *NT@GH*@0@G 1ou &ive a sense in your fiction that you try not to repeat yourself. MA=AM36 7ood. *n my boo(s * &o alon& the same paths in different worlds. *NT@GH*@0@G 0hat2s the path%theme+ MA=AM36 6erived from one2s sense of values, it2s a vision of life, a feelin& for people%real ;ualities in ima&inary worlds. *NT@GH*@0@G 6o you li(e writin& short stories more than you do novels+ MA=AM36 !ust as much, thou&h the short story has its own pleasures. * li(e pac(in& a self or two into a few pa&es, predicatin& lifetimes. The drama is terse, happens faster, and is often outlandish. A short story is a way of indicatin& the complexity of life in a few pa&es, producin& the surprise and effect of a profound (nowled&e in a short time. There2s, amon& other thin&s, a drama, a resonance, of the reconciliation of opposites4 much to say, little time to say it, somethin& li(e the effect of a poem. *NT@GH*@0@G 1ou write them between novels+ MA=AM36 1es, to breathe, and &ive myself time to thin( what2s in the next boo(. .ometimes *2ll try out a character or situation similar to that in a new novel. *NT@GH*@0@G 9ow many drafts do you usually do of a novel+

MA=AM36 Many more than * call three. 3sually the last of the first puts it in place. The second focuses, develops, subtili>es. Iy the third most of the dross is &one. * wor( with lan&ua&e. * love the flowers of afterthou&ht. *NT@GH*@0@G 1our style has always seemed so individual, so reco&ni>able. *s this a natural &ift, or is it contrived and honed+ MA=AM36 My style flows from the fin&ers. The eye and ear approve or amend. *NT@GH*@0@G =et2s wind up. Are you optimistic about the future+ MA=AM36 My nature is optimistic but not the evidence%population misery, famine, politics of desperation, the proliferation of the atom bomb. My =ai, one minute after 9iroshima in history, was ordained. 0e2re &oin& throu&h lon&, involved transformations of world society, on&oin& upheavals of colonialism, old modes of distribution, mores, overthrowin& the slave mentality. 0ith luc( we may end up in a society with a lar&er share of the world2s &oods, opportunities for education, freedom &oin& to the presently underprivile&ed. 0ithout luc( there may be a vast economic redistribution without political freedom. *n the .oviet 3nion, as it is presently constituted, that2s meant the (iss of death to freedom in art and literature. * worry that democracy, which has protected us from this indi&nity, especially in the 3nited .tates, suffers from a terrifyin& inade;uacy of leadership, and the apathy, unima&inativeness, and hardcore selfishness of too many of us. * worry about technolo&y rampant. * fear those who are by nature beastly. *NT@GH*@0@G 0hat does one write novels about nowadays+ MA=AM36 0hatever wants to be written. *NT@GH*@0@G *s there somethin& * haven2t as(ed you that you mi&ht want to comment on+

MA=AM36 No. *NT@GH*@0@G For instance, what writin& has meant to you+ MA=AM36 *2d be too moved to say.

Author photo&raph by Nancy 8rampton Jctavio 5a>, The Art of 5oetry No. S" Interviewed by Al$red *ac Adam .hare on print5G*NTR.hare on twitterT0*TT@GR.hare on faceboo(FA8@IJJKRMJG@ .9AG*N7 .@GH*8@.MJG@RHiew a manuscript pa&e Thou&h small in stature and well into his seventies, Jctavio 5a>, with his piercin& eyes, &ives the impression of bein& a much youn&er man. *n his poetry and his prose wor(s, which are both erudite and intensely political, he recurrently ta(es up such themes as the experience of Mexican history, especially as seen throu&h its *ndian past, and the overcomin& of profound human loneliness throu&h erotic love. 5a> has lon& been considered, alon& with 8<sar Halle o and 5ablo Neruda, to be one of the &reat .outh American poets of the twentieth century' three days after this interview, which was conducted on 8olumbus 6ay 1//#, he oined Neruda amon& the ran(s of Nobel laureates in literature. 5a> was born in 1/1S in Mexico 8ity, the son of a lawyer and the &randson of a novelist. Ioth fi&ures were important to the development of the youn& poet4 he learned the value of social causes from his father, who served as counsel for the Mexican revolutionary @miliano Napata, and was introduced to the world of letters by his &randfather. As a boy, 5a> was allowed to roam freely throu&h his &randfather2s expansive library, an experience that afforded him invaluable exposure to .panish and =atin American literature. 9e studied literature at the 3niversity of Mexico, but moved on before earnin& a de&ree. At the outbrea( of the .panish 8ivil 0ar, 5a> sided immediately with the Gepublican cause and, in 1/:$, left for .pain. After his return to Mexicao, he helped found the literary reviews Taller B)0or(shop,C and +l "i>o 'r?di&o B)The 8hild 5rodi&y,C out of which a new &eneration of Mexican writers emer&ed. *n 1/S: 5a> traveled extensively in the 3nited .tates on a 7u&&enheim Fellowship before enterin& into the Mexican diplomatic service in 1/S?. From 1/SE until 1/?1, 5a> lived in 5aris. The writin&s of .artre, Ireton, 8amus, and other French thin(ers whom he met at that same time were to be an important influence on his own wor(. *n the early 1/?#s 5a>2s diplomatic duties too( him to !apan and *ndia, where he first came into contact with the Iuddhist and Taoist

classics. 9e has said, )More than two thousand years away, 0estern poetry is essential to Iuddhist teachin&4 that the self is an illusion, a sum of sensations, thou&hts, and desire. *n Jctober 1/ED 5a> resi&ned his diplomatic post to protest the bloody repression of student demonstrations in Mexico 8ity by the &overnment. 9is first boo( of poems, Sava&e *oon, appeared in 1/:: when 5a> was nineteen years old. Amon& his most hi&hly acclaimed wor(s are The Labyrinth o$ Solitude B1/?#C, a prose study of the Mexican national character, and the boo(-len&th poem Sun Stone B1/?$C, called by !. M. 8ohen )one of the last important poems to be published in the 0estern world., The poem has five hundred and ei&hty-four lines, representin& the five hundred and ei&hty-four day cycle of the planet Henus. Jther wor(s include +a&le or Sun@ B1/?#C, Alternatin& Current B1/?EC, The ,ow and the Lyre B1/?EC, ,lanco B1/E$C, The *on-ey 1rammarianB1/$1C, A Dra$t o$ Shadows B1/$?C, and A Tree ithin B1/?$C. 5a> lives in Mexico 8ity with his wife Marie-!os<, who is an artist. 9e has been he recipient of numerous international pri>es for poetry, includin& the *nternational 7rand 5rix, the !erusalem 5ri>e B1/$$C, the Neustadt 5ri>e B1/D"C, the 8ervantes 5ri>e B1/D1C, and the Novel 5ri>e. 6urin& this interview, which too( place in front of an overflow audience at the /"nd .treet 1M109A in New 1or(, under the auspices of the 5oetry 8enter, 5a> displayed the ener&y and power typical of him and of his poetry, which draws upon an eclectic sexual mysticism to brid&e the &ap between the individual and society. Appropriately, 5a> seemed to welcome this opportunity to communicate with his audience.

*NT@GH*@0@G Jctavio, you were born in 1/1S, as you probably remember . . . J8TAH*J 5AN Not very wellK *NT@GH*@0@G . . . virtually in the middle of the Mexican Gevolution and ri&ht on the eve of 0orld 0ar *. The century youYve lived throu&h has been one of almost perpetual war. 6o you have anythin& &ood to say about the twentieth century+ 5AN 0ell, * have survived, and * thin( thatYs enou&h. 9istory, you (now, is one thin& and our lives are somethin& else. Jur century has been terrible%one of the saddest in universal history%but our lives have always been more or less the same. 5rivate lives are not historical. 6urin& the French or American revolutions, or durin& the wars between the 5ersians and the 7ree(s%durin& any &reat, universal event

%history chan&es continually. Iut people live, wor(, fall in love, die, &et sic(, have friends, moments of illumination or sadness, and that has nothin& to do with history. Jr very little to do with it. *NT@GH*@0@G .o we are both in and out of history+ 5AN 1es, history is our landscape or settin& and we live throu&h it. Iut the real drama, the real comedy also, is within us, and * thin( we can say the same for someone of the fifth century or for someone of a future century. =ife is not historical, but somethin& more li(e nature. *NT@GH*@0@G *n The 'rivile&es o$ Si&ht, a boo( about your relationship with the visual arts, you say4 )Neither * nor any of my friends had ever seen a Titian, a HelP>;ue>, or a 8<>anne. . . . Nevertheless, we were surrounded by many wor(s of art., 1ou tal( there about Mixoac, where you lived as a boy, and the art of early twentieth-century Mexico. 5AN Mixoac is now a rather u&ly suburb of Mexico 8ity, but when * was a child it was a small villa&e. A very old villa&e, from pre-8olumbian times. The name Mixoac comes from the &od Mixcoatl, the Nahuatl name for the Mil(y 0ay. *t also means )cloud serpent,, as if the Mil(y 0ay were a serpent of clouds. 0e had a small pyramid, a diminutive pyramid, but a pyramid nevertheless. 0e also had a seventeenth-century convent. My nei&hborhood was called .an !uan, and the parish church dated from the sixteenth century, one of the oldest in the area. There were also many ei&hteenth- and nineteenthcentury houses, some with extensive &ardens, because at the end of the nineteenth century Mixoac was a summer resort for the Mexican bour&eoisie. My family in fact had a summer house there. .o when the revolution came, we were obli&ed, happily * thin(, to have to move there. 0e were surrounded by small memories of two pasts that remained very much alive, the pre-8olumbian and the colonial. *NT@GH*@0@G 1ou tal( in The 'rivile&es o$ Si&ht about MixoacYs firewor(s. 5AN * am very fond of firewor(s. They were a part of my childhood. There was a part of the town where the artisans were all masters of the &reat art of firewor(s. They were famous all over Mexico. To celebrate the feast of the Hir&in of 7uadalupe, other reli&ious festivals, and at New 1earYs, they made the firewor(s for the town. * remember how they made the church faZade loo( li(e a fiery waterfall. *t was marvelous. Mixoac was alive with a (ind of life that doesnYt exist anymore in bi& cities. *NT@GH*@0@G

1ou seem nostal&ic for Mixoac, yet you are one of the few Mexican writers who live ri&ht in the center of Mexico 8ity. .oon it will be the lar&est city in the world, a dynamic city, but in terms of pollution, con&estion, and poverty, a ni&htmare. *s livin& there an inspiration or a hindrance+ 5AN =ivin& in the heart of Mexico 8ity is neither an inspiration nor an obstacle. *tYs a challen&e. And the only way to deal with challen&es is to face up to them. *Yve lived in other towns and cities in Mexico, but no matter how a&reeable they are, they seem somehow unreal. At a certain point, my wife and * decided to move into the apartment where we live now. *f you live in Mexico, youYve &ot to live in Mexico 8ity. *NT@GH*@0@G 8ould you tell us somethin& about the 5a> family+ 5AN My father was Mexican, my mother .panish. An aunt lived with us%rather eccentric, as aunts are supposed to be, and poetic in her own absurd way. My &randfather was a lawyer and a writer, a popular novelist. As a matter of fact, durin& one period we lived off the sales of one of his boo(s, a best-seller. The Mixoac house was his. *NT@GH*@0@G 0hat about boo(s+ * suppose *Ym thin(in& about how Ior&es claimed he never actually left his fatherYs library. 5AN *tYs a curious parallel. My &randfather had a beautiful library, which was the &reat thin& about the Mixoac house. *t had about six or seven thousand boo(s, and * had a &reat deal of freedom to read. * was a voracious reader when * was a child and even read )forbidden, boo(s because no one paid attention to what * was readin&. 0hen * was very youn&, * read Holtaire. 5erhaps that led me to lose my reli&ious faith. * also read novels that were more or less libertine, not really porno&raphic, ust racy. *NT@GH*@0@G 6id you read any childrenYs boo(s+ 5AN Jf course. * read a lot of boo(s by .al&ari, an *talian author very popular in Mexico. And !ules Herne. Jne of my &reat heroes was an American, Iuffalo Iill. My friends and * would pass from Alexandre 6umasYs Three *us-eteers to the cowboys without the sli&htest remorse or sense that we were warpin& history.

*NT@GH*@0@G 1ou said once that the first time you saw a surrealist paintin&%a picture where vines were twistin& throu&h the walls of a house%you too( it for realism. 5AN ThatYs true. The Mixoac house &radually crumbled around us. 0e had to abandon one room after another because the roofs and walls (ept fallin& down. *NT@GH*@0@G 0hen you were about sixteen in 1/:#, you entered the National 5reparatory .chool. 0hat did you study, and what was the school li(e+ 5AN The school was beautiful. *t was built at the end of the seventeenth century, the hi&h point of the baro;ue in Mexican architecture. The school was bi&, and there was nobility in the stones, the columns, the corridors. And there was another aesthetic attaction. 6urin& the twenties, the &overnment had murals painted in it by Jro>co and Givera%the first mural Givera painted was in my school. *NT@GH*@0@G .o you felt attracted to the wor( of the muralists then+ 5AN 1es, all of us felt a rapport with the muralistsY expressionist style. Iut there was a contradiction between the architecture and the paintin&. =ater on, * came to thin( that it was a pity the murals were painted in buildin&s that didnYt belon& to our century. *NT@GH*@0@G 0hat about the curriculum+ 5AN *t was a m<lan&e of the French tradition mixed with American educational theories. !ohn 6ewey, the American philosopher, was a bi& influence. Also the )pro&ressive school, of education. *NT@GH*@0@G .o the forei&n lan&ua&e you studied was French+ 5AN

And @n&lish. My father was a political exile durin& the revolution. 9e had to leave Mexico and ta(e refu&e in the 3nited .tates. 9e went ahead and then we oined him in 8alifornia, in =os An&eles, where we stayed for almost two years. Jn the first day of school, * had a fi&ht with my American schoolmates. * couldnYt spea( a word of @n&lish, and they lau&hed because * couldnYt say spoon%durin& lunch hour. Iut when * came bac( to Mexico on my first day of school * had another fi&ht. This time with my Mexican classmates and for the same reason%because * was a forei&nerK * discovered * could be a forei&ner in both countries. *NT@GH*@0@G 0ere you influenced by any of your teachers in the National 5reparatory .chool+ 5AN 8ertainly. * had the chance to study with the Mexican poet 8arlos 5ellicer. Throu&h him * met other poets of his &eneration. They opened my eyes to modern poetry. * should point out that my &randfatherYs library ended at the be&innin& of the twentieth century, so it wasnYt until * was in the National 5reparatory .chool that * learned boo(s were published after 1/1#. 5roust was a revelation for me. * thou&ht no more novels had been written after Nola. *NT@GH*@0@G 0hat about poetry in .panish+ 5AN * found out about the .panish poets of the 7eneration of 1/"$4 7arcOa =orca, Gafael Alberti, and !or&e 7uill<n. * also read Antonio Machado and !uan Gam[n !im<ne>, who was a patriarch of poetry then. * also read Ior&es at that time, but remember Ior&es was not yet a short-story writer. 6urin& the early thirties he was a poet and an essayist. Naturally, the &reatest revelation durin& that first period of my literary life was the poetry of 5ablo Neruda. *NT@GH*@0@G 1ou went on to university, but in 1/:$ you made a momentous decision. 5AN 0ell, * made several. First * went to 1ucatPn. * finished my university wor(, but * left before &raduatin&. * refused to become a lawyer. My family, li(e all Mexican middle-class families at that time, wanted their son to be a doctor or a lawyer. * only wanted to be a poet and also in some way a revolutionary. An opportunity came for me to &o to 1ucatPn to wor( with some friends in a school for the children of wor(ers and peasants. *t was a &reat experience%it made me reali>e * was a city boy and that my experience of Mexico was that of central Mexico, the uplands. *NT@GH*@0@G

.o you discovered &eo&raphy+ 5AN 5eople who live in cities li(e New 1or( or 5aris are usually provincials with re&ard to the rest of the country. * discovered 1ucatPn, a very peculiar province of southern Mexico. *tYs Mexico, but itYs also somethin& very different than(s to the influence of the Mayas. * found out that Mexico has another tradition besides that of central Mexico, another set of roots%the Maya tradition. 1ucatPn was stran&ely cosmopolitan. *t had lin(s with 8uba and New Jrleans. As a matter of fact, durin& the nineteenth century, people from the 1ucatPn traveled more often to the 3nited .tates or @urope than they did to Mexico 8ity. * be&an to see ust how complex Mexico is. *NT@GH*@0@G .o then you returned to Mexico 8ity and decided to &o to the .panish 8ivil 0ar+ 5AN * was invited to a con&ress, and since * was a &reat partisan of the .panish Gepublic * immediately accepted. * left the 1ucatPn school and went to .pain, where * stayed for some months. * wanted to enroll in the .panish =oyalist Army%* was twenty-three%but * couldnYt because as a volunteer * would have needed the recommendation of a political party. * wasnYt a member of the 8ommunist 5arty or any other party, so there was no one to recommend me. * was re ected, but they told me that was not so important because * was a youn& writer%* was the youn&est at the con&ress%and that * should &o bac( to Mexico and write for the .panish Gepublic. And that is what * did. *NT@GH*@0@G 0hat did that trip to .pain mean to you, above and beyond politics and the defense of the .panish Gepublic+ 5AN * discovered another part of my herita&e. * was familiar, of course, with the .panish literary tradition. * have always viewed .panish literature as my own, but itYs one thin& to (now boo(s and another thin& to see the people, the monuments, and the landscape with your own eyes. *NT@GH*@0@G .o it was a &eo&raphical discovery a&ain+ 5AN 1es, but there was also the political, or to be more precise, the moral aspect. My political and intellectual beliefs were (indled by the idea of fraternity. 0e all tal(ed a lot about it. For instance, the novels of Andr< Malraux, which we all read, depicted the search for fraternity throu&h revolutionary

action. My .panish experience did not stren&then my political beliefs, but it did &ive an unexpected twist to my idea of fraternity. Jne day%.tephen .pender was with me and mi&ht remember this episode%we went to the front in Madrid, which was in the university city. *t was a battlefield. .ometimes in the same buildin& the =oyalists would only be separated from the Fascists by a sin&le wall. 0e could hear the soldiers on the other side tal(in&. *t was a stran&e feelin&4 those people facin& me%* couldnYt see them but only hear their voices%were my enemies. Iut they had human voices, li(e my own. They were li(e me. *NT@GH*@0@G 6id this affect your ability to hate your enemy+ 5AN 1es. * be&an to thin( that perhaps all this fi&htin& was an absurdity, but of course * couldnYt say that to anyone. They would have thou&ht * was a traitor, which * wasnYt. * understood then, or later, when * could thin( seriously about that dis;uietin& experience, * understood that real fraternity implies that you must accept the fact that your enemy is also human. * donYt mean that you must be a friend to your enemy. No, differences will subsist, but your enemy is also human, and the moment you understand that you can no lon&er accept violence. For me it was a terrible experience. *t shattered many of my deepest convictions. *NT@GH*@0@G 6o you thin( that part of the horror of the situation resulted from the fact that the Fascist soldiers were spea(in& your lan&ua&e+ 5AN 1es. The soldiers on the other side of the wall were lau&hin& and sayin&, 7ive me a ci&arette, and thin&s li(e that. * said to myself, 0ell, they are the same as we on this side of the wall. *NT@GH*@0@G 1ou didnYt &o strai&ht bac( to Mexico, however. 5AN Jf course not. *t was my first trip to @urope. * had to &o to 5aris. 5aris was a museum' it was history' it was the present. 0alter Ien amin said 5aris was the capital of the nineteenth century, and he was ri&ht, but * thin( 5aris was also the capital of the twentieth century, the first part at least. Not that it was the political or economic or philosophic capital, but the artistic capital. For paintin& and the plastic arts in &eneral, but also for literature. Not because the best artists and writers lived in 5aris but because of the &reat movements, ri&ht down to surrealism. *NT@GH*@0@G

0hat did you see that moved you+ 5AN * went to the 3niversal @xposition and saw 1uernica, which 5icasso had ust painted. * was twentythree and had this tremendous opportunity to see the 5icassos and Mir[s in the .panish pavilion. * didnYt (now many people in 5aris, and by pure chance * went to an exhibition where * saw a paintin& by Max @rnst, +urope a$ter the Rain, which made a deep impression on me. *NT@GH*@0@G 0hat about people+ 5AN * met a 8uban writer who became very famous later, Ale o 8arpentier. 9e invited me to a party at the house of the surrealist poet Gobert 6esnos. There was a hu&e crowd, many of them ;uite well (nown% but * didnYt (now a soul and felt lost. * was very youn&. =oo(in& around the house, * found some stran&e ob ects. * as(ed the pretty lady of the house what they were. .he smiled and told me they were !apanese erotic ob ects, &odemiches, and everyone lau&hed at my innocence. * reali>ed ust how provincial * was. *NT@GH*@0@G 1ou were bac( in Mexico in 1/:D. .o were Andr< Ireton and Trots(y4 did their presence mean anythin& to you+ 5AN Jf course. 5olitically, * was a&ainst Ireton and Trots(y. * thou&ht our &reat enemy was fascism, that .talin was ri&ht, that we had to be united a&ainst fascism. @ven thou&h Ireton and Trots(y were not a&ents of the Na>is, * was a&ainst them. Jn the other hand, * was fascinated by Trots(y. * secretly read his boo(s, so inside myself * was a heterodox. And * admired Ireton. * had read LAAmour $ou, a boo( that really impressed me. *NT@GH*@0@G .o in addition to .panish and .panish American poetry you plun&ed into @uropean modernism. 5AN 1es, * would say there were three texts that made a mar( on me durin& this period4 the first was @liotYs The aste Land, which * read in Mexico in 1/:1. * was seventeen or so, and the poem baffled me. * couldnYt understand a word. .ince then *Yve read it countless times and still thin( it one of the &reat poems of the century. The second text was .aint-!ohn 5erseYs Anabase, and the third was IretonYs small boo(, which exalted free love, poetry and rebellion.

*NT@GH*@0@G Iut despite your admiration you wouldnYt approach Ireton+ 5AN Jnce a mutual friend invited me to see him, tellin& me * was wron& about IretonYs politics. * refused. Many years later, * met him and we became &ood friends. *t was then%in spite of bein& critici>ed by many of my friends%* read with enthusiasm the *ani$esto $or a Revolutionary Independent Art written by Ireton and Trots(y and si&ned by 6ie&o Givera. *n it Trots(y renounces political control of literature. The only policy the revolutionary state can have with re&ard to artists and writers is to &ive them total freedom. *NT@GH*@0@G *t would seem as thou&h your internal paradox was turnin& into a crisis. 5AN * was a&ainst socialist realism, and that was the be&innin& of my conflicts with the 8ommunists. * was not a member of the 8ommunist 5arty, but * was friendly with them. 0here we fou&ht first was about the problem of art. *NT@GH*@0@G .o the exposition of surrealism in Mexico 8ity in 1/S# would have been a problem for you. 5AN * was the editor of a ma&a>ine, Taller. *n it one of my friends published an article sayin& the surrealists had opened new vistas, but that they had become the academy of their own revolution. *t was a mista(e, especially durin& those years. Iut we published the article. *NT@GH*@0@G 5ublish or perish. 5AN 0e must accept our mista(es. *f we donYt, weYre lost, donYt you thin(+ This interview is in some ways an exercise in public confession%of which * am very much afraid. *NT@GH*@0@G

Jctavio, despite the fact that you are a poet and an essayist, it seems that you have had novelistic temptations. *Ym thin(in& of that )6iary of a 6reamer, you published in 1/:D in your ma&a>ine Taller and The *on-ey 1rammarian of 1/$#. 5AN * wouldnYt call that diary novelistic. *t was a (ind of noteboo( made up of meditations. * was probably under the spell of Gil(e and his %oteboo-s o$ *alte Laurids ,ri&&e. The truth is that the novel has always been a temptation for me. Iut perhaps * am not suited to it. The art of the novel unites two different thin&s. *t is li(e epic poetry, a world peopled by characters whose actions are the essence of the wor(. Iut unli(e the epic, the novel is analytical. *t tells the deeds of the characters, and at the same time, critici>es them. Tom !ones, Jdette de 8r<cy, *van Karama>ov, or 6on \uixote are characters devoured by criticism. 1ou donYt find that in 9omer or Hir&il. Not even in 6ante. The epic exalts or condemns' the novel analy>es and critici>es. The epic heroes are one-piece, solid characters' novelistic characters are ambi&uous. These two poles, criticism and epic, combine in the novel. *NT@GH*@0@G 0hat about The *on-ey 1rammarian+ 5AN * wouldnYt call that a novel. *tYs on the frontier of the novel. *f itYs anythin&, that boo( is an anti-novel. 0henever *Ym tempted to write a novel, * say to myself, 5oets are not novelists. .ome poets, li(e 7oethe, have written novels%rather borin& ones. * thin( the poetic &enius is synthetic. A poet creates syntheses while the novelist analy>es. *NT@GH*@0@G *f we could return to Mexico durin& the war years, * would li(e to as( you about your relationship with 5ablo Neruda, who was sent to Mexico as 8onsul 7eneral of 8hile in 1/S#. 5AN As * said earlier, NerudaYs poetry was a revelation for me when * started to read modern poetry in the thirties. 0hen * published my first boo(, * sent a copy to Neruda. 9e never answered me, but it was he who invited me to the con&ress in .pain. 0hen * reached 5aris in 1/:$, * (new no one. Iut ust as * was &ettin& off the train, a tall man ran up to me shoutin&, Jctavio 5a>K Jctavio 5a>K *t was Neruda. Then he said, Jh, you are so youn&K and we embraced. 9e found me a hotel, and we became &reat friends. 9e was one of the first to ta(e notice of my poetry and to read it sympathetically. *NT@GH*@0@G .o what went wron&+ 5AN

0hen he came to Mexico, * saw him very often, but there were difficulties. First, there was a personal problem. Neruda was very &enerous, but also very domineerin&. 5erhaps * was too rebellious and ealous of my own independence. 9e loved to be surrounded by a (ind of court made up of people who loved him%sometimes these would be intelli&ent people, but often they were mediocre. The second problem was politics. 9e became more and more .talinist, while * became less and less enchanted with .talin. Finally we fou&ht%almost physically%and stopped spea(in& to each other. 9e wrote some not terribly nice thin&s about me, includin& one nasty poem. * wrote some awful thin&s about him. And that was that. *NT@GH*@0@G 0as there a reconciliation+ 5AN For twenty years we didnYt spea(. 0eYd sometimes be at the same place at the same time, and * (new he would tell our mutual friends to stop seein& me because * was a )traitor., Iut then the Khrushchev report about the .talinist terrors was made public and shattered his beliefs. 0e happened to be in =ondon at the same poetry festival. * had ust remarried, as had 5ablo. * was with Marie-!os<, my wife, when we met Matilde 3rrutia, his wife. .he said, *f *Ym not mista(en, you are Jctavio 5a>. To which * answered, 1es, and you are Matilde. Then she said, 6o you want to see 5ablo+ * thin( he would love to see you a&ain. 0e went to 5abloYs room, where he was bein& interviewed by a ournalist. As soon as the ournalist left, 5ablo said, My son, and embraced me. The expression is very 8hilean% mi>ito%and he said it with emotion. * was very moved, almost cryin&. 0e tal(ed briefly, because he was on his way bac( to 8hile. 9e sent me a boo(, * sent him one. And then a few years later, he died. *t was sad, but it was one of the best thin&s that has ever happened to me%the possibility to be friends a&ain with a man * li(ed and admired so very much. *NT@GH*@0@G The early forties were clearly difficult times for you, and yet they seem to have forced you to define your own intellectual position. 5AN ThatYs true. * was havin& tremendous political problems, brea(in& with former friends%Neruda amon& them. * did ma(e some new friends, li(e Hictor .er&e, a Franco-Gussian writer, an old revolutionary. Iut * reached the conclusion that * had to leave my country, exile myself. * was fortunate because * received a 7u&&enheim Fellowship to &o to the 3nited .tates. Jn this second visit, * went first to Ier(eley and then to New 1or(. * didnYt (now anyone, had no money, and was actually destitute. Iut * was really happy. *t was one of the best periods of my life. *NT@GH*@0@G 0hy+

5AN 0ell, * discovered the American people, and * was thrilled. *t was li(e breathin& deeply and freely while facin& a vast space%a feelin& of elation, li&htness, and confidence. * feel the same way every time * come to your country, but not with the same intensity. *t was vivifyin& ust to be in the .tates in those days, and at the same time, * could step bac( from politics and plun&e into poetry. * discovered American poetry in 8onrad Ai(enYs Antholo&y o$ *odern American 'oetry. * had already read @liot, but * (new nothin& about 0illiam 8arlos 0illiams or 5ound or Marianne Moore. * was sli&htly ac;uainted with 9art 8raneYs poetry%he lived his last years in Mexico, but he was more a le&end than a body of poetry. 0hile * was in Ier(eley, * met Muriel Gu(eyser who very &enerously translated some of my poems. That was a &reat moment for me. A few years later, she sent them to "ori3on, which .pender and 8yril 8onnolly were editin& in =ondon, where they were published. For me it was a (ind of . . . *NT@GH*@0@G .mall apotheosis+ 5AN A very small apotheosis. After New 1or(, where * became a &reat reader of 'artisan Review, * went on to 5aris and cau&ht up with some friends *Yd met in Mexico. Ien amin 5<ret, for example. Throu&h him, * finally met Ireton. 0e became friends. .urrealism was in decline, but surrealism for French literary life was somethin& healthy, somethin& vital and rebellious. *NT@GH*@0@G 0hat do you mean+ 5AN The surrealists embodied somethin& the French had for&otten4 the other side of reason, love, freedom, poetry. The French have a tendency to be too rationalistic, to reduce everythin& to ideas and then to fi&ht over them. 0hen * reached 5aris, !ean-5aul .artre was the dominant fi&ure. *NT@GH*@0@G Iut for you existentialism would have been old hat. 5AN ThatYs ri&ht. *n Madrid, the .panish philosopher Jrte&a y 7asset%and later his disciples in Mexico 8ity and Iuenos Aires%had published all the main texts of phenomenolo&y and existentialism, from 9usserl to 9eide&&er, so .artre represented more a clever variation than an innovation. Also, * was a&ainst .artreYs politics. The one person connected to French existentialism with whom * was friendly and who was very &enerous to me was Albert 8amus. Iut * must say * was nearer to the surrealist poets.

*NT@GH*@0@G Iy the end of the forties you had published two ma or boo(s, the poems collected in Freedom on 'arole and The Labyrinth o$ Solitude. *Yve always been curious about the title of Freedom on 'arole. 6oes it have anythin& to do with the futurist poet MarinettiYs )words on leave,+ 5AN *Ym afraid not. Marinetti wanted to free words from the chains of syntax and &rammar, a (ind of aesthetic nihilism. Freedom on 'arole has more to do with morals than aesthetics. * simply wanted to say that human freedom is conditional. *n @n&lish, when you are let out of ail youYre )on parole,, and parole means )speech,, )word,, )word of honor., Iut the condition under which you are free is lan&ua&e, human awareness. *NT@GH*@0@G .o for you freedom of speech is more than the ri&ht to spea( your mind+ 5AN Absolutely. @ver since * was an adolescent *Yve been intri&ued by the mystery of freedom. Iecause it is a mystery. Freedom depends on the very thin& that limits or denies it, fate, 7od, biolo&ical, or social determinism, whatever. To carry out its mission, fate counts on the complicity of our freedom, and to be free, we must overcome fate. The dialectics of freedom and fate is the theme of 7ree( tra&edy and .ha(espeare, althou&h in .ha(espeare fate appears as passion Blove, ealousy, ambition, envyC and as chance. *n .panish theater%especially in 8alder[n and Tirso de Molina%the mystery of freedom expresses itself in the lan&ua&e of 8hristian theolo&y4 divine providence and free will. The idea of conditional freedom implies the notion of personal responsibility. @ach of us, literally, either creates or destroys his own freedom. A freedom that is always precarious. And that brin&s up the titleYs poetic or aesthetic meanin&4 the poem, freedom, stands above an order, lan&ua&e. *NT@GH*@0@G 1ou wrote Freedom on 'arole between 1/:? and 1/?$, more than twenty years. . . . 5AN * wrote and rewrote the boo( many times. *NT@GH*@0@G *s it an autobio&raphy+ 5AN

1es and no. *t expresses my aesthetic and personal experiences, from my earliest youth until the be&innin& of my maturity. * wrote the first poems when * was twenty-one, and * finished the last when * turned forty-three. Iut the real prota&onist of those poems is not Jctavio 5a> but a half-real, halfmythical fi&ure4 the poet. Althou&h that poet was my a&e, spo(e my lan&ua&e, and his vital statistics were identical with my own, he was someone else. A fi&ure, an ima&e derived from tradition. @very poet is the momentary incarnation of that fi&ure. *NT@GH*@0@G 6oesnYt The Labyrinth o$ Solitude also have an autobio&raphical dimension+ 5AN A&ain, yes and no. * wrote The Labyrinth o$ Solitude in 5aris. The idea came to me in the 3nited .tates when * tried to analy>e the situation of the Mexicans livin& in =os An&eles, the pachucos, or 8hicanos as theyYre called now. * suppose they were a (ind of mirror for me%the autobio&raphical dimension you li(e to see. That on one side. Iut there is also the relationship between Mexico and the 3nited .tates. *f there are two countries in the world that are different, they are the 3nited .tates and Mexico. Iut we are condemned to live to&ether forever. .o we should try to understand each other and also to (now ourselves. That was how The Labyrinth o$ Solitude be&an. *NT@GH*@0@G That boo( deals with ideas such as difference, resentment, the hermetic nature of Mexican man, but it doesnYt touch on the life of the poet. 5AN True. * tried to deal with that sub ect in a short essay called )5oetry of .olitude and 5oetry of 8ommunion., That article in some ways is the poetic e;uivalent to The Labyrinth o$ Solitude because it presents my vision of man, which is very simple. There are two situations for every human bein&. The first is the solitude we feel when we are born. Jur first situation is that of orphanhood, and it is only later that we discover the opposite, filial attachment. The second is that because we are thrown, as 9eide&&er says, into this world, we feel we must find what the Iuddhists call )the other share., This is the thirst for community. * thin( philosophy and reli&ion derive from this ori&inal situation or predicament. @very country and every individual tries to resolve it in different ways. 5oetry is a brid&e between solitude and communion. 8ommunion, even for a mystic li(e .aint !ohn of the 8ross, can never be absolute. *NT@GH*@0@G *s this why the lan&ua&e of mysticism is so erotic+ 5AN

1es, because lovers, which is what the mystics are, constitute the &reatest ima&e of communion. Iut even between lovers solitude is never completely abolished. 8onversely, solitude is never absolute. 0e are always with someone, even if it is only our shadow. 0e are never one%we are always we. These extremes are the poles of human life. *NT@GH*@0@G All in all, you spent some ei&ht years abroad, first in the 3nited .tates, then in 5aris, and then in the Mexican diplomatic service. 9ow do you view those years in the context of your career as a poet+ 5AN Actually, * spent nine years abroad. *f you count each of those years as a month, youYll find that those nine years were nine months that * lived in the womb of time. The years * lived in .an Francisco, New 1or(, and 5aris were a period of &estation. * was reborn, and the man who came bac( to Mexico at the end of 1/?" was a different poet, a different writer. *f * had stayed in Mexico, * probably would have drowned in ournalism, bureaucracy, or alcohol. * ran away from that world and also, perhaps, from myself. *NT@GH*@0@G Iut you were hardly &reeted as the prodi&al son when you reappeared . . . 5AN * wasnYt accepted at all, except by a few youn& people. * had bro(en with the predominant aesthetic, moral, and political ideas and was instantly attac(ed by many people who were all too sure of their do&mas and pre udices. *t was the be&innin& of a disa&reement that has still not come to an end. *t isnYt simply an ideolo&ical difference of opinion. 8ertainly those polemics have been bitter and hard-fou&ht, but even that does not explain the malevolence of some people, the pettiness of others, and the reticence of the ma ority. *Yve experienced despair and ra&e, but *Yve ust had to shru& my shoulders and move forward. Now * see those ;uarrels as a blessin&4 if a writer is accepted, heYll soon be re ected or for&otten. * didnYt set out to be a troublesome writer, but if thatYs what *Yve been, * am totally unrepentant. *NT@GH*@0@G 1ou left Mexico a&ain in 1/?/. 5AN And * didnYt come bac( until 1/$1. An absence of twelve years%another symbolic number. * returned because Mexico has always been a ma&net * canYt resist, a real passion, alternately happy and wretched li(e all passions. *NT@GH*@0@G

Tell me about those twelve years. First you went bac( to 5aris, then to *ndia as the Mexican ambassador, and later to @n&land and the 3nited .tates. 5AN 0hen *Yd finished the definitive version of Freedom on 'arole, * felt * could start over. * explored new poetic worlds, (new other countries, lived other sentiments, had other ideas. The first and &reatest of my new experiences was *ndia. Another &eo&raphy, another humanity, other &ods%a different (ind of civili>ation. * lived there for ust over six years. * traveled around the subcontinent ;uite a bit and lived for periods in 8eylon and Af&hanistan%two more &eo&raphical and cultural extremes. *f * had to express my vision of *ndia in a sin&le ima&e, * would say that * see an immense plain4 in the distance, white, ruinous architecture, a powerful river, a hu&e tree, and in its shade a shape Ba be&&ar, a Iuddha, a pile of stones+C. Jut from amon& the (nots and for(s of the tree, a woman arises . . . * fell in love and &ot married in *ndia. *NT@GH*@0@G 0hen did you become seriously interested in Asian thou&ht+ 5AN .tartin& with my first trip to the @ast in 1/?"%* spent almost a year in *ndia and !apan%* made small incursions into the philosophic and artistic traditions of those countries. * visited many places and read some of the classics of *ndian thou&ht. Most important to me were the poets and philosophers of 8hina and !apan. 6urin& my second stay in *ndia, between 1/E" and 1/ED, * read many of the &reat philosophic and reli&ious texts. Iuddhism impressed me profoundly. *NT@GH*@0@G 6id you thin( of convertin&+ 5AN No, but studyin& Iuddhism was a mental and spiritual exercise that helped me be&in to doubt the e&o and its mira&es. @&o worship is the &reatest idolatry of modern man. Iuddhism for me is a criticism of the e&o and of reality. A radical criticism that does not end in ne&ation but in acceptance. All the &reat Iuddhist sanctuaries in *ndia Bthe 9indu sanctuaries as well, but those, perhaps because theyYre later, are more baro;ue and elaborateC contain hi&hly sensual sculptures and reliefs. A powerful but peaceful sexuality. * was shoc(ed to find that exaltation of the body and of natural powers in a reli&ious and philosophic tradition that dispara&es the world and preaches ne&ation and emptiness. That became the central theme of a short boo( * wrote durin& those years, Con>unctions and Dis>unctions. *NT@GH*@0@G 0as it hard to balance bein& Mexican ambassador to *ndia with your explorations of *ndia+

5AN My ambassadorial wor( was not arduous. * had time, * could travel and write. And not only about *ndia. The student movements of 1/ED fascinated me. *n a certain way * felt the hopes and aspirations of my own youth were bein& reborn. * never thou&ht it would lead to a revolutionary transformation of society, but * did reali>e that * was witnessin& the appearance of a new sensibility that in some fashion rhymed with what * had felt and thou&ht before. *NT@GH*@0@G 1ou felt that history was repeatin& itself+ 5AN *n a way. The similarity between some of the attitudes of the 1/ED students and the surrealist poets, for example, was clear to see. * thou&ht 0illiam Ila(e would have been sympathetic to both the words and the actions of those youn& people. The student movement in Mexico was more ideolo&ical than in France or the 3nited .tates, but it too had le&itimate aspirations. The Mexican political system, born out of the revolution, had survived but was sufferin& a (ind of historical arteriosclerosis. Jn Jctober ", 1/ED, the Mexican &overnment decided to use violence to suppress the student movement. *t was a brutal action. * felt * could not &o on servin& the &overnment, so * left the diplomatic corps. *NT@GH*@0@G 1ou went to 5aris and then to the 3nited .tates before spendin& that year at 8ambrid&e. 5AN 1es, and durin& those months * reflected on the recent history of Mexico. The revolution be&an in 1/1# with &reat democratic ambitions. More than half a century later, the nation was controlled by a paternalistic, authoritarian party. .o in 1/E/ * wrote a postscript to The Labyrinth o$ Solitude, a )criti;ue of the pyramid,, which * too( to be the symbolic form of Mexican authoritarianism. * stated that the only way of &ettin& beyond the political and historical crisis we were livin& throu&h%the paralysis of the institutions created by the revolution%was to be&in democratic reform. *NT@GH*@0@G Iut that was not necessarily what the student movement was see(in&. 5AN No. The student leaders and the left-win& political &roups favored violent social revolution. They were under the influence of the 8uban Gevolution%and there are still some who defend Fidel 8astro even today. My point of view put me in opposition, simultaneously, to the &overnment and the left. The )pro&ressive, intellectuals, almost all of whom wanted to establish a totalitarian socialist re&ime, attac(ed me vehemently. * fou&ht bac(. Gather, we fou&ht bac(%a small &roup of youn&er writers

a&reed with some of my opinions. 0e all believed in a peaceful, &radual move toward democracy. 0e founded'lural, a ma&a>ine that would combine literature, art, and political criticism. There was a crisis, so we founded another, Vuelta B)return,C, which is still &oin& stron& and has a faithful, demandin& readership. Mexico has chan&ed, and now most of our old enemies say they are democratic. 0e are livin& throu&h a transition to democracy, one that will have its setbac(s and will seem too slow for some. *NT@GH*@0@G 6o you see yourself as part of a lon& line of =atin American statesmen-writers, one that could include Ar&entinaYs .armiento in the nineteenth and Neruda in the twentieth century+ 5AN * donYt thin( of myself as a statesman-poet, and *Ym not really comparable to .armiento or Neruda. .armiento was a real statesman and a &reat political fi&ure in addition to bein& a &reat writer. Neruda was a poet, a &reat poet. 9e oined the 8ommunist 5arty, but for &enerous, semi-reli&ious reasons. *t was a real conversion. .o his political militance was not that of an intellectual but of a believer. 0ithin the party, he seems to have been a political pra&matist, but, a&ain, he was more li(e one of the faithful than a critical intellectual. As for me, well, *Yve never been a member of any political party, and *Yve never run for public office. * have been a political and social critic, but always from the mar&inal position of an independent writer. *Ym not a oiner, althou&h of course *Yve had and have my personal preferences. *Ym different from Mario Har&as =losa, who did decide to intervene directly in his countryYs politics. Har&as =losa is li(e 9avel in 8>echoslova(ia or Malraux in France after 0orld 0ar **. *NT@GH*@0@G Iut it is almost impossible to separate politics from literature or any aspect of culture. 5AN .ince the @nli&htenment, there has been a constant confluence of literature, philosophy, and politics. *n the @n&lish-spea(in& world you have Milton as an antecedent as well as the &reat romantics in the nineteenth century. *n the twentieth century, there are many examples. @liot, for instance, was never an active participant in politics, but his writin& is an impassioned defense of traditional values, values that have a political dimension. * mention @liot, whose beliefs are totally different from my own, simply because he too was an independent writer who oined no party. * consider myself a private person, althou&h * reserve the ri&ht to have opinions and to write about matters that affect my country and my contemporaries. 0hen * was youn&, * fou&ht a&ainst Na>i totalitarianism and, later on, a&ainst the .oviet dictatorship. * donYt re&ret either stru&&le in the sli&htest. *NT@GH*@0@G Thin(in& about your time in *ndia now and its effect on your poetry, what would you say about the influence of *ndia+

5AN *f * hadnYt lived in *ndia, * could not have written ,lanco or most of the poems in +astern Slope. The time * spent in Asia was a hu&e pause, as if time had slowed down and space had become lar&er. *n a few rare moments, * experienced those states of bein& in which we are at one with the world around us, when the doors of time seem to open, if only sli&htly. 0e all live those instants in our childhood, but modern life rarely allows us to reexperience them when weYre adults. As re&ards my poetry, that period be&ins with Salamander, culminates in+astern Slope, and ends with The *on-ey 1rammarian. *NT@GH*@0@G Iut didnYt you write The *on-ey 1rammarian in 1/$#, the year you spent at 8ambrid&e 3niversity+ 5AN * did. *t was my farewell to *ndia. That year in @n&land also chan&ed me. @specially because of what we must necessarily refer to as @n&lish )civility,, which includes the cultivation of eccentricity. That tau&ht me not only to respect my fellow man but trees, plants, and birds as well. * also read certain poets. Than(s to 8harles Tomlinson, * discovered 0ordsworth. The 'relude became one of my favorite boo(s. There may be echoes of it in A Dra$t o$ Shadows. *NT@GH*@0@G 6o you have a schedule for writin&+ 5AN *Yve never been able to maintain a fixed schedule. For years, * wrote in my few free hours. * was ;uite poor and from an early a&e had to hold down several obs to e(e out a livin&. * was a minor employee in the National Archive' * wor(ed in a ban(' * was a ournalist' * finally found a comfortable but busy post in the diplomatic service, but none of those obs had any real effect on my wor( as a poet. *NT@GH*@0@G 6o you have to be in any specific place in order to write+ 5AN A novelist needs his typewriter, but you can write poetry any time, anywhere. .ometimes * mentally compose a poem on a bus or wal(in& down the street. The rhythm of wal(in& helps me fix the verses. Then when * &et home, * write it all down. For a lon& time when * was youn&er, * wrote at ni&ht. *tYs ;uieter, more tran;uil. Iut writin& at ni&ht also ma&nifies the writerYs solitude. Nowadays * write durin& the late mornin& and into the afternoon. *tYs a pleasure to finish a pa&e when ni&ht falls. *NT@GH*@0@G

1our wor( never distracted you from your writin&+ 5AN No, but let me &ive you an example. Jnce * had a totally infernal ob in the National Ian(in& 8ommission Bhow * &ot it, * canYt &uessC, which consisted in countin& pac(ets of old ban(notes already sealed and ready to be burned. * had to ma(e sure each pac(et contained the re;uisite three thousand pesos. * almost always had one ban(note too many or too few%they were always fives%so * decided to &ive up countin& them and to use those lon& hours to compose a series of sonnets in my head. Ghyme helped me retain the verses in my memory, but not havin& paper and pencil made my tas( much more difficult. *Yve always admired Milton for dictatin& lon& passa&es from 'aradise Lost to his dau&hters. 3nrhymed passa&es at thatK *NT@GH*@0@G *s it the same when you write prose+ 5AN 5rose is another matter. 1ou have to write it in a ;uiet, isolated place, even if that happens to be the bathroom. Iut above all to write itYs essential to have one or two dictionaries at hand. The telephone is the writerYs devil, the dictionary his &uardian an&el. * used to type, but now * write everythin& in lon&hand. *f itYs prose, * write it out one, two, or three times, and then dictate it into a tape recorder. My secretary types it out, and * correct it. 5oetry * write and rewrite constantly. *NT@GH*@0@G 0hat is the inspiration or startin& point for a poem+ 8an you &ive an example of how the process wor(s+ 5AN @ach poem is different. Jften the first line is a &ift, * donYt (now if from the &ods or from that mysterious faculty called inspiration. =et me use Sun Stone as an example4 * wrote the first thirty verses as if someone were silently dictatin& them to me. * was surprised at the fluidity with which those hendecasyllabic lines appeared one after another. They came from far off and from nearby, from within my own chest. .uddenly the current stopped flowin&. * read what *Yd written%* didnYt have to chan&e a thin&. Iut it was only a be&innin&, and * had no idea where those lines were &oin&. A few days later, * tried to &et started a&ain, not in a passive way but tryin& to orient and direct the flow of verses. * wrote another thirty or forty lines. * stopped. * went bac( to it a few days later, and little by little, * be&an to discover the theme of the poem and where it was all headin&. *NT@GH*@0@G A fi&ure be&an to appear in the carpet+

5AN *t was a (ind of review of my life, a resurrection of my experiences, my concerns, my failures, my obsessions. * reali>ed * was livin& the end of my youth and that the poem was simultaneously an end and a new be&innin&. 0hen * reached a certain point, the verbal current stopped, and all * could do was repeat the first verses. That is the source of the poemYs circular form. There was nothin& arbitrary about it. Sun Stone is the last poem in the boo( that &athers to&ether the first period of my poetry4 Freedom on 'arole. @ven thou&h * didnYt (now what * would write after that, * was sure that one period of my life and my poetry had ended, and another was be&innin&. *NT@GH*@0@G Iut the title seems to allude to the cyclical A>tec concept of time. 5AN 0hile * was writin& the poem, * was readin& an archeolo&ical essay about the A>tec calendar, and it occurred to me to call the poem Sun Stone. * added or cut%* donYt remember which%three or four lines so that the poem would coincide with the five hundred and ei&hty-four days of the con unction of Henus with the .un. Iut the time of my poem is not the ritual time of A>tec cosmo&ony but human, bio&raphical time, which is linear. *NT@GH*@0@G Iut you thou&ht seriously enou&h about the numerical symbolism of ?DS to limit the number of verses in the poem to that number. 5AN * confess that * have been and am still fond of numerolo&ical combinations. Jther poems of mine are also built around certain numerical proportions. *t isnYt an eccentricity, but a part of the 0estern tradition. 6ante is the best example. ,lanco, however, was completely different from Sun Stone. First * had the idea for the poem. * made notes and even drew some dia&rams that were inspired, more or less, by Tibetan mandalas. * conceived it as a spatial poem that would correspond to the four points on the compass, the four primary colors, etcetera. *t was difficult because poetry is a temporal art. As if to prove it, the words themselves wouldnYt come. * had to call them and, even thou&h it may seem *Ym exa&&eratin&, invo-e them. Jne day, * wrote the first lines. As was to be expected they were about words, how they appear and disappear. After those first ten lines, the poem be&an to flow with relative ease. Jf course, there were, as usual, an&uishin& periods of sterility followed by others of fluidity. The architecture of ,lanco is more sharply defined than that of Sun Stone, more complex, richer. *NT@GH*@0@G .o you defy @d&ar Allan 5oeYs in unction a&ainst the lon& poem+ 5AN

0ith &reat relish. *Yve written other lon& poems, li(e A Dra$t o$ Shadows and Carta de creencia, which means )letter of faith., The first is the monolo&ue of memory and its inventions%memory chan&es and recreates the past as it revives it. *n that way, it transforms the past into the present, into presence. Carta de creencia is a cantata where different voices conver&e. Iut, li(e Sun Stone, itYs still a linear composition. *NT@GH*@0@G 0hen you write a lon& poem, do you see yourself as part of an ancient tradition+ 5AN The lon& poem in modern times is very different from what it was in anti;uity. Ancient poems, epics or alle&ories, contain a &ood deal of stuffin&. The &enre allowed and even demanded it. Iut the modern lon& poem tolerates neither stuffin& nor transitions, for several reasons. First, with inevitable exceptions li(e 5oundYs Cantos, because our lon& poems are simply not as lon& as those of the ancients. .econd, because our lon& poems contain two antithetical ;ualities4 the development of the lon& poem and the intensity of the short poem. *tYs very difficult to mana&e. Actually, itYs a new &enre. And thatYs why * admire @liot4 his lon& poems have the same intensity and concentration as short poems. *NT@GH*@0@G *s the process of writin& en oyable or frustratin&+ 5AN 0ritin& is a painful process that re;uires hu&e effort and sleepless ni&hts. *n addition to the threat of writerYs bloc(, there is always the sensation that failure is inevitable. Nothin& we write is what we wish we could write. 0ritin& is a curse. The worst part of it is the an&uish that precedes the act of writin&% the hours, days, or months when we search in vain for the phrase that turns the spi&ot that ma(es the water flow. Jnce that first phrase is written, everythin& chan&es%the process is enthrallin&, vital, and enrichin&, no matter what the final result is. 0ritin& is a blessin&K *NT@GH*@0@G 9ow and why does an idea sei>e you+ 9ow do you decide if it is prose or poetry+ 5AN * donYt have any hard-and-fast rules for this. For prose, it would seem that the idea comes first, followed by a desire to develop the idea. Jften, of course, the ori&inal idea chan&es, but even so the essential fact remains the same4 prose is a means, an instrument. Iut in the case of poetry, the poet becomes the instrument. 0hose+ *tYs hard to say. 5erhaps lan&ua&e. * donYt mean automatic writin&. For me, the poem is a premeditated act. Iut poetry flows from a psychic well related to lan&ua&e, that is, related to the culture and memory of a people. An ancient, impersonal sprin& intimately lin(ed to verbal rhythm.

*NT@GH*@0@G Iut doesnYt prose have a rhythm as well+ 5AN 5rose does have a rhythm, but that rhythm is not its constitutive element as it is in poetry. =etYs not confuse metrics with rhythm4 meter may be a manifestation of rhythm, but it is different because it has become mechanical. 0hich is why, as @liot su&&ests, from time to time meter has to return to spo(en, everyday lan&ua&e, which is to say, to the ori&inal rhythms every lan&ua&e has. *NT@GH*@0@G Herse and prose are, therefore, separate entities+ 5AN Ghythm lin(s verse to prose4 one enriches the other. The reason why 0hitman was so seductive was precisely because of his surprisin& fusion of prose and poetry. A fusion produced by rhythm. The prose poem is another example, althou&h its powers are more limited. Jf course, bein& prosaic in poetry can be disastrous, as we see in so many inept poems in )free verse, every day. As to the influence of poetry on prose% ust thin( about 8hateaubriand, Nerval, or 5roust. *n !oyce, the boundary between prose and poetry sometimes completely disappears. *NT@GH*@0@G 8an you always (eep that boundary sharp+ 5AN * try to (eep them separate, but it doesnYt always wor(. A prose piece, without my havin& to thin( about it, can become a poem. Iut *Yve never had a poem turn into an essay or a story. *n some boo(s% +a&le or Sun@ and The *on-ey 1rammarian%*Yve tried to brin& the prose ri&ht up to the border with poetry, * donYt (now with how much success. *NT@GH*@0@G 0eYve tal(ed about premeditation and revision4 how does inspiration relate to them+ 5AN *nspiration and premeditation are two phases in the same process. 5remeditation needs inspiration and vice-versa. *tYs li(e a river4 the water can only flow between the two ban(s that contain it. 0ithout premeditation, inspiration ust scatters. Iut the role of premeditation%even in a reflexive &enre li(e the essay%is limited. As you write, the text becomes autonomous, chan&es, and somehow forces you to follow it. The text always separates itself from the author.

*NT@GH*@0@G Then why revise+ 5AN *nsecurity. No doubt about it. Also a senseless desire for perfection. * said that all texts have their own life, independent of the author. The poem doesnYt express the poet. *t expresses poetry. ThatYs why it is le&itimate to revise and correct a poem. 1es, and at the same time respect the poet who wrote it. * mean the poet, not the man we were then. * was that poet, but * was also someone else%that fi&ure we tal(ed about earlier. The poet is at the service of his poems. *NT@GH*@0@G Iut ust how much revisin& do you do+ 6o you ever feel a wor( is complete, or is it abandoned+ 5AN * revise incessantly. .ome critics say too much, and they may be ri&ht. Iut if thereYs a dan&er in revisin&, there is much more dan&er in not revisin&. * believe in inspiration, but * also believe that weYve &ot to help inspiration, restrain it, and even contradict it. *NT@GH*@0@G Thin(in& a&ain on the relationship between inspiration and revision, did you ever attempt the (ind of automatic writin& the surrealists recommended in the first surrealist manifesto+ 5AN * did experiment with )automatic writin&., *tYs very hard to do. Actually, itYs impossible. No one can write with his mind blan(, not thin(in& about what heYs writin&. Jnly 7od could write a real automatic poem because only for 7od are spea(in&, thin(in&, and actin& the same thin&. *f 7od says, )A horseK, a horse immediately appears. Iut a poet has to reinventhis horse, that is, his poem. 9e has to thin( it, and he has to ma(e it. All the automatic poems * wrote durin& the time of my friendship with the surrealists were thou&ht and written with a certain deliberation. * wrote those poems with my eyes open. *NT@GH*@0@G 6o you thin( Ireton was serious when he advocated automatic writin&+ 5AN 5erhaps he was. * was extremely fond of Andr< Ireton, really admired him. *tYs no exa&&eration to say he was a solar fi&ure because his friendship emitted li&ht and heat. .hortly after * met him, he as(ed me for a poem for a surrealist ma&a>ine. * &ave him a prose poem, )Mariposa de obsidiana,%it alludes to a pre-8olumbian &oddess. 9e read it over several times, li(ed it, and decided to publish it. Iut he

pointed out one line that seemed wea(. * reread the poem, discovered he was ri&ht, and removed the phrase. 9e was charmed, but * was confused. .o * as(ed him, 0hat about automatic writin&+ 9e raised his leonine head and answered without chan&in& expression4 That line was a ournalistic intromission . . . *NT@GH*@0@G *tYs curious, Jctavio, how often a tension allows you to find your own special place%the 3nited .tates and Mexico, the pachuco and An&lo-American society, solitude and communion, poetry and prose. 6o you yourself see a tension between your essays and your poetry+ 5AN *f * start to write, the thin& * love to write most, the thin& * love most to create, is poetry. * would much rather be remembered for two or three short poems in some antholo&y than as an essayist. 9owever, since * am a modern and live in a century that believes in reason and explanation, * find * am in a tradition of poets who in one way or another have written defenses of poetry. !ust thin( of the Genaissance and then a&ain of the romantics%.helley, 0ordsworth in the preface to Lyrical ,allads. 0ell, now that *Ym at the end of my career, * want to do two thin&s4 to (eep on writin& poetry and to write another defense of poetry. *NT@GH*@0@G 0hat will it say+ 5AN *Yve ust written a boo(, The !ther Voice, about the situation of poetry in the twentieth century. 0hen * was youn&, my &reat idols were poets and not novelists%even thou&h * admired novelists li(e 5roust or =awrence. @liot was one of my idols, but so were Hal<ry and Apollinaire. Iut poetry today is li(e a secret cult whose rites are celebrated in the catacombs, on the frin&es of society. 8onsumer society and commercial publishers pay little attention to poetry. * thin( this is one of societyYs diseases. * donYt thin( we can have a &ood society if we donYt also have &ood poetry. *Ym sure of it. *NT@GH*@0@G Television is bein& critici>ed as the ruination of twentieth-century life, but you have the uni;ue opinion that television will be &ood for poetry as a return to the oral tradition. 5AN 5oetry existed before writin&. @ssentially, it is a verbal art, that enters us not only throu&h our eyes and understandin& but throu&h our ears as well. 5oetry is somethin& spo(en and heard. *tYs also somethin& we see and write. *n that we see the importance in the Jriental and Asian traditions of calli&raphy. *n the 0est, in modern times, typo&raphy has also been important%the maximum example in this would be Mallarm<. *n television, the aural aspect of poetry can oin with the visual and with the

idea of movement%somethin& boo(s donYt have. =et me explain4 this is a barely explored possibility. .o *Ym not sayin& television will mean poetryYs return to an oral tradition but that it could be the be&innin& of a tradition in which writin&, sound, and ima&es will unite. 5oetry always uses all the means of communication the a&e offers it4 musical instruments, printin&, radio, records. 0hy shouldnYt it try television+ 0eYve &ot to ta(e a chance. *NT@GH*@0@G 0ill the poet always be the permanent dissident+ 5AN 1es. 0e have all won a &reat battle in the defeat of the communist bureaucracies by themselves%and thatYs the important thin&4 they were defeated by themselves and not by the 0est. Iut thatYs not enou&h. 0e need more social ustice. Free-mar(et societies produce un ust and very stupid societies. * donYt believe that the production and consumption of thin&s can be the meanin& of human life. All &reat reli&ions and philosophies say that human bein&s are more than producers and consumers. 0e cannot reduce our lives to economics. *f a society without social ustice is not a &ood society, a society without poetry is a society without dreams, without words, and most importantly, without that brid&e between one person and another that poetry is. 0e are different from the other animals because we can tal(, and the supreme form of lan&ua&e is poetry. *f society abolishes poetry it commits spiritual suicide. *NT@GH*@0@G *s your extensive critical study of the seventeenth-century Mexican nun .or !uana *n<s de la 8ru> a (ind of pro ection of the present onto the past+ 5AN *n part, but * also wanted to recover a fi&ure * consider essential not only for Mexicans but for all of the Americas. At first, .or !uana was buried and for&otten' then she was disinterred and mummified. * wanted to brin& her bac( into the li&ht of day, free her from the wax museum. .heYs alive and has a &reat deal to tell us. .he was a &reat poet, the first in a lon& line of &reat =atin American women poets%letYs not for&et that 7abriela Mistral from 8hile was the first =atin American writer to win the Nobel 5ri>e. .or !uana was also an intellectual of the first ran( Bwhich we canYt say for @mily 6ic(insonC and a defender of womenYs ri&hts. .he was put on a pedestal and praised, then persecuted and humiliated. * ust had to write about her. *NT@GH*@0@G Finally, whither Jctavio 5a>+ 0here do you &o from here+ 5AN

0here+ * as(ed myself that ;uestion when * was twenty, a&ain when * was thirty, a&ain when * was forty, fifty . . . * could never answer it. Now * (now somethin&4 * have to persist. That means live, write, and face, li(e everyone else, the other side of every life%the un(nown.

!ohn *rvin&, The Art of Fiction No. /: Interviewed by Ron "ansen .hare on print5G*NTR.hare on twitterT0*TT@GR.hare on faceboo(FA8@IJJKRMJG@ .9AG*N7 .@GH*8@.MJG@RHiew a manuscript pa&e !ohn *rvin& was interviewed in the cramped bac( room of his otherwise lar&e and luxurious apartment in Manhattan. A ump rope han&s on the door, a heavy set of wei&hts )is always in the way, on the floor, and by one window is a stationary bi(e that *rvin& uses on days he doesn2t &o to his private athletic club or o& in 8entral 5ar(. 9e writes at a blue *IM typewriter beneath color photo&raphs of his sons wrestlin& in prep-school competitions and blac(-and-white photo&raphs of himself in prep-school and colle&e matches. Amon& a &reat many boo(s in the hi&h boo(cases are forei&n editions of his novels in fifteen lan&ua&es. Jn the day of this interview, he wore a tweed coat, a &reen plaid flannel shirt, blue eans, and runnin& shoes. *rvin& is a vi&orous, brawny man with brown hair that is increasin&ly &ray. 9is hei&ht is probably five-feet-ei&ht and he wei&hs only twenty-five pounds more than the 1:E 1A" pounds he wrestled at years a&o. 9e2s a storyteller and a &enerous teacher' when as(ed a ;uestion, *rvin& pauses for so lon& a time it nearly seems his inner wor(s have stopped, but once his reply has been fully considered, he replies at len&th in a &entlemanly, New @n&land voice.

*NT@GH*@0@G 1ou2re only forty-four and yet you2ve already published six bi& and important novels as well as a &reat many uncollected essays, stories, and reviews. 9ow do you &et so much wor( done+ !J9N *GH*N7 * don2t &ive myself time off or ma(e myself wor(' * have no wor( routine. * am compulsive about writin&, * need to do it the way * need sleep and exercise and food and sex' * can &o without it for a while, but then * need it. A novel is such a lon& involvement' when *2m be&innin& a boo(, * can2t wor( more than two or three hours a day. * don2t (now more than two or three hours a day about a new novel. Then there2s the middle of a boo(. * can wor( ei&ht, nine, twelve hours then, seven days a wee(%if my children let me' they usually don2t. Jne luxury of ma(in& enou&h money to support myself as a writer is that * can afford to have those ei&ht-, nine-, and twelve-hour days. * resented havin& to teach and coach, not because * disli(ed teachin& or coachin& or wrestlin& but because * had no time to write. As( a doctor to be a doctor two hours a day. An ei&ht-hour day at the typewriter is easy' and two hours of readin& over material in the evenin&, too. That2s routine. Then when the time to finish the boo( comes, it2s bac(

to those two- and three-hour days. Finishin&, li(e be&innin&, is more careful wor(. * write very ;uic(ly' * rewrite very slowly. *t ta(es me nearly as lon& to rewrite a boo( as it does to &et the first draft. * can write more ;uic(ly than * can read. *NT@GH*@0@G 9ow do you be&in a boo(+ *GH*N7 Not until * (now as much as * can stand to (now without puttin& anythin& down on paper. 9enry Gobbins, my late editor at @. 5. 6utton, called this my enema theory4 (eep from writin& the boo( as lon& as you can, ma(e yourself not be&in, store it up. This is an advanta&e in historical novels. Settin& Free the ,ears and The Cider "ouse Rules, for example. * had to learn so much before * could be&in those boo(s' * had to &ather so much information, ta(e so many notes, see, witness, observe, study%whatever %that when * finally was able to be&in writin&, * (new everythin& that was &oin& to happen, in advance. That never hurts. * want to (now how a boo( feels after the main events are over. The authority of the storyteller2s voice%of mine, anyway%comes from (nowin& how it all comes out before you be&in. *t2s very ploddin& wor(, really. *NT@GH*@0@G 9ave any of your novels chan&ed drastically as you created them+ *GH*N7 Alon& the way accidents happen, detours &et ta(en%the accidents turn out to be some of the best thin&s. Iut these are not )divine, accidents' * don2t believe in those. * believe you have constructive accidents en route throu&h a novel only because you have mapped a clear way. *f you have confidence that you have a clear direction to ta(e, you always have confidence to explore other ways' if they prove to be mere di&ressions, you2ll reco&ni>e that and ma(e the necessary revisions. The more you (now about a boo(, the freer you can be to fool around. The less you (now, the ti&hter you &et. *NT@GH*@0@G 8ould you &ive an example of one of those accidents+ *GH*N7 Jne such accident was Melony. * (new she was the force in The Cider "ouse Rules that would &et 9omer 0ells bac( to .t. 8loud2s' at first, of course, the reader is supposed to thin( that if Melony ever finds 9omer, she2ll (ill him. And in a way, she does' she has the power to brin& him up short. Iut what she (ills is his illusion that he2s livin& a &ood life. .he2s a moral force, not a lethal one' she2s ust as devastatin& to him as she would be if she were tryin& to (ill him, really. .he2s the one who tells him his life is shabby and ordinary. .he has the power to do that. * didn2t (now exactly what she would do, * mean physically, when she found him' then * thou&ht of her frustrated ra&e in his bathroom, her very

particular handlin& and dismantlin& of his thin&s. * thou&ht of that u&ly, fri&htenin& weapon she constructs out of a toothbrush and a ra>or blade' she melts the toothbrush handle until it2s soft enou&h to stic( a blade in it' when the plastic hardens, she2s &ot a lethal weapon. That2s a fri&htenin& moment, but she ust leaves it in his bathroom medicine cabinet' he cuts himself on it, by accident. )Iy accident,, but it2s no accident' it2s a reminder to him of her potential for violence. That was a luc(y discovery' it ust fit perfectly. *NT@GH*@0@G @xcept for The ater(*ethod *an, which you2ve said was called Fuc-in& <p as you wrote it, you seem to (now your novel2s title very early in your conception of it. *s it crucial to you to have a wor(in& title before you be&in a pro ect+ *GH*N7 Titles are important' * have them before * have boo(s that belon& to them. * have last chapters in my mind before * see first chapters, too. * usually be&in with endin&s, with a sense of aftermath, of dust settlin&, of epilo&ue. * love plot, and how can you plot a novel if you don2t (now the endin& first+ 9ow do you (now how to introduce a character if you don2t (now how he ends up+ 1ou mi&ht say * bac( into a novel. All the important discoveries%at the end of a boo(%those are the thin&s * have to (now before * (now where to be&in. * (new that 7arp2s mother would be (illed by a stupid man who blindly hates women' * (new 7arp would be (illed by a stupid woman who blindly hates men. * didn2t even (now which of them would be (illed first' * had to wait to see which of them was the main character. At first * thou&ht !enny was the main character' but she was too much of a saint for a main character%in the way that 0ilbur =arch is too much of a saint to be the main character of The Cider "ouse Rules. 7arp and 9omer 0ells are flawed' by comparison to !enny and 6r. =arch, they2re wea(. They2re main characters. Actors (now how they end up%* mean how their characters end up% before they spea( the openin& lines. .houldn2t writers (now at least as much about their characters as actors (now+ * thin( so. Iut *2m a dinosaur. *NT@GH*@0@G 9ow do you mean+ *GH*N7 *2m not a twentieth-century novelist, *2m not modern, and certainly not postmodern. * follow the form of the nineteenth-century novel' that was the century that produced the models of the form. *2m oldfashioned, a storyteller. *2m not an analyst and *2m not an intellectual. *NT@GH*@0@G 9ow about the analysts and intellectuals+ 9ave you ever learned anythin& from readin& criticism about your wor(+ 6o reviews please or annoy you, or do you pay too little attention to them for that+ *GH*N7

Geviews are only important when no one (nows who you are. *n a perfect world all writers would be well-enou&h (nown to not need reviewers. As Thomas Mann has written4 )Jur receptivity to praise stands in no relationship to our vulnerability to mean disdain and spiteful abuse. No matter how stupid such abuse is, no matter how plainly impelled by private rancors, as an expression of hostility it occupies us far more deeply and lastin&ly than praise. 0hich is very foolish, since enemies are, of course, the necessary concomitant of any robust life, the very proof of its stren&th., * have a friend who says that reviewers are the tic(birds of the literary rhinoceros%but he is bein& (ind. Tic(birds perform a valuable service to the rhino and the rhino hardly notices the birds. Geviewers perform no service to the writer and are noticed too much. * li(e what 8octeau said about them. )=isten very carefully to the first criticisms of your wor(. Note ust what it is about your wor( that the reviewers don2t li(e' it may be the only thin& in your wor( that is ori&inal and worthwhile., *NT@GH*@0@G And yet you review boo(s yourself. *GH*N7 * write only favorable reviews. A writer of fiction whose own fiction comes first is ust too sub ective a reader to allow himself to write a ne&ative review. And there are already plenty of professional reviewers ea&er to be ne&ative. *f * &et a boo( to review and * don2t li(e it, * return it' * only review the boo( if * love it. 9ence *2ve written very few reviews, and those are really ust son&s of praise or rather lon&, retrospective reviews of all the writer2s wor(s4 of !ohn 8heever, Kurt Honne&ut, and 7Lnter 7rass, for example. And then there is the occasional )youn&er, writer whom * introduce to readers, such as !ayne Anne 5hillips and 8rai& Nova. Another thin& about not writin& ne&ative reviews4 &rown-ups shouldn2t finish boo(s they2re not en oyin&. 0hen you2re no lon&er a child, and you no lon&er live at home, you don2t have to finish everythin& on your plate. Jne reward of leavin& school is that you don2t have to finish boo(s you don2t li(e. 1ou (now, if * were a critic, *2d be an&ry and vicious, too' it ma-es poor critics an&ry and vicious%to have to $inish all those boo(s they2re not en oyin&. 0hat a silly ob criticism isK 0hat unnatural wor( it isK *t is certainly not wor( for a &rown-up. *NT@GH*@0@G And what about fiction+ *GH*N7 Jf course. 0hat * do, tellin& stories, is childish wor(, too. *2ve never been able to (eep a diary, to write a memoir. *2ve tried' * be&in by tellin& the truth, by rememberin& real people, relatives, and friends. The landscape detail is pretty &ood, but the people aren2t ;uite interestin& enou&h%they don2t have ;uite enou&h to do with one another' of course, what unsettles me and bores me is the absence of plot. There2s no story to my lifeK And so * find a little somethin& that * exa&&erate, a little' &radually, * have an autobio&raphy on its way to becomin& a lie. The lie, of course, is more interestin&. * become much more interested in the part of the story *2m ma(in& up, in the )relative, * never had. And then * be&in to thin( of a novel' that2s the end of the diary. * promise *2ll start another one as soon as * finish the novel. Then the same thin& happens' the lies become much more interestin&%always.

*NT@GH*@0@G @specially in your youn&er wor(, but even now, one &ets the sense of a &rown-up at play, of a very natural writer en oyin& himself. Are you havin& as much fun writin& now as when you be&an writin& stories at @xeter+ *GH*N7 * can2t say * have fun writin&. My stories are sad to me, and comic too, but lar&ely unhappy. * feel badly for the characters%that is, if the story2s any &ood. 0ritin& a novel is actually searchin& for victims. As * write * (eep loo(in& for casualties. The stories uncover the casualties. *NT@GH*@0@G .ome people say you write disaster fiction. *GH*N7 .uch thin&s don2t happen+ *s that what they mean+ 1ou bet * write disaster fiction. 0e have compiled a disastrous record on this planet, a record of stupidity and absurdity and self-abuse and selfa&&randi>ement and self-deception and pompousness and self-ri&hteousness and cruelty and indifference beyond what any other species has demonstrated the capacity for, which is the capacity for all the above. * am sic( of secure and smu&ly conventional people tellin& me that my wor( is bi>arre simply because they2ve found a safe little place to live out the chaos of the world%and who then deny that this chaos happens to other, less fortunate people. *f you2re rich, are you permitted to say there2s no poverty, no starvation+ *f you2re a calm, &entle soul, do you say there2s no violence except in bad movies and bad boo(s+ * don2t ma(e much up. * mean that. * am not the inventor *2ve been &iven credit for bein&. * ust witness a different news%it2s still news, it still is ust what happens, but more isolated and well-described so you mi&ht notice it a little more clearly. 7eor&e .antayana wrote4 )0hen people say that 6ic(ens exa&&erates, it seems to me that they can have no eyes or no ears. They probably have only notions of what thin&s and people are' they accept them conventionally, at their diplomatic value., *NT@GH*@0@G 1our literary debts to 8harles 6ic(ens, 7Lnter 7rass, and Kurt Honne&ut are pretty clear in your wor(, at least to some readers. 9ow do you see their boo(s contributin& to your own+ *GH*N7 0ell, yes, they2re all fathers of my wor(, in a way. The polite world calls them extremists, but * thin( they are very truthful, very accurate. * am not attracted to writers by style. 0hat style do 6ic(ens, 7rass, and Honne&ut have in common+ 9ow sillyK * am attracted to what ma(es them an&ry, what ma(es them passionate, what outra&es them, what they applaud and find sympathetic in human bein&s and what they detest about human bein&s, too. They are writers of &reat emotional ran&e. They are all disturbed%both comically and tra&ically%by who the victims of a society Bor of each otherC are. 1ou can2t copy that' you can only a&ree with it.

*NT@GH*@0@G 9ow did your stay in Hienna contribute to your &rowth as a writer+ *GH*N7 =ivin& with Hienna2s history helped me loo( for history in my own wor(, ma(e history for my characters, respect the passa&e of time as a finite (ind of truth. * never really learned much about Hienna but * was tau&ht to thin( about the past there%about my past, New @n&land2s past, and my characters2 pasts. *NT@GH*@0@G 9ave you studied the psycholo&y of .i&mund Freud+ 6o you feel any (inship with his theories+ *GH*N7 * thin( Freud was a &reat novelist. 5eriod. *NT@GH*@0@G 5eriod. *GH*N7 0ell, all ri&ht%a little more about that. .i&mund Freud was a novelist with a scientific bac(&round. 9e ust didn2t (now he was a novelist. All those damn psychiatrists after him, they didn2t (now he was a novelist, either. They made simply awful sense out of his intuitions. 5eople say 8arl !un& is better, but !un& can2t writeK Freud was a wonderful writerK And what a storytellerK * don2t thin( about his theories very much' sometimes they wor(, sometimes they don2t fit at all, but when people say Freud was )wron&, about this or that, * have to lau&h. 0as 8harles 6ic(ens )wron&, about Fa&in in !liver Twist+ * don2t mean Fa&in2s !ewishness either%* mean, how could he have been )wron&, about Fa&in as a character+ 0hat a &reat characterK .o * love readin& Freud4 the detail, the observations, the characters, the histories. The hell with the rest of it. *NT@GH*@0@G 1ou say your wor( is becomin& increasin&ly political. *GH*N7 1ou2re ri&ht4 * said * was becomin& more political. * (now * said that. *2m not, thou&h. * am becomin& more social' * care that the social abuses, the social evils and ills of this and every other time be exposed, vividly. * am interested in exposin& wron&doin&, &ood and evil, in ustice. That * am active in political causes has been well observed. *2m active, o(ay. Iut as a writer * am not interested so much in ta(in& a political side as * am interested in exposin& a corruption or an abuse Busually of an individual or

&roup, but also by a law, or by a &eneral indifferenceC. =i(e 8harles 6ic(ens, * believe that society is a conditionin& force, and often an evil force, but * also believe in absolutely &ood men and women, too. * read a critic of my wor( who found it ludicrous that * still wrote about )&ood, and )bad, people. 0here has this man been+ 0hat has he seen+ And * don2t mean what literature has he read. * mean, what has he seen of the world+ There are bad people in the world' and &ood ones, too. .ociety is responsible for much that is evil' but no one thin& is responsible for everythin&. 5resident Gea&an would li(e the American people to believe that the liberals in this country, and the 8ommunists outside this country, have made the world as bad as it is. 9e seems to be meetin& with fair success with this lunatic proposition, too. A Marxist view of literature is offensive to me. Also, a feminist view of abortion4 it is as offensive as a 8atholic view, if you2re not a 8atholic. *NT@GH*@0@G 6o you thin( political considerations should be more important to American writers+ *GH*N7 7Lnter 7rass and * were havin& dinner not lon& a&o. 9e2s a &reat hero of mine. And he said he wanted to (eep his fiction pure, that is, free of politics' but when he was not writin& fiction, he wanted to be as politically active as possible. A &ood way to live, but perhaps it is a more successful way for a 0est 7erman novelist than for an American. 8hancellor 0illy Irandt had the wisdom to let 7rass write for him. 0hat American political fi&ure would dareto have an American novelist write for him%write real details, real ar&uments, real ri&ht and wron&+ * tell you, Kurt Honne&ut would be a better president than any president we2ve had since *2ve been votin&. @. =. 6octorow would be pretty &ood too. And what would happen if 5hilip Goth volunteered to write campai&n speeches for a presidential candidate+ * doubt that the promise that the speeches would be more concrete and literate and wise and humane would much influence the people ma(in& the self-cancelin& political )statements, that pass for speeches today. * doubt that any politician would hire 5hilip Goth or 0illiam .tyron or Arthur Miller or any &ood writer you could name. *NT@GH*@0@G 9ow do you explain the comparative indifference of American novelists to national politics+ *GH*N7 * told 7rass that there was no way for American writers to be politically active in this country. 0hat we do, mainly, is oin a &eneral protest movement. 0e spea( for causes' we spea( to our friends' we spea( to audiences already predisposed to a&ree with us. 0e have3ero effect, in my opinion. 0e do a lot of political &ood deeds that ma(e us feel self-ri&hteous and not a part of the awful mainstream when yet another completely stupid and dan&erous thin& happens in this country. 0e say, complacently, )0ell, *2m not part of that,' or, )As * said in The %ation,' or, )As * told the students at .tanford,' or, )0hen * was on theToday Show, Bfor two minutesC%and on and on. * thin( if we2re &oin& to be politically active, it has to start creepin& into our novels. 7Lnter 7rass may feel he has an effect as a political activist in 7ermany, and maybe he does. 9e certainly has uncounted effect as a wonderful novelist. Iut what effect do we political activists have here+ *2m impatient with what * see' more and more impatient.

.o * loo( for novels that will ma(e people feel more and more uncomfortable about what2s ta(en for &ranted in our society. 0riters must describe the terrible. And one way to describe the terrible is to write comically, of course. 7eor&e Iernard .haw, who admitted to &ettin& most of his satiric methods from 6ic(ens, said that the thin& to do is to find one true thin& and exa&&erate it, with levity, until it2s obvious. * (now it is not very postmodernist to be obvious, but politically one has to become more and more that way. *NT@GH*@0@G 5olitically+ *GH*N7 Maybe * should stop usin& the word )political, and ust claim that social observation is a writer2s business' ust to observe the society truthfully is, of course, bein& )political., * thin( New @n&landers and .outherners have this in common, in their social observations, as writers4 we reco&ni>e that America is a class society. 5eople who differ from one another or draw lines between each other on matters of )taste, are a part of the class society, ust as surely as wealth and power are parts of it. These are more than manners, in a society' these thin&s politici>e us. Iy demonstratin& how Americans discriminate we are also bein& political, as writers. And as lon& as we have presidents who lie to us% who use lan&ua&e as irresponsibly as 5resident Gea&an uses it%we2ll be political ust by usin& lan&ua&e clearly. Iut *2m &ettin& tired of blamin& Gea&an for bein& Gea&an' the American people have to ta(e responsibility for this man%they wanted him' they wanted him twice. 9e is never held accountable. 9is first reaction to Marcos2s )victory, in the 5hilippines was to advise Mrs. A;uino to )respect the democratic process,, to accept her defeat &racefully, in other words. And in the face of so much alarmin& evidence, to say, as he did, that there had been manipulations of the vote by both sides%it was ridiculous. 0ell, in one sense, he didn2t &et away with it' Marcos is out. Iut five minutes later we hear the Gea&an Administration ta(in& credit for )the democratic process, in the 5hilippines' do Americans simply for&et what the man2s first, terrible instincts were+ They do appear to for&et what he, literally, said. This is very troublin& to writers' we couldn2t have a president as irresponsible as this if the American people paid attention to lan&ua&e. The news is4 lan&ua&e doesn2t matter. Iut writers ma(e lan&ua&e matter' we describe e)actly. 1ou see+ @ven carin& about lan&ua&e becomes )political., *NT@GH*@0@G 8ould you describe your involvement in the 1/DS presidential campai&n+ *GH*N7 * spo(e for 0alter Mondale and 7eraldine Ferraro and for the &ood &uys runnin& a&ainst the bad &uys in North 8arolina, Texas, *owa, and Michi&an. 8ampai&nin& was especially depressin& on colle&e campuses. * cared more about abortion ri&hts than my audience of students who were fuc(in& each other day and ni&ht and ta(in& for &ranted that they would never have any trouble &ettin& an abortion. * cared more about whether their &eneration was &oin& to suffer another Hietnam in 8entral America% althou&h, as * told them, I wouldn2t be one of the Americans sent to die there, those Americans would come from their&eneration. A lot of well-fed, well-dressed, career-oriented youn& people smiled bac( at

me with a (ind of what2s-he-worried-about+ loo( on their faces. At the New .chool once some wit in the audience hollered out to me when * was tal(in& about The Cider "ouse Rules. The sub ect was mi&rant wor(ers and the period in the late 1/?#s when * wor(ed in the orchards with blac( apple pic(ers from the .outh, and * was sayin& that not much had chan&ed for the mi&rants since then and that * felt &reat sympathy for poor people as a (id and * always wanted to write about them as truthfully as * could. And this er( in the audience pipes up4 )0ill the mi&rants read it+, And there2s a small chant from about two or three of his pals sayin& )1eahK, And raised fists' shouts. * don2t (now exactly what their point was but they seemed to thin( they had made one%possibly, the mi&rants won2t read it, therefore so what+ Jf course, if you (now the boo(, you (now that2s one of my points about the mi&rants4 They can2t readK Anyway, * thou&ht it was funny, and bewilderin&, and typical. *NT@GH*@0@G 9ow+ *GH*N7 5eople are an&ry%politically%and the last people they see as helpin& a political or ust plain social situation are the artists and writers and intellectuals. And as a &roup we have been of next to no help in this country. @very administration thin(s we2re silly, not to be counted, and in the popular media, intellectuals and artists are always cast as totally unreliable and selfish people, as fla(es and phonies and wimps alto&ether out of touch with the common man. .ome problem, wouldn2t you a&ree+ * have an instinct for victims' that2s all * can tell you. * see who &ets hurt and * describe it. 6o people li(e to see themselves as victims, or to hear about victims+ *n my experience, no. *NT@GH*@0@G 5robably no male writer has &iven as much serious attention as you have to the issues of adultery, rape, and now, with The Cider "ouse Rules, abortion. 8ould you comment on that+ *GH*N7 *2ve been writin& about one form or another of violence to women for years. And ille&al abortion is simply a most sanctimonious form of violence a&ainst women. *t is the most accepted form of violence in this country4 violence a&ainst women. Gape is still funny, a wife is still the easiest person to beat up and &et away with it, and the old line is still true4 *f men could &et pre&nant, don2t ima&ine for a moment that anyone would be complainin& about le&ali>ed abortion. .ome conventionally smu& people, eyes ti&htly closed, say that all this violence to women in my boo(s%as if it happened only thereK%is exploitative. Jthers, who thin( violence to women is perfectly o(ay, thin( * am ust a man of ;uaint concerns, or one writin& feminist tracts. The same idiot who called The orld Accordin& to 1arp a feminist tract, by the way, also called The Cider "ouse Rules sadistic to women. 6oes he mean *2ve chan&ed+ 6oes he even (now what he means+ *NT@GH*@0@G

1ou wor(ed on a screenplay of Settin& Free the ,ears and on the ac(nowled&ments pa&e of The ater(*ethod *an you than(ed that pro ect2s director, *rvin Kershner, )for a valuable and excitin& film experience,' and yet since then you2ve re ected every opportunity to become involved in screen adaptations of your novels. 0hy+ *GH*N7 0ell, movies, movies, movies%they are our enemy, of course. Movies are the enemy of the novel because they are replacin& novels. Novelists shouldn2t write for the movies, unless, of course, they discover they2re no &ood at writin& novels. * learned a lot from Kershner, who2s a dear friend of mine to this day, but * hated writin& the script. * li(e people who ma(e movies, and *2m &lad some of them, who are terribly smart, are not writin& novels. There are enou&h people writin& novels, 7od (nows. Anyway, the main thin& * learned by writin& a screenplay of Settin& Free the ,ears for Kershner was that screenwritin& isn2t really writin&' it2s carpentry. There2s no lan&ua&e in it, and the writer is not in control of the pace of the story, or of the tone of the narration, and what else is there to be in control of+ Tony Gichardson told me that there are no screenwriters, so there is at least one director who a&rees with me. *t could be that it was the most valuable thin& * ever did%to have my shot at writin& a movie when * was so youn&, ri&ht after my first novel was published%because * was never tempted to do it a&ain. *NT@GH*@0@G 9ave you &enerally li(ed the films made of The "ampshire+ *GH*N7 * helped 7eor&e Goy 9ill with The orld Accordin& to 1arp' that is, * commented to him on the .teve Tesich screenplay, and loo(ed at some of the shootin& and the rushes, and * even played a small part as a wrestlin& referee%that wasn2t actin&, by the way' for years * used to be a wrestlin& referee. My (ids &ot in the movie, too' they had a ball. And 7eor&e is one of my best friends now. 9e did a &ood ob with The orld Accordin& to 1arp' he too( it to the suburbs and &ave all the characters haircuts and made them much nicer than they were in the boo(, but he was true to the domestic line, to the main, linear narrative. 9e2s a &ood storyteller, 7eor&e' witness what a &ood ob he did with Slau&hterhouse( Five, and loo( at The Stin&. 7ood narrative. 9e was the ri&ht director for The orld Accordin& to 1arp. 0hat2s missin& from that film is, of course, nine-tenths of the boo(, but 7eor&e was faithful to what he could do. And that2s another reason *2m not interested in writin& for the movies, personally4 the main ob in ma(in& a movie out of a novel by me is to throw away nine-tenths of the novel. 0hy would that be any fun for me+ Tony Gichardson too( a more difficult route with The "otel %ew "ampshire. 9e was not as literal as 7eor&e, and the storytellin& is umpier, but he tried to ma(e it a proper fairy tale, which it is%people in @urope seemed to understand that better than they understood it here Bin both the boo( and the movieC. * thou&ht Tony too( &reat ris(s with that movie and * thou&ht the film was sweet, charmin&. *t has a better be&innin& and endin& than a middle. *t was ori&inally &oin& to be in two parts but Tony couldn2t solve the two-part screenplay%isn2t it hysterical how movie people tal( about )solvin&, scripts+%and he couldn2t &et anyone to finance a movie in two parts either. Then he truncated what he had into one film, and that hurt' that (ind of cartooned the characters, made it too speeded-up, at orld Accordin& to 1arp and The "otel %ew

least for people who didn2t (now the boo(. Iut he made every frame of it with love and >est' there2s nothin& cynical about Tony. *NT@GH*@0@G As far as * (now, the stories in The to wor( with short fiction a&ain+ *GH*N7 No. * can2t write a &ood story. The closest thin& to a &ood story * ever wrote was )The 5ension 7rillpar>er,, and the reason * wor(ed as hard as * did on that story was that * was writin& it for T. .. 7arp%* had to establish that my character was the real thin&, that he could really write. * would never have wor(ed on a story of my own that hard. * ust don2t care for the short story form. The summations, the closed doors, the focus' not for me. * won2t ever write another story% except perhaps a story entirely meant to be read or spo(en aloud. .omethin& exactly forty-five minutes to an hour in len&th, and never to be published, ust to be said. Jnce * publish somethin& * usually don2t en oy readin& aloud from it anymore, but * read )The 5ension 7rillpar>er, aloud, to public audiences, seventy-three times. Jnce a youn& woman spo(e to me after a readin&. )*2ve heard you read a do>en times,, she said. .he2d traveled from New 1or( to 8alifornia, to Hermont, to Missouri, to *owa, to .outh 8arolina. And all she ever &ot to hear was )The 5ension 7rillpar>er., .he loo(ed a trifle disturbed. )* (eep thin(in& you2ll read somethin& different,, she said peevishly. * never read the story a&ain. Iut now * feel li(e tryin& it a&ain' the story is simply a len&th that is perfect, and it2s self-contained. * don2t have anythin& else li(e it. * li(e public readin&s, but the chapters of all my novels, lately, are one and a half or two hours of readin&' and cuttin& them down doesn2t improve them' and all the necessary thin&s one has to say to introduce chapters, or parts of chapters, from a novel-in-pro&ress . . . it2s frustratin&. *NT@GH*@0@G 9ow about the boo(s of your contemporaries+ Are you a &ood reader+ *GH*N7 My contemporaries' of course, * read them. Jr * be&in them. Amon& my favorites4 Kurt Honne&ut, of course%he2s the most ori&inal American writer since Mar( Twain and the most humanitarian writer in @n&lish since 8harles 6ic(ens. And 7Lnter 7rass, of course. * loved !ohn 8heever' * (new his territory and * li(ed his sense of mischief and fair play%always at war with each other. And * really value my friendships with any number of writers * admire4 !oseph 9eller, 7ail 7odwin, !ohn 9aw(es, .tanley @l(in, 5eter Matthiessen, Gobertson 6avies . . . well, there isn2t a )complete, list. * &enerally li(e other writers' * try to meet every writer * can%and read any boo( that anyone tells me about. *NT@GH*@0@G 9ow do you thin( this period in American literature measures up a&ainst earlier ones+ *GH*N7 orld Accordin& to 1arp are the last you2ve done. 6o you intend

As for my view of the contemporary novel . . . well, as *2ve said so many times4 *2m old-fashioned. * believe in plot, of all thin&s' in narrative, all the time' in storytellin&' in character. Hery traditional forms interest me. This nonsense about the novel bein& about )the word, . . . what can that mean+ Are we novelists &oin& to become li(e so many modern poets, writin& only for and to each other, not comprehensible to anyone who isn2t another writer+ * have only a prep-school education in the poems of !ohn Milton. 1et * can read Milton' * really understand him. All that time has passed, and yet he2s still clear. Iut when * read the poems of someone my own a&e and can2t understand a sin&le thin&, is that supposed to be a failure of my education, or of the poetry+ *NT@GH*@0@G Settin& Free the ,ears, The ater(*ethod *an, and The BCD('ound *arria&e were innovative, or at least postmodernist, in their desi&ns, in their mixin& of points of view or first- and third-person narrative, in their &reat concern for lan&ua&e. 1our novels after them have been less concerned with experiments in storytellin& and more concerned with the story itself. 9ow do you account for that+ *GH*N7 The novel is a popular art form, an accessible form. * don2t en oy novels that are borin& exercises in show-off writin& with no narrative, no characters, no in$ormation%novels that are ust an intellectually discursive text with lots of style. *s their ob ect to ma(e me feel stupid+ These are not novels. These are the wor(s of people who want to call themselves writers but haven2t a reco&ni>able form to wor( in. Their sub ect is their techni;ue. And their vision+ They have no vision, no private version of the world' there is only a private version of style, of techni;ue. * ust completed an introduction to 1reat +)pectations in which * pointed out that 6ic(ens was never so vain as to ima&ine that his love or his use of lan&ua&e was particularly special. 9e could write very prettily when he wanted to, but he never had so little to say that he thou&ht the ob ect of writin& was pretty lan&ua&e. The broadest novelists never cared for that (ind of ori&inal lan&ua&e. 6ic(ens, 9ardy, Tolstoy, 9awthorne, Melville4 to such novelists, ori&inality with lan&ua&e is mere fashion' it will pass. The lar&er, plainer thin&s they are preoccupied with, their obsessions%these will last4 the story, the characters, the lau&hter, and the tears. *NT@GH*@0@G 9ow helpful were your years spent at the *owa 0riters2 0or(shop+ *GH*N7 * was not necessarily )tau&ht, anythin& there as a student, althou&h * was certainly encoura&ed and helped%and the advice of Hance Iour aily, Kurt Honne&ut, and !os< 6onoso clearly saved me some valuable time' that is, they told me thin&s about my writin& and about writin& in &eneral that * would probably have fi&ured out for myself, but time is precious for a youn& writer. * always say that this is what * can )teach, a youn& writer4 somethin& he2ll (now for himself in a little while lon&er' but why wait to (now these thin&s+ * am tal(in& about technical thin&s, the only thin&s you can presume to teach, anyway. *NT@GH*@0@G

0hat are some of the more important )technical, thin&s+ *GH*N7 )Hoice, is a technical thin&' the choice to be close to this character, distant from that character%to be in this or that point of view. 1ou can learn these thin&s' you can learn to reco&ni>e your own &ood and bad habits, what you do well in the first-person narrative voice, and what you do to excess, for example' and what the dan&ers and advanta&es are of a third-person narrative that presumes historical distance Bthe voice of a bio&rapher, for exampleC. There are so many stances involved, so many postures you can assume while tellin& a story' they can be much more deliberate, much more in a writer2s control, than an amateur (nows. The reader, of course, shouldn2t be aware of much of this. *t2s brilliant, for example, how 7rass calls Js(ar Mat>erath )he, or )Js(ar, at one moment, and then%sometimes in the same sentence%he refers to little Js(ar as )*,' he2s a first-person narrator and a third-person narrator in the same sentence. Iut it2s done so seamlessly, it doesn2t call attention to itself' * hate those forms and styles that call &reat attention to themselves. *NT@GH*@0@G 1ou2ve also said you made some valuable friendships as a teacher at *owa. *GH*N7 1es. @specially with 7ail 7odwin, .tanley @l(in, and !ohn 8heever. *NT@GH*@0@G And you met !. 5. 6onleavy at *owa. *GH*N7 * li(e meetin& other writers, and *owa 8ity is a &ood place to meet them, but * didn2t en oy 6onleavy. !ohn 8heever and *, who were in a particularly rituali>ed habit of watchin& Monday Ni&ht Football to&ether, while eatin& homemade pasta, were happy to hear that 6onleavy was comin&. 0e2d both admired The 1in&er *an and we wanted to meet the author. * went to the airport to meet him' *2d written three novels%but not yet The orld Accordin& to 1arp' * wasn2t famous. * didn2t expect 6onleavy to have read anythin& of mine, but * was surprised when he announced that he read no one livin&' then he as(ed if we were in Kansas. * told him a little about the 0or(shop, but he was one of those writers with no (nowled&e about writin& pro&rams and many pre udices about them4 to be a student of writin& was a waste of time' better to &o out and suffer. 9e was wearin& a very expensive three-piece suit, very handsome shoes, and handlin& a very posh wal(in& stic( at the time, and * be&an to &et irritated. *n a meetin& with 0or(shop students, he told them that any writer who was lowerin& himself by teachin& writin& wasn2t capable of teachin& them anythin&. And so * was ;uite cross by the time * had to pic( up the &reat man and drive him to his readin&. * said we would be ta(in& Mr. 8heever with us to the readin&, and that both Mr. 8heever and * were &reat admirers, and that althou&h * (new Mr. 6onleavy did not read anyone livin&, he should (now that Mr. 8heever was a wonderful writer. 9is short stories were models of the form, * said. Iut when * introduced 8heever to 6onleavy, 6onleavy

wouldn2t even loo( at him' he went on tal(in& to his wife, about aspirin, as if 8heever wasn2t there. * tried to say a few thin&s about why so many American writers turned to teachin&%as a way of supportin& themselves without havin& to place the burden of ma(in& money upon their writin&' and as a way of &ivin& themselves enou&h time to practice their writin&, too. Iut 6onleavy wasn2t interested and he said so. The whole trip he was ta(in& was tiresome' the people he met, the people everywhere, were tiresome, too. And so 8heever and * sat up front in the car, excluded from the conversation about the evils of aspirin, and drivin& the 6onleavys about as if they were unhappy royalty in a hic( town. * will say that Mrs. 6onleavy appeared to suffer her husband2s rudeness, or perhaps she was ust sufferin& her headache. 8heever tried a few times to en&a&e 6onleavy in some conversation, and as 8heever was as &ifted in conversation as any man * have ever met, * &rew more and more furious at 6onleavy2s coldness and unresponsiveness and total discourtesy. * was thin(in&, fran(ly, that * should throw the lout in a puddle, if there was one handy, when 8heever spo(e up. )6o you (now, Mr. 6onleavy,, 8heever said, )that no ma>or writer of fiction was ever a shit to another writer of fiction, except 9emin&way%and he was cra>y+, That was all. 6onleavy had no answer. 5erhaps he thou&ht 9emin&way was still a livin& writer and therefore hadn2t read him, either. 8heever and * deposited the 6onleavys at the readin&, which we spontaneously decided to s(ip. *t was many years later that * met and became friends with 7eor&e Goy 9ill, who told me that he2d been a roommate of )Mi(e, 6onleavy at Trinity 8olle&e, 6ublin, and that )Mi(e, was ust a touch eccentric and surely not a bad sort. Iut * remembered my evenin& with 8heever and told 7eor&e that, in my opinion, 6onleavy was a minor writer, a shit, or cra>y %or all three. * should add that drin(in& wasn2t the issue of this unpleasant evenin&' 8heever was not drin(in&' 6onleavy wasn2t drun(%he was simply ri&hteous and actin& the prima donna. * feel a little li(e *2m tattlin& on a fellow schoolboy to tell this story, but * felt so awful%not for myself but for 8heever. *t was such an outra&e' that 6onleavy%this lar&e, silly man with his wal(in& stic(% was snubbin& !ohn 8heever. * suppose it2s silly that * should still be an&ry, but 7eor&e 5limpton told me that 6onleavy has a subscription to The 'aris Review'] this presents an apparent contradiction to 6onleavy2s claim that he doesn2t read anyone livin&, but it &ives me hope that he mi&ht read this. *f the story embarrasses him, or ma(es him an&ry, * would say we2re even' the evenin& embarrassed 8heever and me, and made us an&ry, too. *NT@GH*@0@G !ohn 8heever2s fiction was fre;uently informed by a 8hristian sensibility. 9ow about your own+ Are you a reli&ious man+ *GH*N7 * am now. * had the usual, fainthearted church experiences of an avera&e New @n&land 5rotestant. * was a 8on&re&ationalist' then * became an @piscopalian because more of my friends went to that .unday school than to the .unday school in the 8on&o, as we used to call it. And if * have a preference now it2s 8on&re&ational a&ain, althou&h *2m still cross with them for consolidatin&%you (now, they (ind of unioni>ed, li(e all the other churches, and * li(ed them better the old way, when they were independent from all the other churches, even all the other so-called 8on&re&ational churches' that was more 1an(ee, that was very New @n&land. *2m actually writin& a reli&ious novel now. 0hat * mean by that is that *2m writin& a novel that be&s the reader to believe in a miracle. *t2s a small enou&h miracle to be fairly universally believed, * hope' and it2s a ;uestionable enou&h )reli&ious experience, to be exactly that, to a reli&ious reader, and acceptable on other terms to my readers who are not believers. *2m a

believer, by the way. 9aven2t always been. And there2s a day every now and then when *2m fran(ly worried, or ust your avera&e doubter. 0ell, for the sa(e of the new novel, * am bolsterin& up what belief * have. *2m a very conventionally reli&ious person%you (now, * find it easier to )believe, when *2m physically in a church, and * (ind of lose touch with the feelin& of how to pray when * slip away from the church for very lon&. *NT@GH*@0@G Are you willin& to say anythin& more about the novel you2re wor(in& on+ *GH*N7 *t will be called A 'rayer $or !wen *eany. *t2s about this little &uy%both a hero and a victim%who believes that he2s been appointed by 7od, that he2s been specially chosen' and that the rather terrible )fate, he encounters is all part of his divine assi&nment. And it2s the writer2s ob, isn2t it, to ma(e the readers wonder if maybe this isn2t entirely true+ @ven the doubters. * have to convince them of little Jwen Meany2s special appointment in the universe, too. *n that sense, maybe, writin& a novel is always a reli&ious act, in that we have to believe that our characters are appointed%even if only by us%and that their acts are not accidents, their responses not random. * don2t believe in accidents. That2s another aspect of how old-fashioned * am, * &uess. *NT@GH*@0@G 1ou2re a public fi&ure now. 6oes that interfere with your &oals as a writer+ *GH*N7 No. *NT@GH*@0@G 1ou don2t have a drin(in& problem. *n fact, your capacity for serious exercise is well-(nown' you2re in &ood shape. Iut so many writers drin( to excess. *2ve heard you lay the blame on what2s wron& with this or that boo( on the author2s drin(in& problem. 1ou2ve said, for example, that the reason both 9emin&way and Fit>&erald wrote their best boo(s in their twenties Bthey were twenty-seven when they wrote The Sun Also Rises and The 1reat 1atsbyC is that they )pic(led their brains., 6o you really believe that+ *GH*N7 1es, * really believe that. They should have &otten better as they &ot older' Ive &otten better. 0e2re not professional athletes' it2s reasonable to assume that we2ll &et better as we mature%at least, until we start &ettin& senile. Jf course, some writers who write their best boo(s early simply lose interest in writin&' or they lose their concentration%probably because they want to do other thin&s. Iut 9emin&way and Fit>&erald really lived to write' their bodies and their brains betrayed them. *2m such an incapable drin(er, *2m luc(y. *f * drin( half a bottle of red wine with my dinner, * for&et who * had

dinner with%not to mention everythin& that * or anybody else said. *f * drin( more than half a bottle, * fall instantly asleep. Iut ust thin( of what novelists do' fiction writin& re;uires a (ind of memory, a vi&orous, invented memory. *f * can for&et who * had dinner with, what mi&ht * for&et about my novelin-pro&ress+ The irony is that drin(in& is especially dan&erous to novelists' memory is vital to us. *2m not so down on drin(in& for writers from a moral point of view' but boo>e is clearly not &ood for writin& or for drivin& cars. 1ou (now what =awrence said4 )The novel is the hi&hest example of subtle interrelatedness that man has discovered., * a&reeK And ust consider for one second what drin(in& does to )subtle interrelatedness., For&et the )subtle,' )interrelatedness, is what ma(es novels wor(%without it, you have no narrative momentum' you have incoherent ramblin&. 6run(s ramble' so do boo(s by drun(s. *NT@GH*@0@G 9ow bi& is your e&o+ *GH*N7 *t &rows a little smaller all the time. Iein& an ex-athlete is &ood for losin& e&o. And writin&, in my opinion, is the opposite of havin& e&o. 8onfidence as a writer should not be confused with personal, e&otistical confidence. A writer is a vehicle. * feel the story * am writin& existed before * existed' *2m ust the slob who finds it, and rather clumsily tries to do it, and the characters, ustice. * thin( of writin& fiction as doin& ustice to the people in the story, and doin& ustice to their story%it2s not my story. *t2s entirely &hostly wor(' *2m ust the medium. As a writer, * do more listenin& than tal(in&. 0. 9. Auden called the first act of writin& )noticin&., 9e meant the vision%not so much what we ma(e up but what we witness. Jh, sure, writers )ma(e up, the lan&ua&e, the voice, the transitions, all the clun(in& brid&es that span the story2s parts%that stuff, it2s true, is invented. * am still old-fashioned enou&h to maintain that what happens in a novel is what distin&uishes it, and what happens is what wesee. *n that sense, we2re all ust reporters. 6idn2t Faul(ner say somethin& li(e it was necessary only to write about )the human heart in conflict with itself, in order to write well+ 0ell, * thin( that2s all we do4 0e find more than we create, we simply see and expose more than we fabulate and invent. At least * do. Jf course, it2s necessary to ma(e the atmosphere of a novel more real than real, as we say. 0hatever its place is, it2s &ot to feel, concretely, li(e a place with richer detail than any place we can actually remember. * thin( what a reader li(es best is memories, the more vivid the better. That2s the role of atmosphere in fiction4 it provides details that feel as &ood, or as terrifyin&, as memories. Hienna, in my boo(s, is more Hienna than Hienna' .t. 8loud2s is more Maine than Maine. *NT@GH*@0@G Jne of the predominant characteristics of your prota&onists is that they &ain success in their occupations without any formal trainin&%T. .. 7arp s(ips colle&e alto&ether, =illy Ierry publishes a novel while still a teena&er, 9omer 0ells practices obstetrics without a medical de&ree%and yet you earned a &raduate de&ree and you2ve wor(ed as a professor at a number of colle&es. 9ow do you account for this disparity between your own experience and that of your characters+ Are you implyin& that hi&her education is unnecessary+ *GH*N7

* needed prep school' * needed the experience of &oin& to school, or havin& to stru&&le in school, and * needed that much education. And * &ot ;uite a lot of education at @xeter, by the way' at least * learned how to learn, how to find thin&s out. There2s another (ey to education4 you learn how to pay enou&h attention, even thou&h you2re bored. A very important tric( for a writer to pic( up. Iut colle&e was a waste of time for me. * stopped payin& attention after * left @xeter%* stopped payin& attention in school, * mean. Iy then * already wanted to write' * was already a reader. * wanted more time%to read more and more novels, and to practice my own writin&. That2s all * wanted to do, and all that really benefited me4 readin& lots of other novels, and practicin& my own writin&. Jf course, you do &et to read some novels in colle&e, but you also have to waste all that time tal(in& about them and writin& about them, when you could be readin& more novels. *NT@GH*@0@G 9ow about writin& classes+ *GH*N7 0ritin& classes bou&ht me time, and they &ave me a little audience. And Thomas 0illiams and !ohn 1ount at the 3niversity of New 9ampshire were very important to me' they encoura&ed me and they critici>ed me, and that saved me time, too. * would have learned what they tau&ht me somewhere, sometime, eventually, but it was wonderful for me to learn it then, and from them. And Kurt Honne&ut was important to me at *owa, as you already (now. Iut *2m tal(in& about three other writers who patted me on the head and passed a pencil over my sentences%* didn2t need the colle&e part of the education. * suppose * did need those silly de&rees, because * wouldn2t have &otten a teachin& ob without those de&rees, and teachin& was an honorable and not-too-time-consumin& way to support myself Bwhich * needed to doC in those years * was writin& the first four boo(s. .o that2s always been true of an education, isn2t it+ 1ou &et one, you &et a better ob%ri&ht+ Iut if * was a &ood teacher%and * was%it was because * had read a lot of novels and * had written and written and written' that provided me with the substance, with what * actually tau&ht. * didn2t need colle&e to be a writer' * needed what a lot of people need from so-called hi&her education4 the credentialsK And let2s tell the truth4 * wouldn2t have been &iven those colle&e teachin& positions simply because * had a I.A. and an M.F.A. * &ot those obs because * published. .chool didn2t help me &et published. *NT@GH*@0@G 9ow did you first &et published+ *GH*N7 * was luc(y from the start. Tom 0illiams sent a couple of my under&raduate short stories to his a&ent, Mavis Mc*ntosh. .he sold one, )A 0inter Iranch,, to Redboo- for ^1,###, and so * had an a&ent. .he retired less than a year later and passed me alon& to 5eter Matson, who2s been my a&ent ever since. That2s my lon&est literary-business relationship, and he2s also one of my dearest friends. Now that2s luc(y, that 5eter and * were ri&ht for each other' that2s &ood luc(. And 5eter found me !oe Fox at Gandom 9ouse, and Fox was very &ood for me, too%a &ood editor, a &ood man with a pencil, which * needed. And when Gandom 9ouse wasn2t exactly promisin& to chan&e their ways and pull out all the

stops forThe orld Accordin& to 1arp, it was Fox who &ave me the ri&ht advice4 to leave him. That2s class. And 9enry Gobbins published 1arp at 6utton, and that was a success. The first unluc(y thin& that happened to me in publishin& was that 9enry died. 9e was a lovely man and it crushed me. Iut the 6utton people did their best%a very youn& editor named !ane Gosenman did a &ood ob with me and The "otel %ew "ampshire. And then * met 9arvey 7insber&, who was actually an old friend of 9enry2s%a classmate at 9arvard%and ust when *2m writin& The Cider "ouse Rules, where does it turn out that 9arvey is from+ Ian&or, Maine. 1ou thin( that2s not luc(y+ And so now 9arvey and * are to&ether at 0illiam Morrow, and *2m so happy * don2t have plans to chan&e publishin& houses. 9ow many writers do you (now who2ll say that+ 9ear many happy publishin& stories+ *2ve been veryluc(y, and * (now it, and *2m &rateful. .o much bitterness exists between writers and their publishers and representatives, but *2ve been spared it, and that means * can thin( about my writin& instead of worryin& about how *2m published%which provides many writers * (now with an absolutely cripplin& distraction. 1ou have to eliminate the distractions. 1ou2ve &ot to (eep focused.

] A complimentary subscription%+d. Author photo&raph by %ancy Crampton4 !ulio 8orta>ar, The Art of Fiction No. D: Interviewed by 2ason eiss .hare on print5G*NTR.hare on twitterT0*TT@GR.hare on faceboo(FA8@IJJKRMJG@ .9AG*N7 .@GH*8@.MJG@RHiew a manuscript pa&e 0hen !ulio 8ortP>ar died of cancer in February 1/DS at the a&e of sixty-nine, the Madrid newspaper +l 'ais hailed him as one of =atin America2s &reatest writers and over two days carried eleven full pa&es of tributes, reminiscences, and farewells. Thou&h 8ortP>ar had lived in 5aris since 1/?1, he visited his native Ar&entina re&ularly until he was officially exiled in the early 1/$#s by the Ar&entine unta, who had ta(en exception to several of his short stories. 0ith the victory, last fall, of the democratically elected AlfonsOn &overnment, 8ortP>ar was able to ma(e one last visit to his home country. AlfonsOn2s cultural minister chose to &ive him no official welcome, afraid that his political views were too far to the left, but the writer was nonetheless &reeted as a returnin& hero. Jne ni&ht in Iuenos Aires, comin& out of a cinema after seein& the new film based on Jsvaldo .oriano2s novel, %o habra ni mas pena ni olvido , 8ortP>ar and his friends ran into a student demonstration comin& towards them, which instantly bro(e file on &limpsin& the writer and crowded around him. The boo(stores on the boulevards still bein& open, the students hurriedly bou&ht up copies of 8ortP>ar2s boo(s so that he could si&n them. A (ios( salesman, apolo&i>in& that he had no more of 8ortP>ar2s boo(s, held out a 8arlos Fuentes novel for him to si&n. 8ortP>ar was born in Irussels in 1/1S. 0hen his family returned to Ar&entina after the war, he &rew up in Ianfield, not far from Iuenos Aires. 9e too( a de&ree as a schoolteacher and went to wor( in a town in the province of Iuenos Aires until the early 1/S#s, writin& for himself on the side. Jne of his

first published stories, )9ouse Ta(en Jver,, which came to him in a dream, appeared in 1/SE in a ma&a>ine edited by !or&e =uis Ior&es. *t wasn2t until after 8ortP>ar moved to 5aris in 1/?1, however, that he be&an publishin& in earnest. *n 5aris, he wor(ed as a translator and interpreter for 3N@.8J and other or&ani>ations. 0riters he translated included 5oe, 6efoe, and Mar&uerite 1ourcenar. *n 1/E:, his second novel "opscotch%about an Ar&entine2s existential and metaphysical searches throu&h the ni&htlife of 5aris and Iuenos Aires%really established 8ortP>ar2s name. Thou&h he is (nown above all as a modern master of the short story, 8ortP>ar2s four novels have demonstrated a ready innovation of form while, at the same time, explorin& basic ;uestions about man in society. These include The inners B1/E#C, EFG A *odel 0itB1/EDC, based in part on his experience as an interpreter, and A *anual $or *anuel B1/$:C, about the (idnappin& of a =atin American diplomat. Iut it was 8ortP>ar2s stories that most directly claimed his fascination with the fantastic. 9is most well(nown story was the basis of Antonioni2s film by the same name, ,low(<p. Five collections of his stories have appeared in @n&lish to date, the most recent bein& e Love 1lenda So *uch. !ust before he died, a travel ournal was published, Los autonautas de la cosmopista, on which he collaborated with his wife, 8arol 6unlop, durin& a voya&e from 5aris to Marseilles in a campin& van. 5ublished simultaneously in .panish and French, 8ortP>ar si&ned all author2s ri&hts and royalties over to the .andinista &overnment in Nicara&ua' the boo( has since become a best-seller. Two posthumous collections of his political articles on Nicara&ua and on Ar&entina have also been published. Throu&hout his expatriate years in 5aris, 8ortP>ar had lived in various nei&hborhoods. *n the last decade, royalties from his boo(s enabled him to buy his own apartment. The apartment, atop a buildin& in a district of wholesalers and chinaware shops, mi&ht have been the settin& for one of his stories4 spacious, thou&h crowded with boo(s, its walls lined with paintin&s by friends. 8ortP>ar was a tall man, EYS_, thou&h thinner than his photo&raphs revealed. The last months before this interview had been particularly difficult for him, since his last wife, 8arol, thirty years his unior, had recently died of cancer. *n addition, his extensive travels, especially to =atin America, had obviously exhausted him. 9e had been home barely a wee( and was finally relaxin& in his favorite chair, smo(in& a pipe as we tal(ed.

*NT@GH*@0@G *n some of the stories in your most recent boo(, Deshoras, the fantastic seems to encroach on the real world more than ever. 9ave you yourself felt as if the fantastic and the commonplace are becomin& one+ !3=*J 8JGT`NAG 1es, in these recent stories * have the feelin& that there is less distance between what we call the fantastic and what we call the real. *n my older stories, the distance was &reater because the fantastic really was fantastic, and sometimes it touched on the supernatural. Jf course, the fantastic ta(es on metamorphoses' it chan&es. The notion of the fantastic we had in the epoch of the &othic novels in @n&land, for example, has absolutely nothin& to do with our concept of it today. Now we lau&h when we read 9orace 0alpole2s Castle o$ !tranto%the &hosts dressed in white, the s(eletons that wal( around

ma(in& noises with their chains. These days, my notion of the fantastic is closer to what we call reality. 5erhaps because reality approaches the fantastic more and more. *NT@GH*@0@G Much more of your time in recent years has been spent in support of various liberation stru&&les in =atin America. 9asn2t that also helped brin& the real and the fantastic closer for you, and made you more serious+ 8JGT`NAG 0ell, * don2t li(e the idea of )serious,, because * don2t thin( * am serious, at least not in the sense where one spea(s of a serious man or a serious woman. Iut in these last few years, my efforts concernin& certain =atin American re&imes%Ar&entina, 8hile, 3ru&uay, and now above all Nicara&ua %have absorbed me to such a point that * have used the fantastic in certain stories to deal with this sub ect%in a way that2s very close to reality, in my opinion. .o, * feel less free than before. That is, thirty years a&o * was writin& thin&s that came into my head and * ud&ed them only by aesthetic criteria. Now, thou&h * continue to ud&e them by aesthetic criteria, first of all because *2m a writer%*2m now a writer who2s tormented, very preoccupied by the situation in =atin America' conse;uently that often slips into my writin&, in a conscious or in an unconscious way. Iut despite the stories with very precise references to ideolo&ical and political ;uestions, my stories, in essence, haven2t chan&ed. They2re still stories of the fantastic. The problem for an en&a&< writer, as they call them now, is to continue bein& a writer. *f what he writes becomes simply literature with a political content, it can be very mediocre. That2s what has happened to a number of writers. .o, the problem is one of balance. For me, what * do must always be literature, the hi&hest * can do . . . to &o beyond the possible. Iut, at the same time, to try to put in a mix of contemporary reality. And that2s a very difficult balance. *n the story in Deshoras about the rats, ).atarsa,%which is an episode based on the stru&&le a&ainst the Ar&entine &uerrillas%the temptation was to stic( to the political level alone. *NT@GH*@0@G 0hat has been the response to such stories+ 0as there much difference in the response you &ot from literary people and that which you &ot from political ones+ 8JGT`NAG Jf course. The bour&eois readers in =atin America who are indifferent to politics, or those who ali&n themselves with the ri&ht win&, well, they don2t worry about the problems that worry me%the problems of exploitation, of oppression, and so on. Those people re&ret that my stories often ta(e a political turn. Jther readers, above all the youn&%who share my sentiments, my need to stru&&le, and who love literature%love these stories. The 8ubans relish )Meetin&., )Apocalypse at .olentiname, is a story that Nicara&uans read and reread with &reat pleasure. *NT@GH*@0@G

0hat has determined your increased political involvement+ 8JGT`NAG The military in =atin America%they2re the ones who ma(e me wor( harder. *f they were removed, if there were a chan&e, then * could rest a little and wor( on poems and stories that would be exclusively literary. Iut it2s they who &ive me wor( to do. *NT@GH*@0@G 1ou have said at various times that, for you, literature is li(e a &ame. *n what ways+ 8JGT`NAG For me, literature is a form of play. Iut *2ve always added that there are two forms of play4 football, for example, which is basically a &ame, and then &ames that are very profound and serious. 0hen children play, thou&h they2re amusin& themselves, they ta(e it very seriously. *t2s important. *t2s ust as serious for them now as love will be ten years from now. * remember when * was little and my parents used to say, )J(ay, you2ve played enou&h, come ta(e a bath now., * found that completely idiotic, because, for me, the bath was a silly matter. *t had no importance whatsoever, while playin& with my friends was somethin& serious. =iterature is li(e that%it2s a &ame, but it2s a &ame one can put one2s life into. Jne can do everythin& for that &ame. *NT@GH*@0@G 0hen did you become interested in the fantastic+ 0ere you very youn&+ 8JGT`NAG *t be&an in my childhood. Most of my youn& classmates had no sense of the fantastic. They too( thin&s as they were . . . this is a plant, that is an armchair. Iut for me, thin&s were not that well defined. My mother, who2s still alive and is a very ima&inative woman, encoura&ed me. *nstead of sayin&, )No, no, you should be serious,, she was pleased that * was ima&inative' when * turned towards the world of the fantastic, she helped by &ivin& me boo(s to read. * read @d&ar Allan 5oe for the first time when * was only nine. * stole the boo( to read because my mother didn2t want me to read it' she thou&ht * was too youn& and she was ri&ht. The boo( scared me and * was ill for three months, because * believed in it . . . dur comme $er as the French say. For me, the fantastic was perfectly natural' * had no doubts at all. That2s the way thin&s were. 0hen * &ave those (inds of boo(s to my friends, they2d say, )Iut no, we prefer to read cowboy stories., 8owboys were especially popular at the time. * didn2t understand that. * preferred the world of the supernatural, of the fantastic. *NT@GH*@0@G 0hen you translated 5oe2s complete wor(s many years later, did you discover new thin&s for yourself from so close a readin&+

8JGT`NAG Many, many thin&s. * explored his lan&ua&e, which is critici>ed by both the @n&lish and the Americans because they find it too baro;ue. .ince *2m neither @n&lish nor American, * see it with another perspective. * (now there are aspects which have a&ed a lot, that are exa&&erated, but that doesn2t mean anythin& compared to his &enius. To write, in those times, )The Fall of the 9ouse of 3sher,, or )=i&eia,, or )Ierenice,, or )The Ilac( 8at,, any of them, shows a true &enius for the fantastic and for the supernatural. 1esterday, * visited a friend on the rue @d&ar Allan 5oe. There is a pla;ue on the street which reads, )@d&ar 5oe, @n&lish 0riter., 9e wasn2t @n&lish at allK 0e should have it chan&ed%we2ll both protestK *NT@GH*@0@G *n your writin&, in addition to the fantastic, there is a real warmth and affection for your characters. 8JGT`NAG 0hen my characters are children and adolescents, * have a lot of tenderness for them. * thin( they are very alive in my novels and in my stories' * treat them with a lot of love. 0hen * write a story where the character is an adolescent, * am the adolescent while * am writin& it. 0ith the adult characters, it2s somethin& else. *NT@GH*@0@G Are many of your characters based on people that you2ve (nown+ 8JGT`NAG * wouldn2t say many, but there are a few. Hery often there are characters who are a mixture of two or three people. * have put to&ether a female character, for example, from two women * have (nown. That &ives the character in the story or the boo( a personality that2s more complex, more difficult. *NT@GH*@0@G 6o you mean that when you feel the need to thic-en a character, you combine two to&ether+ 8JGT`NAG Thin&s don2t wor( li(e that. *t2s the characters who direct me. That is, * see a character, he2s there, and * reco&ni>e someone * (new, or occasionally two who are a bit mixed to&ether, but then that stops. Afterwards, the character acts on his own account. 9e says thin&s . . . * never (now what any of them are &oin& to say when *2m writin& dialo&ue. Geally, it2s up to them. Me, *2m ust typin& out what they2re sayin&. .ometimes * burst out lau&hin&, or * throw out a pa&e and say, )There, there you2ve said silly thin&s. JutK, And * put in another pa&e and start over a&ain with their dialo&ue. *NT@GH*@0@G

.o it2s not the characters you2ve (nown that impel you to write+ 8JGT`NAG No, not at all. Jften, * have an idea for a story, but there aren2t any characters yet. *2ll have a stran&e idea4 somethin&2s &oin& to happen in a house in the country, * see . . . *2m very visual when * write, * see it all, * see everythin&. .o, * see this house in the country and then, abruptly, * be&in to situate the characters. At that point, one of the characters mi&ht be someone * (new. Iut it2s not for sure. *n the end, most of my characters are invented. Now, of course, there2s myself. *n "opscotch, there are many autobio&raphical references in the character of Jliveira. *t2s not me, but there2s a lot that derives from my early bohemian days in 5aris. 1et readers who read Jliveira as 8ortP>ar in 5aris would be mista(en. No, no, * was very different. *NT@GH*@0@G *s this because you don2t wish your writin& to be autobio&raphical+ 8JGT`NAG * don2t li(e autobio&raphy. * will never write my memoirs. Autobio&raphies of others interest me, of course, but not my own. *f * wrote my autobio&raphy, * would have to be truthful and honest. * couldn2t tell an ima&inary autobio&raphy. And so, * would be doin& a historian2s ob, bein& a self-historian, and that bores me. Iecause * prefer to invent, to ima&ine. Jf course, very often when * have ideas for a novel or a story, situations and moments of my life naturally place themselves in that context. *n my story )6eshoras,, the idea of the boy bein& in love with his pal2s older sister is, in fact, based on an autobio&raphical situation. .o there is a small part of it that2s autobio&raphical, but from there on, it2s the fantastic or the ima&inary which dominates. *NT@GH*@0@G 9ow do you start with your stories+ Iy any particular entry, an ima&e+ 8JGT`NAG 0ith me stories and novels can start anywhere. As for the writin& itself, when * be&in to write, the story has been turnin& around in me a lon& time, sometimes for wee(s. Iut not in any way that2s clear' it2s a sort of &eneral idea of the story. 5erhaps that house where there2s a red plant in one corner, and * (now there2s an old man who wal(s around in this house. That2s all * (now. *t happens li(e that. And then there are the dreams. 6urin& this &estation period my dreams are full of references and allusions to what is &oin& to be in the story. .ometimes the whole story is in a dream. Jne of my first and most popular stories, )9ouse Ta(en Jver,, is a ni&htmare * had. * &ot up immediately and wrote it. Iut in &eneral, what comes out of the dreams are fra&ments of references. That is, my subconscious is in the process of wor(in& throu&h a story%when * am dreamin&, it2s bein& written inside there. .o when * say that * be&in anywhere, it2s because * don2t (now what, at that point, is to be the be&innin& or the end. 0hen * start to write, that2s the be&innin&. * haven2t decided that the story has to start li(e that' it simply starts there and it continues, and very often * have no clear idea about the endin&%* don2t (now what2s

&oin& to happen. *t2s only &radually, as the story &oes on, that thin&s become clearer and abruptly * see the endin&. *NT@GH*@0@G .o you are discoverin& the story while you are writin& it+ 8JGT`NAG That2s ri&ht. *t2s li(e improvisin& in a>>. 1ou don2t as( a a>> musician, )Iut what are you &oin& to play+, 9e2ll lau&h at you. 9e has a theme, a series of chords he has to respect, and then he ta(es up his trumpet or his saxophone and he be&ins. *t2s not a ;uestion of idea. 9e performs throu&h a series of different internal pulsations. .ometimes it comes out well, sometimes it doesn2t. *t2s the same with me. *2m a bit embarrassed to si&n my stories sometimes. The novels, no, because the novels * wor( on a lot' there2s a whole architecture. Iut my stories, it2s as if they were dictated to me by somethin& that is in me, but it2s not me who2s responsible. 0ell, since it does appear they are mine even so, * &uess * should accept themK *NT@GH*@0@G Are there certain aspects of writin& a story that always pose a problem for you+ 8JGT`NAG *n &eneral, no, because as * was explainin&, the story is already made somewhere inside me. .o, it has its dimension, its structure' if it2s &oin& to be a very short story or a fairly lon& story, all that is as if decided in advance. Iut in recent years *2ve started to sense some problems. * reflect more in front of the pa&e. * write more slowly. And * write in a way that2s more spare. 8ertain critics have reproached me for that, they2ve told me that little by little *2m losin& that suppleness in my stories. * seem to be sayin& what * want to with a &reater economy of means. * don2t (now if it2s for better or for worse%in any case, it2s my way of writin& now. *NT@GH*@0@G 1ou were sayin& that with the novels there is a whole architecture. 6oes that mean that you wor( very differently+ 8JGT`NAG The first thin& * wrote in "opscotch was a chapter that is now in the middle. *t2s the chapter where the characters put out a plan( to cross from one window of an apartment house to another. * wrote that without (nowin& why * was writin& it. * saw the characters, * saw the situation%it was in Iuenos Aires. *t was very hot, * remember, and * was next to the window with my typewriter. * saw this situation of a &uy who2s tryin& to ma(e his wife &o across the plan(%because he won2t &o himself%to &et some silly thin&, some nails. * wrote all that, which was lon&, some forty pa&es, and when *2d finished * said to myself, )All ri&ht, but what have * done+ Iecause that2s not a story. 0hat is it+, Then * understood that

* was launched on a novel, but that * couldn2t continue from that point. * had to stop there and &o bac( and write the whole section in 5aris which comes before, which is the whole bac(&round of Jliveira, and when * finally arrived at this chapter about wal(in& the plan(, then * went on from there. *NT@GH*@0@G 6o you revise much when you write+ 8JGT`NAG Hery little. That comes from the fact that the thin& has already been at wor( inside me. 0hen * see the rou&h drafts of certain of my writer friends, where everythin& is revised, everythin&2s chan&ed, moved around, and there are arrows all over the place . . . no no no. My manuscripts are very clean. *NT@GH*@0@G !os< =e>ama =ima in 'aradiso has 8emO sayin& that )the baro;ue . . . is what has real interest in .pain and 9ispanic America., 0hy do you thin( that is so+ 8JGT`NAG * cannot reply as an expert. True, the baro;ue is &reatly important in =atin America, both in the arts and in the literature as well. The baro;ue can offer a &reat richness' it lets the ima&ination soar in all its many spiralin& directions, as in a baro;ue church with its decorative an&els and all that, or in baro;ue music. Iut * distrust the baro;ue. The baro;ue writers, very often, let themselves &o too easily in their writin&. They write in five pa&es what one could very well write in one. * too must have fallen into the baro;ue because * am =atin American, but * have always had a mistrust of it. * don2t li(e tur&id, voluminous sentences, full of ad ectives and descriptions, purrin& and purrin& into the reader2s ear. * (now it2s very charmin&, of course. *t2s very beautiful but it2s not me. *2m more on the side of !or&e =uis Ior&es. 9e has always been an enemy of the baro;ue' he ti&htened his writin&, as if with pliers. 0ell, * write in a very different way than Ior&es, but the &reat lesson he tau&ht me is one of economy. 9e tau&ht me when * be&an to read him, bein& very youn&, that one had to try to say what one wanted to with economy, but with a beautiful economy. *t2s the difference, perhaps, between a plant, which would be considered baro;ue, with its multiplication of leaves, often very beautiful, and a precious stone, a crystal%that for me is more beautiful still. *NT@GH*@0@G 0hat are your writin& habits+ 9ave certain thin&s chan&ed+ 8JGT`NAG The one thin& that hasn2t chan&ed, and never will, is the total anarchy and the disorder. * have absolutely no method. 0hen * feel li(e writin& a story * let everythin& drop' * write the story. And sometimes when * write a story, in the month or two that follows * will write two or three more. *n &eneral, the stories come in series. 0ritin& one leaves me in a receptive state, and then * )catch,

another. 1ou see the sort of ima&e * use, but it2s li(e that' the story drops inside of me. Iut then a year can &o by where * write nothin& . . . nothin&. Jf course, these last few years * have spent a &ood deal of my time at the typewriter writin& political articles. The texts *2ve written about Nicara&ua, everythin& *2ve written about Ar&entina, have nothin& to do with literature%they2re militant thin&s. *NT@GH*@0@G 1ou2ve often said that it was the 8uban revolution that awa(ened you to ;uestions of =atin America and its problems. 8JGT`NAG And * say it a&ain. *NT@GH*@0@G 6o you have preferred places for writin&+ 8JGT`NAG *n fact, no. *n the be&innin&, when * was youn&er and physically more resistant, here in 5aris for example, * wrote a lar&e part of "opscotch in caf<s. Iecause the noise didn2t bother me and, on the contrary, it was a very con&enial place. * wor(ed a lot there%* read or * wrote. Iut with a&e *2ve become more complicated. * write when *2m sure of havin& some silence. * can2t write if there2s music, that2s absolutely out. Music is one thin& and writin& is another. * need a certain calm' but, havin& said this, a hotel, an airplane sometimes, a friend2s house, or here at home are places where * can write. *NT@GH*@0@G 0hat about 5aris+ 0hat &ave you the coura&e to pic( up and move off to 5aris when you did, more than thirty years a&o+ 8JGT`NAG 8oura&e+ No, it didn2t ta(e much coura&e. * simply had to accept the idea that comin& to 5aris, and cuttin& the brid&es with Ar&entina at that time meant bein& very poor and havin& problems ma(in& a livin&. Iut that didn2t worry me. * (new in one way or another * was &oin& to mana&e. * came to 5aris primarily because 5aris, French culture on the whole, held a stron& attraction for me. * had read French literature with a passion in Ar&entina, so * wanted to be here and &et to (now the streets and the places one finds in the boo(s, in the novels. To &o throu&h the streets of Ial>ac or of Iaudelaire . . . it was a very romantic voya&e. * was, * am, very romantic. *n fact, * have to be rather careful when * write, because very often * could let myself fall into . . . * wouldn2t say bad taste, perhaps not, but a bit in the direction of an exa&&erated romanticism. *n my private life, * don2t need to control myself. * really am very sentimental, very romantic. *2m a tender person' * have a lot of tenderness to &ive. 0hat * &ive now to Nicara&ua, it2s tenderness. *t is also the political conviction that the .andinistas are ri&ht in what they2re doin& and that they2re leadin& an admirable stru&&le' but it2s not only the political impetus, it2s

that there2s an enormous tenderness because it2s a people * love, as * love the 8ubans, and * love the Ar&entines. 0ell, all that ma(es up part of my character. *n my writin& * have had to watch myself, above all when * was youn&. * wrote thin&s then that were tear er(ers. That was really romanticism, the roman rose. My mother would read them and cry. *NT@GH*@0@G Nearly all your writin& that people (now dates from your arrival in 5aris. Iut you were writin& a lot before, weren2t you+ A few thin&s had already been published. 8JGT`NAG *2ve been writin& since the a&e of nine, ri&ht up throu&h my whole adolescence and early youth. *n my early youth * was already capable of writin& stories and novels, which showed me that * was on the ri&ht path. Iut * wasn2t ea&er to publish. * was very severe with myself, and * continue to be. * remember that my peers, when they had written some poems or a small novel, searched for a publisher ri&ht away. * would tell myself, )No, you2re not publishin&, you han& on to that., * (ept certain thin&s, and others * threw out. 0hen * did publish for the first time * was over thirty years old' it was ust before my departure for France. That was my first boo( of stories, ,estiario, which came out in 2?1, the same month that * too( the boat to come here. Iefore that, * had published a little text called Los reyes, which is a dialo&ue. A friend who had a lot of money, who did small editions for himself and his friends, had done a private edition. And that2s all. No, there2s another thin&%a sin of youth%a boo( of sonnets. * published it myself, but with a pseudonym. *NT@GH*@0@G 1ou are the lyricist of a recent album of tan&os, Trottoirs de ,uenos Aires. 0hat &ot you started writin& tan&os+ 8JGT`NAG 0ell, * am a &ood Ar&entine and above all a porte6o%that is, a resident of Iuenos Aires, because it2s the port. The tan&o was our music, and * &rew up in an atmosphere of tan&os. 0e listened to them on the radio, because the radio started when * was little, and ri&ht away it was tan&o after tan&o. There were people in my family, my mother and an aunt, who played tan&os on the piano and san& them. Throu&h the radio, we be&an to listen to 8arlos 7ardel and the &reat sin&ers of the time. The tan&o became li(e a part of my consciousness and it2s the music that sends me bac( to my youth a&ain and to Iuenos Aires. .o, *2m ;uite cau&ht up in the tan&o, all while bein& very critical, because *2m not one of those Ar&entines who believes that the tan&o is the wonder of wonders. * thin( that the tan&o on the whole, especially next to a>>, is a very poor music. *t is poor but it is beautiful. *t2s li(e those plants that are very simple, that one can2t compare to an orchid or a rosebush, but which have an extraordinary beauty in themselves. *n recent years, friends of mine have played tan&os here' the 8uarteto 8edr[n are &reat friends, and a fine bandone?n player named !uan !os< Mosalini%so we2ve listened to tan&os, tal(ed about tan&os. Then one day a poem came to me li(e that, which * thou&ht perhaps could be set to music, * didn2t really (now. And then, loo(in& amon& unpublished poems Bmost of my poems are unpublishedC, * found some short poems which those fellows could set to music, and they did. Also, we2ve done the

opposite as well. 8edr[n &ave me a musical theme to which * wrote the words. .o *2ve done it both ways. *NT@GH*@0@G *n the bio&raphical notes in your boo(s, it says you are also an amateur trumpet player. 9ave you ever played with any &roups+ 8JGT`NAG No. That2s a bit of a le&end that was invented by my very dear friend 5aul Ilac(burn, who died ;uite youn& unfortunately. 9e (new that * played the trumpet a little, mainly for myself at home. .o he would always tell me, )Iut you should meet some musicians to play with., *2d say, )No, as the Americans say, a* haven2t &ot what it ta(es.2, * didn2t have the talent' * was ust playin& for myself. * would put on a !elly Goll Morton record, or Armstron&, or early @llin&ton%where the melody is easier to follow, especially the blues which has a &iven scheme. And * would have fun hearin& them play and addin& my trumpet. * played alon& with them . . . but it certainly wasn2t with themK * never dared approach a>> musicians' now my trumpet is lost somewhere in the other room there. Ilac(burn put that in one of the blurbs. And because there is a photo of me playin& the trumpet, people thou&ht * really could play well. As * never wanted to publish before bein& sure, it was the same with the trumpet%* never wanted to play before bein& sure. And that day has never arrived. *NT@GH*@0@G 9ave you wor(ed on any novels since A *anual $or *anuel+ 8JGT`NAG Alas no, for reasons that are very clear. *t2s due to political wor(. For me, a novel re;uires a concentration and a ;uantity of time, at least a year, to wor( tran;uilly and not to abandon it. And now, * cannot. A wee( a&o * didn2t (now * would be leavin& for Nicara&ua in three days. 0hen * return * won2t (now what2s &oin& to happen next. Iut this novel is already written. *t2s there, it2s in my dreams. * dream all the time of this novel. * don2t (now what happens in the novel, but * have an idea. As in the stories, * (now it will be somethin& fairly lon&, with some elements of the fantastic, but not too many. *t will be in the &enre of A *anual $or *anuel, where the fantastic elements are mixed in' but it won2t be a political boo(. *t will be a boo( of pure literature. * hope that life will &ive me a sort of desert island, even if the desert island is this room . . . and a year, * as( for a year. Iut when these bastards%the 9ondurans, the .omocistas and Gea&an%are in the act of destroyin& Nicara&ua, * don2t have my island. * couldn2t be&in to write, because * would be obsessed constantly by that problem. *t demands top priority. *NT@GH*@0@G And it can be difficult enou&h as it is balancin& life and literature. 8JGT`NAG

1es and no. *t depends on the (ind of priorities. *f the priorities are, li(e those * ust mentioned, touchin& on the moral responsibility of an individual, * would a&ree. Iut * (now many people who are always complainin&, )Jh, *2d li(e to write my novel, but * have to sell the house, and then there are the taxes, what am * &oin& to do+, Geasons li(e, )* wor( in the office all day, how do you expect me to write+, Me, * wor(ed all day at 3N@.8J and then * came home and wrote "opscotch. 0hen one wants to write, one writes. *f one is condemned to write, one writes. *NT@GH*@0@G 6o you wor( anymore as a translator or interpreter+ 8JGT`NAG No, that2s over. * lead a very simple life. * don2t need much money to buy the thin&s * li(e4 records, boo(s, tobacco. .o now * can live from my royalties. They2ve translated me into so many lan&ua&es that * receive enou&h money to live on. * have to be a little careful' * can2t &o out and buy myself a yacht, but since * have absolutely no intention of buyin& a yacht . . . *NT@GH*@0@G 9ave fame and success been pleasurable+ 8JGT`NAG Ah, listen, *2ll say somethin& * shouldn2t say because no one will believe it, but success isn2t a pleasure for me. *2m &lad to be able to live from what * write, so * have to put up with the popular and critical side of success. Iut * was happier as a man when * was un(nown. Much happier. Now * can2t &o to =atin America or to .pain without bein& reco&ni>ed every ten yards, and the auto&raphs, the embraces . . . *t2s very movin&, because they2re readers who are fre;uently ;uite youn&. *2m happy that they li(e what * do, but it2s terribly distressin& for me on the level of privacy. * can2t &o to a beach in @urope' in five minutes there2s a photo&rapher. * have a physical appearance that * can2t dis&uise' if * were small * could shave and put on sun&lasses, but with my hei&ht, my lon& arms and all that, they discover me from afar. Jn the other hand, there are very beautiful thin&s4 * was in Iarcelona a month a&o, wal(in& around the 7othic \uarter one evenin&, and there was an American &irl, very pretty, playin& the &uitar very well and sin&in&. .he was seated on the &round sin&in& to earn her livin&. .he san& a bit li(e !oan Iae>, a very pure, clear voice. There was a &roup of youn& people from Iarcelona listenin&. * stopped to listen to her, but * stayed in the shadows. At one point, one of these youn& men who was about twenty, very youn&, very handsome, approached me. 9e had a ca(e in his hand. 9e said, )!ulio, ta(e a piece., .o * too( a piece and * ate it, and * told him, )Than(s a lot for comin& up and &ivin& that to me., 9e said to me, )Iut, listen, * &ive you so little next to what you2ve &iven me., * said, )6on2t say that, don2t say that,, and we embraced and he went away. 0ell, thin&s li(e that, that2s the best recompense for my wor( as a writer. That a boy or a &irl comes up to spea( to you and to offer you a piece of ca(e, it2s wonderful. *t2s worth the trouble of havin& written. .hare on print5G*NTR.hare on twitterT0*TT@GR.hare on faceboo(FA8@IJJKRMJG@ .9AG*N7 .@GH*8@.MJG@RHiew a manuscript pa&e