Frederick Busch on North: A Novel

Frederick BuschFrederick Busch was born in Brooklyn, New York,
and graduated from Muhlenberg College in Pennsylvania. He received
an M.A. from Colgate, where he later taught literature until his
recent retirement. Among his twenty-seven books are the novels I
Wanted a Year Without Fall
(1971), Breathing Trouble
(1974), Manual Labor (1974), The Mutual Friend
(1978), Rounds (1979), Take This Man (1981), Invisible
(1984), Sometimes I Live in the Country (1986),
Closing Arguments (1988), Absent Friends (1989),
War Babies (1989), Harry and Catherine (1990),
Long Way from Home (1993), Girls (1997), The
Night Inspector
(1999), A Memory of War (2003), and
North: A Novel (2005). He has also published four story
collections and four works of nonfiction. Fredrick Busch lives with
his wife Judy in upstate New York.

In North, Busch returns to the protagonist in Girls,
Jack (and his nameless dog). Jack has not gotten over the events
recounted in the earlier novel and has landed at a resort on “hot,
wet countryside of the Carolina coast” at a dead-end job—security
guard at that resort. He meets a vacationing Manhattan lawyer who
offers him a job and an escape from his dreary existence. Jack returns
to New York state, the landscape of his former life, in search of
the lawyer’s troubled nephew and encounters his own past,
as well as the mysterious circumstances of nephew Tyler Pearl’s
disappearance. And it is here that the multilayered story plays
out as something of a whodunit—but more in keeping with Busch’s
familiar concerns, an examination of the vagaries of memory and
the power of family ties.

Fred Busch, whose writings I came upon in the early ‘90s,
represents the kind of writer who is at the core of contemporary
literary fiction—who, if we take heed of the concerns he airs
below, may be an endangered species. With great regularity every
three or four years, and sometimes sooner, he publishes fiction
that deserves an audience as much as any of the better-known types
such as John Updike or Joyce Carol Oates. This would be the fourth
or fifth time I have spoken with Frederick Busch, and I believe
that what follows shows the ongoing pleasure I have taken from them.
The hope, of course, is that you will feel the same.

Robert Birnbaum: The last
time we spoke
you were on the verge of retiring from teaching?

Frederick Busch: 2003 is when I left.

RB: Is that the last time we spoke?

FB: I was here for Memory of War—which came out
in ’03. Right on the nose.

RB: Details, details. What’s changed since then?

FB: More time to write.

RB: That’s good.

FB: That’s what I wanted. I left early and forsook a wonderful
setup. That is to say, they paid me more than I deserved to teach
less than they wanted me to. It was good. I wanted more time to
write. I have found myself writing poetry shortly after I retired.
Which I hadn’t done in forty years.

RB: How juvenile. [laughs]

FB: It’s interesting; the poems were not. I ended up writing
a rather interesting cycle of poems.

RB: To be published?

FB: Some have been published. In Georgia Review and Five
. Good places. Umm, what else changed? My son, who
is a major in the Marine Corps reserves, is now doing his second
tour of duty in Iraq. And that is a change I find unacceptable.
As does his wife and infant baby. He is in Ramati, which is a toxic
city to begin with. We’re scared. So that’s going on.
Judy [Fred’s wife] retired around the same time. And we’re
having fun. We live up in the hills between where Colgate is and
Cooperstown. I am edging closer to the Hall of Fame. I don’t
know that I am going to get in. [both laugh]

RB: Granted that fleeting impressions can be misleading, but you
have always struck me as a sunny, upbeat kind of guy.

FB: That’s misleading.

RB: It takes something to do that, to present that face.

FB: Well, you owe it to people. I keep coming down from work—I
work upstairs in the barn, a ways from the house—and I come
down and Judy sort of looks up to see what does the visage suggest.
And I smile and I say, “Yeah, I got something really funny
going.” And she rolls her eyes, because she knows when she
starts to read it she is going to cry. So I don’t think the
work has ever been sunny. Although I think I have managed moments
of humor.

RB: Assuming that you were the sunny avuncular, jocular guy—

FB: Nah, I’m a fraud.

RB: —I intended to ask what it took for you to imagine certain
dark emotions and that conversion to language. In any case, you
couldn’t be farther removed from the character in North [and

FB: Well, I’m not big and rugged and capable, and he is.
He is looking for words. He doesn’t have words. And yet he
is telling you his novel. And the tension between those two conditions
I find irresistible.

RB: That he is, in some ways, inarticulate?

FB: And yet it’s a first-person novel, and so he is articulate.
His language consistently fails him and maybe it consistently fails
all of us. I don’t know. I’m drawn to that. I am nothing
like him, I don’t think. He is a rescuer; I am a responsible
middle-class father and husband. There is a world of difference.
I’m drawn to him by his—by the simplicity of his language.
It’s a hard-won simplicity. It’s hard to find the right
words to use with him when you are writing him. I had just finished
writing and publishing A Memory of War, which is such a
complicated novel, and even the sentences were long and there was
this constant sense of several things, psychologically and mentally,
going on at once. And I longed for the simplicity of Jack or the
appearance of the simplicity of Jack, the narrator of North.
I don’t think I am like him, but I wish I could be.

RB: He is an admirable man.

FB: He wants to be a good man. And he works at it and tries.

RB: I have written about this in Bark
: the dog who is not given a name in the novel, is a
real character—

It's hard to read real fiction. It takes time. It takes a sustained
attention. You can't as easily zoom in and out of it
as you can nonfiction. Nonfiction for the most part is facts.

FB: Jack doesn’t have enough words.

RB: That’s the reason?

FB: Yeah.

RB: I attributed it to some other idiosyncrasy.

FB: He just never named him. You would think—he was with
the dog for 15 years—[and] you would think he would have named
him. There is that half–boy’s book, half–adult,
Hondo [Louis L’Amour]: this man would sort of growl
in his western way and call the dog “Dog.” But Jack
can’t even call the dog “Dog.” He just doesn’t
have the words.

RB: The relationship, unlike instances where there is a dog or
pet in some stories . . . This is a real relationship.

FB: Yeah.

RB: It’s not a narrative device

FB: It’s an intimacy. When you—you know this—when
you are writing a character, what the character says is obviously
crucial. But what the character doesn’t say is absolutely
as important as his words. And these two creatures live together
in remarkable symbiosis with almost nothing being said.

RB: Except later in the book every now and then he finds himself
talking to an empty front seat. Would he have been talking if the
dog were present?

FB: In the novel from which North grew, the novel Girls,
there we a couple of scenes, as I recall. I haven’t reread
the whole book, in which Jack does talk to the dog as they go about
their rounds.

RB: That’s a little odd to me—not rereading the first
book. If this was movie, you’d want to be certain about the
continuity, yes?

FB: Well, I sort of knew enough of the former events. What I didn’t
want to do was imitate myself. And it’s easy to do. I knew
the structure. I knew there would be a one-word title. One-word
chapter names. I knew that Jack wouldn’t have a last name
and his dog wouldn’t have any name. And I knew that a crucial
moment would come in a cornfield, just as it does in Girls.
And I felt that was all I needed to know. I remembered enough.

RB: I have to ask: Will there be a third book? You kind of left

FB: I left it so that it could be. Just to leave myself an option.
I don’t think I want to write a third book. But the more people
talk to me about it, the more I think maybe I do. I don’t

RB: It’s not like you have drawn everything out of this guy.
He is a kind of—not mystery exactly, but I do want to know
more about him.

FB: If I were to write about him again, it would have to be in
a situation where language was required of him. I don’t know
in what way. It would have to be the essence of the book So that
the man would find words with which to live.

RB: If he reunites with Merle, the woman that he has struck up
something with, a high-powered lawyer, it strikes me that it would
be the kind of relationship that would require him to be verbal.

FB: Could be. I just don’t know.

RB: She may not show up at all in his future?

FB: Don’t know.

RB: On the other hand, what would have to show up again would be
another dog.

FB: Would have to. There have to be dogs.

RB: I am wary about getting into this too much, but has there been
much review attention for North?

FB: It’s officially published, and it’s happening slowly,
but it’s beginning to happen. There was a big rave in the
Washington Post, I hear. I don’t read my reviews.
I was told about it. We’ll find out.

RB: Some writers command a wave of attention when their books come
to market, and some don’t. You’ve been writing well
long enough where this book ought to have been greeted with some
noise or buzz.

FB: It would have been nice, but I don’t feel like I have
to be responsible for that sort of thing

RB: That’s good.

FB: And even the analysis of it. What are you going to say about
the responsibility of the New York Times to fiction? Serious
fiction. What are you going to say about the Boston Globe’s
responsibility for the state of serious fiction and poetry in this
country or the Philadelphia Enquirer? Make up your own
list. It’s a different time from even two years ago.

RB: You think?

FB: Yeah. The culture is with some rapidity fearing its imagination.
I don’t know why. Imagination is not of interest. The New
York Times
—my wife and I were just looking idly at it
since we knew it was safe—

RB: [laughs]

FB: —since there was nothing in it about me that week. And
there was one page on which there were five short paragraphs about
novels. One paragraph per novel. And the rest of the magazine was
about nonfiction.

fred buschRB:
That’s been a complaint since the post-McGrath regime came
to the NYTBR.

FB: That’s what he [Sam Tanenhaus, NYTBR editor]
cares about.

RB: Ed Champion,
a literary journalist, weekly assesses the Book Review
and awards Tanenhaus brownie points based on his well-articulated

FB: [chuckles] Good.

RB: More often then not, the discussion devolves to a question
of why fiction is being tossed aside.

FB: It’s being ignored. It’s hard to read real fiction.
It takes time. It takes a sustained attention. You can’t as
easily zoom in and out of it as you can nonfiction. Nonfiction,
for the most part, is facts, and it’s “how I was mistreated.
I was mistreated. Were you mistreated? Weren’t we all mistreated?”

RB: I don’t really give two shits about this—and I
wonder where I went wrong—but the interest in Deep Throat
reminded me about Charles
’s brilliant essay "Burning Down the House,"
the one about the era of dysfunctional narrative.

FB: Oh yeah.

RB: Maybe we are at a point where fiction is more real—realer—[and]
makes more sense than so-called reality?

FB: I believe [Jorge Luis] Borges said it, and [James] Joyce said
it. But it’s true, yeah.

RB: These days, why would people want to deal with characters who
seemingly made sense in what they did and facts that cohered as
opposed to—I keep seeing this quote by some senior White House
official, ”We’re in charge. We’re an empire. We
make reality.”

FB: Yeah. They don’t, and they know it, and that’s
why they say it. The people who make reality are angry peasants
with old cannon shells wired together, an anti-vehicle device. They
blew up a vehicle my son was riding in; he had shrapnel shredded
through his arm.

RB: Why isn’t that sufficient to send him home?

FB: They didn’t maim him. It was a clean wound. That’s
how desperate they are. Leaving off fiction and talking politics
. . . They don’t make reality. They say they do. Rumsfeld
says he does, but his soldiers keep dying for lack of the armor
he sent to protect them. And that’s a fact he can’t

RB: This far removed from some of the real theaters of action,
there seems to be a perception of a reality that the new Imperialists
have created that is accepted.

FB: It’s the accepting part that astonishes me. The audience,
the so-called readers, of the so-called fiction, that astonishes
me. That those bozos got elected. A bunch of third-rate pirates
invading a fourth-rate banana republic to plunder it is what that
administration has been, and that they have been getting away with
it, is what crushed me.

RB: Care to speculate why?

FB: People do not read, by and large. They watch television, and
that’s little fragments—troops march gloriously down
the main street of Baghdad today: Shock and Awe and now a word from
our brassiere correspondent. There’s no information. You have
to sit and read a couple of newspapers that you then have to distrust
and hold at [an] angle as you read them, to get some facts, to find
out what is being said. We’ve had the big lie.

RB: I was thinking about the dysfunctional narrative, with so-called
anonymous sources. But the Fox network has perfected the “Some
say” preface as a pretext of introducing some dubious, ridiculous
specious or red herring. Every newscast said or implied that Deep
Throat’s identity was something everyone wanted to know about.
America’s been on pins and needles for thirty-odd years awaiting
this revelation.

FB: You and I wanted to know.

RB: I didn’t. I could[n't] care less.

FB: I did.

RB: And the worst thing about these things is that everyone had
to bring that equivocating bumbler David Gergen. This guy is a very
oily circle-walker.

FB: Mr. Earnest, yeah. He has served everybody with equal disloyalty.

RB: [laughs] And now he is at Harvard.

FB: Well, where else to go after? Periodically there have been
little items in the New York Review about graduate students
and professors at Harvard who were sold to the McCarthyites by a
timid administration. Where did the best and the brightest come
from? That’s where they came from. So it’s quite right
that he go there.

RB: Where does Harvard’s reputation as a liberal bastion
and leftist hotbed come from?

FB: Harvard. [laughs]

RB: What number book is this for you? Do you keep count?

FB: Twenty-seven. Yeah, I’m proud of that. To stay alive
in that profession, for people to squander money to publish your
books. That’s a good sign.

RB: You’ve been [publishing] at Norton for quite some time.

FB: A bunch. Four or five books. And I will stay with them if they
will stay with me. I think it’s a marriage. I have a wonderful
editor who believes in fiction and poetry. She herself is a novelist
and poet.

RB: Jill?

FB: Jill
. The whole crew there is very literate and they publish—I
had an idea once for a book, I didn’t want to do it, but I
told Jill that they might make money by publishing this book. It
was about publishing. And there was a pause, and Jill, who is very
seemly and composed, said, “Oh Fred, I don’t want to
publish bullshit. I just want to publish literature.” And
I thought, “Kindly find me two other editors in the entire
world who will repeat that.” My editor in France, at Gallimare,
is one such. It’s rare. So, yeah, I like them very much.

And we are herding
the young in that direction so that they are not sitting still
and contemplating, God damn it, a page of exquisite prose
by Charles Dickens.

RB: As we are talk about these subsidiary matters,
does it seem to you that there is more attention being paid to the
kind of inside baseball aspects of the publishing business?

FB: If you took that away, the New York Observer would
fold, or has it folded? The pages would turn white instead of pink.
I notice when I see the New York Post that Page 6 will
periodically have little publishing items. It’s something
dreadful, like Tom Wolfe has a stain on his white suitpants. But
it’s still, in a way, tangential. It’s gossip. They
prefer that to real information—such as all the publishing
houses in New York lost enough to float the national debt of Bolivia
last year, or something like that.

RB: Do you go to the book expos or trade shows?

FB: I have. I don’t know why. I guess I had a book coming

RB: You were encouraged to do a charm initiative?

FB: And sometime the sales department thinks that.

RB: I liked Maud
’s poignant question, “Why would I want to
be in rooms full of networking strangers?”

FB: [laughs] That, of course, is precisely why people want to be
there. They network.

RB: Not attractive, at all.

FB: That’s not what a critic or an artist ought to be doing.

RB: I ask you about this stuff because that’s what a lot
of the public chatter is about—advances and who is selling
out and in what way—

FB: That’s right.

RB: And critics seems to be much more ad hominem and methodological
than about content and—

FB: —stuff. There is no interest left in stuff. If you look
at the bylines of the reviewers in the Times, say. Every
other one will say something like “Joe Murphy lives in Seattle
and is writing a book.” So why is Joe Murphy reviewing so-and-so’s
novel? Let’s get a novelist in there to review so-and-so’s
novel. I don’t know why that is. It’s the conquests
of the commentators.

RB: The more disingenuous editors bring in novelists who have axes
to grind.

FB: They hope. If there is some blood on the pages then you have
some readership. Yeah. I suspect that may be part of it.

RB: I have given up reading most reviews. Unless the writer is
someone who I would read anything by. So in that case it doesn’t
matter whether it’s a review.

FB: Then it’s the writing.

RB: I have even taken
up the sport

FB: Do you enjoy it?

RB: I like the discipline of having to write 700–1000 words.
I don’t write negative reviews. I won’t write about
a book that I don’t like.

FB: Good. I returned a book to the Times once because
I really liked the author as a literary figure. The author was not
a great writer in the genre in which I was being asked to review—I
couldn’t do this disservice because the writer had served
literature all his or her life. And so I said to the editor, “I
have to return the proofs to you. I just got them, so we are not
killing a lot of time. Please bail me out of this.” And the
editor never gave me work again. There were other editors at the
Times, and it was ok. But that editor dropped me.

RB: Do these reviews make any difference? Are there critics who
are influential enough to make a difference? It’s not like
there are any Edmund Wilsons around.

FB: No. God no. No, no, no. There is no one of stature who is—although
I suppose Stanley Fish would argue with you. Almost anybody in the
Afro-American studies department at Harvard—

RB: Is there one still? I thought the department decamped for Princeton?

FB: Nah, there are still some. And let’s say at Yale and
Princeton. I suppose when you go down in the categories of commentary
there are still some power spots. But I agree with you—there
are some hack reviewers who do it well. I can’t think of any
large people whom I feel the need—well, I always want to read
Gore Vidal’s nonfiction. Because everything he writes is an
essay and it’s worth reading.

RB: Yes. And he’s fun and engaging and original.

FB: He’s a wonderful rascal. I hate to see age beating up
on him. He is one of the smart writers who the Republic needs. He’s
a real libertarian.

RB: The little volume he wrote recently, Inventing a Nation,
was a wonderful precis of the fundamental issues of the USA’s
structural origins. You get more insight out of that than—

FB: Who’s the publisher? It was a small house—

RB: I think it was Yale University Press.

FB: Not one of the mainstream houses, and that struck me as odd.
But anyway, thank goodness for Gore Vidal. And there are some others.
But, my god, there is no Edmund Wilson, no, who make book reviewing
an art that produces essays, real essays.

RB: There’s James

FB: Yeah.

RB: He would be a person with some weight. He is paid attention

FB: Yes. He sometimes feels the responsibility to produce an obiter
dictum that may be better served if he came back to it some months
afterwards. His intelligence is unquestioned.

RB: And his enthusiasm.

FB: And his breadth of coverage.

RB: In person, he seemed more flexible than on the page.

FB: Of course, he had the experience of writing a novel hadn’t
he? He knew what he rest of us went through. He knew that it was
an impossible task.

RB: True. At this point do you still feel charged with the same
kind of urgency and passion about writing and its importance?

FB: The importance of it to me, is one thing. Yes, I feel that.
The importance to the world of what we scribblers write is in doubt,
I would think.

RB: You think?

FB: Yeah.

RB: What are you paying attention to? The NEA study?

FB: God no! The lives of men and women I know who are writers—they’re
concerned—their sense of what they are saying getting through
to enough people to matter. I wish I could name their names, and
I won’t just so they are not embarrassed and may not want
to talk that way about themselves. But these are brilliant people,
and I don’t think they are being heard. I am not sure people
want to hear them. And I don’t know why. We have just been
trying to figure out why. But I don’t think the world is particularly
responsive to—our world, the culture we are in, to art right

RB: Less so than a generation ago?

FB: Yeah, I think so. I would say yes, and I don’t know why.
Maybe it’s the usual culprits people try to blame—computers
and video and all that. But I don’t know if that’s it.
The education of young people is narrowing. They cannot have the
scope they used to have. They are being taught in high school by
people earnest, still, but maybe less well-prepared than we would
want them to be—but not because they are stupid or churlish.
It’s harder to get hold of the world. It’s harder to
understand the world—

RB: —I wouldn’t argue with that—

FB: —To encompass the literature necessary for the information.

RB: I am concerned about so much emphasis on passing tests. What
the process seems to be about is to teach for the tests.

FB: As a very brilliant young woman named Francesca
, daughter of my friend Nick Delbanco—and herself
a first novelist—as she said when she was in high school—we
were at Nick and Elena’s house—she showed us an essay
she had written for the school newspaper, and it was about being
a high school kid groomed to get into college, and the last sentence
said, “Really, there must be more about high school than getting
out of it and into college?” I thought that was a wonderful
wisdom. You suddenly saw those four years aimed at leaving, but
not at producing anything while there, at passing the big test,
which meant getting into college. That’s four, then there’s
the four years of college, which are aimed at getting you a job,
getting into a graduate school. Making sure you get you’re
A+s instead of merely your A-s—which you were born . . . entitled
to . . . anyway. That’s eight years, and then there’s
graduate school and what’s that about? Getting a job.

And then the job is to make you a good consumer.

FB: The job is to pay off the Saab so that you can step up to a
Lexus or something and get thinner and have a better health club
membership. It’s quite scary. And we are herding the young
in that direction so that they are not sitting still and contemplating,
Goddamn it, a page of exquisite prose by Charles Dickens, which
is filled with rage about poverty and the need of a household to
survive. That’s not in the table for consideration now. And
people don’t understand that beautiful rage of Dickens because
they don’t share it. They haven’t got time to worry
about an oppressed culture, a subclass. They are worrying about
the Lexus: “Wonder if I can step up to an Infiniti?”
or whatever comes next. You have me pontificating. You have to get
me off this.

RB: Well, since you are echoing things I think about, I’m
fine with it. I console myself with the notion that the world that
appreciates the Dickensian rages and such is always a small world—what’s
changed is that mainstream is noisier. But there is a constant constituency
that for reasons that may never be understood but will always be
drawn to seeing life through literary, artistic lenses.

FB: I hope you’re right but I feel they are outnumbering
us. The “they” are outnumbering us. Maybe one just feels
that because one is a practitioner of an art.

RB: Did you have fewer students at the end of your teaching career
who were interested in literature and writing?

FB: I always had good students. Colgate is a college with good
students. They were less able to read large quantities of difficult
prose at a sitting, as I required of them. But that’s not
their fault. That is television and computers diminishing that skill—they
were less well-prepared in high school. And that’s not their
teachers’ fault. Their teachers were teaching for the tests,
and they [the students] were less committed perhaps to a life of
the mind than a life of money than I would have wished, but maybe
it’s because I have changed in that direction.

RB: I ran into my son’s pediatrician on the train once [which
I took to be a good sign], and he told me that he was amazed and
shocked that his adolescent patients knew what the income scales
of various professions. Ten-, twelve-, thirteen-year-olds know this

FB: That’s frightening. The parents are probably not trying
to keep them from focusing on that either.

RB: It’s hopeful, though, that people still want to write
and read. Good books are still being published.

FB: This is true. But let’s look at the books. Let’s
look at what the books are that are being produced. More and more
they are being made like movies. To sell. They are being tested
out. Not as scientifically as films are, perhaps. But Hollywood
is the model for publishing, more and more. Not just blockbusters
either. Do we want fact or do we want fiction? We want fact. If
you can propose a memoir, even if you are eighteen years old—and
what do you remember? What are you memeing? If you can propose a
memoir, I believe someone will pay you to write it. And you will
get a contract for nonfiction. And if it is about victimology in
one way or another than you’ll get more money. It’s
a sensation. It’s what the situation is that they now want.
Let’s bend it like Beckham. There is a ghastly movie about
homogenizing people—nah, it’s not true, it’s also
a nice film. There is good human rapport created but you can see
people managing to turn into cute jokes, deep anthropological problems
that fester and hurt them, the fester and the hurt are being ignored.
Just the cute resolutions. I think that’s happening in what’s
being published and how it’s being published.

RB: There are nearly 200,000 books published yearly, and I don’t
doubt there are some that follow that model but—

FB: —there are also good books published, you’re right.

RB: When I hear complaints about how much crap is published, I
can only refer to my own experience of every year finding more than
enough good books to read.

FB: Who reads them besides you? And that’s going to affect
how those writers are dealt with and what you’ll find is that
there are very few two- and three- and four- and five-book novelists
compared to first-book novelists. First-book novelists and storywriters
haven’t yet failed and so it’s easier to publish them—you
can gamble on a success. Whereas someone who has written four books
that are highly literary and demanding and require you as a reader.
They may not be republished. I am serious. I know important literary
writers who can’t get published. At the end of the interview
I will pour acid on my head and disappear. [both laugh] In a puff
of smoke. Or take acid, one of the two.

RB: A few months ago I am waiting for Jon
And I have a book I received in the mail and I start reading it—and
I am really liking what I am reading. I look in the book and this
guy has written five or six books. “How come I don’t
know who he is?” Jon shows up. I ask him about the writer.
“Oh yeah, I just met him in Virginia.” So I contacted
the writer, asking if he might be coming through Boston. He responds,
“My book might not be relevant by the time I get to Boston
[in a few months].” And I am aghast. How did he, a writer,
manage to assume and internalize the mumbo jumbo [or conventional
publishing wisdom] of the short lifespan of a book? On the other
hand, he has just published his sixth book and somebody still believes
in him.

FB: Blessings on all of them. So we are lucky that this happens.
I am pretty dour about it.

RB: So what are your thoughts about when you start another project.
I’ll do the best that I can?

FB: I always write the best that I can. And I won’t publish
it until I have done it right. I hope that an adult will walk in
the room and take over and say, “Okay, here’s how we’ll
sell this book and we will try to get it to the attention of your
kind of reader.” That’s all that you can hope for. And
happy accidents. Such as the assignment by well-intended publications
of the review who really liked the book, and maybe it makes a little
noise and maybe people read it.

RB: Is it too much it expect that having written close to thirty
books, well regarded for the most part, that when your book comes
out that you are automatically review-proof and will sell respectably?

FB: That’s Stephen King. That’s John Irving. They are
review-proof. I don’t think most of us are. Stephen King has
the exact ability that Charles Dickens had. To get to his readers
in spite of or despite anything the reviews say. Do you think Stephen
King fans care? I had the audacity to review Stephen King’s
book on how to write.

have to read history. You have to have a sense of history.
In a way, I see my fiction as having moved in that direction—and
the characters as dealing simultaneously with their personal
history and with the present in which they are trying to make
their way.

RB: You had written one of those.

FB: I did an anthology, Letters to a Fiction
, for Norton, and that’s a number of essays by
practicing writers. I said some snappy stuff about Stephen King,
and I was cunningly disapproving of certain parts of him. And you
know that book sold in numbers that are astonishing. He was just
finishing off a contract.

RB: That doesn’t seem to be a book that his core fans would
be interested in.

FB: It’s by him. He can reach anybody, his readers, and they
are legion because he has many, many movies.

RB: He did try to sell a book directly from the Internet, and I
think that failed.

FB: I think you are right. He offered some chapters free and then
the rest for a fee and people didn’t want to pay.

RB: Any grand ambitions?

FB: I have just finished a book of stories I would like to publish—Norton
will publish down the road. They’re linked thematically in
an interesting way. I am working on a novel for Norton that could
be very nice love story. Could be fun.

RB: “Could be” meaning “too early to tell”?

FB: Meaning that I have ambitions for it to be; we’ll see
what the book says. I am just at the early stages. I have just taken
thirty-two pages and reduced it to six. So I feel I am making progress.

RB: That’s the way you do it?

FB: Sometimes. Depends if you cut the crap put then six out of
thirty-two is not bad.

RB: A la Elmore Leonard. Do you read genre stuff?

FB: Sure, I love thrillers. I would even read certain science fiction,
although I haven’t been a devotee for many years.

RB: I stopped with Dune.

FB: I read a lot of poetry. I read some history.

RB: Has reading poetry been continuous?

FB: All my life. My heroes are people like Philip Levine, who is
simply like a god to me, as a writer. And he is a very good man,

RB: Meaning?

FB: I think he is a decent fellow. He writes beautiful essays as
well as poems. But, yeah, I’m having fun with the genre stuff.
Especially when I am writing a novel I try not to read great prose
stylists into which I will fall. I know when I am going bad, for
example, when suddenly a novel of mine begins to sound like Robert Stone but with a water chaser. It means that I don’t know
what the hell I’m doing because I am such an admirer of Bob
Stone’s work that I fall into imitating him when I get into
trouble in my own prose. So what I try to do is read stuff that
won’t deal with the dangerous dark things I hope I am writing

RB: Do you see North has a thriller?

FB: That’s what it is called. No, I see
North as novel—it’s a book about a guy, but
since the publishing subculture and the academic subculture, all
those subcultures, [who] are linked in the world of books sees things
in categories, it’s easier for them to put things in categories;
so they need to call it either a literary thriller or a crossover
book, or—

RB: One reference to North was that it was a dark literary
psychological thriller.

FB: There you go. Did you leave anything out?

RB: You mentioned that you read history. Tell me some of those

FB: I’m an amateur, so I read what’s interesting to
me. I recently read [John] Lukacs’s book on five days that
shaped the world [Five Days in London May 1940]. It was
a stunning little book and a great elegant piece of writing and
historiography. I just bought but haven’t yet read a book—I
wish I could remember the author’s name; I haven’t read
anything by her before. It treats 1945 in London—the Blitz
[London 1945: Life in the Debris of War, by Maureen Waller].
And I am drooling on getting into that, sitting on the deck in Maine
when I get up there. We rent a place in Maine. Periodically, a book
of history excites me. I have a friend named Lynne Staley, who is
a professor at Colgate, and she is a superb Medievalist and she
just published a big study of the fourteenth century called Languages
of Power
. I am not smart enough to read the whole book, but
I read in it because she is an elegant prose writer and I am learning
about both language and history in a turbulent time. I am just a

RB: That strikes me as another failure of education. The shocking
disinterest in history and the ignorance.

FB: Can we say Vietnam and then say Iraq? Let’s not, but—there
was an interesting piece in Harper’s on the history
of the British in Iraq. And it’s a little scary. It’s
as if we went out and said, “Get me a handbook on how to completely
flounder in Iraq.” You have to read history. You have to have
a sense of history. In a way, I see my fiction as having moved in
that direction—and the characters as dealing simultaneously
with their personal history and with the present in which they are
trying to make their way. So that the books are simultaneously about
public and interior events. And I am having a great time getting
confused and crazed writing about them.

RB: There’s too much about tariffs and treaties and not enough,
if any, about the real stories or even the apocryphal ones, except
for Washington and the cherry tree.

FB: You sort of need an overview, but history is beautiful stories
or scary stories, yeah.

RB: Maybe we can theorize that the disinterest in historical narratives
and literary fiction goes hand in hand.

FB: You work a lot on the Internet. You know the experience in
the work and on the Web for awhile; you’re in no place, at
no time. You’re in a cyberexistence. You are out of context,
a palpable physical context.

RB: In a narcissistic womb of my own. My own imagination—

FB: Draw a box around that and what’s outside of that? Tuition
payments or maybe I better cook dinner tonight.

RB: [laughs]

FB: Or something like that. And there is a lack of context in contemporary
education. And contemporary consideration—because we live
in those interiorities so much. Especially young kids who live by
surfing the Web.

RB: Odd, though, that part of the great benefit I have gained is
contact and acquaintance with a number of people [you know who you
are] with whom I have pure and satisfying relationships based on
our mutual love for literature and stories.

FB: That’s you and some good people.

RB: I don’t think that my experience is anomalous or an aberration.

FB: I don’t know.

RB: The new media, the cyberworld, are almost a blank page. Any
group of people can coalesce around shared interests and ideals
beyond sexy young Russian girls and poker
and penis enlargement. I don’t feel guilty claiming that for
the most part the world is represented by my own sense of it, the
information that comes into my faux solipsistic cocoon and the exchanges
with other monads of solipsism.

FB: Well, you have made your place in the world, and you are entitled
to it. But I think there is reason to be concerned about this in
the very young. You are a mature adult, and when kids grow up in
what John Hawkes wrote of as “the pure white space of psychic
activity,” locked in there and not being grounded to the dilemmas
and needs and generosities of others, more directly, there may be
a problem. I don’t know. I’m not a philosopher. I am
the next thing to a jock, which is a novelist.

RB: [laughs] What comes after? Jock, novelist, [and] then?

FB: Probably butcher.

RB: So you have short stories coming—

FB: Yes, it’s called Rescue Missions and it’s
about people embarking on physical journeys to help out loved ones
former lovers, children, parents.

RB: Much like Jack in North, rescuers?

FB: Yeah.

RB: And a novel you are toying with. And poetry?

FB: A novel that is toying with me. I can’t imagine having
the courage to ask a publisher to do a whole book of my poems. So
that’s way down the road.

RB: Have you mentioned this to Jill?

FB: I wouldn’t dare, she’s a real poet.

RB: You alluded to your concern about writers who—

FB: We are all concerned about each other, those of us who have
been friends for a long time. We all bitch and whine to each other.
You can’t say it to your audience—through this microphone—“I’m
withering. You’re killing me.” So you do it to your
buddies. And there are some that don’t do it, but I am watching
them with concern. I am concerned about how it’s going for
them. And that’s all. And that’s maybe normal professional

RB: Do you go to conferences?

FB: I went to one in Normandy. I was invited because they were
talking about D-Day. And that was great. I went to one in Italy
about noir.

RB: [laughs]

FB: Because Girls had been published in Italy and then
[they] decided it was a noir novel and they paid my way over, and
Judy and I went and had great Italian food. A professor whom I met
from Portier—I don’t think I can go—they are having
a conference on “The City in Literature.” And I enjoy
that, and I enjoy going to campuses and reading and doing a class
or teaching and then running away and not having to grade papers.
I do still enjoy that. I get to meet writers, and I love writers.

RB: Read anything recently, new and astounding? Signaling a brave
new world

FB: I read Leslie Epstein’s San Remo Drive, which
I consider a gorgeous book. I love it. And I loved the review in
the Times, which called it one of the four great novels
about Hollywood. And I think that’s true.

RB: What were the other three?

FB: Bud Schulberg.

RB: What Makes Sammy Run.

FB: Nathaniel West’s The Day of the Locust, and
The Last Tycoon by [F. Scott] Fitzgerald. To put that novel
in that company is astute reading. I have been reading fragments
that I think will be part of book by Melanie Rae Thon, who I think
is one of the geniuses of her generation and a great religious writer.
She is an important writer. She is very important to me. I don’t
know—I’m going to leave off ten great books I have recently

RB: And you’re still a baseball [and Yankee] fan—you
don’t think it’s been corrupted by drugs and money?

FB: Of course, so has painting and so has music. I love baseball.
What I love about baseball is that you are always waiting. Baseball
is a game where you are always waiting, and then when something
happens it’s like turning a kaleidoscope when you were a kid.

© 2005 Robert Birnbaum
Images by Red Diaz/Duende Publishing

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