SPUTNIK SWEETHEART
Haruki Murakami
translated by Philip Gabriel
Knopf ($23)

by Matt Dube

Haruki Murakami's latest novel, Sputnik Sweetheart, tells the story of two would-be lovers. Sumire, a frustrated novelist and college dropout, meets the thirty-something Miu at a wedding reception, and falls immediately in love with the older woman. When Miu offers Sumire a job as her assistant, Sumire leaps at the chance and allows Miu to remake her tattered beatnik self into a completely organized aide-de-camp. The two vacation in Greece after a trip to Europe to arrange the year's sales for Miu's wine importing business. There, they make their first steps toward physical love, but the next day, Sumire disappears to "the other side." The narrator is called in by Miu to help find Sumire, and his attempts to understand what might have led her to that extreme brings him close to crossing over himself. This is classic Murakami territory, the fizzle of frustration with a world that just can't array itself right, and the erotic longings all three characters feel have a direct, physical weight.

Take, for example, the following passage, about the way Sumire describes her feeling for Miu:

"There was this article in the paper the other day," Sumire said, completely oblivious. "It said lesbians are born that way; there's a tiny bone in the inner ear that's completely different from other women's that makes all the difference. Some small bone with a complicated name. . . . I can't get the idea out of my mind of this little good-for-nothing bone inside my ear. Wondering what shape my own little bone is. . . . When I'm with her that bone in my ear starts ringing. Like delicate seashell wind chimes."

The first third of the book, tracing Sumire and Miu's early courtship, is filled with similarly odd episodes and digressions that highlight Murakami's casual mastery of narrative drift. Later, the overlapping narratives of Sumire's dreams and her conversations with Miu on the Greek Island are dizzyingly subtle, and the strange situation the narrator encounters when he returns from Greece is marvelously understated. In other places, though, Murakami is less satisfying: his record of the Greek Island's recent history is banal, and his attempts to describe the passage of the world where Sumire has gone to meet the perfect version of her lover is heavy-handed and stubbornly un-nuanced. This tale of disappearances is one Murakami returns to frequently in his fiction—as early, in fact, as his first novel translated into English, A Wild Sheep's Chase. But he still hasn't mastered that story here, pushing his language up against what cannot be articulated with feet less fleet than flat.

Murakami's novel is at its best when dealing with thwarted desire and the inability to make things work as they should. It is easy to sympathize with the dream of connecting with someone more perfectly than is possible on this material plane, but in this novel that doesn't seem an entirely viable option. Sumire's possible return at the book's close is well handled, and the frustrated epilogue that greets the narrator on his return to Japan is a powerful reminder that it is not only lovers who cannot connect. Like much of Murakami's longer work, Sputnik Sweetheart comes close to giving his readers the transcendence he offers his characters, but then tellingly forces us to stay right here.

UNDERGROUND: THE TOKYO GAS ATTACK AND THE JAPANESE PSYCHE
Translated by Alfred Birnbaum and Philip Gabriel
Vintage Paperback ($14)

by Jennifer Flanagan

Haruki Murakami is perhaps best-known for The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle and Hard-Boiled Wonderland and the End of the World, both complex, intricate novels. In his first non-fiction book, he connects the motifs in his novels—subterranean worlds, convoluted plots—to the theme of Underground.

As in Murakami's fiction, there are many levels to the book. On the surface, it is a series of interviews with victims and victims' family members, followed by interviews with members and former members of Aum Shinrikyo, the sect that carried out the Toyko gas attack. But Underground is more than a powerful forum for people to tell their stories; it also functions as a commentary on Japanese society; an examination of the Japanese psyche; a rebuke of the way in which the media handles tragedy—easily applicable to the United States; and finally, a reminder that this could happen again. Murakami deftly tries to get at the heart of why and how it happened, and compares the Aum followers to Ted Kaczynski; he probably would have included Timothy McVeigh had the book been written after the Oklahoma City bombing.

The insight he offers into Japanese society is considerable. Just the description of a normal commute gives an incredibly vivid sense of Tokyo—trains so crowded that one man speaks of having his briefcase "swallowed up in the torrent of people and swept away. . . . I just had to [let go] or my arm would have been broken. The case just disappeared." During just such a rush hour on March 20, 1995, liquid sarin was released on three trains. The nature of sarin is that once it gets into your clothes, anyone who comes near you is also poisoned from the vapors. Over five-thousand people were treated for sarin gas poisoning, and twelve people died. Many of the survivors continue to experience serious after-effects, from paralysis and loss of speech to constant headaches, loss of vision, and post-traumatic stress disorder.

Murakami's desire was to give a clear sense of these victims as people; he provides a brief background sketch of each one, allowing their stories to wander from the personal to the political and back again, telling us that "perhaps it's an occupational hazard of the novelist's profession, but I am less interested in the ‘big picture,' as it were, than in the concrete, irreducible humanity of each individual."

One interesting effect of having the stories placed side-by-side is that they often contain small inconsistencies. Murakami acknowledges this, explaining that he "endeavored to maintain the basic stance that each person's story is true within the context of that story . . . As a result, the stories told by different people who . . . experienced the very same scene often differ . . . but they are presented here with all their contradictions preserved. Because it seems to me that these discrepancies and contradictions say something in themselves. Sometimes . . . inconsistency can be more eloquent than consistency."

When explaining why they didn't offer to help or flee the stations themselves as they witnessed passengers falling down around them, more than one person echoed the comments of Yoko Iizuka: "I knew it was an emergency, but to be honest it didn't occur to me that it was anything really serious. I mean, what can happen? Japan's a supersafe country, isn't it? No guns, no terrorists . . . It never occurred to me that I might be in danger or that I had to get myself out of there." She was one of many passengers who proceeded to her office, finally going to the hospital three hours after being poisoned.

Hospitals had no idea there had been a gas attack, and even after they learned what happened, they often had no idea how to treat victims. One hospital alone received over a thousand patients. Survivors complained of the lack of emergency response, but Nobuo Yanagisawa, the doctor who had treated victims from an earlier sarin attack (Aum had planted sarin one year prior to the Tokyo attack, referred to as the Matsumoto incident, which killed seven people) commented that "to have had five-thousand sarin gas victims and only 12 dead is close to a miracle." Yanagisawa spent the day faxing his findings from that first attack to hospitals across the region. Even so, he remarked "it's almost unthinkable that a doctor would go out of his way to send unsolicited information to a hospital. The first thought is never to say too much, never to overstep one's position. But with the gas attack I had other motives too. One of the seven victims who died in the Matsumoto incident was a medical student here at Shinshu University. . . . That simple fact kept me going."

Murakami refuses the ease of an "us and them/good and evil" attitude, instead exploring what it is in each of us that is reflected in the actions of these home-grown terrorists. His ability to look deeply and honestly at the culture that allowed Aum followers to become so disenfranchised they turned on their own country is both instructive and uncomfortable, especially in the light of our own terrorist incidents. It is also very necessary if we are to learn anything from such tragedies.

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Rain Taxi Online Edition, Summer 2001 | © Rain Taxi, Inc. 2001

LOUISE IN LOVE
Grove Press ($13)

THE DOWNSTREAM EXTREMITY OF THE ISLE OF SWANS
University of Georgia ($15.95)

by Bonnie Blader

Any single short discussion of Mary Jo Bang's two new books, both published in the Spring of 2001, will only scratch their rich surfaces. Bang deploys her own signature language of perspective, using it so successfully across the span of both books that the reader is invited to intuit its logic and learn to read her. It is "a language / of tongue rolls and lip twists," to borrow from the poem "To Dance the Tarantella," from Downstream Extremity. Alliteration is a fundamental feature; consonants thrust up in her voice stream like stones, turning the current back on itself. "It is from that in water we were from," Robert Frost says in "West Running Brook," "long, long before we were from any creature." Perhaps this explains the appeal of her technique. It invites sensory validation before cognitive sense is even broached.

Nearly a novel in verse, Louise in Love is also a sonic celebration. Sprung rhythms, iambic verse, and created words dance lightly along an upper crust of an invented world. Poems appear mostly in three-line stanzas or flush-left, ragged-right blocks; there is also a single prose poem, named for the title character. The forms affect their emotional density. Bang renders the world of Louise being in, playing with, and suffering love. The arc of her experience is a somewhat surrealistic bumper car journey—a image, in fact, that appears in the book, as does "Yves Tanguy walking a panther."

The collection's cast of characters, one mysteriously called "the other" to whom Louise sometimes turns for grounding or direction, call up an admittedly eclipsed world, one of a "hike to the hillock," "frou-frou," " pretty," "wonder," and "games." This gestured world is evident even in the mannered titles of poems, keeping before us an awareness of artifice that is both a part of the story of love and a part of its hyper-conscious presentation. We invest in the world of the "Dramatis Personae" at the same time we are aware that the story itself is scrutinized. The question of which is most artificial, the created world or the commentary, seems to be an issue the poet herself is happy to raise.

Bang's narrative is remarkably illusive, what the aptly chosen image and apt ear do in collusion. It feels like it's there and it moves: "Lighter, liminal, quite likely / to follow a line completely lacking in depth." ("Like a Fire in a Fire") The three line stanzas that predominate seem part of the narrative illusion, saying beginning, middle, and end repeatedly, but the created world is here thanks to fragmentary images and an achievement of tone created by pace and diction. It is built as if with mirrors artfully set to allow corners to imply whole rooms. So much depends on sound, word texture, and Bang's Hopkins-esque ease: "a hive hum ongoing in the hear ear." She revels in the aural geography of language as formalist painters do in paint, where color is the story, and the stroke composition. From the prose poem "Louise":

Depiction, she said, surfacing in order to say it and fracturing the spell under which they swam in the moment that ended an eon ago. Swans, she said, referring to the needle-neck birds black and white that lined the aisle down which one walked to get to the river on which they were skating away.

Keats is referenced in borrowed italicized lines in a few poems, but it is Woolf who feels more at its heart, as if she is dreaming and this collection is the fragmented warp of her dream. The Woolf-ian sensibility is so pervasive--a line from Mrs. Dalloway even appears in "That Was All, Louise Said, Except For"—that it is a welcome release when Louise appears in one poem with a copy of Mrs. Dalloway in hand.

If narration is at play in Louise in Love, it is perception that is the preoccupation of The Downstream Extremity of the Isle of Swans. On what does perception depend—the ordering/disordering mind or the glimpsed external? The book is divided into three sections, the last not a poem cluster but a high-speed, paragraphed collection of fragments called "Origin of the Impulse to Speak," a biography told in shaping impacts and images. Of course, the subjectivity of the eye is inherent in what one defines as one's life; in the first two sections of the book, among discrete poems, a rough count of words directly referring to sight (see, view, sight, eye) yields 65 instances in 53 pages. Bang is not invested in continuous or traditional narrative (although the poems are populated with personae), but in considering an equilibrium, a territory of influence, between interior and external conditions with the eye—"Poor eye, she said, from the off-center door of her head"—a manipulated vehicle. The eye influences: "the mind is made by eye," and is in turn used, "O the idea of order. It will be seen through."

As in Louise in Love, Bang calls up other poets. Samuel Beckett's "Ohio Impromptu" drives the title; Richard Howard and John Yau loan her lines. But it is a quality in Wallace Stevens's work, his extravagant images, his disinclination for standard narration, and the primacy he grants the imagination over the other reality at its command, that Bang might claim as her tradition. She gives us interior convictions in these poems using artifact images from an exterior reality also, one feels, mostly imagined—"the manhandled grammar of nature," as she says in "Pear and O, an Opera"—as their correlative or proof. What she achieves is no less than a realignment of language to address uniquely felt places. From the title poem:

In the window a jacket cried, Wear me, wear me,
on a street of tall houses, all showing teeth (ash white of ice rut,
of water on rock)—
many their eyes, all shaded by marmalade hoods. O cobra.

I was foreign then, living in a limited range.

Reading across both books, we become aware that Bang echoes herself. Certain images and particular words are repeated. Swans are needle-necked in both books. The word "sliver," usually used in conjunction with light or silver, recurs. One senses a certain insistence on the nature of the natural world on her part, and the press of an idea being offered to us again and again. Bang's aesthetic also conjoins the ancient or archaic with contemporary references: "It's time for the feasting that follows the four men it took / to carry the dead monster's head," begins "Stone, Montana." We hear of pipers, revellers, ringbolts, cigarettes and satellites. We are in all worlds and no known world at once, in all times and no sure time, and must make our own maps as we read. Mary Jo Bang's achievement is in having something wholly there, a language and a philosophy to investigate. Her work teaches us how it will speak. Before we may fully grasp her intricacies, our senses are taken by what is meant.

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Rain Taxi Online Edition, Summer 2001 | © Rain Taxi, Inc. 2001

Raymond Federman
Starcherone Books ($9)

by Rebecca Weaver

The particular story of Raymond Federman's The Voice in the Closet cannot be told conventionally. Originally part of his third novel The Twofold Vibration, this book was excerpted by request of Indiana University Press, who called the section "unreadable." It's fortunate that Federman found another home for the section, because this short book does something hugely innovative: it conflates the known conventions of how we talk and write, since in this case, those conventions no longer serve what needs to be said.

What needs to be said in this book is that survival is possible. The book's journey toward survival is powerfully conveyed on two levels. The first is that of the physical event itself. In a looping, elliptical way, readers come to discover that a boy has been locked into a closet. His mother and father, knowing that the Nazis are coming, hide the boy and escape with their daughters. Sadly, the only one who survives is the boy; he eventually escapes to America and becomes a writer. This is where the second level intersects with the first. The boy becomes the writer Federman, but The Voice in the Closet is spoken in the voice of the boy, who is angry and confused at the way his story has been twisted and retold by the writer: "he failed to generate the real story in vain situates me in the wrong abode as I turn in a void in his obligation to assign a beginning . . ."

There is a struggle for primacy between the two voices, and as the struggle is played throughout the book, the nature of stories and how we tell them is interrogated by the constant probing of memory. After all, whose story is it? The boy's, with whom the experience originated, or the adult Federman's, who has worked to tell the story? It is in this place where fact and memory collide that another sort of oppression takes place, and the inability to make sense of it renders the boy Federman "voiceless." The only way to survive it is to escape a mother tongue that has become fraught with grief and terror, in the same way that the poet (and fellow Holocaust survivor) Paul Celan's mother tongue became for him problematic. The English language, however, is punched through with pitfalls of its own, giving the writer Federman his own linguistic conundrum: "expelled from mother tongue exiled from mother land tongueless he extracts words from other tongues to exact his speechlessness . . ." Thus, conventional language is not adequate for the job of relating the horrific event that begins the journey. The lack of punctuation throughout The Voice in the Closet further underscores the breathless and unrelenting travels between past and present, memory and story.

This book asserts that the only way we can negotiate our histories and our memories is through the acts of telling (and re-telling) those stories. Survival exists in this kind of vigilant effort. The boy begins to forgive the writer, realizing that he, too, can speak, and that the act of speaking—for both Federmans—negates absence and creates hope. Silence is too costly. In the act of speaking, of telling the story again and again, "spring wells up at last."

Rain Taxi Online Edition, Summer 2001 | © Rain Taxi, Inc. 2001

Raymond Federman
Green Integer ($11.95)

by Lance Olsen

Raymond Federman—arguably one of the most important innovative writers working (primarily) in English of the last third of the 20th century—began what he would consider his best novel, The Twofold Vibration, in 1976 and completed it in 1981. The hybrid result is, among other things, part experimental science fiction, part haunting Holocaust narrative, part expansive Rabelaisian satire, and part tragicomic Beckettian investigation into the uncertainties of language, meaning, and the existential condition. But what is extraordinary rereading Federman's narrative from our contemporary vantage point (it is set on December 31, 1999, so that Federman's fictive future has become our fictive past) is how much it prefigures what might be considered the Post-Memoir Memoir: those no-longer-innocent autobiografictions (think, for example, of David Shields's print-based Remote or Shelley Jackson's web-based My Body) which believe, along with the protagonist of The Twofold Vibration, that there exist “no facts to be accurately described, only hypotheses to be set up, no choices of words [which] will express the truth, for one has only a choice of rhetorical masks in a situation like this one.”

The Federmanian “situation like this one” is, unsurprisingly, complicated and ambiguous. An 82-year-old French-Jewish poet and novelist, whose alternative oeuvre echoes Federman's own, waits in a massive holding tank on earth for deportation with hundreds (perhaps thousands, perhaps millions) of others (social remainders, all: the sick, the abnormal, the “useless”) to the space colonies. While it is clear this New Year's Eve ritual has occurred annually since 1994, when the colonies were first established, it is unclear why. Although “informed sources” underscore repeatedly that the deportation is neither conditional upon race nor religion, and it seems evident that these people are not being punished for criminal or other socially untoward activities, the reason for this exile remains indecipherable, as does the nature of the colonies themselves. Are they neo-edens, prisons, something in-between? Is it even possible that they do not exist at all, that the deportees are simply rocketed into space and left there to die, thereby freeing up room on our overcrowded planet?

In any case, this state of affairs is further complicated by the telling. In a layout reminiscent of Beckett's How It Is, paragraph-long “sentences” are composed with few capital letters, no periods, no quotation marks, and a beautifully protracted, rhythmic string of comma splices. The voice of the protagonist, his friends Moinous and Namredef (themselves yet more alter-egos of Federman), the narrator (ditto), and perhaps the author himself circulate through these grammaticules, the linguistic and narratological membrane separating one character from another remarkably permeable, as they construct, collaborate, argue, dismember, and then reconstruct only to once again deconstruct the old man's history in an attempt to reach some understanding about why he has survived as long as he has and why he is being deported now.

Federman thereby appropriates and postmodernizes the SF genre. First, he uses it to create a philosophical parable about the infinite deferral of knowledge at the level of facts and at the level of how we organize and discuss those facts—through, that is, a continually slippery system of signifiers. Second, he uses SF both to metaphorize and interrogate his own memories as a Holocaust survivor. At 5:30 a.m. on July 16, 1942, as the Gestapo stormed up the stairs to the Federmans' third-floor apartment in Paris, Federman's mother shoved the 12-year-old boy into a closet on the landing, where he remained the rest of that day and most of the following night. When he finally ventured out again, his parents and two sisters had already embarked on the journey that would end in their extermination in Auschwitz. In other words, the questions that the old man and his other selves ask in The Twofold Vibration on his trip from one box (he, too, was shoved into a closet in Paris to avoid the Gestapo) to another (the huge deportation hall) are the same ones Federman has been asking himself for the past 59 years.

One might suppose the consequence of such Post-Memoir material would be somber, stoic, cerebral business indeed. Yet this is precisely where Federman distances himself from such Holocaust writers as Elie Wiesel. The Twofold Vibration, like all of Federman's books, is hugely funny, and Federman himself a one-man Laurel and Hardy of narratology and epistemology. If Wiesel's work is about the grim and necessary task of documenting the unspeakable, then Federman's is about the dynamic and equally necessary task of troubling that documentation and ultimately moving beyond the unspeakable to learn how to exist in its wake. “I am a survivor,” the old man tells June Fanon, the young Jane Fonda-like woman with whom he is having a robust affair, as he speeds his blue Alfa Romeo through the narrow, winding mountain roads on his way to gamble at Lake Como:

I'm not morbid, I'm happy, can't you see, yes happy to be here with you, but you see the fact of being a survivor, of living with one's death behind, in a way makes you free, free and irresponsible toward your own end, of course you feel a little guilty while you're surviving because there is this thing about your past, your dead past and all that, but you have to get on with things, sustain your excessiveness, so to speak . . .

And this has precisely been Federman's project for more than a third of a century: to create a Literature of Exuberance as the only response to the horrors of the contemporary, to pack the page with rich and textured discourse, to move beyond the metaphorical silence of death into a self-aware cacophony of life—part transcendence, part ebullient, iconoclastic escape. Like The Twofold Vibration's old man after a bout of tuberculosis, Federman attempts to laugh himself back to health.

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Rain Taxi Online Edition, Summer 2001 | © Rain Taxi, Inc. 2001

PARADISE HOTEL AND OTHER PLAYS
Richard Foreman
The Overlook Press ($29.95)

RICHARD FOREMAN
edited by Gerald Rabkin
Johns Hopkins University Press ($19.95)

by Aaron Kunin

The subject says to the object: "I destroyed you," and the object is there to receive the communication. From now on the subject says: "Hullo object!" "I destroyed you." "I love you." "You have value for me because of your survival of my destruction of you." "While I am loving you I am all the time destroying you in (unconscious) fantasy."
--D.W. Winnicott

Richard Foreman writes, designs, and directs plays; he also writes polemical essays and gives interviews about the plays. Some of the results of this activity, which includes nearly every avenue for the production and reception of his work except for onstage performance (a point to which I shall return shortly), are collected in two new books: Paradise Hotel and Other Plays, which consists of texts and brief production notes for plays produced at the Ontological-Hysteric Theater in the late nineties; and the retrospective anthology Richard Foreman, edited by Gerald Rabkin, which includes Foreman's interviews, essays, and program notes, as well as critical essays and notices by theater historians, academic critics, and journalists.

Maybe the publication of a book is not as significant an occasion for assessing Foreman's career as the production of a new play. But the history of theater will ultimately be written by people whose relation to theater is primarily text-based. And, too, Foreman, who says that "the real subject of theater is death" as long as plays are enacted in accordance with a predetermined script, insists he's primarily a writer ("my writing pushes further ahead, faster, in terms of stylistic, aesthetic adventure, than does my staging"), and that the basic model for his theater is reading. In other words, the performances are supposed to bring out the text, clarify it, as much as possible; in a sense, they're conceived as external and anterior to another event that they're supposed to document: Foreman writing in his notebook.

For example: in the 1974 play Rhoda in Potatoland, a crew person "resembling Richard Foreman" comes onstage and asks Rhoda, played by Kate Manheim, if she is "the famous Richard Foreman." Rhoda: "Yes." Crew person: "It's an honor to meet you." One thing this moment suggests is that the character played by Kate Manheim is standing in for Richard Foreman as a kind of surrogate writer/director/designer. Since Kate Manheim performs as Rhoda in nearly all the plays from the early seventies, a period that Rabkin calls the "middle period" in the history of the Ontological-Hysteric Theater but which could just as easily be called the "Rhoda period," it seems possible that that character is generally available to stand in for Foreman. Or one might read this moment not as a statement of surrogate authorship but more simply as a statement of authorship: Kate Manheim is the writer/director/designer and therefore deserves to be addressed as "Richard Foreman."

I'm just stating the obvious. What's surprising is that Rabkin, who writes about this moment in the introduction to the anthology Richard Foreman, doesn't see it. Instead, he uses this moment to make the much less obvious point that Foreman and Manheim are opposed figures: "If she possesses a weighty antagonist, it is Foreman himself, present through the sepulchral tones of his taped voice or his invisible hands on the audio controls." She is the "physical presence" that his "philosophic mind could not ignore"; he is the subject, she is the object; he is the experimenting agent, she is the patient who's there to be "harassed and tormented." Richard Schechner's essay on Rhoda in Potatoland, which appears later in the collection, makes the same non-obvious point in a more extreme form: "The sexual struggle in Foreman's plays . . . is the male's illusion that he can transform the woman into something like himself by imposing on her the strictures of literature." Here, then, is one reason why Schechner (and perhaps Rabkin) can't see Rhoda as author: because he thinks that Foreman could not possibly identify across genders with a character played by a woman. For Schechner, a crude sexual politics in which "man" and "woman" are elemental categories has the status of the obvious, while the idea of cross-gender identification has the status of "illusion."

Another reason why none of the critics in the Rabkin anthology sees this reading is that Foreman doesn't seem to see it either. Consider a moment in one of the "chamber plays" from the eighties in which Manheim, playing the character identified in the stage directions as "Kate" (but in the main text usually called "Paula"), addresses a speech to a voodoo doll: "You say ‘trivial' and a word lights up on a distant mountain." Again, it's a suggestive moment, and it clearly shows, among other things, that Manheim is acting as an author-surrogate: like the director of a play, she's manipulating the speech and movements of a human figure (the doll). Foreman, in a note, draws out practically every implication of this scene except for the obvious one: "As Kate delivered the speech, aspects of the character's relation to working people, including the fact that she had never been forced to do meaningless work to make a living, seemed to crystallize . . . It's also true, however, that Kate herself had worked at various menial jobs when she was younger . . . my idea was that by holding the doll and half talking to it, the doll would stand in for a side of herself she had never encountered, so she was actually talking to her own fear." Foreman seems to undergo a failure of imagination somewhere beyond normative sexual politics; his brilliant self-critique, which is almost as good as the play (one way of expressing the difference: the critique is on the side of the rational, the play isn't), is attentive to the play's complex arrangement of subject-object positions except in this one respect, where it's totally blind.

It's no accident that the critics in Rabkin's anthology are blind in exactly the same place. This is probably because they're taking their cues from Foreman, who has been unusually successful in his efforts to control—or direct—the reception of his work. In this sense, all of the critics could answer "yes" to the question: "Aren't you the famous Richard Foreman?" Some of them may approve or disapprove of various strategies and effects in the plays, but all of them are fundamentally sympathetic to Foreman in the sense that they unquestioningly accept his statements about himself. (One exception to this rule would be Jalal Toufic, who unfortunately is not represented in the Rabkin anthology; his letter to Richard Foreman, published in Over-Sensitivity, is at once attentive and unsympathetic, and offers a much more radical interpretation of the Rhoda character than the one I suggest above.)

You might even say that the critics who disapprove are the more sympathetic group, if their disapproval is registering the increasing anti-theatricality of the recent plays. The Ontological-Hysteric Theater seems to have become the only kind of theater that Foreman likes, and he doesn't seem to like that particularly either. "I've reached a point," Foreman tells Elizabeth LeCompte, "where I'm not sure I could give up writing. But I could give up directing, I think." This anti-theatrical tendency is amply documented in Paradise Hotel and Other Plays. The opening line of Pearls for Pigs: "I hate the actors who appear in this play." Next line: "What I hate is the play." Paradise Hotel itself opens with the announcement that the play has been replaced by "a much more disturbing, and possibly illegal, play entitled—'Hotel Fuck'!," which is similarly in danger of degenerating into a "much LESS provocatively titled play, entitled ‘Hotel Beautiful Roses.'" ("Oh my God, that DOES sound like a boring play!" a character later exclaims.)

The new plays also amply document, despite the lack of any encouragement from Foreman or his critics, a sophisticated analysis of sexual politics. When, in Paradise Hotel, Giza enters in full Louis XIV style, bearing before him "a big black-and-gold striped dildo," it's obvious that we're seeing some kind of projected idealization of Foreman's body-image, but it's equally obvious that we're seeing an idealized erotic object whose visible sign of sexual differentiation is not only detachable but actually detached and worn by some of the women who appear in the play. (Let's not forget that one of Foreman's privileged antecedents is Jack Smith, who made the cinematic "Scheherezade party" Flaming Creatures.) Or, to take a less outrageous example, the actor David Greenspan, who appears in drag as the character "Madame" in Benita Canova, is a likely author-surrogate (especially because Greenspan is also a playwright and director); and so is the protagonist Benita, who tends to speak of herself in the third person and whose gaze, like the "Rhoda stare," has uncanny effects on those who encounter it.

I'm concentrating on a blind spot in Foreman's self-critique partly out of a desire to see his work from outside. But my way of doing this—using Foreman against Foreman—is ultimately sympathetic. (Am I the famous Richard Foreman? "Yes.") My point, which is also Foreman's point, is that subject and object are never static positions. Foreman knows that every object we encounter comes with a set of instructions detailing the intended uses of the object and, sometimes, penalties for improper uses. ("I am a lamp. I go on. I go off. Don't try to do anything with me that you should not do with a lamp.") He also knows that the instruction manual is far from complete. ("I am a lamp. But I can also be a projectile that you hurl at your enemy. I could also be something that you can lay on its side and put ketchup on and try tasting to see if it tastes good.") And he knows that people come with similar, albeit longer, instructions. But Foreman, who is something of a materialist monist, doesn't recognize any strong distinction between people and objects, or, for that matter, between mind and body. You can say that Giza's Louis XIV get-up is an objective correlative of his self-image, but that's really a false distinction if, as Foreman says elsewhere, "it's the same material, head and sky."

If that's true, then there's no real difference between what's inside the plays and what's outside. This insight may explain Foreman's reluctance to participate fully as a performer in his plays; it may also explain the persistent recurrence of the "world of art" metaphor in his statements about theater, a metaphor that traditionally subtends a realist-illusionist aesthetic. It's possible that Foreman can't fully appear onstage because he respects a division between the real world and the world of the theater. Thus, he can appear onstage only as a recorded voice, as a film or video image, or through versions of himself played by actors; or, if he does physically appear onstage, the name "Richard Foreman" must be given to someone else. But maybe the explanation for these restrictions on Foreman's representation of himself is precisely that he doesn't appreciate a distinction between art and reality, or that he's waiting for that false distinction to evaporate. Maybe he's waiting to go onstage when there's no longer any division between onstage and offstage. Maybe that's what he means when he says "I have absolutely no goals anymore, except maybe to get out of the theater."

Click here to purchase Richard Foreman at your local independent bookstore

Rain Taxi Online Edition, Summer 2001 | © Rain Taxi, Inc. 2001

by Jeremy Smith

RED MARS, BLUE MARS, GREEN MARS                                                      Kim Stanley Robinson
Bantam Books ($7.19)

Staring at the screensaver on my computer—an image of stars flying past as though the viewer were on a starship traveling faster than light—it hit me that human beings would one day accomplish this feat, maybe not as quickly or dramatically as we see on Star Trek, but some day, some way. We have simply invested too much time imagining the experience for it never to happen.

I feel the same way about the idea of utopia, the "no place" where we will live in balance with each other and with nature. Utopia, says culture critic Russell Jacoby, is the conviction "that the future could fundamentally surpass the present." We live in a time when many have lost this conviction, and to find it again is to find hope for a better future.

Although most leftists don't know it, Kim Stanley Robinson is one of America's best-selling and most visionary left-wing novelists. His three award-winning Mars novels chronicle the colonization of Mars from the viewpoints of dozens of characters over the course of a century. Recently completed by the publication of a coda volume, The Martians, at the end of last year, Robinson's Mars books are probably the most successful attempt to reach a mass audience with an anti-capitalist utopian vision since Ursula K. Le Guin's 1974 novel, The Dispossessed.

Robinson stands on many shoulders. Utopia, the perfect place, is always conceptualized from within the limitations of where we actually live. As old visions are chastened by the reality of their attempted implementation, our idea of perfection has changed over the past century. In literature, utopia as we know it begins with H.G. Wells, Edward Bellamy, and hundreds of lesser-known contemporary authors, all of whom were products of the late-19th-century socialist movement which consciously held their novels up as visions of a better, socialist future. It's a strategy that recruited millions worldwide.

In the classic Looking Backward, Bellamy's hero wakes from a one-hundred-year sleep to the futuristic year 2000, when the abolishment of private property has liberated humanity from scarcity, greed, and lust for power. In the typical turn-of-the-last-century utopia, which reaches back to Plato's Republic, society is egalitarian but run on a military model, with production and consumption regulated by technocratic elites. Culture is the superior scientific (and often Christian) culture of the Northern hemisphere, driven by macro-technologies: heavy industry, eugenics, centralized planning, atomic energy, space travel, and building of colossal scale. This is the vision that shaped the Soviet Union, which sought to one-up the capitalists in efficiency by establishing "industrial armies," as they are called in the Communist Manifesto.

Experience is a bitter critic of utopia, and in the period following World War II, the modernist utopia was turned on its head in the novels of William S. Burroughs, Kurt Vonnegut, George Orwell, and J.G. Ballard.

Living as a heroin junky in Spanish-occupied Morocco in the mid-50s, William Burroughs conceived of divided Tangiers as a metaphor for the modern world, a point of convergence—the "Interzone"—for conflicting cultures, competing powers, and addicts and exiles of all types. Like George Orwell's 1984, his fragmentary novel Naked Lunch uses science fiction motifs to depict a consciousness shaped by drugs and mass media, in a world where technology is used as an instrument of control, not liberation.

As prisoners-of-war, Vonnegut witnessed the firebombing of Dresden, and Ballard saw the flash of the atomic bomb from the coast of China. For many of their generation, the experiences of Dresden, Hiroshima, forced agricultural collectivization, and the Holocaust ended forever the faith in technological progress that was the cornerstone of early-century utopianism. Scientists no longer looked like disinterested searchers for truth, but servants of military-industrial complexes East and West.

In the 1960s and 70s, nationalist revolts, evidence of growing ecological disaster, feminism, and the Civil Rights movements provided the experiential basis of the New Left, which rejected the monoculturalism and five-year plans of their Social Democratic and Communist elders. The writers influenced by the New Left and counterculture—particularly Marge Piercy, Ursula K. Le Guin, Joanna Russ and Samuel Delany—wrote allegorical novels of social, not scientific, speculation. Their utopias and dystopias pivot on the reconciliation (or altogether elimination) of gender and racial difference, sometimes even suggesting that the good society would be primitive and post-technological.

In 1984, William Gibson published Nueromancer—the novel that first conceptualized and named cyberspace, when such a thing was only an apple in the eye of the National Science Foundation. The resulting sub-genre—cyberpunk—broke from old-school science fiction by focusing on all-pervasive micro-technologies such as bioengineering, information technology, and quantum mechanics. In Gibson's novels, cyberspace is not merely a communications medium—it is utopia, literally "no place," a "consensual hallucination" achieved through microchips instead of drugs, but also a hyperreal escape from the stricken, corporate-run world outside.

Cyberpunk cities are dystopian, but reflect a post-modern hip-hop sensibility: polyglot and multicultural, ecologically devastated, media saturated, cluttered with cultural and technological debris, dominated by centralized corporations and shaped by the values of the market. Their world centers around Asia, particularly Japan, not Europe or North America. Cyberpunk has its progressive aspects, but there is little in this future that counters global capitalism. They are stories of survival, not hope.

Against the limits of dystopia, we return to Kim Stanley Robinson and his Mars books. "The dystopian cliché of our times is just too easy," he says in a 1996 online interview, "it no longer says ‘Don't go this way' but rather ‘This is the only way no matter what you do, so don't try to fight it.' That kind of dystopia is reinforcing of the status quo, it's a capitulation."

In the first novel, Red Mars, a culturally and ideologically diverse group of scientists—the "First Hundred"—land and begin the terraformation of Mars. They are followed by hundreds of thousands of others. The Earth from which his multinational colonists escape could very well be the same globalized Earth described by cyberpunk—resources are depleted, populations and ocean levels are rising, and transnational corporations are all-powerful.

Robinson, however, inverts the cyberpunk sensibility, harnessing its technological obsessions to the pursuit of utopia on Mars. The Mars books are an ambitious attempt to reclaim the soul of science by uncoupling it from the profit motive and hitching it back up to the project of building a better world. His vision reaches back to Looking Backward, but successfully assimilates ecology, feminism, and post-modern multiculturalism.

Robinson gets around the narrow and undemocratic implications of science fiction's traditional rule of scientists and engineers by quite logically making everyone on Mars a scientist or engineer—an elect lifted to heaven by their virtue (a millennial trope that utopianism can't seem to live without). Their exploitation by transnational corporations leads to a spectacular showdown between the complicated but essentially good scientists and the bad although all-too-human capitalists. The scientists' revolt fails, and in the second book, Blue Mars, they go underground to intentional communities based on ecological, feminist, and communitarian principles.

A second—this time mostly non-violent—anti-capitalist revolt succeeds, and at the beginning of the third book, Green Mars, the good scientists and their children embark upon the arduous work of building a Mars-wide utopia, using the experience of their intentional communities as reference points. Meanwhile, an Earth dominated by corporations continues to be swallowed by disaster, straggling (like Europe in the twentieth century) behind the New World.

The Martian utopia begins with the idea of an independent Mars "as a world rather than a nation," composed of many different cultures. Inalienable rights include "the material basics of existence, health care, education, and legal equality." The land, air, and water of terraformed Mars "are in the common stewardship of the human family." Finally, "the fruits of an individual's labor . . . cannot be appropriated by another individual or group . . . human labor on Mars is part of a communal enterprise."

The last two items—ecology and economic democracy—are conceptually merged into "eco-economics," a system where "efficiency equals the calories you put out, divided by the calories you take in."

Prices are determined by the caloric value of the object or service. "Everyone . . . makes their living . . . based on a calculation of their real contribution to the human ecology," a calculation that also measures human impact on the environment. On Robinson's 22nd-century-Mars, work is play. Economic activity is organized in huge worker-run cooperatives, regulated by special environmental courts, a system incapable of producing predators who take more out of the system than they put in.

If this sounds fantastic and unlikely, well, of course it does—that's science fiction, where walls drop from around the present and we gain the freedom to imagine a range of possible (if not probable) futures. For those whose imaginations have failed them, the future extends only to the next bottom line. But for the rest, there is little choice but to imagine a better way to live, before the problems created by our technology overwhelm us.

Editor's Note: Kim Stanley Robinson's Mars novels are all available from Bantam Books.

Click here to purchase Red Mars at your local independent bookstore

Click here to purchase Green Mars at your local independent bookstore

Click here to purchase Blue Mars at your local independent bookstore

Rain Taxi Online Edition, Summer 2001 | © Rain Taxi, Inc. 2001

by Rudi Dornemann and Kelly Everding

Neil Gaiman's writing career began in journalism, that most reality-oriented of approaches to the word. He first made a name for himself in comics, a genre that isn't usually connected all that closely to reality. But Gaiman's writing blends and balances things that aren't ordinarily combined: reality and fantasy, humor and horror, the fairy tale and the novel, the personal and the cosmic.

Gaiman's alchemy was amply evident in his influential Sandman series for DC Comics, which was remarkable not just because it was so well done, but because it was done so much on its own terms. As opposed to the reimagining of older heroes that was the trend, Gaiman gave us a whole new imagining, inventing the saga of "the dreaming" and its denizens as he told it. Certainly, he wove in connections to older comics and even older stories and myths, but his Sandman went its own way. Some of this uniqueness came from the central character of Morpheus, neither hero nor anti-hero, who had the ring of archetype, but remained an original creation. Some of it came from the variety of kinds of stories Gaiman wrapped around the character—everything from horror stories to historical vignettes to wonder tales.

Since bringing Sandman to a close, Gaiman has written several novels, a collection of short stories, and even, with frequent collaborator Dave McKean, a children's book (The Day I Swapped My Dad for Two Goldfish.) His new novel, American Gods, follows the story of Shadow, an ex-convict who becomes mired in the machinations of pagan deities brought to America by immigrants and then abandoned for the newer gods of technology, drugs, and money. In picaresque fashion, Gaiman interweaves the broader story of a brewing storm, an all-out war between gods, with shorter tales of different people who came to America as indentured servants, slaves, and prosperity seekers. The amalgam explores America’s spiritual center and centerless spiritualism through the timeless archetype of the mythical hero.

Sipping on a tall cup of chai, Gaiman spun animated and eloquent answers to our questions. A shorter version of this interview appears in the Summer 2001 print edition of Rain Taxi Review of Books.

 

 

Rain Taxi: You dedicate American Gods to "Kathy Acker and Roger Zelazny, and all points between." How do you view the literary continuum, and how do you see yourself in it?

Neil Gaiman: It’s an interesting dedication because it’s about three things. It’s about absent friends, and it’s about writing a book for absent friends. It’s also about the literary continuum—there’s this thing that runs from here to here and very elegantly and peculiarly, it runs from A to Zed. In the ’90s I lost a number of friends, but the two big friends I lost who were also writers were Kathy and Roger. Roger was someone who I had not known as well as I should have done. We’d see each other at conventions and things and talk on the phone, and we’d always have long conversations about how sooner or later I had to come down to New Mexico and hang for a week . . . it was always something I figured I had plenty of time for. When he died it really shocked me, and I did wind up going down to New Mexico for the memorial. Kathy was somebody who I was very good friends with in London from 1985 onward. I remember I got an email one day saying she was dying, which seemed a little odd because I had spoken to her six months before. I phoned some friends of hers in England and was told: No, no, she’s just being a drama queen, she’s fine, she’s got flu, whatever. I sent back an email to these people saying "my people say she’s just got flu." "No, she’s dying in a hospital in Mexico, here’s the phone number." She was in room 101—I thought, there you go, there’s a literary reference. It was good, I got to say my goodbyes, tell her I love her, tell her to hang in there. We said a few words and she was dead a couple of days later. That one hurt. So I wanted to write something for them. In many ways, I have no idea if Kathy would have liked it. I think she would have done. I know she would have liked chapter two with the extreme sex in it—that was there for Kathy. But I sent a copy of the book to Jane Lindskold who was Roger’s partner in his last few years. She wrote back and she said, you know, Roger would have loved this book. I felt very happy about that. It was interesting because I wasn’t trying to write a Zelazny-ish book. I think Roger was probably the best fantasy/SF writer of the ’60s and ’70s when he was on form. I really wasn’t trying to emulate him. I was just trying to write a book that I thought he would have liked.

In terms of where American Gods fits on the literary continuum . . . I’m not sure. I’m enjoying not being sure. With most of them I can tell. Neverwhere is an urban fantasy adventure novel. Stardust is a fairy story. Sandman is a giant sequence of ten graphic novels. Mr. Punch is a magical realist memoir. American Gods is a thing that will probably be read by science fiction people as SF, by the fantasy people as fantasy, by the horror people as horror. We’ll see whether the mainstream and literary people read it as literature. For my part it was very much a way of trying to use the tools of fantasy and some of the tools and engines of horror to try and describe the world.

RT: Representative of the mix of cultures making up America, American Gods tells the many tales of immigrants who came to this country and brought with them their gods. Little by little, the gods become dysfunctional and their mortal manifestations turn into prostitutes, grifters, criminals, and the forgotten elderly. Is this a political fable for you—is this the story of the decay of values, American or otherwise?

NG: I would not describe myself as a political writer except in the sense that the personal is political, which is something that I do strongly believe. And in that sense American Gods is a very personal novel and a political novel. I was trying to describe the experience of coming to America as an immigrant, the experience of watching the way that America tends to eat other cultures. It’s very interesting going to Canada because that doesn’t happen. If you’re wondering around Toronto, whatever, you feel that there’s no attempt to turn any of these other cultures into a Canadian thing. As a result of which, you have a much more interesting, to my mind, mixture. In America, to quote Michael Moorcock "Art aspires to a condition of muzak"—everything homogenizes, it blands. I think I was trying to talk about both the blanding of other cultures, the way the rough edges get knocked off very quickly and the way the things that make them special and unique get forgotten or lost or abandoned or subsumed into the "American Dream." In addition to that I wanted to talk about future shock: the way that we are currently slamming into the future incredibly fast and what that means, and what it means that the future that we were heading for in 1984 now feels incredibly dated. For that matter, 2001 feels incredibly dated. Where does that come from? So trying to take all of that and put it into a framework that would also let me write about the House on the Rock, and do these little historical short stories as well, which were such a joy to write.

RT: What about place? Most of American Gods takes place in the Midwest and the South, in sparsely populated places. You identify sacred places and ones of "negative sacredness." How does place fit into your vision of American spirituality?

NG: I think what was for me the most interesting thing was not necessarily what I did there but how it’s been received by readers on the East and the West coasts. The reaction is sort of "Gee, your making those fly-over states sound almost interesting. Who knew there was anything going on there?" There’s an awful lot going on in all of these places. It’s another convenient fiction that life exists on the West coast and life exists on the East coast, and there’s a little life in Texas; that you could take a map of America and sort of color in the places where there’s life. And someone would grudgingly draw a little circle around Minneapolis, which they’ve heard of. But this would be the only place with any life until you got to Chicago, which is the next place they heard of which has life. What I was trying to say is that there is an incredible amount going on in these places, and it goes very deep, and it’s really interesting, and really cool. I try and define what it looks like and what it feels like.

I’m normally not an on-the-ground researcher. The point where I discovered the joys of on-the-ground research was actually after I had written Neverwhere as a TV series, but before I had written it as a novel. I spent a day on a location scout looking for places the TV series could be set, which meant that I actually got to wade through the sewers; I got to wander through some of these strange decaying backstage places. When I came to write them later it was incredibly useful having that knowledge of what it’s like down there—stuff I made up became very solid. With American Gods, I wanted to use that, and I would actually do things like go on little road trips. I’d say if my characters are going from here to here, I need to sort of follow the kind of places they’re going and see where they wind up. We get that wonderful chapter in Cairo, Illinois; it exists because I had to drive from here to Florida and thought I’d do it by taking back roads. I liked the sound of the name. When I got there I discovered it was this wonderful town that had once been full of history and that history had now passed by. The time when the Mississippi and the Ohio were trading rivers. Everything was happening on them—they were the arteries, the confluence, a wonderful place. Now it’s sparsely populated, with a sign saying "Welcome to historical Cairo." That’s about it. I walked through the customs house museum which was one of the saddest little buildings I’ve ever walked through. So what can you have in Cairo? The Egyptian gods seemed so perfect for that.

RT: Did you do other research to unearth the myths and legends that populate American Gods?

NG: To some extent, although a lot of that stuff was stuff washing around in the back of my head. I have a very functional knowledge of things like Norse myth. There were a few I ran across while I was doing the book that I wanted to learn more about. The most frustrating of them, of course, was Czernobog and the Zorya, the Slavic gods, because there’s so little about them actually known. I ran across them while I was beginning the book, and I loved the idea of Czernobog the black god and his brother Bielebog the white god, and the Zorya, these sisters of the dawn—the morning star, the evening star, and the mysterious midnight sister. And then I spent weeks trying to research them more. At the end of three weeks of solid research I had nothing I hadn’t had in some little Peterson’s book of gods at the start. There’s so little known about the Russian Gods. The Catholic church and the Russian Orthodox church stamped out most of it, and then Napoleon burned the rest of it on his way to and from Moscow.

RT: As an English writer living in the U.S., you're surrounded by American speech—from the people you encounter to the media you see, hear and read. Do you find this influences the language you use as a writer?

NG: It influences the language I use to communicate. With American Gods I was trying very, very consciously—there was a level at which it was a little like trying to write a novel in French—you know, "this novel is to be written in American." I allowed myself Wednesday, who while very American, I allow some Anglicisms into his speech. I loved doing things like writing my little Essie Tregowan story, with the English girl getting transported from Cornwall to here. The strangest thing about doing it was actually the copyediting process. That was weird because I had the English edition and the American edition. An American copyeditor went through the book, and pulled words that were invisible to me, like "hessian" and "burlap." Where I described Johnny Appleseed as picking up a hessian sack, they said no, it has to be burlap. I kept it hessian in the English one and changed it to burlap in the American one. After eight or nine years out here my accent is just a mess. Americans still think I have an English accent, but English people are very surprised to discover that I’m actually English!

RT: Your writing has drawn upon material and subjects from several cultures: British, American, and recently—with your Princess Mononoke script and Sandman: The Dream Hunters—Japanese. Are there differences in the stories native to different peoples and different places?

NG: I think that the biggest, quickest and hardest thing to learn for a writer is that what we think of as the unchanging verities of story are a load of bollocks. Absolute rubbish. There are no unchanging verities. Furthermore, the shapes of stories, which is what we’re conditioned to think in—you know when something’s a story because a set of things have happened—there is a very specific western one, and by Western I will take in all the way through Iran, Iraq, that kind of area. As soon as you’ve hit India, the shapes of stories change completely. Once you move into China and that whole area, the shapes of stories again change completely. Africa, again different story shapes—what constitutes or satisfies that moment of satisfaction. I remember reading a wonderful essay by Chip Delany and I unfortunately forget who he was citing, he was citing someone else, who flush with joy about the eternal verities of story was in the African bush. They’d been exchanging stories—he and some Africans. He told them the story of Hamlet. And he got to the end of the story, and they all expected him to continue. He said, "well that’s the story." And they said, "did they find the witch? They need to find the witch and kill her." In their stories, the things that happened in Hamlet could only have happened because there was a witch—these kinds of events occur and the ghost comes in and you find the witch and kill her or him. And here is what we consider one of the great stories!

In Sandman, I happily gave the impression that these are the stories that continue forever. But the fact is they are very Western. With Mononoke, I remember talking to Miramax and saying all you really have to do to make this film move from being a wonderful art house film into something that Americans will take warmly into their hearts is you chop ten minutes from the end, you add a thirty-second sequence of Prince Ashitaka going back to his village with San as his bride and the villagers saying hurrah hurrah it’s over and throwing confetti. I wasn’t saying do it; I should make it really clear it was not something I was recommending. But that would have given the film the closure that a Western audience would have wanted. We know stories begin with the Hero having to leave his village and being sent away. If the prince is sent away from the village because evil has struck and so on and so forth, he goes out, he finds his bride, he comes back to his village. The prince comes back as the king, and in Mononoke that doesn’t happen. It ends on a very ambiguous note: he’s simply living in the town and helping the girl, and they’ll be seeing each other, but there is no joining of cultures. He certainly isn’t bringing her back to his village as his bride. He’s not going back. That area fascinates me—the things that aren’t part of what Campbell liked to think of as the unities.

RT: I’m glad you mentioned the theme of the Hero, because much of your writing is concerned with the meeting of mortals and immortals, that moment in which they collide for better or worse—like Michelangelo’s Sistine Chapel painting of God and Adam touching fingers. This can be an explosive moment, a moment of self-realization and transition; the hero of American Gods, Shadow, experiences this moment and becomes a conduit between the supernatural and natural worlds. What inspires this tendency in your work?

NG: That’s one of those questions that I’m useless at. It’s like when people ask "Why do you write about angels?" and I say, I don’t know; I try to keep them out, and they crawl back in like cockroaches. In order to be able to answer that with any kind of accuracy, I worry that I would have to pin it too hard to the board, and it would never get up again. A lot of it is because you want to talk about humanity and you want to talk about people, but people are icebergs. So much of us is underneath. The imagination and the place that dreams come from is so huge and so important. I’m trying to write about the real world, in that I’m trying to write about whatever it is the experience that makes us human, the things that we have in common. I don’t feel that writing about the real world means that I should be constrained to a version of reality that you see on the 11 o’clock news or read in the New York Times. I do not see why every single weapon in the arsenal of the imagination can’t be mine.

In the case of American Gods, one of the things that really made it concrete for me—which I tip my hat to in the text—was reading Herodotus, which I did when I first came to America. The lovely thing about being an auto-didact (as all writers to some extant are, is you learn very quickly how to teach yourself cool stuff, learn cool stuff, read cool stuff, and get the meat of something out of it. And give the impression that you know so much more about it than you really do). In the case of Herodotus, and there are a few moments in Suetonius as well, you’re reading about a world view in which you’re being told who won this battle and the strategy and the tactics. There are people here who are obviously the grandchildren of the people in this battle, and you’re getting all the information. Then, we sent a runner from here to there to tell the people in Marathon that we had won. On the way, the runner met Pan in a clearing, and Pan said to him "Why don’t you build me a temple? I want a temple and I want it built on this spot." The runner said okay and he kept running and he was almost dead when he arrived, and they revived him, and he told them that the Greeks had taken the battle and also that Pan wanted a temple. These days we would tell the event as: Greeks won the battle. That’s the real thing that happened. The runner seeing Pan we treat as either apocryphal or as imagination or as an over-stressed mind. (On the wonderful list of barking-mad theories comes that nice gentleman with his origins of consciousness in the bicameral mind, who claims it was all the left brain talking to the right brain. The right brain is going, [making puppet motions] I am Pan. The left brain is going, oh, all right. God knows how you’ll transcribe that!) The point being that you had a world in which the gods were written about and treated as simply part of the world. And I thought wouldn’t it be a really cool thing to try and put that into the here and now. If people did come over with their gods, what are their gods doing, how are their gods doing? That’s really where the whole thing sprang from.

RT: It seems that despite our modernity and dedication to technology and progress, and the elision of the imagination you are referring to, Americans are still somewhat steeped in pagan ritual; vestiges of paganism have been subsumed by Christianity, Judaism, and Islam. Have we lost something by forgetting the history, etymology, and significance of these rituals?

NG: You guys actually have more of the weird shit ritual stuff going on than you would imagine. Coming over here from England, I was awe-struck by what Americans do at Halloween. I find it magnificent. In England, you get the occasional fancy dress party. One of things I wanted to do in American Gods was remind people about where some of these things come from. One of my favorite sequences to write was when we meet Easter; you get this whole conversation in a San Francisco coffee house about the origin of the word. And I love that, the fact that Easter is somebody’s name. Easter is a slight modernization of Eostre of the Dawn. She’s the one you get the estrous cycle from. She was a fertility goddess whose high feast was at planting time in the Spring. She was worshipped with symbols of fertility—eggs chiefly, and rabbits, and flowers, and couples going off and copulating, and so on and so forth. All that stuff was completely subsumed which is why you get people today making jokes about whether the Easter bunny was crucified. I love that. This is something old that overlays something else. You had better be aware when you’re getting your Easter eggs and doing your Easter hunt that this is for Easter, she was Eostre of the Dawn. And it’s perfectly possible that that was a corruption of Astarte—God names wandering westwards.

RT: You've written in many different forms—comics, novels, film and television—and quite a few of your books and stories have started out in one medium and then had a later incarnation in another. Which elements of a story translate well and which don't?

NG: It’s always a learning process. What I tend to do is move stories from medium to medium because I’m interested in how it works. I just finished doing a movie adaptation of Death: The High Cost of Living—

RT: Oh, good.

NG: Yes, I’m really pleased with it, or at least pleased with where I got to by the end of it and really looking forward to doing the second draft. When I was a young man I sat in a theater audience and watched Violent Cases, my first graphic move, being done on the stage—good stage adaptation, intelligent director, good actor—and I sat there saying the lines under my breath along with the people doing it, and realizing that it didn’t work. It didn’t work because they had simply taken—there was no effort to translate it to the stage. It had been trans-literated. They basically took the graphic novel and put it on the stage, and the dramatic high points were not high points now that they were on the stage. Little things became huge. Huge things became small. That fascinated me completely, and taught me a great deal. The weirdest thing about American Gods is that, as far as I’m concerned, it’s my first novel. I’d written Neverwhere first, but Neverwhere was very specifically my own adaptation of my TV scripts, so it wasn’t really novel-shaped. It has beats that aren’t novel-shaped, it has highs and lows, and there was nothing much I could do to it in the writing other than get the descriptions in and stuff like that. Stardust was a very interesting book, but Stardust was essentially something that I was writing as an illustrated project—with Charles Vess. Good Omens was enormously fun, but Good Omens was a collaboration with Terry Pratchett, and an enormous learning experience for me. Terry was by far the senior partner on that.

With American Gods, it was the first time that I had actually gone, okay here’s a blank book—one of these big leather-bound black sketch books; some store was clearing them out, had a major sale on these big sketch books, 500 pages. So I bought a bunch of them, and sat down and wrote the words "American Gods" with a fountain pen on page one and turned it over and started to write. That was a very, very conscious thing. I really wanted a second draft. It’s my experience with computers that they do not give you a second draft. Computers give you an ongoing, ever-improving first draft, but there is no discontinuity there. I wanted that, so I wrote the book by hand, and after every few chapters I would stop and type up what I had done so far.

RT: You've written a lot of what, on the surface at least, are very different stories—ranging from kids with goldfish to young men looking for fallen stars to hidden worlds under London. Are there any themes you see yourself coming back to from one piece of writing to the next?

NG: The trouble with common themes is that they’re things that people point out to you. Themes tend not to be things you notice yourself, and when you notice them or when they do get pointed out to you, they can freeze you. For example, somebody once said to me, that they always knew when they were entering the final act of whatever I was doing because there was always a kiss. And it was a terrible thing to be told. Up until that point it had been completely unconscious. And of course the odds are that it’s probably there in American Gods. I haven’t stopped to think about it. I kind of hope it isn’t, but I’m sure somebody will be able to say, Oh look, here it is. What I try and do is to sit and go with the story, which is not a commercial way to write. There’s that wonderful quote by Freud or Jung or one of those German gentlemen with beards, when asked how somebody could achieve fame and success, the reply was "you shit all in the same place." Which I always took to mean you keep doing your thing until you have an enormous pile of it! I’m very, very lucky; I have nothing to complain about. But the people who go and live on the best seller list tend to do it by writing more or less the same book, more or less once a year. Do the same thing once a year and your bank manager will thank you. The last thing I wrote was a fairy tale. This is a huge sprawling, picaresque novel about America and its imagination. The next book of mine that will be published next May is a very short novel aimed chiefly at children and those who, in their hearts, remain children, about a very small, very brave girl who goes through a door that shouldn’t be there, to a place that shouldn’t be there, and encounters her other mother who is a very scary lady with black buttons for eyes, and who wants the little girl to stay with her for always. So everybody who loved American Gods is going to go, what the fuck is this?

The lovely thing about writing comics for so many years is that comics is a medium that is mistaken for a genre. It’s not that there are not genres within comics, but because comics tend to be regarded as a genre in itself, content becomes secondary; as long as I was doing a comic, people would pick it up. And they got very used to the fact that I’m going to go where my inclination takes me and wherever that takes me is going to be wherever I go. So I kind of trained people to expect that. With the world of books I don’t know if I’ve trained them all yet. The people who were with me back in the comic book days, they’re much more forgiving. If they didn’t like Mr. Punch they’d come back for the next thing.

RT: I think you’ve answered our next question—we were going to ask if you write with different audiences in mind or if you imagine an ideal reader who's generally genre-agnostic.

NG: My ideal reader is me. And yes, my ideal reader comes with me and is forgiving. And will re-read. I don’t know in this day and age whether it’s a quixotic goal or not. Gene Wolfe, one of my favorite writers in any genre, defined good literature as that which can be read with pleasure by an educated reader and re-read with increased pleasure. One of the delights of Gene Wolfe’s fiction is that you can go back and read a book you’ve already read and knowing a little bit more about it you will find more there. I always try to do that with my stuff. Even the short stuff. There will be something else there you probably won’t get on the first reading that will be waiting for you. If American Gods works, it’s like a magic trick, it’s like a sequence of magic tricks.

One of the great things about being a writer who gets read is that cool people turn up at your signings. Last week I was in Los Angeles, I was master of ceremonies at the Nebula awards. Great fun. The day before I did a signing at the LA book fair, and there was a man named Michael Ammar in the signing line. And he said, "Look I’m doing the Magic Castle tonight, would you like to come and see me as my guest?" I said, sure. I came and watched him, and the guy was incredible, one of the top sleight-of-hand magicians in the world. Technically flawless and a delight. He also gave me a video showing how he does stuff, teaching some basics. And he finished his act with the cup and the balls, which is one of the great classics. One of the moments that was most impressive was he had three cups and he’s produced two balls for you and you’re not quite sure how he did it. For the third ball, he twirls his wand [motions upward] and he says now, and you look down and the ball is already sitting there. And every single person in that audience gasped as they looked. Somehow it had appeared there. Watching the video, knowing that was what I was looking for, I took even more delight in the fact that as he waved his wand he simply put the ball on the table—no effort made to hide it—but secure in the knowledge that he was directing our attention well enough that he knew of the hundred people in that room there were two hundred eyes on that wand at the precise moment that he was just placing the ball on the table. As he directed our attention back to it, it was as if it had magically appeared.

There’s a lot of stuff in American Gods where I’m directing your attention. If the novel is working, you are looking over here while I am putting something on the stage, setting something up, so when you get two chapters on, or ten chapters on, or in one case eighteen chapters on, you’re going to go Oh my God, I should have seen that coming. It’s both enjoyable and frustrating. One of the nice things about doing that stuff is that next time through the book, somebody can actually enjoy watching my hand put that little thing there.

Click here to purchase American Gods at your local independent bookstore

Rain Taxi Online Edition, Summer 2001 | © Rain Taxi, Inc. 2001

by Graham Foust

Joe Wenderoth is the author of two highly acclaimed collections of poetry, Disfortune and It Is If I Speak, but it's his latest book, Letters to Wendy's, that's in the news. Wenderoth wrote this book on comment cards from Wendy's restaurant, and in that seemingly unimaginative space, where most people write complaints about the freshness of the items in the salad bar, he has composed an extended complaint about the freshness of our collective psyche and soul. Whether this genre-bender is an epistolary novel or a sequence of prose poems or yet something else entirely is up for debate, but there is no doubt that beneath its sometimes shocking veneer it is a very humane book—one that surely exemplifies critic Calvin Bedient's statement that Wenderoth's poetry "makes quick cuts in the meat of the ordinary, which is the meat of the impossible."

 

Graham Foust: How would you categorize Letters to Wendy's?

Joe Wenderoth: For business purposes, best to call it a novel. People like to read novels. If I call it a novel, people can read it and dwell in the happy expectation of character and plot and all of that. Honestly, though, I'd like to make up a genre: tragic-comic impressions. And I mean "impression" in all its senses, particularly the one, you know, meaning "imitation of someone else—imitation of a someone."

GF: The book seems more like an "impopulation" than an "impersonation." If one "makes up" a person, one isn't really doing an "impression." In that case, there is no "original" for the audience to base the quality of your impression on. But perhaps that's your point. Who might you be impersonating in Letters to Wendy's? Are you impersonating (or perhaps impregnating) yourself?

JW: I am impersonating selves of mine, yes—long-gone ones, mostly, but some that are destined to return again and again. I am also impersonating selves (i.e. "voices") that I intuited the presence of when I was reading. Specifically, I am thinking of the oddly impassioned selves of 19^th-century artist-philosophers—especially as gathered from their epistles. Dickinson, Nietzsche, Kierkegaard, etc. There is something about that period that created an unheard-of, quite appropriate to my mind, grandiosity. I love the idea of re-instituting that grandiosity in today's scene, where it is most conspicuous, and re-asserts . . . what? . . . the scene's real potential. Much of which has been forgotten.

GF: Your early statements on poetics (and I'm thinking here of "Obscenery" and a letter you wrote to APR a long while back) seemed very against the idea of the "self," or, more accurately perhaps, you seemed to say that the "self" was primarily what poetry sets itself against. This is not new, of course. Stevens: "Poetry is not personal." Do you see Letters to Wendy's as being related to poetry in any way? It seems to have a multiplicity of voices which your poetry lacks, which is to say that it strays from, or ditches, a lot of the tropes that persist in your poetry (singing, speaking, hands, cold, animals, etc.) in favor of a more varied array of images and ideas.

JW: I guess I was being sort of obsessively technical, in some sense, when I defined poetic speech that way. I do still believe that what is poetic about poetic speech—the absolutely necessary element, let's say—is a kind of lucid obliteration of the self's control of the scene it imagines. There is most definitely a kind of moment that allows for poetic speech, and my point in that essay was to insist on this fact, and to insist, too, that American poetry of the past 30 or so years has taken a certain stance outside of and against that moment—particularly its obliteration of self. Instead of language—or whatever it is that is prior to self—speaking through an obliterated self, we see poems wherein a self speaks, having weathered its obliteration and looking back at it. It looks back and feels a kind of humble pity for what it has endured or it celebrates its power to reform itself. Either way, the speaker, for me, is a sort of anti-poet, a living denial of the real power of the poetic moment it was born from. When I began writing Letters To Wendy's, I often found myself in this anti-poet position, in some sense, and yet, the letters are not really comparable to those kind of poems. They aren't really comparable for several reasons. First, the persona is comical, and the humble pity evoked can never be taken as exactly sincere. Second, the persona is himself obsessed with finding actual—I mean more than literary—ways in which to obliterate the self he speaks from; that is, he problematizes himself, his process, and his celebrations are never celebrations of weathering obliteration—they are more likely celebrations of his being bound, pleasurably, into further obliteration.

GF: Okay, so if they're not comparable, are they in some way related? Do the different modes feed off of each other in some ways? Obliteration, yeah, yeah. Either way, you're writing an "actual" thing, a book to be read, and both modes have your name attached to them. I guess maybe my question is: "Why?" One can see clearly the need for both poetry and, say, criticism, but what's this book for? And this question isn't really so much about authorial intention, I guess, but maybe more about inspiration. You mention Kierkegaard, whom I think is apt, what with his different personae. Andy Kaufman comes to mind. It seems like we're missing these "types" these days. But what potential are you adding to the scene?

JW: Yes, they do feed off each other. One type of writing manifests the persona so that it may begin to absorb its obliterations. But conversely—and this gets to your second question—one is always absorbing the obliterations so that the full depth of persona-possibility can be felt, the full range of personae maybe, and with a keener sense of what persona-establishment is really out to produce for the body. It's like after a really good poetry reading, one feels especially ready to go out and get fucked up . . . which means, really, manifest. One might attempt, for instance, to say something to someone, or to touch someone, in malice or in love. So I guess Letter to Wendy's are a bit of both. They're often poetic, but probably more often—or even at the same time—they're post-poetic, which is to say, they're situated in the absurdity of an everydayness that the poetic has always failed to obliterate. And the post-poetic, while it might be a celebration of the poetic moment's power, is also always a recognition of that moment's distinctive impotence. The poetic moment always fails to complete its project, and the personae one lives through can be a withstanding of this failure. For me, withstanding is different from weathering. For a persona to have weathered obliteration is to imply that he is now beyond it, but a persona who withstands obliteration is still there in it, and his sovereignty is a joke. A joke he is playing on himself. Yes, Andy Kaufman, that's right. And Beckett's that way, too, though I would hardly compare Kaufman or myself to Beckett's work.

GF: You claim that Letters to Wendy's is a novel, which would signal a move away from poetry, and, one might suppose, a move toward a more "popular" form of literary consumption. It wouldn't be hard to see certain facets of the literary community dismissing Letters to Wendy's (or at least specific parts of the book) as "immature" or perhaps too "pop," not serious enough. The letters are pornographic in places, and they also deal with popular culture (and popular attitudes toward culture) in a very inclusive way, which is to say that the speaker feels very much a part of the artifice around him, perhaps even responsible for it in some way. The spaces, times, and practices of the everyday are taken as necessary givens rather than as instances of exotic exception or a kind of "slumming." There is no higher brow here which feels itself superior to the lower life forms who gather daily in the homogeneous spaces of corporate America. In fact, one might say that intellectual activity tends to thrive in those usually "dumbfounded" spaces in Letters to Wendy's. Given this turn away from the exalted, "special" place of poetry (a realm so special that it rarely manages to even get itself discussed in such sacred texts as The New York Times Book Review), do you feel you've "matured" or "progressed" as a writer? A novel is bound to sell more volumes than a book of poems, which might in turn make you famous, secure a "position" for you (academy or celebrity, depending on who buys and how many). Or is this not something you think about in terms of your writing because it's either inevitable or doesn't matter or both? I suppose to ask that question assumes you feel there's some sort of progress to be made, which there may not be . . .

JW: There is progress to be made and there isn't. There can be progress in the sense that one can write something less stupid (more truthful, or more beautiful, or more humorous) than what one wrote before. There is no progress, though, on the level of WHAT one writes in terms of genre—I mean, shifting from this genre to that, or from accessible to inaccessible, or vice-versa. One just finds what's sufficient for whatever place and time and mood one's in, and then one tries to make it good, which is to say, unusual. I do think that I have matured as a writer, gradually of course, but also as a result of this new project, these "letters." They allowed me to experiment with the degree to which the poetic might be manifest in a character, a character's voice. I had always assumed that character and voice were impediments to poetic speech, or worse, were indications of an implicit decision to disallow poetic speech from taking place. So there was this chasm between my own character, my own everyday self, with its habits and its manners, and those moments which were poetic, which is to say, which spoke neither to nor from my character. This chasm never bothered me—I never understood it as necessary or beneficial for me to use poetry to convey the sorrows or joys of my everyday self, and in fact, I disliked poetry being used in this way. To me, it seemed like a shameful and pathetic abuse of a great power. And yet, there WAS this chasm in my existence, and the urge to somehow link the two sides persisted as at least a curiosity. Letters to Wendy's was how I finally found a way to link the two parts of my own existence—the letters were the result of a pent-up curiosity for how the two might be linked, and they sort of gushed out. I think it is the humor of the letters, above all, that allows for this link—the humor exempts the character from being understood as the sort of shameful abuser of "special" moments—exempts the character from being understood as a typical contemporary American poet.

GF: You recently returned from a small "book tour" (I think this is what they call them) for Letters to Wendy's. Can you characterize the audiences' reactions? As soon as it was released, Letters to Wendy's was mentioned on a lot of Internet sites, so I imagine that even though it hadn't been out for too long, there were people in attendance who didn't know your books of poetry and came to see you read from the letters, and, of course, people who liked your books of poetry who had no idea about the other material. I remember a couple of years ago you read some of the "letters" on NPR and it didn't go over so well with the show's host.

JW: That wasn't NPR—it was Iowa Public Radio, a local program run through the Prairie Lights bookstore. It nevertheless had the NPR tone: that ludicrous degree of self-possession. The host of the show, I am told, experienced a gradual tightening of the buttocks as the letters descended into explicit sexual language—she rose up off of her chair, I am told. I think much of the Iowa countryside experienced a tightening of the buttocks that night. Such is life. Audiences have a strange reaction, generally—it's almost always a tense situation. People seem to be unsure of whether to laugh—whether it is permissible. Then, too, I think some of the crowd seems worried that it may be politically incorrect to laugh. These problems are only made deeper by the inconsistency of the letters' tones and subject matters. And the inconsistency is not explained—one just leaps from one state, one degree of seriousness, to another. I think it's just unusual—most readings aren't like that. Anyway, the tension is nice, and it fosters a curiosity—I notice a lot of people buy the book afterwards as if they were puzzled: what the hell was that—what is this? I have noticed that some American poetry lovers have felt the need to tell me that Letters to Wendy's are not as good as the poems in my first two books, as if I am Dylan, abandoning the acoustic guitar. What I have abandoned, or seem to have abandoned, in Letters is the degree of seriousness and self-possession that allows for the "specialness" of poetry that you spoke of before. People always like to assume that an art will evolve reasonably, which is to say, within the familiar tones and techniques that have housed it in the past. When you assume, though, you make an "ass" out of "u" and "me."

GF: I wonder: do you feel like this project might appeal to fans of, say, authors/performers like Henry Rollins, Sandra Bernhardt or Eric Bogosian? Not that I really feel as if you're doing what they do, but I do feel like people who read those sorts of authors (and not, let's say, poetry "proper") might be attracted to this book. Letters to Wendy's is "pop" in a way that books of poetry (even tremendously popular books of poetry by, say, Jewel or Rod McKuen or Maya Angelou) are not. It's also very funny. So if it does have an appeal on this level, you might be expected to do more of the same, to repeat yourself in a larger framework than, say, the world of academic or professional poetry (a world which of course expects and respects repetition). Does this worry you, this potential keeper-of-the-cult status?

JW: No, not worried. I don't think the book will generate the sort of fame that might lead to such a worry. Also, despite the mountains of cases wherein people surprise themselves with their own craving for praise, I truly doubt that fame, as a writer at least, could interest me much or be something I'd have any desire to preserve. I must admit that I very much expect or desire some praise, on some level, as it feels sad to think that one's audience is as pathetic a thing as oneself—only oneself. It felt sort of bad, for instance, when I published (via Wesleyan) my first two books of poems; one gets so little response—so little sense of who, if anyone, is reading the work. Of course here and there you meet someone who has, or you read a review that seems genuine, but mostly there is just silence and polite conversation. I remember, for instance, being at a party after I did a reading at Bucknell. There was a woman who was somehow associated with Bucknell (a student who had found a "big" publisher or something like that) and she had read before me, and at the party she was saying how much she loved my poems and how she absolutely needed to get my book. Thirteen dollars, I said. Well, she said, how about we trade—I'll give you my book and we'll call it even. No offense, I said, but I just use the library. Then, naturally, she didn't have 13 dollars with her and she, more poignantly, was not speaking to me anymore. I didn't want her poems; I didn't want to make a connection either.

GF: Since you've mentioned Bucknell, I'd like to ask you how would you characterize the relationship between the university (not Bucknell specifically, but the university system) and poetry. You teach at a university, and you're often asked to visit schools in order to present your work to people. These institutions are "connection-making machines" and they allow the majority of contemporary American poets to go on living the way they do. How does one participate in the maintenance of these machines when one is, in fact, not interested in them? I suppose these are questions about teaching as much as they are about poetry or paychecks or parking spots.

JW: I should have gone to law school, but I got an MFA in Poetry Writing instead. I participate in the university system because there is no alternative for me now, or none that I am aware of. I have said in the past that a poet should dwell in the university in a dignified way and thereby return it (in general, and with regard to its being a conserver of poetry) to dignity—but I'm not too confident anymore that this is possible. I've seen more now—how mired universities are in their subservience to capitalism, and how their English departments work to remain isolated from one another, and from any serious commitment to the development of an American poetry. In place of this seriousness and this commitment, loosely defined political and/or aesthetic agendas have arisen, locked in place by pretended animosity for one another. This animosity is only superficially political and/or aesthetic; it emanates, in truth, from the simple insecurity of individuals who know, deep down, that their poetic talent is questionable. This insecurity/animosity is the bedrock of the American poetry world. To exacerbate the pretended political/aesthetic conflicts that have been, quite cynically I think, set in place is to miss the point. If there is any hope for bettering the situation, it lies in the power of younger poets to refuse to participate in these conflicts. It lies in our power—which may be too small, I admit—to indict the dominant poetry and the suspicious pacts its admirers are mired in. These pacts, which breed admirations and animosities at the same time (which breed, that is, prizes and prize winners, and those that envy and detest them), are the behavior that one needs to extract oneself from, yes, and that one needs to indict, but will this change anything? I suspect that the roots of the problem are in the roots of the society itself, and I suspect that significant changes in the poetry world will only be achieved in the context of much larger cultural change.

GF: It would be interesting, I think, for younger poets to hear how you came to this realization. To chart your course, I suppose. I would imagine that you were interested in poetry as an undergraduate. Perhaps you even sent manuscripts to book contests. It's evident from your first book's acknowledgements that you enjoyed your MFA community. What led you to where you are now in terms of your attitude toward American poetry, and is Letters to Wendy's in some way a reaction to this world?

JW: I became interested in poetry as an undergrad, yes, and I published eight very early poems in the American Poetry Review. This was viewed as a wild success by those around me—faculty and students—but I quickly saw that the poems were not really very good, and the whole poetry scene was dominated by people whose poems were not really very good, but who nevertheless schemed to publish them as though they were. I resolved at that very early point not to send my poems out, and I have only fallen off that wagon a couple of times since. I decided to focus on writing rather than publishing; I never sent out a manuscript to anyone except my teachers. One of my teachers showed my first manuscript to Wesleyan and from that point on I have not had to deal with competitions or prizes or trying to find connections—the work itself has drawn its supporters to it. That is lucky—I know a lot of good writers who have not gotten support. At the same time, I don't think whether or not one publishes is even a big deal—it certainly doesn't mean the work is any good. If you are seeking to find self-respect or a sense of your work's having dignity by turning to the American poetry scene, you are decidedly lost. As for my MFA community, I think the dedication you refer to is misleading, and if I had it to do over again, I'd state it differently. I was really referring to the system in place there—the correspondence aspect especially—and to the good fortune I had in meeting a few people. I realize now that the dedication sounds more like I was praising the whole scene there, as though there was some great break from the dominant poetry or from the atmosphere by which the dominant poetry world furthers itself. No, that system works, when it works, despite the luminaries which so often stud it, and despite the American poetry world atmosphere, which it definitely furthers. I actually started writing Letters to Wendy's while I was on a trip to see a friend who attended Warren Wilson with me. I mean, I actually wrote the first cards while I was there and in the midst of our shared disgusts—people trying to sell books, trying to make connections, etc. But in a larger sense, the Letters are definitely a reaction to the pretensions of the current American poetries, or to the ludicrous sort of self-possession it hushes itself with.

GF: Your recent "Poetics for the New Millennium" in the recent issue of the Chicago Review seems to also be a reaction to the American poetry scene, though it seems to me to be a one-shot piece. Could you say a bit about that? Also, what other writing projects are you currently working on? Though you've said that you see yourself moving away from poetry "proper," do you see yourself publishing another book of poems? John Berryman, a poet I know we both admire, once said that he couldn't stop writing Dream Songs, and so he kept writing them even after the collected songs were published. Do you find yourself still drawn to writing poems—in spite of, or perhaps because of, the various dissatisfactions with the practice and its various worlds—or have you burned out completely?

JW: I think I am a bit burned out—as is evidenced by that piece in the Chicago Review, which was not properly revised. I will publish another book of poems, I expect, though I don't know when. They are accumulating slowly. The book I've been working on of late, a sort of surreal rulebook entitled The Game, would be defined, like the Letters To Wendy's, as poetic prose, and it's also similar in that it is an accumulation of fragments. It's different from the Letters, though, in that it's a rulebook, so it's more orderly, and it builds, instead of a vague personal trajectory, a set of conditions in which a society might play, and might watch itself play. I am enjoying writing this book; I love the concreteness of the subject matter, and the way its concreteness keeps me rooted in practical abstractions, even as this practicality is constantly undermined by the extravagance of ordering the whole of life. "Poetics for the New Millennium" is not from that book, but it arose, I think, because in that book I've been enjoying very much the naming of things—playing gear, stages of the game, etc. And I have had, of late, a sense of how tremendously rare it is for a writer to write something that really resonates—you know, something that really might stand out into time as a unique utterance, its tone and its concept mysteriously entwined with the authentic anonymity that endures the myriad personae. That piece is meant to be funny, but it seizes on a widely unrecognized truth: for a writer, particularly a poet, it is not unreasonable to hope to achieve, in a life's work, just a few compelling fragments. Even just one, if it rings powerfully true, would mean one's life-work was a great success. Reading, even reading poetry, is judged by most in our society to be simply an activity among activities, and as such, its quality is determined by how well it passes the time. But that's not poetry; poetry does not pass the time—it does exactly the opposite.

GF: What do you mean by poetry doing the opposite? Do you mean that poetry holds time still? Or that it times the passing?

JW: The latter sounds right. There is a desire to sketch, with just one line, that slight-yet-massive shift which is the foundation of the world's worlding—we could call it time, but it is not time in a general sense; it is one time; it is the one time unit that repeats endlessly until we are oblivious to it or until we accept that it cannot be sketched, cannot be wrested from the throng of its own echo. I'm not speaking of real time, of course, whatever real time might be. It is imaginary time, the atom of time the imagination in all cases must presume. Aristotle implied this unit of imaginary time in his concept of the reversal-of-fortune, which is naturally linked to the discovery. It is possible, via poetic speech, to sketch this atom directly, or almost directly—that is, to proceed as though one can communicate, without detour, the fact of this atom. Such a communication ceases to be communication when the fact of time arises; the implications of time's nature, when they are allowed to penetrate those in time, bankrupt the dominant assumptions of communication and self/other. This bankruptcy has been deemed less and less valuable by American society as it has modernized, and this judgment has gradually infected the American poetry world, too. Poetry has been encouraged to remain a communication—even the most respected poets, the poets still inclined to sketch the fact of time, are more likely inclined to avoid approaching their sketch too directly—they move, instead, to sketch the shadows first, then circle back, sketch the other side, more shadows, until the whole point of the poem is to avoid sketching what it's about. Can I convey to you how happy I am to find a poem that is not too long? Most poems I see have zero, one, or two strong lines or phrases in them. Most good poems, that is.

GF: I'd like to look at two poems with you: your poem, "Writer," and the introductory poem to Wallace Stevens's "Notes Toward a Supreme Fiction."

Writer
A person, for you, is a book.
Impossible to categorize,
it veers from non-sense verse
to the most tedious of novels
and back
in just a breath.
And the book ends, the book ends.
And what makes the person more real,
then,
than a book,
is just that you cannot reread
one chapter, one sentence, one word.
You must rewrite him,
her,
and you cannot.
You cannot.
This inability is the source
of everything you have to say.

******

from Notes Toward a Supreme Fiction
And for what, except for you, do I feel love?
Do I press the extremest book of the wisest man
Close to me, hidden in me day and night?
In the uncertain light of single, certain truth,
Equal in living changingness to the light
In which I meet you, in which we sit at rest,
For a moment in the central of our being,
The vivid transparence that you bring is peace.

You present the reader with a conflict: the writer's ability to write takes its power from the writer's very inability to do something that is both impossible and necessary ("you cannot reread," "You must rewrite him, / her, / and you cannot"). Though the "yous" in both poems are flanked by caesuras, the "you" in your poem is not an exception. Stevens's specific "except for you" gives way to the general rule of the "Writer," and this of course includes both you and Stevens. Your speaker does not formulate his or her remark as a question, but rather makes a declarative statement that puts words in the mind of the metaphor-maker. The "moment" which comes at the end of Stevens's poem appears in the sixth line of your poem as "just a breath," though Stevens's "moment," as we remember, is one of "vivid transparence," while your "breath," is a confusion, a "veer[ing]." The "just" from "just a breath" is repeated five lines later, adding an increased sense of mereness to the difference between the person and the book, while at the same time widening, or rather producing, a gap between the two which was closed in the metaphor of the poem's first line. The speakers of both poems are in a kind of opposite but equal light, and the fluctuating identity of the person-as-book in "Writer" contradicts Stevens's ever-so-briefly balanced me-within-the-me. And yet the same processes—comparison and/as contrast, production and/as obscuration—are at work. In Stevens's poem, the mirror of identity, brought to light by the presence of another person, keeps time in a book-like manner, while in your poem, the backward image of the finite book, made possible by the inability of the writer to gain a temporal hold on another person, is the very material of writing. Your poem seems almost like it could be a response from Stevens's beloved, no?

JW: Not an intentional response, as I had made no connection between the two poems, but the idea of reading my poem as a response from the beloved is interesting. I don't think I ever really dwelled on that Stevens poem. I suppose the reason I never have—the reason I have been inclined to focus on other poems of his more intensely—has something to do with the observations you're making about the differences in the two poems. I notice, reading them now, that my poem implies that "my" primary concern is writing, saying, whereas his poem recognizes that writing, saying, are more limited than the (unspeakable) encounter with the actual other, who might actually bring "peace." It is, as I think you imply, a matter of which impossible thing one wants to assert as most impossible, and so, of where one wants to situate his own-most—and definitive—failing. I see Stevens's poem as simply more mature, I think. The younger more naïve poet, I'd say, has not yet learned that "his" project, "his" failure, cannot really ever be his, which is to say, cannot ever really abolish the common and ordinary "peace" that he has forever growing at the "central" of his being.

GF: I suppose you're trying to learn this as you go. In closing, perhaps you'd like to speak about what else you're trying to learn, what else you see your project(s) as attempting to "accomplish," if anything.

JW: Yes, you're right to be suspicious of that "attempting" insofar as it can be connected with "to learn." One simply learns, if one is indeed trapped in the need to write; learning is only ever a by-product of the attempt to submit to the fact of time. Where a poet resists learning about his being, he is really only resisting, indirectly, his more definitive potential: submission to that moment from which his whole self has gained its fictive essence.

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Rain Taxi Online Edition, Summer 2001 | © Rain Taxi, Inc. 2001