Careless Love: The Unmaking of Elvis Presley, by Peter Guralnick

A Review of Peter Guralnick’s

Careless Love: The Unmaking of Elvis Presley

Originally published in Toast Magazine,

April 1999

Careless Love:

The Unmaking of Elvis Presley

By Peter Guralnick

Little, Brown, $27.95

When Peter Guralnick published Last Train to Memphis, the first volume of his biography of Elvis Presley, it was hailed by fans and critics alike as the first serious treatment of one of our century’s most intriguing figures. Even Elvis’s former manager, “Colonel” Tom Parker, called it “a different kind of book.” Neither an apologetic panegyric nor an exploitative tell-all, it examined in close detail all the facts about the singer’s rise from poverty to unimaginable success and popularity. But that book tells only the first half of the story, covering the time from Elvis’s birth in 1935 to his induction into the US Army in 1958, and now, four years after the publication of the first volume, Guralnick has published Careless Love to complete the story.

Guralnick calls this book a tragedy, and true to his word, Elvis Presley’s ghastly, pathetic, and utterly banal fall more than qualifies him as a tragic figure. The story begins with Elvis on hold in Germany as he waits for his stint in the Army to end and for his reign as King of Rock ’n’ Roll to resume. On top of the world as he’s drafted, Elvis struggles to be seen as just one of the boys, and this may be the first step downward. The ultimate symbol of rebellion and unleashed sexuality, Elvis loses nearly all street credibility when he wholeheartedly embraces the patriotic-young-man role laid out for him. But he wears it so well and is so lovable that we can’t help expecting him to return the same old Elvis.

With the Colonel running things on the home front, Elvis returns to find that he’s as popular as ever. But from his first recording sessions and his appearance on Frank Sinatra’s pathetic welcome-home special, it’s evident that the fire is out. He’s still beautiful and talented (and ten times cooler than Sinatra) but that’s just about it. Gone is the driving fury that transformed both popular music and culture, and in its place we find an adorable automaton. It’s not that Elvis consciously decided to sell out, but it’s evident from listening to the empty virtuosity of songs like “It’s Now or Never” that he was more interested in honing his technique with safe material than with challenging himself or his fans.

And then there are the movies. Elvis saw himself as a Brando or a Dean, but the Colonel saw dollar signs in cute comedies about girls and race cars. Of course, all this is old news to Elvis fans, but Guralnick’s painstaking account brings new depth to Elvis’s struggle both with the Colonel and with his own image. Elvis is profoundly frustrated with the lack of substance and challenge—in his music as well as in his movies—but Guralnick’s portrait shows Elvis as much to blame as his manager. He chooses to be led rather than to lead, and as the Colonel refines his money-making techniques, the paths that Elvis follows become increasingly narrow, in marked contrast to the bold expansiveness that marked his life and work in the 1950s. In elaborate detail, Guralnick recounts the deals that slowly turned Elvis into a laughing stock. We learn how Elvis wasn’t allowed to record a song to which he didn’t own the publishing, and how two-week filming schedules maximized movie profit for everyone involved. The publishing deals insured maximum profit as well, but Elvis had to stop singing Leiber & Stoller songs and start singing songs written by studio hacks—songs like “Ito Eats” and “There’s No Room to Rumba in a Sports Car.” One scene finds Elvis smashing acetate demos against the studio walls in his frustration, but he never objects.

His lifestyle is as disappointing as his artistic situation. Here’s a man with unlimited wealth and opportunity, to whom the world is open, and he spends all his time womanizing and partying in Las Vegas with his entourage. Living on the uppers he discovered in the Army, Elvis and company spend every night going to clubs and bringing countless women back to their hotel rooms. Of course, some of their hijinks are truly hilarious, but mostly they’re boring and sad. It’s not that Elvis lacked culture—although he certainly did; it’s that he had access to so much simple pleasure that he couldn’t imagine pursuing any other path.

Which leads to more boredom as the highs become more and more elusive. Which leads to more womanizing and more pills. In the background of all this is Elvis’s relationship with Priscilla Beaulieu, his stay-at-home girlfriend who he met in Germany when she was just fourteen. Guralnick’s account necessarily lacks the intimacy of Priscilla’s memoir Elvis and Me, but the distance says a lot about how Elvis felt about and treated his wife-to-be. He wanted the nice girl at home, but he just couldn’t help himself when he was faced with women like Ann-Margret on a daily basis.

Again, much of this is old news, but Guralnick explores it all in nearly day-to-day detail, conveying the incredible boredom without ever boring the reader. We find ourselves sleepwalking through life along with Elvis, and as with any great biography, we find ourselves understanding and even getting used to Elvis’s world, which is quite a feat considering how warped and claustrophobic it becomes. Elvis’s bizarre spiritual awakenings, his infantile but strangely touching relationships with women, his ever-changing obsessions—everything we talk about when we talk about Elvis suddenly becomes imaginable and almost rational when viewed this closely. But probably Guralnick’s greatest feat is that as we read we forget how it’s going to end. We rally with Elvis as he puts on a spectacular performance on the 1968 “comeback” special. And when he goes on to record the amazing “Memphis” albums, we have renewed faith, if only for a while. We’re forced to read as if it’s happening now, suspending all we know about Elvis in the hope that he’ll regain the glory we know he’s capable of.

But as in literature, there are harbingers foreshadowing the future. His “comeback” was as much the doing of zealous, true-believer producers as of Elvis himself, and as we see him renewing his enthusiasm, we also know that he’s not really in charge anymore. He’s singing the way people remember him singing, not the way he envisions for himself, and we understand that once these people are gone, Elvis will be adrift again. We want to believe, though, and for a brief moment, as he decides to start touring after almost a decade off the road, we’re the first in line to buy tickets.

Another of Guralnick’s abundant talents is his lack of prejudice when dealing with characters we’ve all made up our minds about—most notably the Colonel. In both volumes Guralnick delves almost as far into the Colonel’s life as into Elvis’s, and what emerges is a multi-dimensional—and utterly fascinating—portrait of Elvis’s real other half. I won’t spoil anything for you, but when Guralnick reveals the long-hidden truth about the Colonel’s background, you’ll realize that he needs a two-volume biography of his own. The only consistent word that anyone in the know uses to describe him is “genius,” and far from being a sinister figure, he truly believes that he has Elvis’s best interests in mind. He falls nearly as drastically as Elvis does, though, and ultimately he’s as responsible for—and as helpless to prevent—his and Elvis’s tandem descent.

Everybody knows the rest of the story—the increasing reliance on “medication,” the freaky religious weirdness, the outrageous spending sprees, the guns, the destructive relationships—but never before has it been this unbearably intimate. Not even Elvis: What Happened?, the tell-all biography by fired bodyguards Sonny and Red West, comes close. Perhaps the most surreal—and most famous—episode is when Elvis meets President Nixon. After hundreds of pages, we’ve become acclimated to Elvis’s world—a world in which he has complete power—and as we see him encountering a truly powerful figure and see how utterly absurd he is in comparison, we can only shake our heads at how comical our hero has become. Nixon’s all-too-real villainy makes Elvis not just seem silly; it makes him seem thoroughly out of touch with any kind of reality, and this may be the book’s final turning point. Before, Elvis was the master of his own warped reality—a reality that we’d bent along with—but now we’re forced to step back in astonishment. Now we realize that Elvis is totally out of it.

From here on, the book is sheer torture to read. The list of drugs, physical maladies, on-stage embarrassments, creative disasters, and emotional upheavals just drags on and on, with Guralnick assigning more and more pages per year as Elvis’s life limps toward death. Everyone sees it coming, but to see it actually happen is almost too much to take. Amazingly, the Presley estate opened its files to Guralnick, so we get to see it all, in all the goriest detail. Again, I won’t ruin it for you, but be warned: If you care about Elvis even just the tiniest bit, this book will break your heart.

It’s hard to make much of a judgment about Careless Love, because its treatment of the subject matter is so engrossing that it’s hard to see the book objectively. It’s difficult to separate Elvis from Guralnick’s book about Elvis, which I guess is the best praise you can give a biography. For Elvis fans, this is certainly not the only place to look—there’s much to be found in many of the insiders’ biased accounts—but it is most certainly the best. Bob Dylan’s statement that Guralnick’s biography “cancels out all others” may be a stretch, but it isn’t much of one.

—David Wiley

Nature Studies, by John Henry Ryskamp

A Review of John Henry Ryskamp’s Nature Studies

Originally published in the Rain Taxi Review of Books, Spring 1999

Nature Studies
John Henry Ryskamp
FC2 ($12.95)

Throwing together patches of history, art theory, literary essay, cultural criticism, memoir, legal briefs, letters from the author to his editor, quotes from The Brothers Karamazov, two or three pages of actual story, and reams and reams of explication and justification of its own style and structure, John Henry Ryskamp’s debut novel, Nature Studies, bills itself as the beginning of twenty-first-century art. Instead, what it ends up being is an accidental parody of postmodernism, an inbred cousin to the works of Richard Grossman, William Vollmann, David Foster Wallace, and Theresa Cha.

Like those writers, Ryskamp plays with form, invents impossible combinations of events, warps time, and exploits high and low culture. But the novel reads more like Forrest Gump as written by Woody Allen’s “Irish Genius” Sean O’Shawn than like The Book of Lazarus or You Bright and Risen Angels. Here we have Ryskamp joking with Einstein, giving advice to Mondrian, fishing with Bartók, etc. It gets old fast.

Using postmodernism to distract the reader from the novel’s vast emptiness, Ryskamp employs every single literary trick he can think of, liberally stealing from Joyce, Calvino, Borges, Pynchon, and anyone else in his endless repertoire of references. At the same time, he mocks the very writers who influence him, accusing the best of them of “senseless virtuosity.”

Take a gander at this: “Actually the failure begins not at the Wake, but rather in Ulysses. That is why we begin to see that Joyce is a talent in search of a reason, that he runs everything into the ground, that he goes on endlessly and has no plot, that like Shakespeare he cannot tell a story (Shakespeare can’t spell either) and is too fond of the sound of his own voice.” He then goes on to “savage” Proust for his aimlessness. Either Ryskamp is too myopic to see that he’s damning his own faults—which is unlikely considering how self-conscious he is—or else he’s being ironic, in which case he’s trying to fool us into equating Nature Studies with other “senselessly virtuousic” works. I doubt anybody’s going to fall for it.

If it bears mentioning at all, the story buried in Nature Studies concerns a young boy who’s kidnapped and killed by an eagle, but you can find a more succinct and readable version of that story on the book’s back cover.

The only really enjoyable sections of Nature Studies are the ecological, legal, and political diatribes—which Ryskamp admits, in a lengthy discussion of the book’s composition and editing process, were added to fatten the book, at the request of his editor, Curtis White (who also contributes an absurdly hyperbolic blurb to the book’s cover). They culminate in a brief Vollmann-esque interview with a homeless man near the end of the book—clearly just a transcript, but incredibly moving nonetheless. So even though Ryskamp comes off as a self-parodying blowhard most of the time, at least his political heart is in the right place. Too bad his aesthetics aren’t.

—David Wiley

Breakfast on Pluto, by Patrick McCabe

A Review of Patrick McCabe’s Breakfast on Pluto

Originally published in the Rain Taxi Review of Books, Spring 1999

Breakfast on Pluto

Patrick McCabe

HarperFlamingo  ($22)

The title of Patrick McCabe’s new novel, Breakfast on Pluto, says a lot about the author’s approach to his warped tale of transvestitism, prostitution, and Irish politics. Named after the 1969 “UK chart hit” by Don Partridge, the novel has a surface level that’s zany and whimsical, at times almost seeming slight and off-handish, but beneath there’s a yearning that all the wackiness can’t hide.

“Go anywhere without leaving your chair,” Partridge croons, and McCabe’s narrator, Patrick “Pussy” Braden, wants just that—to find a place that’s both an escape and a homecoming. But being born gay in the 1950s in an Irish border town doesn’t leave many options for the latter-day Dorothy. Especially when, with the typical McCabian (macabre?) twistedness, (s)he’s the orphaned progeny of a young girl who was raped by the town priest.

A wise child, Pussy knows who his father is, and he vents his frustration by writing hilariously vicious stories about the respected “Father Stalk.” The novel’s larger frame (Pussy writes the whole thing out, years later, for his therapist) keeps getting interrupted by samples of these stories, and this puts Pussy in the position of a coy Scheherazade as he both arrests and furthers the novel’s progression with his tales. At times Pussy’s literary digressions seem like previous approaches to writing Breakfast on Pluto that McCabe couldn’t bring himself to throw away, but Pussy’s voice is so singularly transfixing that it’s easy to forgive McCabe’s inability to rein him in.

Like Francis Brady, the narrator of McCabe’s 1992 novel, The Butcher Boy, Pussy is an irreverent, sad, sweet, and deeply disturbed character, and he pulls the reader into his world so easily that it quickly seems as if the other characters are the weird ones. His fantasies about Efrem Zimbalist, Jr. and Lorne Green and his forays into his foster sister’s wardrobe sound much more reasonable than anything that the rest of the town has to offer. Especially a town so fraught with moral conservatism and political division.

In large part, this novel is about borders. And about quiddity and semantics. What is Pussy Braden, and what do we call him? He definitely exists, but where does he fit? If he’s not a man or woman as his countrypeople define them, then what is he? The confusion with border crossing and the violence to which Pussy is subjected throughout the course of the novel work as a powerful metaphor for Northern Ireland’s identity crisis. It’s as if McCabe is saying, “look at what happens when we’re forced to give something a name, a definition, and a border.”

The only unfortunate thing about McCabe’s roundabout approach to character study is that it comprises little more than accounts of Pussy’s misadventures with various johns and sugar daddies, all presented before a backdrop of political violence that Pussy accidentally (and incidentally) gets caught up in. Unlike the highly orchestrated Butcher Boy, then, this book has no dramatic unity or conclusion—which may be just as well. McCabe overdid things a bit with The Butcher Boy’s wildly overwrought climax, and here it’s as if he wants to keep things loose and let it all sink in rather than get hammered in. And it sinks in deeply. Even if this novel is more about Pussy than about anything that actually happens to him during the course of the novel, the effects of Breakfast on Pluto last much longer and reach much farther than do the actual pages of the book.


—David Wiley

The Zen of Oz, by Joey Green

A Review of Joey Green’s The Zen of Oz:

Ten Spiritual Lessons from Over the Rainbow

Originally published in Toast Magazine, February 1999

The Zen of Oz

Ten Spiritual Lessons from Over the Rainbow

By Joey Green

Renaissance Books, 132 pp., $16.95

One of the marks of a great work of art is the variety of interpretations it spawns. Take Shakespeare’s plays: 400 years later and we’re still arguing about them. And Kafka: Nobody really knows what The Trial’s about, do they? A classic can be claimed by anybody, and the greatest works often have any number of mutually exclusive readings. With few works of this century is this as apparent as it is with the film version of The Wizard of Oz.

Seen by different factions as a parable of the Populist Party (which Oz author L. Frank Baum admired), a gay fantasy, a feminist fairy tale, an anti-feminist cautionary tale, a Communist allegory, a drug-soaked nightmare, and a sexual awakening, The Wizard of Oz is pretty much whatever we want it to be. And now Oz critic Joey Green has added yet another interpretation with his book The Zen of Oz.

Until now the Oz tale has been seen by most as a secular fairy tale, with its only reference to religion being Aunt Em’s cop-out to Miss Gulch about being a “Christian woman.” But Green sees it differently. To him the Ruby Slippers represent Dorothy’s inner spark, and the Yellow Brick Road is her path to spiritual enlightenment. “Follow the Yellow Brick Road” is her mantra, and Good Witch Glinda, who most critics usually see as simpering and foolish, is here the Zen Master who refuses to give Dorothy easy answers and instead makes her figure the way out for herself.

Green reads the Wicked Witch of the West—who is generally seen as a dollar-hued representation of capitalist greed—as a control freak with an extinguished inner spark and a serious case of Bad Karma. And the Wizard himself comes out little better. Ruling through fear, intimidation, and out-and-out humbuggery, the Great and Powerful Oz is worse than a bad wizard and is hardly the person to look to for brains, heart, and courage (see Gregory MacGuire’s novel Wicked for an even stronger indictment of the man behind the curtain).

But “satori” (awakening) can arrive through any vehicle, Green argues. And the journey itself is more important than the destination anyway. The Scarecrow, Tin Man, and the Cowardly Lion had their respective brain, heart, and courage all along, of course, but they, like Dorothy, had to find it out for themselves. This accords with the Zen truism that you already have the attributes you most desire.

Green stretches things, though, when he says that Dorothy starts out having Bad Karma and that the cyclone is its manifestation. And much of his reading seems a little too Freudian for a Zen Master, at times degenerating into the worst kind of pop psychology and self-help tripe (although he’s right on when he says that the Lion needs to come out of the closet).

Green’s worst fault, however, is that he only has a handful of meaningful points and he pretty much runs them into the ground after a few chapters. Still, he knows his Oz, and his enthusiasm and keen eye can be illuminating to even the most astute Oz fans. So if you can deal with the general hokiness of this kind of book (shelve it somewhere between the cute Tao of Pooh and the annoying How Proust Can Change Your Life), The Zen of Oz definitely offers a new path down the Yellow Brick Road.

—David Wiley

Jorge Luis Borges’ Collected Fictions (review #1)

A Review of Jorge Luis Borges’ Collected Fictions

Originally published in Toast Magazine, Winter 1998

Collected Fictions

Jorge Luis Borges

Viking, $40

Ever wonder why American fiction got so weird so quickly in the 1960s? Why the likes of Thomas Pynchon, John Barth, William Gass, and Cynthia Ozick started weaving labyrinths that made nascent literary mighties like John Updike and Saul Bellow seem obsolete before their time? Aside from the advent of LSD, it’s almost as simple as this: Jorge Luis Borges got translated into English.

Borges’ world of infinite libraries, cabalistic societies, infinitesimal memories, and apocryphal histories had long been one of the main driving forces behind what came to be known as magical realism, but outside of Latin America, almost nobody knew who he was, and so when his greatest-hits collection, Labyrinths, reached the States in 1962, everything changed.

Over the years, several other volumes of poetry, prose, and essays followed Labyrinths, but now, twelve years after Borges’ death, Andrew Hurley has translated his entire catalogue of stories, prose poems, and parables into English.

Although there are no proper essays in the Collected Fictions, Borges often blurs the line between fact and fiction, frequently calling his essays stories and his stories essays. And he often writes himself and his friends into his pieces so that the reader never knows if what the story relates happened or not. The influence on postmodernism is clear (see William Vollmann’s work), and with the text falling back on itself to examine and question its own authenticity and authority, the reader often ends up getting lost in an ambiguous maze with no center.

But despite the literary games set up to undercut them, Borges’ stories are some of the most vividly imagined since Kafka’s. Take for instance “The Library of Babel.” The narrator describes his universe as an endless (or cyclical) library comprising an innumerable number of rooms, all identical and each with the same number of books. The books are identical in format, and each one represents a unique combination of the twenty-five lexical symbols. It sounds like a wanky philosophical exercise, but in Borges’ hands it’s a thrilling—and terrifying—examination of what happens to individuals when they’re faces with the infinite.

Take also “Funes, His Memory,” in which a simple country boy falls off his horse, hits his head, becomes paralyzed, and is ever after blessed (or cursed) with limitless memory. Borges spends pages recounting Funes’ mnemonic feats but then ends up lamenting how the boy’s infinite memory warps—and ends up replacing—his present.

Hurley’s task as translator is only slightly less daunting than cataloging the Library of Babel, but aside from a few inconsistencies and weird word choices (“gaol” for “jail”), he does an admirable job. The translation is lucid and readable, allowing the reader a clear glimpse into the worlds Borges imagined.

But be warned: Borges’ readers are no less at the mercy of the infinite than are his characters. The man’s awesome imagination and vast erudition are as terrifying as they are entertaining, and too much at one time can induce vertigo. But for the brave reader, there are few pleasures as satisfying as surrendering to such a monumental writer.

—David Wiley

Notes From Underground: American Literature, Alive and Well and in the Hands of Maniacs

Notes From Underground: American Literature,

Alive and Well and in the Hands of Maniacs

Originally published in the Underdog, a journal published by the University of Amsterdam’s English Department, April/May 1998

Does American literature make you yawn? Are you bored to tears by novels about farms or divorces or the minute workings of the suburban family? Then chances are you’ve been paying too much attention to the New York Times bestseller list, or the recent list of Pulitzer Prize winners. Because let’s face it: Boring sells in America, when it comes to literature, at least. Most readers don’t want to be challenged by alternate views of the world they live in—be they challenges in viewpoint or formal literary innovations. The book-buying public wants stories about an America that doesn’t really exist, a logical, rational place unsullied by the self-reflexive problems—or triumphs—of postmodernity. In other words, we want the world sold to us on television, and we don’t want to question that world—or the conduits through which we receive that world.

But fortunately, there’s a strong undercurrent working against this seemingly monolithic flow of domestic blah—a fistful of young (as well as older) writers not only showing us the America we feared existed, but doing it in ways that challenge the very place—and purpose—of literature. Not satisfied with producing “slices of life” in the conventional sense, our best writers’ work is a complex dialogue with reality—or “reality,” since the way these writers portray the world often dismisses the notion of any kind of objective or capturable truth. Rejecting the sanitized TV world, these writers’ work is like the notion of TV itself—bizarre, choppy, problematic, unsettling, endlessly self-referential and, above all, postmodern.

Leading the pack—or maybe being the entire pack himself—is the thirty-eight-year-old novelist William T. Vollmann. Extending the fictional legacy left him by the previous generation’s literary weirdoes—Thomas Pynchon, William Gaddis, Toni Morrison, Don DeLillo and Cynthia Ozick, to name a few—Vollmann stands as one of our most exciting—and disturbing—fictioneers. Having published approximately 5,000 pages worth of material in the last eleven years, Vollmann is charting a literary world that’s as breathtaking in its vision as it is exhausting in scope. Mixing together the fantastic and the ostensibly real, his world is a creepy, ever-shifting confusion of reportage and myth, and his overall effect on the reader—like that of Pynchon or Gaddis or even Melville—is a strange feeling of having journeyed through a parallel universe that only calls itself America.

In 1982, having just graduated from Cornell University, Vollmann crossed into Afghanistan with Islamic commandos, gathering material for what would become The Afghanistan Picture Show, and after that he worked as a computer programmer in San Francisco. I interviewed Vollmann two years ago for The Minnesota Daily, and he says that he wrote his first novel, You Bright and Risen Angels, while living in his office. He worked for eight hours, slept for eight hours, and wrote for eight hours, and the resulting novel is one of the most astonishingly weird books of our time. Although not as successful in artistic terms as his later work, You Bright and Risen Angels invented a new world of possibility for the novel. Narrated both by someone called “The Author,” a man working in a computer programming office, and by “Big George,” a ubiquitous electrical force that oversees everything, the novel tells the story of a bloody revolutionary war between insects and electricity. With two narrators, the reader never knows who’s speaking or who’s in charge of the text, and with the story jumping between stylized versions of American history and absurd flights of imagination, the novel challenges almost every assumption about what a novel is supposed to do.

Vollmann’s second book, The Rainbow Stories, is probably my favorite of his works, addressing such diverse subjects as neo-Nazi skinheads, prostitution, Islamic assassins, and the Bible. Each story takes up a different color, and the result is a widely variegated vision of Vollmann’s literary spectrum. Vollmann’s most recent book, The Atlas, attempts a similar scope, the stories spanning both the literal globe and the author’s literary globe, and with a palindromic structure holding the stories together, the collection falls back on itself like a book closing itself at its end. Vollmann is also at work on a series called Seven Dreams, which tells the history of America beginning with the first interactions between Native Americans and Norse conquerors and probably taking us up to the present day. He’s published the first, second, and sixth volumes of the series, and he’s sporadically working on the others as we speak. Also highly recommended is his short novel Whores for Gloria, which, like Pynchon’s The Crying of Lot 49, presents a brief, bizarre, and endlessly suggestive nightmare vision of the American underworld.

Like Vollmann, our other leading literary lights are the ones who challenge us both textually and contextually, taking up not just new fictional territory, but also new ways of exploring that territory. The biggest standouts seem to be David Foster Wallace, Rikki Ducornet, and Richard Grossman, who are all writing novels as if they were not just reinventing the wheel, but were inventing something completely unimagined. Wallace’s novel Infinite Jest is probably the best example of what I’m talking about; taking on politics, popular culture, family life, and the novel itself, it explores the world of art and entertainment in ways that question their very nature. And at almost 1,100 pages, you’d think he’d be able to come up with some kind of exhaustive lexicon of the states of art and entertainment; but in his most postmodern move, the novel ends about 600 or 700 pages short of resolution. Although it may be somewhat influenced by Vollmann’s first novel, which constantly refers to forthcoming (and nonexistent) volumes and whose table of contents covers about three times more ground than the novel itself, Infinite Jest’s ending suggests new ways for novels to think about themselves. It’s massive and incomplete, and this may be the best we can hope for these days.

Rikki Ducornet, although not as young as Vollmann or Wallace, is still on the cutting edge of what’s going on in American letters. But while those two bring to mind Pynchon or Gaddis, she recalls writers such as Lewis Carroll, the Marquis de Sade, Kafka, and Borges. Unlikely bedfellows, for sure, but in Ducornet’s zany literary universe, absurd juxtapositions are the name of the game. She throws anything she can think of into her books, and what results is a kind of salmagundi that sometimes seems disconnected but invariably adds up to something amazing. Her best book is Phosphor in Dreamland, which is an epistolary novel telling the story of the semi-mythic island Birdland, focusing on its most famous inhabitant, a seventeenth-century poet, philosopher, and artist named Phosphor. When I interviewed her last year, Ducornet cited the late British novelist Angela Carter as a big influence (and friend), and like Carter (and Phosphor), Ducornet is a rare bird who defies all categorization.

The newest writer on my list is Richard Grossman, who’s at work on a series called the American Letters Trilogy, which depicts America as Hell, Purgatory, and Paradise, respectively. The first volume, The Alphabet Man, which tells the story of a poet/murderer named Clyde Wayne Franklin, is a crazy mishmash of straight narrative, poetry, disjointed hallucinations, and linguistic experiments. It’s a little like William Faulkner on LSD. The second volume, The Book of Lazarus, is even stranger (and better), weaving letters, photos, epitaphs, aphorisms, and reminiscences into a tale of political and social creepiness and ambiguity. Grossman is working on the third volume at present, so we’ll have to wait a while to get to Paradise.

Of course there’s a lot more great work going on in American literature than the wacky postmodern stuff I’m into. There are plenty of conventional writers, such as Tobias Wolff, Jayne Anne Phillips, and Richard Ford, who are challenging in their own ways; especially recommended are Wolff’s story collection In the Garden of the North American Martyrs, Phillips’ novel Shelter, and Ford’s novel Independence Day. But as far as what’s pushing the envelope of fictional possibility, this weird stuff is where it’s at.

—David Wiley

Debut Novel, by Stefania Procalowska

A review of Debut Novel, by Stefania Procalowska

Originally published in The Minnesota Daily’s A&E Magazine,
April 23rd, 1998

Debut Novel
By Stefania Procalowska
Manic D Press, $22

The late Kathy Acker wrote in her review of Richard Grossman’s novel The Alphabet Man, “I have dreamt a book, not a book that tells a story, not even one that tells story upon story, all of them intertwining and changing one another’s meanings, but a book that simply is everything.” As amazing as Grossman’s novel is, it’s a shame Acker didn’t live to read Stefania Procalowska’s debut novel, Debut Novel, which although just a slim 193 pages, contains more and does more than almost any of the massive lexicon novels published this decade.

Initially, the most arresting aspect of the novel is that it’s written in first person—from the reader’s point of view. It begins, “I just opened Stefania Procalowska’s debut novel and found that I’m the main character.” Although this recalls Jay McInerney’s Bright Lights, Big City, which employs a gimmicky second person that doesn’t really do anything challenging, Procalowska uses this innovation literally to project the reader into her novel’s insane world—a world in which not just the reader but the words on the page and the book itself are characters. And unlike McInerney’s gendered “you,” there’s no indication of whether the reader is male or female, and as with Jeanette Winterson’s Written on the Body, it doesn’t really matter.

After a few pages of preliminaries, where “I” become acclimated to being both reader, narrator, and main character, I’m unceremoniously thrust into a quest for certain missing parts of the novel—parts that I as a reader require but Procalowska, who jumps in every once in a while to remind me that it’s just a book and not reality, refuses to furnish. In the course of “my” quest, I end up taking a whirlwind tour of Procalowska’s cracked literary universe, which includes everything from Biblical figures to altered historical accounts to literary characters to television and ’60s and ’70s pop culture. At one point, I find myself thumbing through the pages of Wuthering Heights with Zechariah and Don Cornelius (Jesus’ second cousin and the host of Soul Train, respectively, which makes for an interesting examination of Black/Jewish relations), looking for a narrative structure that could rein in the multi-layered, genre-hopping mess I’ve found myself in.

Certainly, the layer upon layer of storytelling recalls Wuthering Heights, but it does so in a way that recalls the way Kathy Acker’s Blood and Guts in High School recalls The Scarlet Letter—that is, in a stylized and bent manner that not just reinterprets the story, but revises it and incorporates it into the story at hand. So after a while, Bronte’s two Catherines make their way into the novel to help me along. And to further complicate the issue, I also find myself sidetracked into reading Joyce Elbert’s 1969 trash novel The Crazy Ladies (which in an utterly amazing literary confluence, I [the book reviewer, not the character in the book] actually read as a kid), and the characters from that book come alive to counter anything the Catherines say.

One of the funniest things about Procalowska’s use of things literary is her treatment of the self-reflexive trappings of the publishing world. In my search through Procalowska’s imaginary bookshelf, I’m as influenced by the book jackets as by the books themselves, so my understanding of my reading—and of Debut Novel itself—is colored greatly by the blurbs on books’ back covers. My favorite is the (presumably real) blurb for The Crazy Ladies, which reads, “Philip Roth, bow your head. Irving Wallace, eat your heart out. Joyce Elbert’s back in town.” So naturally Roth and Wallace enter into the book to debate Joyce Elbert’s literary worth, which of course is colored by the pejorative blurb about themselves. Procalowska’s wackiest blurbs, however, are the ones she puts on the back of Debut Novel itself. Citing such bogus periodicals as The Journal of Masonic History and Bug World, Procalowska both praises herself and pokes fun at the ways novels market themselves. And in a truly cool literary move, the blurbs turn out to be the key to (almost) understanding the novel’s ending. So don’t skip them.

Debut Novel isn’t all fun and games, however. Embedded within the stories-within-stories is a deep concern for the state of contemporary art and entertainment, and consequently for the state of contemporary America. In using both literary and popular references, juxtaposing the decadent with the ostensibly meaningful—or the sacred with the profane—Procalowska creates a vast array of literary and ethical choices that makes “me” explore my role as reader, consumer, and citizen—as well as Procalowska’s role as artist. Because with so much fluctuating and irreconcilable narrative madness, the question arises, is she in control of the text? And do I have any real choices or meaningful work to do as a reader? And is making me ask these questions part of her overall plan, making me think I have some critical power while still asserting her true control over me as the helpless reader? Because, let’s face it, this novel is a page-turner, and I can’t help but keep reading.

The obvious comparison is to an ironic television show that sells me a particular point of view while making me think I’m in on the joke. While watching the show, is there any way I can examine it critically, and is my detached critical view just another layer accounted for by clever marketers to keep me watching? So the ultimate question ends up being, is Procalowska putting one over on me or is she truly making me look critically at what I’m reading? And does it matter? It’s tricky ground she makes the reader tread, and the novel’s ending—if you can call it that—gives few hints at what she wants “me” to conclude about the novel. Maybe this is my only real freedom as a reader, and it comes just in time. The 193 pages that make up Debut Novel, although addictive, are exhausting reading, and even if I come to no conclusions, I leave the book profoundly altered. Let’s hope Procalowska’s sophomore effort (will she call it Sophomore Effort?) continues in this relentless vein.

—David Wiley

A Crackup at the Race Riots, by Harmony Korine

A review of A Crackup at the Race Riots, by Harmony Korine

Originally published in The Minnesota Daily’s A&E Magazine,
April 23rd, 1998

A Crackup at the Race Riots

By Harmony Korine

Doubleday, $14.95

From folks like Pier Paulo Pasolini and Woody Allen to Ally Sheedy and Ethan Hawke, film people love to write books, and that’s not always such a good idea. Granted, Pasolini’s a genius, but when you’re faced with a book of Leonard Nimoy’s love poems or Charlton Heston’s manly aphorisms, you know that something’s wrong with the publishing business. A Crackup at the Race Riots, the new “novel” by filmmaker Harmony Korine (Gummo), seems to fulfill all the best and worst expectations for such an undertaking.

At its best, A Crackup at the Race Riots is a hilarious jumble of half-baked scenes and ideas. And that’s what it is at its worst, too. Tossing together jokes, rumors, lists, vignettes, drawings, and suicide notes, Korine seems out to annoy rather than entertain or move the reader. The suicide notes can be pretty amazing, though, and some of the rumors are downright ingenious (e.g. Jerry Garcia tongue-kissed his older sister on his deathbed), but mostly it’s just silly and juvenile. Pretentious too—he’s constantly making references to folks like Proust and Walter Benjamin, as if he’s really read them. And there’s one section that’s plagiarized word-for-word from Donald Barthelme’s story “Conversations with Goethe.” But if we call it “sampling,” (the ultimate postmodern form), I guess we can let him get away with it. Or better yet, skip the book and go rent Gummo.

—David Wiley

Postmodern American Fiction, edited by Paula Geyh, Fred G. Leebron, and Andrew Levy

A review of Postmodern American Fiction: A Norton Anthology, 

edited by Paula Geyh, Fred G. Leebron, and Andrew Levy

Originally published in The Minnesota Daily’s A&E Magazine, February 26th, 1998

Just What the Hell is Postmodernism, Anyway?

Postmodern American Fiction

A Norton Anthology

Edited by Paula Geyh,

Fred G. Leebron, and Andrew Levy

Putnam, $23.95

Although compiling an anthology of postmodern fiction seems antithetical to the very idea of postmodernism, the folks at Norton have made a bold (if ironic and cynical) attempt at doing just that—boldness, irony, and cynicism of course being three prominent markers of postmodernism. Skimming the cream of half a century of American Postmodernism, as well as including nearly a dozen essays, Postmodern American Fiction tries to capture an aesthetic that by its very nature eludes clear definition, as well as purports to canonize works that were largely written against the idea of the canon. So what we have here is a canon of the uncanonizable.

Once you accept the premise that this anthology isn’t an absurd undertaking, the first thing that proves you wrong is the introduction. Postmodernists generally rail against any kind of objective authority system—especially those that fade into the background to become implicit (see Thomas Pynchon’s 1973 novel Gravity’s Rainbow, where the main antagonist is the sinister and ubiquitous “Them”). And what does this anthology do? It begins with an introduction without a byline. As if the anonymous essay were the ultimate lowdown on what postmodernism is, not even needing to sully itself with a living, breathing (and biased) author. It’s downright weird.

Aside from that, it’s actually a pretty handy introduction. I guess we’re supposed to assume that it’s written by the three editors, Paula Geyh, Fred G. Leebron, and Andrew Levy, each focusing on his or her area of expertise. And They seem to cover a lot of the bases. They analyze the impact of the Second World War on literature and culture, discussing the relationship of so-called postmodernity (a cultural term) with the emerging group of writers that critics have labeled the postmodernists (a literary term). Also, They chart some of postmodernism’s influences in the modernist and avant-garde artistic movements, making a compelling and informative summary of how postmodernism evolved.

The most interesting thing in the introduction, however, is the section headed “Postmodern Fiction and Postmodern Theory,” which reads pretty convincingly but ends up eroding the book’s entire authority. The discussion of antifoundationalism begins with the statement, “If any one common thread unites the diverse artistic and intellectual movements that constitute postmodernism, it is the questioning of any belief system that claims universality or transcendence.” Seems pretty accurate, but then when They go on to discuss the impossibility of objective truth on the part of any kind of foundation, or the veracity of “the official story,” it’s like saying “this statement is false.” Postmodern critics are caught in a Catch-22 that nullifies any authoritative statement They could make. And this volume just accentuates the problem.

Nevertheless, this is a really fun anthology. They break it down into six sections of fiction, each one exploring a particular aspect or style that (sometimes) fits into the postmodern rubric, and one section of essays. The first section, “Breaking the Frame,” is kicked off, natch, by Thomas Pynchon. It’s kind of a misleading beginning, however, because while Pynchon is undoubtedly the Big Kahuna of postmodernism, he’s hardly the first one writing in this style. Which brings up the anthology’s biggest problem: There’s no William Gaddis. He’s not even mentioned in any of the sections or in the index at the end. It’s probably attributable to the fact that They want to make the first selection (from Pynchon’s 1996 novel The Crying of Lot 49) jibe with Their idea that literary postmodernism begins in the 1960s. Not True. Gaddis’ 1955 novel The Recognitions lays the groundwork for almost everything that’s covered in this anthology’s pages, and on top of that, it out-mind-boggles even Pynchon.

Still, the selections here are quite good. Including folks like Donald Barthelme, William Gass, Ishmael Reed, Carole Maso, and Lynn Tillman (Women mostly get shunted to the end of the section! And, hey, where’s Cynthia Ozick?), They fairly accurately cover the writers that most challenged conventional narrative styles and forms. Although They do make the cardinal sin of referring to Gass’ story “In the Heart of the Heart of the Country” as canonical. How unpostmodern!

The next section, “Fact Meets Fiction,” seems a bit iffy, despite some fine selections. It includes William T. Vollmann, the reigning idiot-savant of American letters, as well as Theresa Cha and Gloria Anzaldua, which are pretty great choices. But if you want to believe that Truman Capote and Norman Mailer are postmodernists, I guess that’s your business.

The “Popular Culture and High Culture Collide” section would be better served by David Foster Wallace’s wacky “Little Expressionless Animals,” which features Pat Sajak and Alex Trebek as characters, but it’s still a good representation. There’s Laurie Anderson (yes, the musician) and Jay Cantor and Lynda Barry (comic book writers), as well as the obligatory Robert Coover selection.

The “Revisiting History” and “Revisiting Tradition” sections explore alternative versions of the past—both historical and literary. The main gripe here is that, no matter how challenging it is, Toni Morrison’s Beloved is really more modernist than postmodernist. Other questionable (but artistically great) inclusions are E.L. Doctorow and Marilynne Robinson, but the John Barth, Kathy Acker, and David Foster Wallace selections are right on, as are most of the others.

The “Technoculture” section might be the most interesting of the lot. Starting things off with William Gibson and including a big chunk of Don DeLillo’s 1985 novel White Noise, this section explores the looming presence of technology as both subject and tool of fiction. While White Noise delves into the utter creepiness of modern technology, the J. Yellowhees Douglas and Michael Joyce stories embrace it wholeheartedly. Unfortunately, I haven’t read the latter selections, because they’re hypertext stories posted on Norton’s website, and my crappy Mackintosh SE isn’t hooked up to anything except the wall outlet (and look who’s calling other people un-postmodern!).

Despite the sheer impossibility of its task, Postmodern American Fiction gives an intriguing overview of what’s been happening in (and to) American literature in this half of the century. With the “Casebook of Postmodern Theory” rounding things out, it offers a comprehensive, if problematic, look at the radical changes in American literature since your professors graduated from college. Along with Gaddis’ The Recognition, this anthology works as a terrific supplement to what you learned in your English classes. Buy them both for yourself as your graduation presents

—David Wiley

An Interview with Rikki Ducornet

An interview with Rikki Ducornet, 

discussing her book The Word “Desire”

Originally published in The Minnesota Daily’s A&E Magazine,

December 4th, 1997.

The transcript of this interview appeared on the online version of The Minnesota Daily’s A&E Magazine, accompanying a review of her story collection The Word “Desire.” I have somehow misplaced my copy of the original review.

The Word “Desire”
By Rikki Ducornet
Henry Holt, $22

Judging from stories like “Wormwood” and “Das Wunderbuch,” you seem really interested in the secret history of objects.

RD: What a beautiful question. Yeah, that’s a fascinating question. Nobody’s ever asked me that. And it’s right on. I think I have a theory about what I call potencies, that there are objects that evoke entire worlds and set us to dreaming. So for example, when I’m teaching creative writing, especially to undergrads, I have them think about the objects that were potencies for them as small children. Because they often are the things that will lead people into a kind of dreamscape and start them writing a story or writing a poem. So in The Word “Desire” I wanted to explore mysteries and fascinations and terrors of worlds steeped in history, and to evoke the dark beauty of such places. And of course objects can do that. An object can bring to mind an entire moment or an entire place.

Some of these objects seem to have parallels with certain humans.

These things happen organically always. You know, like I didn’t set out to write about Wormwood or about that book, but as soon as the world is in place and the characters begin to take off, it seems that objects such as those appear spontaneously, and they do say something about the characters. So Wormwood, which is a very obscene object—and it’s a conflation really of an object that my father owned, which was a plaster gargoyle, and some obscene little figures I’d seen in France—he certainly mirrors the grandfather and the kind of violence that’s being done to that child by the mother. And the Wunderbuch was very much a mirror of that narrator and her lost love, her lost world, because she never really has a love. Her love dies. And it’s also a kind of mirror for the rest of the book, with the Tree of Life, which appears in other places as well. And it’s a kind of little history of the universe in a pocket size.

It seems like these hidden histories are descents into smaller and smaller labyrinths.

Yeah, I’m very interested in space, the spaces in which we dream or daydream. And those spaces which also are potencies that haunt us. And indeed they bring us into ourselves deeper and deeper, so that you can, let’s say, engage the memory of a particular place, and almost, as with a pool of water, submerge yourself and go deeper and deeper. And that often happens in dreams as well. So that one in a dream will enter into a garden or into a chamber or a museum or take a forest path, or whatever, and that will maybe lead us into a darker and darker place or more and more convoluted areas or take us up and down stairways or open out into other landscapes or rooms that have been really interesting to us at one time or another. So, yeah, there are potencies in terms of places and potencies in terms of objects, and certainly books, and I think one of the things I wanted to do with this books was evoke the kind of mood that I get, the kind of mind-hunger that I’m susceptible to when I’m confronted with, for example, a maze of ancient streets or a very old book or very old house or very old object. And so that maze within a maze—it’s a literal maze. I mean it could be an architectural maze or a garden maze, but it’s also the maze of the mind. These are very interesting questions, because the outer world is always reflecting an inner landscape.

The character in “Roseveine” is interested in imaginary spaces. He invents different spaces in which to exist. This seems like the realm of the fiction writer too.

Uh-huh, exactly. It’s a very curious process. It was clear to me when I finished this book that I was really interested in evoking places that surprised me or enchanted me or troubled me somehow—moved me deeply, let’s say. So on the one hand, the writer’s evoked by a particularly potent object or place, and then the object is to evoke that kind of emotion in the reader. I live in a modern city. I live in Denver. And I’m someone who’s always been enamored of landscape—but also ancient cities. So I think, too, I wrote this book because I was longing for Paris or certain places—Cairo or Algiers, places I haven’t been to for a long time. I wanted to get back there somehow—or at least evoke the kind of mood that I’m susceptible to in those places.

The character in “Roseveine” is at odds with conventional reality…

He’s mad.

But is this a kind of comment on conventional storytelling modes?

I didn’t have that in mind. But I think I was thinking more generally of the imagination of the dreamer. This is more of a mirror of what creative imagining is all about. He was a curious character. He’s what you’d call in France a literary madman. And there were many of them. They were particularly popular in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. Well, I don’t know how popular they were, but there were certainly a lot of them around then. In part I think because of the Enlightenment and the fact that people were getting a glimmer of what scientific knowledge could be and started believing in progress, became fascinated by electricity, for example, but really understood nothing about it. So there were a lot of people, and he’s very much one of them—idealistic dreamers who are disappointed in the modern world or the approach of modernism and begin to dream of ways of escaping it. And of course he has a monstrous father, and I’m also investigating imperialism in various ways in the book. So there’s that too.

In “The Chess Set of Ivory” and in “Das Wunderbuch,” there are interior doorways that open up into rich worlds, and they seem like not-very-veiled comments on the riches in your own book.

Well, I’m very interested in books-within-books, which is something that I’ve got a lot of in my previous books and novels—there’s often a book-within-a-book or stories-within-stories. And indeed I saw the books in “The Chess Set of Ivory” and “Das Wunderbuch” as mirrors of the entire book. Or in “The Chess Set of Ivory,” those images in the book were little indications of what was to come into the stories. So again, they’re like little potencies that kind of light up. And then the Wunderbuch too—I originally thought I might call the whole collection “Das Wunderbuch.” Because I love the notion of the book of wonders. So yeah, that’s exactly what’s going on.

What I like in a lot of your fiction, like in the French-Arabic dictionary in “The Chess Set of Ivory,” is the disparate objects thrown together into a kind of salmagundi—the crazy juxtapositions.

Well, I was for years—and I still am, actually—but I was very active with surrealist groups, abroad and here. And of course that’s one of the great surrealist games, you know—Max Ernst’s collages, for example—bringing together disparate objects that take on entirely new meanings when they come together. And there’s also a mystical way of meditation, a Kabalistic manner of meditation, which involves skipping and hopping from thought to thought. The idea being that you bring disparate words together, ideas together, and you’ll break through the veil. You’ll see connections you have never seen before that will inform your notion of the world in some way.

Like wacky hypertexts.

Like wacky hypertexts. And I think that’s one of the fascinations of hypertext.

When people write about you, they often want to pin you down to your influences, which also seem like strange bedfellows. “Angela Carter meets Borges” is one that seems to come up a lot.

This is interesting, because with Angela Carter there are very clear connections, but the connections don’t come from Angela directly. I met her, by the way, because Robert Coover introduced us. He said, “You must meet. You both share a world. You both have so much in common.” And it was extraordinary, because it was true. And when we met we realized that the common ground was the books we had read as young girls. That we had both been crazy about the Surrealists, we’d both read Freud, we’d read Sade as young girls, Rabelais. I mean we had an amazing connection there. So indeed we did seemingly share a world. It was very exciting to be with her. It was like I had a real intellectual and—I don’t want to say spiritual—imagining friend there. Borges is something else. I read Borges first—oh, it must have been in my early twenties, and I found myself going back to Borges again and again. As I did to Kafka, who had been a tremendous influence on Borges. Borges translated Kafka, and I think a bunch of Borges’ greatest stories—they’re all great, but some of the greatest stories—came directly after the period in which he’d been translating Kafka’s greatest stories. So there’s a sort of double influence there. Without necessarily being aware of it, I just realized when I began to write that Kafka was a kind of grandfather figure. And later, with Borges, I became very interested in him and the idea of the labyrinth.

I like Borges’ idea that each writer creates his or her own precursors.

Yeah.

Like you wouldn’t think these authors—Kafka or Rabelais, or the other authors you’ve mentioned—would be connected in any way. But they’re connected through you.

Yes.

At the same time as you’re interested in the miniscule, the labyrinthine, you’re also interested in the exotic.

I think there are many connections. As a dreamy child, gazing into shells and seeds in my little microscope, the minute and the exotic were often the same. I was also a very nearsighted child, so that I did look at things very closely. And like the character in “Roseveine” who dreams of shells, I did dream of living in a shell, wanting to be very small and investigating these minute worlds. Or I remember having a favorite fantasy of becoming very small. You know, and again, this is Rabelais and Swift, you know—becoming infinitely small so that I could live in moss, and the moss would be like a forest.

A lot of these stories are set in mysterious lands, though. Why do you have to make them exotic, as opposed to in our own backyards.

Well, you don’t have to, of course. I think the exotic is everywhere, and one of the things I wanted to do was write about so-called exotic places responsibly, you know, and not just write about them because they are exotic. For me, the exotic—I lived in France for a very long time, and I lived in north Africa long enough too for it to become a real world, and not just an exotic place. Because I lived in Algeria for two years, and I lived as a child in Egypt for a year. And I became very intimate with those places, especially Algeria, because I was a young woman, and I was hitchhiking through the Sahara and spending a lot of time in very distant places. And I spent enough time there to have become intimate with those places. And one thing I wanted to do was finally write a story about those places, which is something I never did. Not because of the exotic nature of them, but because they were so mysterious and because they had been so troubled because of the war. One thing I wanted to do, and I hope I pulled it off with the book, was, by moving all over the world, convey the notion that there are infinite stories out there, infinite human stories out there. But also tip my hat to 1001 Nights, to the whole notion of storytelling. To evoke the wonder one feels looking at the Wunderbuch, or the wonder that another kind of crazy character, Vertige Dore, feels dreaming over maps of India—you know, to explore the exotic and what it does to our imagining minds. But do it responsibly.

I just thought the story “Fortune” was amazingly zany and cool. It’s narrated by Joséphine Bonaparte’s dead dog, and I think this is exactly the kind of story that needs to be written now—a kind of antidote to all this post-Carver realism.

Hurray! Yeah, I think there’s this misconception that the so-called real world is as dry as toast. That that’s what’s real, and that’s what matters. And why should that be so? We are imagining, dreaming beings. We dream every night. We have constant reveries in our heads. And why are they any less real? And that’s why I think Robert Coover is such an important writer, for example, because that’s something that he engages constantly—the reality inside people’s heads. That’s why “The Babysitter” remains and exemplary, great story, among others. That’s why I love Borges and Kafka so much. It seems to me that they are revealing the workings of the mind.

I would say “The Metamorphosis” and “The Judgment” are more realistic stories than anything Charles Baxter or someone like that would write.

That’s because they’re psychologically so profoundly right on. I would agree with you.

The story “Opium”—you seem to have a pope fetish.

Yeah. The pope for me is the symbol of absolute idiocy. I went to Lourdes in France, which is a sacred place of miracles that people go to for cures. And they had these little wind-up popes. And I just took one look at that wind-up pope—it would do the sign of the cross, you know, if you wind up the key in its back—and I think ever since I’ve had a sort of thing about popes. And you know the story of the pope drinking human milk is based on a true story. So I read that and I said, “Oh my god. I gave to write about this.”

There’s this line in Saturday Night Fever where they’re talking about the pope’s asshole, and they say, “The pope ain’t got no asshole. That’s why he’s the pope.” It seems you’re amused with this kind of fear/fascination with holy bodies.

Yeah, because I’m fascinated by human foolishness. As I’m writing about the Inquisition now, a book I’m working on now—you know the early church, the Medieval church and Renaissance church, they were completely befuddled by these questions. “Does the pope have an asshole? Did Christ have an asshole? If he did, did he use it? Does Adam have a navel?” I mean, all these questions, I think they’re wonderfully funny, and a tremendous waste of time. But it really turns me on. It’s a sort of foolishness that a writer can have a lark with.

Like the idea that a saint’s body doesn’t decompose.

And of course, living in France I was living in a Catholic country, in a very Catholic part of that country, and there was a corpse not very far away of one of the saints that supposedly was intact. Of course it was completely covered in wax, and who knows what was going on beneath the wax, if anything else was left beneath the wax. And there was this persistent story that somebody’s head would show up in a junk shop.

You’ve read The Recognitions.

Yes.

All that stuff with the little girl who’s going to be canonized. And all those things where they’ll exhume a mummy and it’ll have a Navy tattoo on it or something.

I’m so glad you mention The Recognitions, because I think that is one really great book. And it’s one of those books that had a big influence on me, as a reader and as a writer.

There’s nothing like it.

And Gass’ Omensetter’s Luck—I read those two around the same time, and they both were tremendously important. The notion that one could take on anything, if one did it carefully.

I want to talk about your title story [The Word “Desire”].

Great. So many people misunderstand that story.

I gave a copy of that story to a friend of mine, and she called it “orgasmic.”

Wow.

It’s amazing to me how you can take one word and see how it illuminates an entire life.

Yeah. I began with that very sensuous opening image, and then by the time I got to the final sensuous image I realized that instead of writing simply an erotic story, which I thought I was doing initially, it was really a kind of erotic reverie, a philosophic reverie, on the nature of desire. And so as I began to examine the nature of desire, I began thinking about the word desire. And I guess I wanted to not only express the notion that we are desiring beings, which is in a way what the book is all about, and that part of being desiring beings is that we desire to seize the intangible world and hold it, but it always eludes us. It’s always slipping through our fingers like water or sand. And so the woman, finally what she recognizes is, in part, that all one can do is be desire itself, and to encompass the infinite faces of desire. So not only in terms of the infinite faces of the women that her lover might desire, but somehow that living itself is an act of fire. That we all are fire. I like the notion, too, that the whole book might be as well—that each story in its way contains many kinds of fire. You know, subtle, vaporous fires, pure, impure, penetrating, latent, flickering, igniting, whatever, and that the book, with all this sort of flickering going on, as though there would be a flame that would be sometimes cold, sometimes hot, but sort of moving throughout the book. Or like a serpent’s tongue, you know, flickering in and out, that there would be an incandescent moment that would end the book, so it made perfect sense that that story would also end the book, that a man would ignite in a woman’s mouth. I mean that would be a real act of fire. Indeed orgasmic.

—David Wiley