Three Conversations With Ursula Le Guin

Ursula“The blogger is expected to read people’s comments in order to reply to them and carry on a limitless conversation with strangers. I am much too introverted to want to do that at all. I am happy with strangers only if I can write a story or a poem and hide from them behind it, letting it speak for me.” — Ursula Le Guin, Blog Zero.

The first time I spoke to Ursula Le Guin was in a signing queue in New York. I didn’t say much. I remember feeling very proud of that. I had intended to tell her how much her writing meant to me, because I was 28 and I’d been reading her since I was 8, and I hadn’t had much practice then at meeting my heroes. Maybe we’d have a moment, and she’d remember me at the end of the day — that nice young man from New Zealand, so well spoken and sincere. One glance at the signing queue was enough to educate me in the realities of the situation. I decided to let the other 17,000 fans line up and tell her how much her writing meant to them, and get their three and a half million copies of every book she’d ever published signed, and I would just stand quietly off to one side and listen to what she said to other people. Far more mature and in no way like a creepy stalker. It’s possible that I was the person she remembered at the end of that day.

Orsinian Tales

Eventually the queue dwindled and I nipped in and got her to sign my old paperback of Orsinian Tales, which unfortunately involved learning that she disliked its cover art. (I can see now that the artist had zeroed in on one of the few moments of violent drama in the entire book, the better to sell it to readers who wanted a different kind of book. Cover art is a vexed subject. But my parents had given me that book when I was maybe 13, and I loved it.) Her voice had a taut, sinewy quality I hadn’t anticipated. I had no reason to have anticipated anything, except that her voice had been in my head for 20 years and it hadn’t sounded like this.

I spoke with her twice more, decades later, for two of the three interviews I was commissioned by various editors to do with her. The third was a little over a year before she died, and we did that one by email. By this point I was well used to talking to eminent people (writers mostly, that being my beat), and I’d learned that professional courtesy from an interviewer consists in part of not trying to become your subject’s new best friend. I had also learned, quite early on, never to agree to interview anyone I didn’t admire — the time involved requires deep personal satisfaction for the pay to seem adequate — so in many cases I would have liked nothing more than to become my subject’s new best friend. But talking to writers about their work often involves asking quite probing questions, and confusing a willingness to put up with this for evidence of a deep personal connection is not a good way to reward someone’s honesty. The deal is that you prepare thoroughly, ask the questions you think might go somewhere interesting, and then you get off the phone. Unless the person you’re offered for interview is Ursula Le Guin, in which case you go all fan-boy. I remember sitting down to collate every thought I had on her work and see which questions lined up most usefully behind them, and boggling for a while, and saying to myself, No, this is impossible, the rule of professional clarity is not something you’re going to keep to this time. I decided I would just chat with her and see what happened.

Another thing about journalism I learned quite early on is never to apologise for the defects in your work. Acting as though you’d have managed something better if only this or that had been different is a perverse form of self-indulgence; the work you manage to write within the constraints of time, word length and editorial relationships is the fair measure of how good you are, and apologising for having limits only draws attention to them. I am breaking this rule here as well — the previous paragraph is by way of explaining that I apologise for the disorganisation of much of what follows. I’d like to have been a sharper interviewer, but Ursula was my hero, the greatest writer and one of the most impressive people I have ever personally encountered, and my favourite living writer for most of my life. My tastes and perceptions have changed as much as most people’s do over five decades, I suppose. She changed faster.  I did not find that I could speak with her and keep my sense of perspective.

I am posting below the transcript of our conversations, plus emails. They’re lengthy but incomplete; I transcribed everything I thought I’d want to remember later, and I no longer have the tapes. (Well I do, actually, because I am a pack-rat, but they’re in a box in a storage unit full of many other boxes & finding them would not be a simple matter.) The first interview occurred in 2008, in the lead-up to the New Zealand publication of Lavinia. The second was in 2014, in relation to her retrospective two volume storyUnreal collection, The Unreal and the Real. The third was around the time her essay collection Words Are My Matter appeared, as well as the first volume in The Library of America‘s Le Guin edition, and the one-volume version of The Unreal and the Real, and the collection of her novellas, The Found and the Lost

A few other caveats and warnings. These are pretty close to raw transcripts. I’ve omitted most of the ums and pauses, and used punctuation to give as much shape to the longer paragraphs as I can manage, but conversational speech is not prose. I’ve included a few explanatory notes, but parts of the conversation will be opaque unless you’ve read the relevant books and stories. If you haven’t read them, be aware that spoilers abound, especially for Lavinia — and for its source material, the Aeneid, if we want to stipulate that it’s possible to spoil the Aeneid — and for all of Earthsea, especially The Other Wind.

CONVERSATION ONE: 2008

Outdoors

David Larsen: How do you cope with questions from lifelong admirers, like me? Do you have to do it often?

Ursula Le Guin: Yes, I do have to do it fairly often. Well, it depends on the questions.

Do the same questions keep coming round?

Yes, they do. And so of course the trouble with that is one tends to develop stock answers, which is, you know… a pity. If any stock questions come up I’ll try to… I’ll lie. [laughs]

Then let’s start with Lavinia, which is newer… can I ask you first, do you read Latin? I take it that you do.

Well, I learned some in high school and some in graduate school. And it was in the process of trying to really learn Latin, so that I could read Virgil, that the book began to develop, because finally – you know, I just worked with my old grammars until I could plow my way through Virgil 8 or 10 lines a day, and became absolutely fascinated and completely absorbed by the Aeneid. So that’s what Lavina grew out of.

When did you do that?

Well, I guess I started, I sort of went back to my Latin, about 4 years ago… I was 75 or so, and I decided if I didn’t do it now, when would I? [laughs]

Oh, that’s so encouraging. I’m trying to teach myself Latin in my 40s…

Well good! That’s really much wiser than what I did.

So Lavinia developed out of reading Virgil?

Yeah.

Can you tell me a little bit more about how that happened?

LaviniaWell, I got – generally sort of what we think of when we think of the Aeneid at all would be the first six books, the Dido and Aeneas part; and the last six books where he actually finally gets to Italy – and of course he goes to the underworld, but then when he comes out from the underworld and gets to Latium, where he was destined to go, and become the king of, and marry the princess of…. I think we all have a very much vaguer memory of the story there. And plowing through it at this very slow, plodding rate, I had to read it with great care. Couldn’t skip the battles. And one thing I began wondering – why did Virgil write these battles? Which he obviously doesn’t enjoy the way Homer enjoys his battles. Was he just imitating Homer, or did he have a purpose? Well obviously he had a purpose. And I think one of his purposes was to talk about war and this simply, this just caught me, I have to say. I mean perhaps I’m reading it all into the poem, but I don’t think so. Here’s my country in the middle of a pointless, endless war, that is much on my mind, and here is Virgil writing this quite terrible war story, a story that in a sense his hero – in a sense comes to grief in the war, because his hero, Aeneas, commits a murder that he really doesn’t have to, at the very end of the book.

Yeah, your reading of that is extremely subtle. Is that a common reading, that reading of Aeneas essentially defeating himself by — ?

I don’t think it’s entirely original, but because I’m so ignorant of the scholarship — because I really only know this poem, and haven’t read much about it — the only person I know that agrees with me about it is my brother Carl, who is an English professor in New York, who of course has taught the Aeneid and so on, and – I developed my ideas partly I think in correspondence with Carl.

When you have Virgil say that he hopes Augustus will understand the poem in this way, but he doesn’t expect him to, what exactly do you mean?

I was reading the last part of the poem in a sense as a story about the cost of war and empire. Which of course Virgil’s generation knew very very well, I mean having lived through the civil wars and so on. I don’t know, of course, I’m putting ideas into the head of a man dead 2000 years. But it seemed to me that it can be read as, look Augustus, this is what it’s going to cost you. Sort of. That that’s what he’s saying. No matter how honorable and brave and heroic you are, this is the cost of empire.

When was he writing?

He died in 19 BC I believe, so this is all just pre- what we call the year 1.

So Augustus had pretty much carried out his atrocities at that point, hadn’t he? He was Augustus, he was no longer Octavian.

Right. But what that meant was completely opaque, obviously. Virgil celebrates it very beautifully and with tremendous passion in the Eclogues, which were written much earlier, he was a very young man when he wrote those, and celebrates Augustus quite wholeheartedly at that point. As a victorious hero, you know… he was an older man when he wrote the Aeneid, and I think could have begun to see — “oh my goodness, maybe this wasn’t quite such a good thing after all”. Who knows!

I’ve been seeing the traces of Iraq in your last four books… I don’t know to what extent I’m reading them in. The three Western Shore books [Gifts, Voices, Powers] seem very much concerned with the abuse of power and the fallacy of empire.

VoicesThey are all about – particularly the second two – the uses and misuses of power, yes. The Iraq war is – it keeps going on. My only action about it is, I put the number of the American dead up in my window, facing the street every morning. We don’t know the number of the Iraqi dead, so there’s no way – within thousands and thousands, so there’s no way to put that up. But yes, it’s on my mind.

I don’t know what one says about that, really. We none of us have any power of action… an American friend of mine gets very frustrated with the way people keep holding her responsible for George Bush’s choices…

Oh I know how she feels. We were in France years and years ago when the McCarthy hearings – did that strange episode in American history…?

Oh yes.

The French would keep coming to us and saying, why are you doing this? [laughs]. And we’d say we’re just students in France, we’re not doing it! But you know, you know, [laughing] I tend to hold other countries responsible…

You said in an interview once that the big difference bwetween the first three Earthsea books and the latter three is the first three are mostly from the point of view of people who have power, and the second are mostly from the POV of people who don’t, or who did, or who don’t trust the power that they have.

Right.

So I suppose that comes out of that same experience, in a way, of being perceived to be powerful as an American, but to have no effective power over what your country chooses to do.

Who does have effective power over their government, except for presidents and dictators? But I think the question of power – I think a lot of science fiction and fantasy does address the question of power. It’s a very good place to write about it. Because in a sense you can simplify the terms, as you can’t in a realistic book. I don’t mean oversimplify; you can cut to the bone more easily, and without having to get into all the complications of the genuine historical novel, all the details which people may not know. F&SF are very good machines for trying out social experiments.

I enjoy your novellas – little anthropological experiements.

I think novella is a lovely length. I’m sorry it’s so unpublishable.

Is it?

Where do you sell them. Nobody prints stories any more anyway, except the New Yorker and a very few magazines. And the novella – it fills up a good piece of your ordinary magazine.

Asimovs? [Asimov’s Science Fiction magazine, which published many of UKLG’s novellas and longer stories in the 90s]

Yes, that genre of the science fiction magazine continues to publish magazines that are nothing but stories, but who else does?

But I have the idea, and it may be completely false, that at a certain point in a career that stops being an issue. This is not the case?

I would say within the last 20 years I could pretty much send my agent anything. And earlier than that I could send my agent anything because she was so brilliant, she always thought of places to put it. So that gave me a certain fearlessness.

You wouldn’t have had it anyway?

Oh yes, I had it, I was just very very lucky to find an equally fearless agent. Who didn’t believe in being held captive by the market.

You write an extraordinarily broad range of material.

I just write what I see fit to write and then I let them put the labels on it.

So you don’t impose rules on what you write for the sake of publication.

I don’t think at all about publishing or about audience when I write. But the work itself, when it begins to declare itself – sometimes when I’m already in it, but sometimes when I’m planning it – is going to declare itself pretty clearly, this is science fiction or this is fantasy, or this is young adult, although that’s a very – what defines the YA I really do not know, except that it usually has a young protagonist; anyway – or this is obviously realism, or this is something crazy, like a lot of my stuff, this doesn’t fit any nice genre description.

[Here I rambled at some length about the short novel Very Far Away From Anywhere Else, an outlier inVery Far Away Le Guin’s work, being realist contemporary YA, and a very important book to me when I first read it, aged 15. I opted not to transcribe this section back when I still had the tape, but if I tell you that the book is a first person narrative about a lonely teenage intellectual poetry-reading boy who meets a lonely teenage intellectual girl musician, you can perhaps imagine what kind of 15 year old boy would have fallen hard for it. It was very good having the chance to thank her.]

I still like that book. It’s a fairly classic YA in being about high school children and their particular problems, and it’s in a realistic setting.

Do you remember how you came to write it?

Owen sort of dictated it to me. It was one of the first books I wrote that I hadn’t come up with pages of notes and ideas, I just sat down and began writing it. This kid was talking in my ear. It was a rather strange experience… I had recently had an adolescent musician in the house, my daughter, so I knew a good deal about that life, but I didn’t at that point have any experience of an adolescent boy. Where Owen came from I don’t know. But there he was. And then he went away too, that was very definite, The book ended and that was that. I had no control over it in that sense. I was a bit startled when the book stopped.

Is it often like that?

Not to that extent. As many novelists say, one becomes at the mercy of one’s characters at a certain point, and they do things you hadn’t planned, and say things you hadn’t imagined.

Did something similar happen at the end of The Other Wind, when Tehanu chooses to be a dragon? Did you know that was going to happen?

Yes and no. I was pretty much – at the end of that book I knew where the book was going, but exactly how it was going to get there was completely discovered sentence by sentence. I had a sense of the trajectory and how the book was going to end in general, but all the details where discovered in writing. So I was in that peculiar almost trance condition, where you do that sort of writing. Which is certainly not automatic writing, but we don’t seem to have any good description of it. You’re writing down what seems to be coming through you rather than – that’s how it feels. And yet I know that can’t be; but that’s how it feels. Getting to this place where that creative portion of the mind can run absolutely free, and you are not consciously in control at all. And that to me in both poetry and prose is the most desirable working condition. But it’s rare, it happens only kind of at the end of something.

That makes sense to me. There must be so much control in giving the thing its shape so that that can then happen.

Exactly. You have given it an armature in which it can happen. Even with poetry I’ve come to realise that metre and rhyme and form in poetry give me an armature I need in order to be free. Writing free verse, which was kind of what my generation was expected to do, really was always very hard for me. I seldom got really free in it. So I’ve gone back to form and metre pretty much, because they free me. It’s very paradoxical.

I haven’t thought hard about your poetry very much. The poem at the start of Earthsea has been in my mind a very long time, and I’ve never really sat down and thught hard about it.

Well that’s as it were a translation also. That would not have form and metre, because it’s from a sacred book that’s in another language, as it were…. I’ve published 5 or 6 books of poetry; I wrote it before I wrote prose, and I’m [still? — this word was inaudible] writing it after.

The Creation of Ea poem [Only in silence the word,/ Only in dark the light,/ Only in dying life:/ Bright the hawk’s flight/ On the empty sky”] strikes me as standing in some relation to the Tao Te Ching’s “The body comes to its ending/ There is nothing to fear”. I feel as though the latter poem stands in somewhat the same relation to the earlier as the vision of death in the later Earthsea books does to the vision of death in the earlier ones. Does that make any sense?

I’d have to think about it, but it certainly doesn’t seem not to make sense! I wish you’d write it down so I could sit and think about it.

Failing that, can we talk about the transition from death in the early book to death in The Other Wind?

The Other WindRight… so evidently I was uncomfortable with that sort of – combination of Rilke and the classic underworld. And one thing that made me uncomfortable in the sort of anthropological conscience was – if this was what happened to the people of the archipelago, what happened to the Kargs, who don’t believe in these things? Would they go to the same place? – that would be very unfair! [laughs] I mean it sounds rather ridiculous, but I had to work that out in my mind. Also the fact that I made a dreadful mistake between novels, and I had revived a dead character – one of the great mages is dead at the end of The Farthest Shore, Ged meets him in the dry country, and then in Tehanu he seems to be quite vigorous. It was simply the kind of mistake you make between novels, especially when there’s a 17 year gap… [Here there is a section I marked as “long bit not transcribed” — from memory, this was because she was telling me things I already knew about where she decided to take the metaphysics of Earthsea in the final novel. Briefly, the book contains the revelation that death as Ged and the other mages of Earthsea have perceived it — a dry kingdom containing the empty husks of dead humans, all moving passionlessly through the motions of a life superficially similar to their earthly life, but rendered meaningless — is not true death. The dry kingdom was created by ancient mages, in a failed and ruinous attempt to achieve immortality. The book ends with humanity and dragons coming together to undo this vast mistake, returning to humans the gift of the true death, a simple ending of consciousness and dissolution of self which can be seen — the book seems to see it — as the return of one’s being to the greater life of the natural world]. I set them free from any conscious afterlife.

Is that what you believe yourself, by the way?

It’s not exactly a belief. I just cannot imagine being conscious forever; I wasn’t conscious before I was born. I think I’ll go back into the general pool of being. That’s all I’ve ever been able to imagine as an afterlife. And it’s not – it’s no problem. It really isn’t.

That is such a lovely thing to be able to say. [Brief discription here of one of my children’s recurrent fears around the idea of death].

This is the 11 year old? That’s tough. Particularly if he’s lost someone.

No, he hasn’t yet.

Well, that may make a change when he does, you know.

I enjoyed reading him and his brother your picture books, when they were little… I’m particularly fond of Fish Soup.

That book is thanks to the artist [Patrick Wynne]. I think he’s lovely; I don’t know what’s become of him. Fish SoupBeautiful black and white lines. He said I am so envious of Steve Schindler, who illustrates your Catwings, because I want to draw flying cats. I said, well I’ll write you a book with flying mice, would that be alright? It was entirely thanks to him. Not a very well known one, people don’t know it. I’ve been generally very lucky with illustrators.

You think in quite visual terms yourself I think. I love the drawings in The Wave in The Mind… do you draw much?

Yes, just line drawings, landscapes mostly.

Does it effect the way you write?

My landscapes are very ploddingly… I’m trying to reproduce what I see. There is no imagination in them at all. If I’m out in the desert I want to draw a picture that I can take home and remember. It makes me look at what I’m looking at very intensely, as I draw it. There’s a common wish for accuracy, I would say, in the drawing and in the writing — even if I’m inventing a scene, I want it to be accurate. For things to hang together and be right. I’m more aware of sound, because I do as it were hear what I write. I’m more aware of aural elements than visual ones.

In Lavinia you slip into poetry, basically, or anyway a very patterned kind of prose – like Tom Bombadill’s speech – at least once or twice, when Virgil is speaking –

Oh, well of course some of the things that Virgil says are straight out of the Aeneid. He’s quoting himself.

So that long horrible recitation of all the deaths that are about to fall on Lavinia’s head –

That’s an encapsulation of more than one battle scene. I just ran it all together. I wanted it to be absolutely awful.

Your language is very patterned in general; one can read it aloud.

That is what is important to me. That you can read them. That’s what’s so lovely in Tolkien’s own prose. It’s incredibly readable, you can read it out loud. I admire that very much. It speaks to something that I want in prose. Jane Austen, Virginia Woolf are incredibly readable out loud. They’re musical, in their own subtle ways. You fall into the music of that prose and it carries you. It’s not a showy quality, it’s not something you actually notice.

Do you think that’s one of the tests of good writing?

It is for me. Writing that does not read aloud, that comes to pieces when you try to speak it, for me there is something wrong. What it’s saying may all the same make it worthwhile, but the writers I admire the most are the ones who handle English in that way that you can hear it while you read it. Dickens is another one. A lot of 19th century writers actually.

Ellipsis. Those little three dots. You use them very effectively.

I love punctuation. I don’t know how you get on without dots and dashes in dialogue, I really don’t. If you’re trying to catch anything of the rhythm of the spoken word. Which I often am… I love punctuation. I do, I adore punctuation. The more I learn about it the more I admire it. It’s the one thing I hold against Jose Saramago, he doesn’t understand the virtues of punctuation.

Would you have ended up revisioning someone else’s story with Lavinia if you hadn’t been doing the translations you’ve done over the past 10 years or so? – or perhaps longer, I haven’t been keeping track.

virgilI think the relationship there is almost metaphorical. I cannot translate Virgil, I do think Virgil is essentially non-translatable. Like apparently Pushkin. It just doesn’t come through, too much of it is music. So the only way I could translate Virgil was into a different form. Make a piece of his epic into a novel rather than trying to translate the poetry. There is an effort of translation going on there, but it’s so remote from the original in so many ways. It’s metaphorically a translation I guess.

Is it fair to read Lavinia as a rebuke of Virgil?

Well people certainly were expecting that, I think partly because of Margaret Atwood’s Penelope book – where she really is taking Homer to task. There’s been a lot of revisioning of that particular feminist sort. I’ve done some, with fairy tales and so on. So I think people expected it, and that’s one reason Lavinia at one point says “I may not be the voice you expected”. Because that was not my intention at all. I don’t see that Virgil needs any scolding. Any man who could invent – it’s such a complicated thing, but I don’t have any quarrel with Virgil. I think he was an extremely sweet person, it comes through in the poetry.

I think some people do read the Aeneid as valorising war. For them, it and Lavinia would be somewhat at loggerheads.

I think they’re completely justified in doing so. I think it’s a completely justifiable reading of the book. I Copertinario 8-9-2011.qxp:Laviniathink just propagandistically speaking it had to be readable that way, or Augustus probably wouldn’t have liked it. If Virgil was putting in a message such as I am ascribing to him, it would have to be pretty subtle. Because he was Augustus’s official poet – when he died he was replaced by Horace – but he had as it were a government position. So that means you make your points with a light hand if they’re not directly suited to the manners of your emperor. It’s probably arguable all ways, but – many many people who were fed the Latin classics were kind of fed this idea that Virgil was just as gung-ho as Homer is about battle. And Homer really is, he obviously enjoys them as much as any 12 year old boy with a comic book. And they’re good, they bore me but they don’t make me morally uneasy. The battles in the Aeneid do make me queasy. They’re not as boring, but they’re much more upsetting, Which means to me that this is a much more modern consciousness, Virgil’s, much more like us than Homer is. Homer’s marvelous, but he’s very different.

Here we ran out of time. Subsequently the New Zealand release of Lavinia was delayed, and my editor held the interview back until the book came out. When I came to write it up, a year later, I discovered that I’d done a terrible job of asking focused questions about the book. So I asked Ursula if I could email a few follow-up questions through, and she said, sure. I’ve intercut my email with Ursula’s replies on a question-by-question basis.

EMAIL FOLLOW-UP: 2009

Ursula-K-Le-Guin

Dear Ursula,

this was going to happen a week ago… I forgot that June is when the New Zealand Film Festival leaps out of the bushes and mugs me. (Not complaining; apologising. I love the festival. But I forgot to plan for it). Spent this morning watching Unmistaken Child, a very beautiful, very disturbing documentary about a Nepalese monk’s search for the reincarnation of the Konchog Lama. Made me think of the search for Arha in Tombs of Atuan; the monk was very humble & quite sweet with the boy he eventually found, butAtuan the parents had no real chance of standing up to him when he asked to take their son to the monastery. Humility can be thoroughly arrogant when it’s serving a supposed ideal…

In any case: I’ve been back over our interview from a year ago, and I’m in the middle of re-reading Lavinia. Things I didn’t think to ask you that seem worth talking about:

At one point, I asked: Is it fair to read Lavinia as a rebuke of Virgil? You replied:

I don’t see that Virgil needs any scolding. Any man who could invent – it’s such a complicated thing, but I don’t have any quarrel with Virgil. I think he was an extremely sweet person, it comes through in the poetry.

Several questions… how does Virgil’s sweetness come through, specifically? I haven’t the Latin to read the Aeneid properly. (My sons and I tried a little of book 6 recently, which I knew enough to translate haltingly 25 years ago… no longer. I’m teaching them Latin and relearning it myself as we go, so in a year or two, perhaps…) But I know that feeling, of getting so familiar with the way someone’s mind moves on the page that you can say quite confidently that you know them to some some degree, never having met them. Tell me about getting to that point with Virgil, and who your Virgil is.

Ursula: Something seems to be missing there after “invent,” did I mean to say Dido, perhaps?

AeneidOf course we don’t know much about Virgil, but the little his friends said gives the impression of a tall, rather fragile, quiet, serious man with a country accent, who didn’t play the Great Poet, despite his amazing and immediate success. His friends loved him. And there is certainly something in his poetry people find lovable. Trying to describe these things is hard, but the impression I get is of intense sensitivity, a kind of vulnerability; he is unjudgemental, has no meanness, and when he talks about injustice or hatred or violence he acknowledges it but doesn’t share it or revel in it, rather he shares in the pain of it. Right in the beginning of the Aeneid he says of Juno’s vengeful pursuit of the Trojans, tantaene animis caelestibus irae? almost incredulously . . . [Can such anger dwell in heavenly minds?]

All this makes what I’d call a sweet-natured man. I’d never dare say I “know” Vergil, but I’d say that.

Of course sweetness is only one element of him – I’m rereading Book VI too – dropjawed all over again at the power, the strength of it – how does he leave out so much, skipping over all sorts of stuff that seems necessary, so that what he leaves in is the absolute essence – how did he do it? How did he know??

I just sit there gawping at the book sometimes. It’s like Shakespeare. It beats all.

Also: has it ever seemed an undesirable thing to you, that people should be able to look into your own books and see something of who you are? There’s so much self-exposure in real writing — I get self-conscious enough over the highly limited extent to which I reveal myself through journalism.

No, I’ve never worried about revealing myself in my writing, about self-exposure, I guess because most of what I’ve published is fiction, and most of that is imaginative fiction — not the autobiographical or confessional sort, nor the sort that uses the author’s friends and family as grist. (When they find I’m a writer people sometimes say coyly Oh I hope I won’t be in your next novel, and I want to reply, don’t worry, luv, you won’t.) I don’t use people, I compost them. I guess I naively assume that I also compost myself. In any case, since I often scarcely recognize myself in my novels, it doesn’t occur to me that other people will. And if they do, well, all right. I don’t think my self-revelations are going to cause much excitement. My novels are really far more interesting than I am.

How & why did you decide to make Virgil a character in the book? It produces the most lovely complexities, as well as dealing very effectively with the business of recounting Aeneas’s backstory; I’m glad you did it, but it’s a very unexpected move. Can you remember how/why you thought of it & decided to try it?

Very early on. The first thing I wrote was the passage beginning “I know who I was…” on page 3. In that Lavinia is already perfectly aware of her contingency, her dependence on “the poet.” Exactly when the poet decided to take part in the novel, I don’t recall. The process was one of revelation by writing, of discovery by going forward. So at some point it was: Oh, I see, she’ll meet Virgil at Albunea – of course.

The complexities were somewhat alarming to me, but, as you say, lovely — irresistibly so.

You’ve written stories based on pre-existing stories — “The Poacher” comes to mind — and I suppose there 220px-UnlockingTheAirmust have been an element of working within the constraints of someone else’s storytelling when you went back to Earthsea after such a long pause. But to build a whole novel on a foundation someone else had constructed for you — did it feel fundamentally different from building it yourself from the ground up?

Yes and no. . . At first it did scare me: how dare I make a novel out of this poem that has been a landmark in literature for two thousand years? Like setting up housekeeping in a corner of the Parthenon.

But it all went along quite comfortably, since after all Virgil was my guide, which made me feel rather Dante- like. I followed him faithfully, in almost every detail, through the story.

But then I began to approach the end of the Aeneid, and thought — how can I go on without him? And that began to seem the profanation– to “finish” what Vergil had left (in my opinion) exactly where he meant to leave it and where it should stop, with the death of Turnus. What impudence.

But of course I wasn’t telling Aeneas’s story, but Lavinia’s, and hers had to have an entirely different shape and go on to an entirely different end. And it wasn’t as hard to write without my benevolent guide as I had feared. It continued to reveal itself as I went forward. When that happens, it really is a mistake to question it (until later, of course, after composition is finished, when everything may be put into question)

A couple of questions I couldn’t ask a year ago: how is Lavinia doing? – and how can you tell? Book sales are presumably being hit by the recession; I don’t know if that complicates your ability to guage Lavinia‘s reception, or to what degree you go by sales or by reader responses… or whether a year is soon enough to have a good idea of its reception, even. Really I have no idea how much information gets back to writers, or how quickly!

Depends on the writer. I am too superstitious to check sales at Amazon or such places that purport to report them, or even to ask my editor how we’re doing. I gather we’re doing fine. The reviews have been good to terrific, both in the U.S. and so far in England. But if anyone was hoping for a Le Guin bestseller, that just doesn’t seem to happen. What my books do is sell pretty well . . . and go on selling pretty well for years and years and years — as long as the publisher will keep them in print, and some of my books have never been out of print for three or four decades. That mounts up. Unfortunately the corporations that now run most publishers have no comprehension of this kind of publishing; “success” has to arrive instantly with vast quantities of money. Next year? What’s that?

Cheek By Jowl [an essay collection, and in 2009, her most recent book] isn’t directly available in this country, so I can’t do much with it in the article (silly constraint, given how easy it is to order from Amazon — that cheekbyjowlbeing how I got my copy — but those are the rules…) — but I wanted to ask about one comment you make in it: “Realism in fiction is a recent literary invention, not much older than the steam engine, and probably related to it”. Can you expand on that? (Specifically, on the “probably related to it”).

Well, when I say things like that I’m liable to throw centuries about rather freely, but isn’t the realistic novel pretty much an 18th century invention, and actual Realism a 19th century one, and are these not the centuries of the rise to empire of the Industrial Revolution? As for the connection, it would take volumes to explore.

Also, you say somewhere — didn’t note the page reference — that you’re now tempted to find out what happens later to Gavir, and Memer, and Melle. YES PLEASE… are you going to?

That article was written just as Gifts came out, and referred only to Gifts. Memer and Gavir, and Orrec and Gry aging, are “what happened later.” I’m sorry!

I should report, humbly, that your critique of Watership Down is devastating, and I have surrendered to it. I knew the power/gender relationships in that book were all wrong, but I didn’t want to think about it. Now I have to figure out a way to ask my sons to think about the subject. Will be good for us all, if I can do it gently… anyway, it’s a grand essay, the animals one. Thank you.

Thank you for saying so, and also for bearing with my very harsh words about W.Down. I am unforgiving because I feel cheated. I read the book the first time with considerable pleasure, though increasingly worried by the weird rabbit-machismo. It wasn’t till I’d read his sources that I had any idea how he had misused them. I’m no scientist and no scholar but have a passionate respect for real science and scholarship, and he was violating both.

Now I’m going to watch something called Theatre of War. No idea what it’s about… they toss me these things and say “watch it, review it if it’s any good”. Like being 5 years old and plunging your hand into a lucky dip.

Thank you so much for doing this, it’s a lot of fun for me.

I enjoy it too, it makes me think about things afresh. I hope your Lucky Dip came up satisfactory!

All the best,

Ursula

[I no longer have any memory of Theatre of War, but for the curious, I described it briefly to Ursula in a subsequent email: “Theatre of War turns out to be a discursive study of a New York public theatre production of Mother Courage, going into the history of the play & letting the Iraq resonances ring very loud & clear. Very intelligent, very interesting. At one point they sit down with Brecht’s daughter & watch footage of him testifying before the unAmerican activities commission, doing a wonderful impression of der good German mit not too much of der English… “That old fake!” his daughter says.”]

CONVERSATION TWO: 2014

Signing

I read an interview recently where you mentioned you were revising Steering The Craft for a new edition.

It does not at this time exist as a new edition — I have completely revised the original edition, but there are hindrances to publishing it. I invited people to write me if they did the exercises and tell me were they useful, were they maddening and so on. Quite a number of people did.

[For some reason I didn’t transcribe whatever I said next, but from context I think it was some version of this:] Do you ever consider revising your fiction?

Reading some of my earlier novels – I’m thinking in particular of The Lathe of Heaven — if I were to rewrite that book, I’d cut dialogue a good bit I think. People talk too much. I think that’s a tendency in my earlier books. People do longer speeches than they should. A British editor of one of my first three LatheEarthsea books — I don’t remember which book, I don’t remember which editor — said Ged is talking too much. And she was right. He was sort of orating and prating. I was probably explaining to myself what — Ged was explaining to me what I didn’t know. But it didn’t need to be said in the book. I got in the habit of letting him talk, because what he said was interesting to me. Was it Emily Dickinson who said tell it slant? As a general rule she seems to have been right… if it’s a big thing you’re saying, it seems best to not come at it directly, because it will come out as a platitude if you do.

Are there things you can’t say at all?

I think that there probably are. Quite a good many. But we must never give up, because we do learn to say things that we didn’t use to know how to say.

How has your writing changed over the course of your life? What have you lost and gained?

Well what I’ve lost in the last five or six years is very clear. It’s energy. I don’t think I could possibly write a novel now. I wonder how Jose Saramago did it. I envy him. I just don’t have the physical or psychic energy to undertake a big work. I don’t get – short stories don’t come to me very often any more. It’s a lessening, a slackening. I’m very old [laughing] – it’s hardly a surprise. It seems natural. But I still do envy Saramago, for writing a very good novel when he was 87!

But I think you just said two things there — that you don’t have the energy, and that stories don’t come to you very often.

Yes. But it feels to me like the same thing. A lessening of the flow of the vitality that makes the stories.

Your unconscious cuts its coat according to its cloth, then? — you don’t get ideas that you’re not capable of using?

I think there’s some truth to that, although I have had a couple of vague notions — you know, a big story — and then thought [laughing] I can’t do that, I’m sorry! I can’t undertake that, I won’t be able to see it through.

Does that feel sad to you?

Yeah. Yeah it does.

I noticed in the 90s how much more economical you’d become – your novellas in particular do all the work of a novel, and sometimes more.

Well I love that form. I love that length of story. I think the only reason there aren’t more of them is that publishers don’t know what to do with them. I think more authors would write them if there was a market, I really do. Because it’s a lovely form.

Four Ways to Forgiveness seems the perfect solution to that problem.

FourWaystoForgivenessTo connect them a bit.

Yes. I like your term “story suite” very much.

[laughs] It took a lot of hunting, I’ll tell you, to find that phrase! And then of course there’s a fifth Way to Forgiveness, which isn’t in the book, which grieves me. because it came later, I didn’t know it was going to come. It’s sort of frustrating — I wish I could republish Four Ways To Forgiveness with the fifth wheel.

The freedom to have new things turn up is wonderful though — and I suppose it’s no more untidy than having “The Day Before The Revolution” hanging round separate from The Dispossessed.

Yes, but that’s a — prequel, they call it. To the novel

Also “Old Music” is such a harsh story. It would change the book a great deal.

Yes, it’s pretty dark. On the general subject of change — one thing I noticed as I got into my mid-70s was that the stories were tending to be dark. And so Lavinia was such a gift. It got me completely away from all that — I just went somewhere entirely new.

Lavinia is a gorgeous book. Though not without its darkness.

I don’t think it’s dark…. well it’s sort of — well I mean anything that deals with the end of the Aenied is not going to be entirely cheerful, but —

But it’s a lovely book to read. When you contrast it with “The Wild Girls”, for example.

Yeah. That’s a hard one.

There’s a lot of slavery — and sexual slavery — in a tranche of your writing I guess from the 1990s through to the mid-2000s. Why was that so much on your mind then? Were there any immediate causes?

Not that I know of…. that’s an interesting — I think you’re right, as I think about it. I was sort of semi-aware of it. All I can think of David is that I — it took me a long long time to become fully aware of the fact that my country has never finished the civil war. You know. I lived all through the sixties and the black civil rights movement. I was not — I did not participate in any way, I was pretty busy having kids and if I demonstrated it was against nuclear bombs and things like that. But I — and I married a southerner, I lived in the south when it was segregated. It just took a long time to percolate through to me. That this is so deep in America. This is something every American has got to handle somehow, I think. Not directly, but as smoething very formative to the American conscience. And then of course there’s the whole women’s movement — of which I was very much a part, and the realisation that in a sense we have to keep struggling from not being literally enslaved, but being second rate. Not the privileged.

Your stories do this movement of location over time, from Europe, Orsinia, to other worlds, to where you live. There’s also a movement towards dealing with subject matter — feminism, slavery — where the issues at stake seem to address your own social circumstances more head-on. It’s as though you’re paying some sort of debt in the later stories that you’re not alive to in the earlier ones.

I think that’s a good way to put it. We all – all of us who live a life of privilege are in debt. One very simple way also to look at that progress or change that you’ve noticed is that – I’ve become less and less dependent on previous writing. The first three books of Earthsea are very clearly based on the heroic fantasy tradition. Of a hero overcoming obstacles. The heroes journey is a grand story. But despite what Joseph Campbell thinks it’s not the only story. I began I think to find my own ground, and I didn’t have to do it the way other writers have done it. And it took me a long time!

I like your distinction between story and plot.

Good! [laughs] A lot of people don’t. They resist it.

Well it’s thorny. I’m still trying to wrap my mind around it.

I think it may not be theoretically very sound, but I think it is useful. Because people are told too much about plot. Too much is made of plot. If you look at plot as a kind of a certain type of elaboration on story, then you’re freed from this – oh my god I’ve got to sit down and write the plot first.

You say that “kind of”, “sort of”, “just”, “very” are the things you have to eliminate from your drafts.

[chuckles] Yes. The bloodsuckers.

You’ve done a good job. I can’t find them except in dialogue.

Right. But listen to me speak, and you will hear them. We got a heightened consciousness of that in the feminist movement in the 70s when we realised that women are constantly qualifying what they’re saying. Even in writing. So we all felt we mustn’t do that any more.

[Here I set off on a long spiel on the relationship between mode and language in the story “May’s Lion”, in which the same story is told first as a work of realism, and second as a myth or legend, with the language of complexity and qualification — phrases like “sort of”, “just”, “very” — present only in the realist portion. Maybe among other things you were demonstrating the proper uses of your bloodsuckers, I suggested.]

[Laughing kindly] That’s a nice thought! It’s not how the story came about! The first part is an attempt toAlways recount truely this narrative that I was told, essentially by old May, with improvements by her nephew and so on… and too, because the story was told me in the valley in which Always Coming Home is set, I wanted to tell the story as if it happened then, as well as when it really happened. Because Always Coming Home was an attempt to imagine my beautiful valley being lived in rightly. Instead of wrongly, as it’s been lived in so much now. It was an act of consolation to myself, in a way. To give the valley people who deserved it better than we do. There’s some sort of personal consolation or reparation there that I can’t really describe… but I think that’s pretty clearly there with “May’s Lion”. To take this story which was a grievous story, because May felt bad about that lion, but she didn’t know what else to do… and I could make it come out better. Which is one reason we tell stories, I guess.

[I thankfully have no memory of what I said next, but what I wrote when I did the transcript was this: long rambly question about binaries and whether the existence of two possible stories, as with “May’s Lion”, opens the door to acceptance of more complex/less unitary/less inflexible thinking.]

I think if you called them alternatives — which after all does mean, usually, two — the phrase would come easier to me. Because — I have said many times that one reason I think imaginative fiction is important is that it can offer alternatives. Which is why it’s so important so often to young people. Who know that we don’t have to do things the way we’re doing them, but no alternative is offered. This is the way we do it! And so — a fiction that offers them an alternative way of living or looking at politics or whatever — that’s what they want. And then as you say you can go on from one alternative to many.

So these story collections. Why did you choose “May’s Lion” to include, do you remember?

Golly. Choosing those stories was a very odd experience. I kept thinking that some editor was going to come in and either do it for me or help me and correct me and suggest things, and that never happened.

Gavin [Grant, publisher of Small Beer Press], was very clear when I asked him about this that he was not going to do that.

Unreal1Right, but he didn’t tell me that! So I kept waiting for him and Kelly to sort of do something! But of course round then was not a good time for them. Two years they were living in a hospital. My memory of the process of choosing is sort of haphazard. I just got all the stories out and tossed out quite a good many to start with, you know — I don’t know whether I put in “May’s Lion” because I wanted something from always coming home, something that related to that aspect of my work, or not. I put in stories because I liked them.

But you have so many stories you like — you say that in the introduction. It’s a problem, how to eliminate stories when so many of them you like.

It is! I do know writers who hate to reread their own work and are really unhappy — both writers and painters. [laughs] I don’t know whether I’m insensitive or what, but I generally enjoy reading my old stuff.

Does it feel like your old stuff?

Yes and no. It’s a mix of — my goodness, why did I say that? My goodness, look at me being so clever.

Do you have a favourite story?

No.

Do you have a small group of favourite stories?

No, not really. I realised that making that anthology, that I imagine that The Unreal and The Real — whichUnreal2 is after all a pretty big pair of books — contain most of the ones I would call my favourites, but after all there are no novellas in that at all. And I think some of my stories that I’m fondest of are probably the longer ones. Which — I do hope to make a collection of those too. And it looks like I might be able to do that.

That would be a big book.

It would be a huge book, one of these 1000 page things, which I think is rather awful, but –

No, you should do that. There are 1000 page fantasy behemoths coming out all the time. Why not a 1000 page collection of good stories?

Because you can’t lie down to your back to read it! There are e-books of course, if you can do those. I don’t read any of those giant anthologies, because I always read lying down, and your stomach won’t support it.

Why did you include “The Wild Girls”? It’s such a harsh story.

Well partly because of course Gavin was hoping for something recent — if not something brand new, at least something most people hadn’t seen. And that qualified very nicely. And also I rewrote it very slightly — it gave me the chance to rewrite it just a bit, as I had realised I wanted to do. It was a very demanding opening for the reader to try to figure out what was going on, and I cut some stuff and simplified it a bit.

How would you characterise the difference in feel between the two volumes?

I really don’t know. because I had to reread the stories and then of course proof read them, I’m too close to those volumes to read them again. I’m too close, I’ve got no perspective.

I noticed reading through them that not one of those stories is set in a city.

“Winter’s King”. Is that not included?

No, it’s not.

Of course, one of my arbitrary exclusions was not to have stories directly related to a novel. Though there were exceptions, because Gavin and Kelly wanted an Earthsea story and I wanted “May’s Lion”. Yeah, that’s interesting. That’s funny because I’m a city dweller. There are lots of villages in my work.

Small communities where everybody knows everybody but it’s possible to be alone — those seem to be quite important in your work.

And in my own experience quite imaginary, because the smallest town I ever lived in was Moscow, Idaho, a university town, not a village. We were not very happy there – we got away to the city just as quick as we could. But of course I had those summers in the valley as a child and those obviously did something profoundly to shape my whole being. In the country, with neighbours who were not important in daily life.

[At this point she asked me if I knew her friend and correspondent, the great New Zealand writer Margaret Mahy — I did, very slightly. I had to break the news to her that Margaret, who was roughly her contemporary, had died in 2012.]

I knew she was well on, but — she was just such a darling. Being in correspondence with her was wonderful. She was a wonderful, wonderful critic. Very keen. She ought to be a much larger figure than she is, here and in England. But so it goes.

[We talked about Margaret a little. A lot of this was me trotting out my Margaret stories. A lot of New Zealand book people my age have Margaret stories.] Do you find that blogging is very different from essay writing?

It is for me, but I’m not sure that it really is. I just have somehow always sort of hated writing essays. I could [laughing] just pretend that blogs weren’t essays, and so I could enjoy batting one out and then sortthe-notebook of polishing it, you know. Because the form is supposed to be short — I think I tend to approach an essay as if it ought to be 20 pages. I make too much of essays, before I write them. And talks. And so the blog — and you know, with Saramago — it was reading his blogs and thinking if he can do that, I wonder if I can? And just sort of write about what was on his mind. But thoughtfully. So — of course they are essays, aren’t they.

But they do have that feeling of spontaneity, you’re right. They feel more like you just sat down and decided to write. They can be about anything.

I think that’s what Charles Lamb intended. And his read – of course they’re very polished, but they’re also informal. Chatty.

I wanted to ask – what’s Pard doing today?

PardHe’s right here, keeping my feet warm. He’s sound asleep, as usual. He weighs about 12 pounds, but when asleep – there’s this curious gravity thing that happens to cats when they sleep, they weigh more and more and more… if they’re in the middle of the bed you cannot possibly dislodge them.

Pard is a full justification for your blog’s existence.

I think he’s what most people enjoy the most, yes.

[By this point in the transcript I was getting pretty sick of the sound of my own voice and any time I said anything very long I skipped over it. But from memory I next asked her about the decision not to leave her blog open for comments.]

It seems to be – all artists, all performers, any amount of praise is highly acceptable and utterly delightful, but one word of criticism hits harder. You forget the good review except for the little sting in the tail. Why that should be I do not know.

So many people say that. Is that really true of you as well?

Oh yes. Oh absolutely.

Forgive me, but you seem so centered — you seem so sure of the value of what you do. It’s really interesting to me that that happens to you as well.

Yeah, it does. To the point where — if I were afraid of a really bad review I would probably be like Virginia Woolf and not read it, at least not for a long long time. Until whatever was being reviewed was far behind me. I think we’re almost all vulnerable that way.

Has anyone told you things about your work that you didn’t know, and that changed the things you wrote later in a useful way?

I certainly have been told things by interviewers and been told things by critics that – oh, of course that’s what I was doing! Oh my goodness. Revelatory things. To what extent that has influence further writing I don’t know. Because I do sort of keep going on into something else, you know?

Your career clearly breaks down into rough periods — the Orsinia stories predominate for a while and then they ebb and then they stop – –

Well is that true?

I think it’s true?

I think when you spoke earlier about my more European and book-influenced younger writing… but then what the hell, I end up with Lavinia, which could not be more European or book-influinced. It’s directly from a European book! So maybe I just do spirals.

Ha. Spirals, yes. You’re always coming home. But not quite. How have you changed, over your career?

Not quite the same, yeah. I’m not very good at this. I don’t look back a great deal. I always feel stumpedElegy with a question like that. I live fairly — pretty much in the present. I don’t look ahead a great deal, and I know I look back much, much less than any of my friends. Even in my old age, where inevitably one begins to think back. I don’t know… I seem not to think in those terms. The one thing I can say definitely is that I know I learned — very slowly! — to write better. And I think I went on learning. I know I’m writing better poetry now than I did 15 years ago. Poetry is mostly what I’m writing now. I like this idea that you really don’t stop learning. There’s always more to learn, and you can always learn it. In the practice of an art. And that’s lovely, to know that.

I want to ask what have you leanred, but I think — tell me if you agree — that you don’t learn big dramatic things, you learn lots and lots of little very specific things.

[laughs] Yes, that’s it. All sorts of little sneaky bits. The engineering of it all is fascinating.

Where do poems come from?

A beat or a certain combination of words with a certain rhythm to them come into the mind, and they have authority that you must obey, you must listen to. Something is at work here. So you try to follow them up. One of the m,addening things about poetry is that you can lose it entirely if you can’t follow it up right then. Sometimes these intimations of a poem bringing itself towards being can be lost because the telephone rings, you know? It’s funny stuff. It’s like dealing with fox-fire. It’s also wonderful. And then of course you can sit around and wait for one of those elusive rhythms or groups of words, but — I belong to a little group of poets, we’ve been working together for a long time now. We meet once a month, and we give each other — one person gives an assignment for next month’s assignment. And we don’t have to do the assignment, but it’s there. And it’s surprising how often an assignment in form particularly — you must write a quatrain, a villanelle, whatever — how often that brings the poem.

Limitations —

Specific limitations, specific goals, a small engineering problem. A villanelle is a major engineering problem. A little specific challenge. Some of the eight of us find an assignment in topic more useful, but two of us find the form one, almost always, the one that brings something we just didn’t know we had to write about. It’s very odd. It’s truely mysterious.

I imagine it like — all the sounds of the world are there, but if someone says only listen to raindrops today —

Yeah. Yeah.

You can focus then.

You sort of install a filter, yeah.

Do you write any stories now?

Now and then. I just had two — one just came out and another one’s coming out this summer. I’m very tickled, because I write so few now — it pleases me inordinately when they do get published. One of them is in my mind quite a big story. That’ll be out later this summer.

That’s exciting.

It is to me. I’m not writing much stories. When I was turning them out rather frequently they just swallowed each other up. I was on to the next one.

That must be so odd.

Yeah. It is odd.

CONVERSATION THREE: 2016

Ursula last

Ursula did not feel up to a phone conversation, when I emailed her late in 2016 to ask if we could talk again. She suggested I write a list of questions, and she’d answer them if she could. She inserted her answers into the text of my absurdly long email; I’ve pasted the whole thing below as I received it, except for the questions she didn’t answer. (There would be informational value in showing you the things she opted to leave alone, I suppose, but there’s quite enough of me in this section already.)

Most of these questions are based around the three essays in Words Are My Matter that I loved the most. The questions on the Saramago essay got a little out of hand; or at least, at a certain point they stopped being about the Saramago essay and wandered off towards your blog. At the end of the list are a few about the two big collections that have just appeared.

Teasing Myself Out of Thought

The single sentence in this collection which hit me the hardest is, “No matter how humble Taothe spirit it’s offered in, a sermon is an act of aggression”. (I could rephrase “hit me the hardest” as “spoke to me the most directly”, but the more violent language is what first came to mind, and it seems worth admitting that.) I know the Tao Te Ching almost exclusively from your rendering of it, and I am deeply ambivalent about it: I can never decide whether its many observations and insights add up to a fatalistic renunciation of choice, or a profoundly wise acceptance of the limitations of human power and knowledge. I feel a similar ambivalence about “a sermon is an act of aggression”. It reminds me of a line in Tolkien: “Advice is a dangerous gift, even from the wise to the wise, for all courses may run ill”. My father sent me off to find The Lord of the Rings and read the conversation containing that line once — it’s Gildor, speaking to Frodo — after I asked him what to do about a bad choice two of my friends had made. It was a way of telling me to be very cautious about meddling. It was also a fairly dramatic and memorable way of giving me advice.

In the same way, is “a sermon is an act of aggression” not a form of sermon? How do you make your experience and understanding available to other people without in some way asserting your status as someone worth listening to? Is this phrasing really less aggressive than “you should attempt to avoid preaching at people” — does the avoidance of the “you should” remove the intent to instruct? — or is the blunt assertion of that “a sermon is” just a more striking and effective way of preaching?

UKL: You have it right there.

When I argue, I overstate — ask people who know me, I’m always going off like a firecracker. This can be forgiven in conversation, but when it’s written down the effect is different — hectoring -– preachy.

Because priests and preachers are granted moral authority simply by virtue of their position, the sermon is for me the symbol of unearned authority. And I see the exercise of unearned authority as aggressive.

I don’t mind at all being spoken to with authority if I think the authority has been earned — I like to be lectured at by people telling me something they know that I don’t, I like arguing over opinions with people whose opinions carry weight, but who don’t assert a right to dominate.

I can’t find a way to put these questions which avoids sounding as though I’m intending to nail you to some sort of logical cross; truthfully I’m not. I can’t answer the questions myself. I would like to know if you can. It does seem to me that the distinction you draw between preaching, teaching and the complex clarity of the artist is at best a fragile one.

It’s not really a distinction at all, probably. It’s an attempt to negotiate a minefield.

I didn’t use proper caution, and stepped on (my own) mine.

Living In A Work of Art

wordsI love the idea of you recreating the qualities of your childhood house — its aesthetic qualities, its implicit moral stance — in your novels. The essay itself is very beautiful in the way it slowly builds a sense of what the house was to you, what it was like to inhabit; and this is interesting, since the essay is also about the ways in which it’s hard to define beauty, or to say how a complex structure opens up the reaction “I am experiencing beauty”.

I have a few questions around this. First — where did the germ of this essay come from? You say you’d been wanting to write it for a while. I can imagine you thinking backwards from the qualities of your fiction to the qualities of that house, or thinking about your childhood & how it set up some of the preconditions of your fiction. How did the idea of the essay grow in your mind, before you began work on it?

That’s easy. It didn’t.

David Willingham asked me to contribute to an issue of his magazine Paradoxa featuring articles about my work. I had no idea what to write until I thought of how I had wanted to write about the house, but didn’t know how-when-why. Here was a chance to find out. I did not plan the essay at all. I wrote it straight forward to the end.

It occurs to me that you build complex structures in your work in at least two different ways. There are the structural qualities of the work itself — a novel can feel very architectural, if it has anything more complex than a single point-of-view linear story. (Or even then.) The ways in which point of view alternates in The Left Hand of Darkness, or time period and world alternate in The Dispossessed, or the ways in which the history of slavery on Werel and Yeowe slowly emerges from the histories of the many principal characters in Four Ways To Forgiveness — there’s a sense in all of these of spaces opening up inside the work. I find it difficult to talk about though, without becoming either ploddingly specific — criticism as a long list of Things This Book Does — or letting the architecture metaphor dissolve into vague hand-waving. Has the house analogy ever been present in your mind while you were writing (building) a novel?

No, it first occurred to me when I was writing the essay.

The final sentence, in which I suggest that my novels contain an element of rebuilding, or of “always coming home” to that house, came as a discovery to me as I wrote it. “Oh — Is that what I’ve been getting at? All right! Good.”

Are there specific things about any particular novel that make you think of that house? (I housecouldn’t help thinking of Ged’s first awareness of the Shadow, lurking by the door in Ogion’s house — terrifying to me as a child, and a foundational image of night fear ever since — when I read about Maybeck’s use of light and shadow, and also about the delayed resilience of redwood, and your first time alone in the house at night!)

To me the frightening aspects of the house are essential as the balance to its beauty and its homeliness (Heimlichkeit). Only in darkness the light.

The other way in which you build complex structures is that you build worlds. In the introduction to The Complete Orsinia, you say, “The last transmission I received from Orsinia was “Unlocking The Air”… I am sorry I have heard nothing from my friends in Krasnoy since then. I hope things are going along all right there.” I like this idea of Orsinia as a place with its own integrity, independent of you. Does the Ekumen feel like that, to you? Does Earthsea? I wondered, reading The Other Wind, how much Earthsea was a place to you — a world, the way Middle Earth is a world — and how much it’s a set of ideas.

Oh, that’s an easy one! Earthsea is absolutely a place and absolutely not a set of ideas.

The first way I got to it was to draw the map and name the islands. Then they were there. I could go to them and find out what they looked like and who lived there. I could explore, discover.

gontIt took a long time, of course. At first I knew only Gont. And it was what, forty years or so, before I ever got to Paln, or found out anything at all about Hur-at-Hur. But all the time I knew they were there — I knew that I could go to them, and explore them, find out what was there.

The Ekumen is quite different from Earthsea, or from any single world of the Ekumen. The Ekumen is just an idea, a notion. An improvement on the “League of Worlds” of my earliest sf novels, itself barely an idea at all, a suggestion of an improvement on the Galactic Empires so common in sf, modeled vaguely on the League of Nations and the United Nations.

But each world of the Ekumen that I have set a novel or a story on was in my mind an independent entity with its particular atmosphere (I mean feeling-tone, not how much oxygen and nitrogen), its peoples and its history and cities and landscapes. Always, writing the story is an process of exploration and discovery. Basic elements of course have to be thought out and solidly in place before beginning to write – physical differences, social differences, over-all geography, a sketch of history – but the details come with the writing; and it’s the details, the concretenesses, that make the imaginary seem actual.

The Other Wind has a problem-solving, resolution-seeking quality — it feels like a rounding off. This is entirely consistent with the idea that Gont, for instance, is a real place in your mind, a place you might live, the way it is in mine. But it’s also possible you don’t think of it like that at all; or perhaps Earthsea might be a hybrid, with individual islands very real and concrete, as independent of you as Orsinia, while the larger world feels closer to being a complex set of embodied metaphors. Not a place bound to history, as a country in Europe has to be, so much as a way of thinking about things that are hard to think about otherwise.

Well, no doubt Earthsea is a metaphorical embodiment of some parts of my mind, unconscious as well as, or more than, conscious. And you could look at it Jungianly – a mental archipelago, the islands of the knowable emerging from the sea of unknowing, etc. But to me it’s just Earthsea, a place I will never fully know but will always love to go.

A parenthetical question about The Complete Orsinia, or rather about the fact that it’sOrsinia from The Library of America: are they going to bring out further editions of your work? What’s next?

Next is two volumes containing all the “Hainish” novels and stories – the main bulk of my science-fiction writing. It’s being put together (with characteristic LoA care) right now.

One of the things I treasure in the house essay is its accumulation of memoir-flakes — all these little glimpses of your childhood. I have been saving these flakes in my mind ever since I was 12 years old and sitting in my parents’ library, reading your introduction to “Darkness Box”. (“Guess fwat is in this bockus!”: I think this was my introduction to the idea of phonetic spelling, as well as to the idea of you as a person, with children and a life.) Your work is of course the true revelation of who you are and what you care about; but you will be very familiar with the enthusiastic reader who wants to know everything about their beloved writer. (That potentially benign, potentially clutching and invasive use of the possessive.) You seem perfectly willing to open up parts of your personal life in an instrumental way — when it serves some other good purpose, as with the house essay, or as with the relevance of your life in the pre-civil rights South for your blog post on Go Set A Watchman. But not otherwise. Is that right? Where are the limits? — are there things you’ve ever considered writing, but then rejected because it would be too personal, or too invasive for family members? I would devour a full memoir, if you ever wrote one. I expect you never will, simply because it would be a novel-scale endeavour, and you’ve stopped writing novels. But is the absence of a memoir from your publications list an absence of the “Good god NO, save me from memoir, I would never write such a thing” variety, or just of the “life is short, so much else to do” variety?

I don’t write memoir because I either can’t or don’t want to, I don’t know which comes first.

We make such a cult of the artist’s personality and opinions on current events and all. And I do that myself, I’ve read not only all the biographies of Virginia Woolf wrote, but her diaries and letters, and I love and admire the person I find there, and am grateful for her generosity.

But then I look at Shakespeare and think oh, that’s best of all. He gives us himself — and nothing about himself. Despite the hundreds of books about him we hardly know more about him than we do about Homer. What we have of them is the work. And I think that’s what matters in the end. Authors’ travels, their love affairs, their opinions, what they keep on their writing desk (a frequent question from audiences) – it’s interesting and entertaining, but how much does it lead us right away from the thing they did that matters, their art?

A related question: why did you wait until now to publish the Hedgebrook journal?

When it didn’t prove to be useful to the Hedgebrook people, as we had vaguely hoped, I just put it away and forgot it. Came across it years later and thought, this is a pretty honest record of a writer’s week of writing, I wonder if it would interest people?

Also, I’m very curious about Arwen Curry’s film about you. Is that still happening? Will it fill some of the space a memoir or a biography might have filled? (Is anyone writing a biography? Has anyone ever asked?) What has it been like, working with her on it?

U: Arwen’s film will be out next year, the good Lord willin and the crick don’t rise.

I myself asked Julie Phillips if she’d consider doing a biography of me. Some of the biographical stuff published about me had been inaccurate and misguided. Julie had written a biography, The Double Life of Alice B. Sheldon, (aka James Tiptree Jr) that I admire greatly for its accuracy, its tact, its honesty, and much else. I Tiptree

had got to know her a bit while she was working on it, since Tiptree and I had a long correspondence. So I asked her about a biography, and we made an informal agreement that “I was hers” — a sort of option on each other. She has done a great deal of reserch for the book over the years since, and since her New Yorker profile of me I guess the option has become a deal. I feel lucky.

Thoughts on Saramago

In your long essay on Saramago, you describe his use of commas in place of periods and his refusal to paragraph as a radical stylistic regression, a deliberate renunciation of a stylistic armature — punctuation — built up over many generations and available to us now as a kind of inherited wealth. You say, “I don’t know the reason for these idiosyncracies. I learned to accept them, but without enthusiasm”.

I read this with some dismay, because I had been counting on this essay to explain to me what Saramago is doing with those page-long sentences. I was sure you’d have a better explanation than I’ve ever managed to come up with. (My best effort: “An assertion of continuity across category boundaries. He wants me to see that the dividing lines we impose with our categories — the conceptual periods of class boundaries, national borders — are a form of lie.” This is the sort of thing I used to write in English papers as a student; it tries to sound clever but it doesn’t relate usefully to the experience of reading those endlessly flowing sentences. I’m not thinking about category breakdown when I read them, I’m trying to remember how the sentence started, and wishing it gave my eye a place to rest.) I have several questions about this.

First: honestly, what do you think he was doing? “I don’t know his reason”, you say, and that’s straightforward & reasonable; but do you have a guess?

No. I really, truly don’t.

You’re deeply immersed in him — so much more than I am, though actually this essay has persuaded me to buy four more of his books — and he’s a great artist who doesn’t do things casually. Those long sentences are the primary reason I haven’t read more of him sooner, and I doubt I’m alone. Why do you think he wrote that way?

“Because he found he had to,” which is no answer in the critical sense, though it makes complete visceral sense to me as a writer.

elephantIt certainly has impeded his acceptance by many readers. The unbroken, unparagraphed, almost unpunctuated pages of solid prose are ugly, daunting. And really not always easy to follow. But you get used to it presently (the way a scholar gets used to reading anything written before the late Middle Ages when they began inventing punctuation marks), with the motivation of finding that what the words say is fascinating.

If that happens, then the mannerism begins not to matter at all — even perhaps to do, secretly, mysteriously, whatever it was that led him to use it. By the time The Elephant’s Journey came along, I was actually looking forward to those solid grey pages.

You say of Saramago, “He is more than he was when he was young”. The capacity to do great work in old age — to do the great work of old age, the work your younger self could not have done — seems very rare. He had it; you have it. I realise that his energy sustained him to a greater age than yours has — he found himself able to write a novel at 87, which you’ve said no longer seems possible for you. But energy is the simplest part of this, I think. There’s also seeing what your younger self could not see, and developing the abilities to write in ways your younger self could not write.

I think this is true. And well said.

There’s a bit of a cult of the old composer – “late” Beethoven, etc, but writers mostly haven’t been looked at that way, not even Yeats. Maybe it’s time?

You have never seemed to stop growing — at least, you’ve never lost the capacity to surprise me, and I’ve been reading you since I could read at all. I am afraid this may be a naive and simplistic question, but how did you keep expanding your capacities like that? So few people do.

I like to learn what I don’t know, and I know very little, so that vein is inexhaustible.

But living to be old, and energy in old age, and keeping your wits, that’s just luck. Genetics, enough money, etc etc. There’s no “how” about it, except not being caught in self-destructive habits, and surely even that involves luck?

I am finding your idea of reading Saramago aloud very useful. As speech, his writing is so much easier to follow; the shape of his thought falls into place on my tongue. Do you do this with other writers? Are there other writers you find you need to do it with? Do you do this with writers it’s easy to read silently, and do you find reading them aloud changes your sense of them?

My husband and I read aloud to each other (before dinner, with a bit of whisky). We’re working through T.S.Eliot — a more uneven poet than I remembered — and just started James Herriot’s All Creatures Great and Small, I think as a kind of antidote to Eliot.

I love reading aloud and being read to. It’s interesting to find which authors read aloud well: there’s a pause when you need to breathe, the sentences pace themselves. . . And which ones don’t read aloud very well: no breath rhythm, klunky syntax, too much dialogue. . . Sometimes reading a “difficult” book aloud is a revelation – Woolf’s The Waves didn’t make sense to me till we read it aloud, then it made both sense and beauty.

I have read you aloud, to my sons — two books of Earthsea, plus “The Finder”, before they took those away from me and read the rest themselves, and The Left Hand of Darkness. My 17 year old and I are thinking we might read Lavinia, once we finish our current book. It seems as though you write to be read aloud — your sentences have rhythms that work naturally, though not simply. Do you read them aloud to yourself as you write them?

I don’t speak as I write but I do hear what I write. In the mind’s ear.

I do sometimes read dialogue out to myself. (It usually results in cutting it severely.)

Kalpa Imperial has its share of notably long, flowing sentences, which I assume is a faithful reflection of the original. (I don’t believe you’ve ever written such sentences elsewhere in a sustained way.) But it also uses the full range of punctuation. Is that also reproduced precisely? — are you just doing what Gorodischer does? — or did you use punctuation to reshape her rhythms slightly?

U: I woudn’t alter a writer’s sentence style or punctuation in translation unless I genuinely had to.

KalpaI had very little Spanish, was learning it, when I started translating Kalpa. Had a good deal more when I finished! It’s the only Gorodischer I could conceivably try to translate: it’s all in the voice of “the story teller” – a speaking voice, and the vocabulary plain, classic Spanish, no unfamiliar-to-me modernisms, and, as you say, long sentences that flow along easily. I found it irresistible even reading it with the Spanish-English dictionary in hand. And when a text in another language is irresistible, so is my longing to translate it.

If not a direct response to Saramago, this feels like a book informed by the experience of reading Saramago. It approaches the endlessly flowing sentence effect with every available punctuation tool ready to hand. That may mean no more than that you chose to translate a book that was doing all the things Saramago doesn’t do.

U: Did I even know Saramago’s name yet, when I was translating Kalpa?

I’m also curious as to how and why you decided to translate this book, in particular — not that it’s a decision that needs defending, because it’s a splendid book, but you’ve translated so few things, over the years. It stands out as a departure for you.

U: Hey. I think four volumes of translations (see below) isn’t so few, given that fact that I was also composing my own works?

(From the bibliography on my web site:

Selected Poems of Gabriela Mistral, U. of New Mexico Press, 2003

Kalpa Imperial, by Angelica Gorodischer, Small Beer Press, 2003

The Twins, The Dream/Las Gemelas, El Sueno, with Diana Bellessi. translation. Arte Publico Press 1997, Ed. Norma 1998

Lao Tzu: Tao Te Ching: Book About The Way and the Power of the Way. translation. Shambhala. 1997, October 2009 )

It was a great pleasure to read your Hedgebrook journal and see you reading Kalpa Imperial while working on what turned out to be “A Man of the People”. I read those two things I suppose 15 years apart. It changes my sense of each — I’m still working out how, and how much — to know you were reading the one while writing the other. Havzhiva is one of my favourite of your characters, and among the many things I love about the story, I particularly love seeing a child grow up on Hain. Did anything in Kalpa feed into your thinking about that society, do you remember?

U: I don’t think it did.

I’m fond of Havzhiva too. I believe he and Old Music (in several of the Ways to Forgiveness stories) are among the few actual Hainish characters in the “Hainish” books.

I think I first got a sense of Saramago as a figure I should pay more attention to when you began blogging, citing his blogs as an example of what the form could be. I was very sorry to read you’ve had to suspend blogging because your health has been poor this year — I hope you’re feeling better. (More concretely, I hope this has been merely one of the terrible blights of old age, those sudden health failures that seem to blot out months or years and be the main feature of life for a while — my mother is 80 and we’ve begun to see this a bit with her — and not that other thing, the blight that never fully clears. It feels impertinent to talk about this from the vantage point of my own middle age, and please don’t feel you need to respond to this, it isn’t a question — I just wanted to say that I hope there is a lot of light for you still, even with these shadows gathering.) So the question that this was meandering towards posing: how do you feel about your blog now? Does it seem as though the form did allow you to do things you couldn’t or wouldn’t have done otherwise? And will the blogs ever be published in book form, as Saramago’s were? I hope they will. It would be a different experience, reading them that way.

U: I’m grateful to my friend Vonda McIntyre, who kept telling me just to try blogging. When I finally got up the courage, the general shapelessness of the genre helped free me from the formal essay style I learned in college and graduate school, which wasn’t appropriate to what I was writing about, but kept getting me into its powerful grip again.

Houghton Mifflin Harcourt will be publishing a volume of my selected blogs next year,no time called No Time to Spare. The title comes from my first blog post, about answering an alumnae questionnaire from my college that asked what I did in my spare time and listed several possibilities, among which were Golf, Racquet Sports, Bridge, and “Creative Activities (paint, write, photograph, etc.)”

Questions not actually to do with Saramago (a heading inserted after the fact, when I read these questions over and realised I’d wandered quite a ways from my starting point.)

I would have found your blog on Go Set A Watchman a valuable inclusion in the “Notes on Writers” section of Words Are My Matter. It looks as though you weren’t considering blog posts as eligible? It was the only review of that much-reviewed book which left me wanting to read it. (Though I admit I haven’t got around to doing so yet.)

U: Blog post were mostly omitted because I began planning a blog book.

[page-long questions about Jane Smiley’s 100 Years Trilogy, which I read after reading Ursula’s blog post about it]

[U: These are interesting questions I wish I could discuss with you, but I can’t do all the questions.]

The Found and the Lost, The Unreal and the Real

FoundAndLostI have just bought both these big volumes. They make a handsome pair. Does it feel good, or strange, or bad, or all of the above, being at the stage of your career where these retrospectives of your fiction are appearing? (To hold two books like that, full of such good work — that must be something. But I can’t actually imagine the something it must be.)

U: It was interesting putting Unreal/Real together, having to select from so many short stories written over so many years. That process led me easily to writing an introduction.

Why is there no introduction to The Found and the Lost? Was that a cost of your illness this year, or was there no room? The brief quote on the inside jacket — “the way these stories wander around the universe, leaping from hither to yon, is an honest reflection of what my writing has always done” — feels like a compensatory gesture. (I enjoy your introductions. Often they change my sense of the things they introduce.)

The novellas are a collection not a selection, and the editor decided on the order; I’m glad he didn’t ask for an intro, because it would have been rather difficult to write one for such a hodgepodge, even though I am very fond of the novella as a form.

I am very interested in the fact that four of the five Werel and Yeowe stories appear in Four Ways To Forgiveness, and four appear in The Found and the Lost; but not the same four. All five stories are of course available to anyone who looks for them — somewhere in a stack in my garage I have the original magazines in which three of them appeared. But what does it do to the stories to move the grouping brackets — to have one book-enclosed sequence which ends with “A Woman’s Liberation”, and another which goes past it and ends with “Old Music and the Slave Women”?

U: Aha! In the Library of America Hainish Stories, all five of the Ways to Forgiveness 

UnrealAndReal-Saga-9781481475969

stories & novellas will finally appear together and in order. Better late than never!

I like it when separate narratives lead one to another through setting, characters, events — and making what I call a story suite. Not a novel, yet a narrative entity.

I am very excited to see a story in the one volume The Unreal and the Real which wasn’t in the two volume edition. A new story! I’m saving it. I didn’t think you were still writing stories. Do you have a sense of whether you might write more, or is it impossible to know?

U: The last story I wrote is “The Jar of Water.” If it’s in fact my last story, I’m glad it’s that one.

I miss writing fiction very much. It has been the joy of my life. But we don’t expect athletes in their upper eighties to keep pole-vaulting or running the marathon, however much they loved doing so. Let Byron say it:

For the sword wears out the sheath,

And the soul wears out the breast,

And the heart must pause to breathe,

And love itself have rest.

David, this has been most enjoyable, but it’s getting late and — to quote Luther, and also a plump German lady about halfway up the endless stairase in the bell tower of Cologne Cathedral — “Ich kann nicht mehr!”

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The Books of Midwinter

I’ve just written a long screed about the title of this blog, which for the sake of people uninterested in rambling introductions and yet more angst on the subject of the 2016 presidential election I’ve broken off into a separate post. This rambling post is about the best books I read this year.

All The Birds In The Sky

all-the-birdsI feel nervous recommending this one, not because it’s less than brilliant, but because a large part of its brilliance is tonal, and tone is so much more finely balanced on the sharp end of individual taste than other aspects of writing. I can more easily imagine this annoying people than many other things I love; and I do love it.

But whatever. Magic meets science, fantasy meets SF, dark comedy meets romance, and deep genre facility is on display throughout: pure slam-dunk storytelling, written by someone who knows pop culture inside and out. Later in the year I bought a whole anthology because it had one Charlie Jane Anders story in it.

I am going to say almost nothing about the actual stories of all the books I talk about here, by the way. I am the most spoiler-averse person alive (I will fight all comers for the title), so I’d be inclined to this approach anyway; but a disproportionate number of these are mysteries in one way or another. The less you know, etc.

The Philosopher Kings

philospher-kingsJo Walton’s The Just City was one of my favourite books of 2015, and therefore I was reluctant to pick the sequel up. But it does not retrospectively ruin Walton’s intellectual adventure. On the contrary. The time travelling utopian philosophers who set out to found Plato’s Republic have schismed, and now there are multiple competing versions of the Republic. The children of the incarnate god Apollo are reaching adulthood. The question of robot sentience has been resolved. If you’re not intrigued yet, this is certainly not the series you should be reading.

Walton has said that this is not a utopian story. I’m inclined to disagree, but the question is definitional, and therefore interesting primarily to… exactly the people who will most enjoy this series. In any case it’s a world I want to live in. What surprises me most about it in the abstract is simply that it isn’t dystopian; so many stories about planned communities could be subtitled “How the best of intentions collapsed into Lord of the Flies” that it almost feels like Walton is breaking the rules, as opposed to demonstrating how imaginatively bankrupt this strand of speculative fiction has become. What surprises me most about the world and the books when I consider it more closely is… everything. Walton is more able to surprise me than just about anyone I read.

I was going to make myself wait a full year for the Allen & Unwin edition of Necessity, the third and final book, but after I gave up book reviewing back in Winter (see below) I gave in to temptation and bought the American edition. necessityIf anything I like book three even more than its predecessor: a rare and precious progression in any series, and with Walton’s Small Change trilogy (a dystopian trilogy, incidentally), I liked each book significantly less than the one before it. The arc of Walton’s career has been towards better and better storytelling: she’s a voracious reader and she seems to hate repeating herself, and I can’t think of another writer who gives me such a strong sense that she’s read everything I have, most of what I haven’t, and wants to take ideas from lots of sources and then do unexpected things with them.

Also, I like the way she approaches her characters. Cruelty and greed and bad luck exist in her worlds; but there is no sense that she relishes them. I have the sense that if she heard someone using the word “gritty” in praise of a writer she’d snort with just as much irritation as I would.

Golden Hill

golden-hillI would enjoy seeing the philosophers of the Just City debate whether or not this is Francis Spufford’s first novel. (Surely that was the supposedly non-fictional Red Plenty?) In any case: this is almost a book you can judge from its first sentence. Here, taste:

The brig Henrietta having made Sandy Hook a little before the dinner hour – and having passed the Narrows about three o’clock – and then crawling to and fro, in a series of tacks infinitesimal enough to rival the calculus, across the grey sheet of the harbour of New-York – until it seemed to Mr Smith, dancing from foot to foot upon deck, that the small mound of the city waiting there would hover ahead in the November gloom in perpetuity, never growing closer, to the smirk of Greek Zeno – and the day being advanced to dusk by the time Henrietta at last lay anchored off Tietjes Slip, with the veritable gables of the city’s veritable houses divided from him only by one hundred foot of water – and the dusk moreover being as cold and damp and dim as November can afford, as if all the world were a quarto of grey paper dampened by drizzle until in danger of crumbling imminently to pap: – all this being true, the master of the brig pressed upon him the virtue of sleeping this one further night aboard, and pursuing his shore business in the morning.

Are you not captivated? Then this is probably not your book. I was instantly Spufford’s willing thrall, and I can’t quite say he treated me well, but he certainly met the implied promise of that virtuoso opening. This is historical fiction as grand opera, performative and full of mind-blowing arias for a first rate cast of soloists. (The characters: so good, so well imagined). Also, this is New York as you’ve almost certainly never imagined it.

On that “did treat me well” point: Spufford is one of the most interesting and unlikely writers alive, but he is not, as you’ll gather from The Child That Books Built or Unapologetic, in possession of the happiest of outlooks. That’s a useful thing to know; except that it might put people off reading. And really, this is such a tour de force. Take a deep breath and dive in.

Too Like The Lightning

ada-palmer

Oh dear god, what to say. Are you fond of world building? Do you like an elaborate mystery? This is the most purely impressive thing I read all year, in the sense that it hit me like a gold-plated brick and left an impression the size of a large crater. Recovery took some time. That performative idea I reached for with Francis Spufford — with him, imagine a man of enormous talent, substantial reputation and possibly fragile self-esteem, walking onto the first-time novelists’ stage at mid-life and reaching inside for absolutely everything he has. Ada Palmer is doing the Brilliant Young Thing’s version of that, which involves less pent-up terror, but possibly even more willingness to take wild risks. When she belts out her solo, “absolutely everything she has” turns out to include so much more than the kitchen sink. (Any one of the seven new nation-state equivalents plaited together here could fuel a book on its own). Imagine the judges quivering in their chairs as she strides off-stage afterwards. “What just happened?” “I’d ask her, but she might answer”. “Tell the rest of the contestants to go home”.

So: an insanely elaborate 25th century Earth, where “insanely” means both “plausibly complex”, i.e. so, so, so much more complex than most imagined futures manage to be, and also “so very romantic, and so very full of all-the-important-people-know-each-other coincidences that the complexity is belied and nearly reduced to window dressing”. But not quite. It’s too well imagined and too well done.

Like Spufford’s book, this has a central character whose past is mysterious & kept that way for a good proportion of the story. As with Spufford’s book, this places a heavy burden on the eventual revelations, and as with Spufford’s book, they can take the weight.

The book does absolutely nothing to warn you that it’s only the first half of a two part story. This is mildly infuriating, given the number of urgent unanswered questions that are up in the air by the final page, but on the other hand, Palmer’s world is the kind I want to spend as much time in as possible.

League of Dragons

dragonsA funny thing happened on the way to Warterloo… Nine books ago, Temeraire arrived on my doorstep looking like an inane high concept fantasy potboiler: the Napoleonic Wars, but with dragons. I was thrilled. So few writers have attempted novel series about unusually competent and honorable men serving in the British military during the Napoleonic Wars, and god knows we need more people following in Anne McCaffrey’s footsteps. I read the first page because I had to and then I read the rest because I couldn’t stop, and it became a bestseller and two sequels appeared within months and Peter Jackson optioned it for film and it was huge and then everyone I know got a little bored. I understand that last part, and yet it’s always surprised me a little.

The thing is that Temeraire is the odd book out in this very long series: it’s very fast paced, it’s structured as a platonic interspecies love story, and its military action leads up to a sort of superhero origin story climax, where the thing that saves the day is that one of our protagonists turns out to have unexpected powers. It’s all very wish fulfillment. It starts the series off with a whoosh and a roar, but it also functions as a kind of false advertisement, because in the next book international politics becomes a thing, and our heroes are sent off on the first of many long journeys. Taken as a whole the nine book series is a travelogue of an alternate history, organised around military set pieces written, considering the participation of dragon-based air forces, with a startling degree ot tactical realism. In other words it’s very slow moving: lots of sitting around on ships dealing with naval etiquette, lots of slogging through deserts and appeasing or being chased by locals who refuse to understand that British imperialism is for their own good. Each book after the first introduces us to a new part of the world, in detail and at length, and the battle scenes are chess matches between players of highly differing skill using pieces with very specific abilities: not at all showcases for the day-saving special powers of our particular heroes. So it makes sense that people who loved the first book began to find the later ones rather drab after a while. And yet they’re so intelligent and well written, and their sense of what history is and how people of the Napoleonic era thought and behaved is so sophisticated.

Napoleon, especially, comes off very well here: I’ve met him half a dozen times in fiction, not counting cameos, and Novik’s version of him is my favourite. All the virtues, all the vices, vain, energetic, chivalrous, self-centered, demonstrably a genius. The ability to demonstrate the reality of genius being one of the major tests of any writer. Watching him exploit the political and military options opened up by the existence of highly sentient dragons amounts to reading a brilliant extended essay on the abilities and aims of the real historical figure, but it’s a lot more fun. I particularly enjoyed the way Novik bends her history towards ours, so that by League of Dragons, the long-awaited final book, the European war has essentially broadened out into a world war, and then concentrated back into a ruinous Russian campaign and a grand European aftermath; and yet with the plausible possibility that Napoleon might still win. Meanwhile Temeraire and Captain Lawrence, our heroes, continue to be lovely, well matched characters: intelligent and capable and utterly honorable, in two very distinct modes (avaricious dragon/nineteenth century British serviceman) which give them complementary and narrative-driving blind spots. I’ve enjoyed every book in this series (including the slow-crawl-across-the-Australian-outback one, which was where many readers jumped ship.) The finale does everything I wanted it to. So much so that I went out and bought Uprooted, Novik’s 2015 fantasy fairytale-ish novel about a girl taken from her village to serve a possibly nefarious sorcerer. uprootedLoved it. The first few chapters are rather exasperating: everything seems very heavily telegraphed and obvious. First our heroine is certain her best friend is about to be chosen as the village’s ritual sacrifice, and we know perfectly well it won’t be the best friend (or else she‘d be the narrator), and then she’s certain of something else which is even more clearly not the case. But once the book moves past these spin-your-thumbs-and-wait-for-the-unshocking-revelations bits, it’s quite beautiful: strong characters, an evil forest presence with the raw and frightening feel of a fairytale which develops into something far more complex and interesting, a wonderful magic system, and a story that goes places I didn’t expect.

Gentleman Jole and the Red Queen

Layout 1No one should read this who isn’t a Vorkosigan person. If you have no idea what a Vorkosigan person is, read Cordelia’s Honour or The Warrior’s Apprentice, or, if you want to find out with minimal time expenditure whether this very large narrative universe is for you, the novella “The Mountains of Mourning”. Gentleman Jole and the Red Queen comes at the far other end of the series. It’s the thing I’ve read this year that I most purely love and that I’ll probably reread most often.

Two days before my 50th birthday I rode into Whitianga at the end of a brutally vertical day of cycle touring, pitched my tent, and found a fish and chip place. While they were making me one of the most appreciated dinners I’ve ever eaten, I began reading this for the second time. I am sufficiently invested in Bujold’s characters that I can’t much enjoy her books the first time I read them — I’m too worried about what she might decide to do and which story possibilities she might close off forever. The first read is about scouting for danger. The second is about enjoying the terrain. The memory of reading this one on that three day 50th birthday Coromandel loop tour, and especially of sitting with it in that fish and chip shop feeling relaxed and hungry, will be with me for the rest of my life.

Beautiful Darkness

beaut_dark_cover-fullI don’t want to say very much about this. Even the necessary warning, which is that both words in the title absolutely apply and no one needing light or levity or joy should touch this with a barge pole, feels like giving too much away. It’s a stunningly gorgeous and original graphic novel about sweet little people who live in the woods, and it’s also a long look into the abyss.

I’m so glad I read it though.

Words Are My Matter

9781618731340-1Wildly uneven: Le Guin’s fourth non-fiction collection ranges from why-is-this-so-short-dammit to three of the best essays I’ve read in years. The extended assessment of Saramago, “the only novelist of my generation who tells me what I didn’t know… the only one I still learn from”, is assembled from several shorter reviews and book introductions; the seams are visible, but just barely, and the critical thinking is of the very highest order. As so often with Le Guin, the essay sent me off to try my luck: she’s more likely than any other writer to steer me to new writers. (Or, in Saramago’s case, back to writers I’ve previously failed with. Those long, long, unpunctuated sentences. They bugged Le Guin as well. She got over it. I am currently about a third of the way through The Cave, reading it aloud, as she suggests, and I seem to have got over it as well.)

The excellence of the Saramago piece does rather underline how frustrating many of the other reviews in the book are: most of them written for The Guardian, and therefore standard newspaper length, which is just not long enough to develop a complex line of thought. Never mind; these little windows on Le Guin’s reading life still have their interest. And then you get the essay on architecture as a vehicle for moral ideas, “Living In A Work Of Art”, one of the most autobiographical things Le Guin has ever written and also one of the most beautiful and interesting. And a brief writer’s journal, full of little diary jottings and observations and entirely delightful. And an essay on meaning in fiction which actually manages to say things on this tired old subject which I’d never encountered before. There are no bad Le Guin books.

Some Luck, Early Warning, Golden Age

some-luckThis was the great central reading experience of my year. Central in that I read all three of these books through late Autumn and Winter; in that I lived inside it for several months, so that even when I was doing other completely absorbing things the real center of my life was in some sense off where Smiley’s characters were; and in that it functioned as a hinge moment. These were not the first really good books I read this year, but they were the ones that created such a large and complicated world that I couldn’t live in it and still have time to do regular book review reading. I put off my compulsory reading, then I did it resentfully, and then I looked at how little I was enjoying it and sat down and made a list of all the really good books I’d found through reviewing in the last two years that I wouldn’t have read anyway. Then I gave up book reviewing, which left me the time to read a lot more Jane Smiley after I finished the trilogy.

I think Smiley and Hilary Mantel may be the most intelligent novelists I’m currently following, at least in a certain narrow sense — Ursula Le Guin has a broader and deeper intellectual scope, and Kim Stanley Robinson is more inclined to sit down and apply focused analytical thinking to large problems and work the results into fiction in a way that causes my thinking to expand. But in terms of the fluidity and complexity of the mental construsts they seem able to run — psychological, narrative, economic, historical — Smiley and Mantel are just the cleverest people I read. (I think Eleanor Catton has an equally powerful mind, but she’s a couple of decades younger than I am, whereas Smiley and Mantel are older; the wunderkind who leaves you in awe and the elders who leave you in their dust are different phenomena. Or try this metaphor: Catton has much better eyesight than I do, but she’s standing lower down the mountain.)

early-warningThe specific thing that got me thinking of how similar Smiley and Mantel are is actually one of the major differences between them, and the one major thing I disliked about Smiley’s trilogy. I’m saying “disliked” rather than “dislike”, because I’ve argued this through with one of my sons, who sees a feature here where I saw a bug, and now I’m not sure what I think. The trilogy follows a single American family from the year 1920 to the year 2020, a span Smiley chose because she sees World War One as the calamity that ended the 19th century. She finished the third book I think in 2014; certainly not later than 2015. The last five years of the trilogy therefore occur in an alternate history to ours. This initially read to me as a major defect. Part of the astonishing richness of what Smiley does with her exponentially expanding cast — a young farming couple and their baby son, in 1920, a large clan spread across the continent, in 2020 — is how they do and don’t bounce off the century’s larger and smaller historical milestones. It’s a story about a family, and a story about families, and a story about America, and a story about what history is, and a story about the twentieth century. Every chapter covers one year. This is the sort of idea any writer could have and most sensible writers would know better than to attempt to use. Smiley steps onto her greased high wire and walks briskly across, doing occasional cartwheels.

But those last five years. Oh, they did annoy me. They are palpably science fictional. This is not a pejorative in my normal usage, but it becomes one when 95 chapters of more-or-less realism are capped in a quite different mode. Perhaps — this is my son’s argument — it shouldn’t; perhaps the ways in which Smiley allows herself to compress decades of environmental and economic collapse into a very short span give those chapters a necessary weight. My sense was that they impose a sense of resolution and conclusion onto a story which doesn’t naturally incline towards having one; a century is an artificial construct, and there’s too much human complexity in Smiley’s characters and in her understanding of history for the story to bend easily to the decimal system. I have felt this with a lot of Smiley’s books: she is so very good at capturing the processes of consciousness and the feeling of living in different people’s heads, moment to moment and day to day, but she isn’t equally good at structure. I think this may be why she’s so given to using artificially constraining forms: rewrite King Lear, write a book about a year in the life of a university, write a book following two years of the American horse racing calendar. She knows that endings aren’t her strength, so she writes to a pre-set limit and stops.

golden-ageI’ve felt something related with Mantel: not that she can’t do form, but that she’s so subtle and fluid that she benefits from constraint. I find that her historical fiction works much, much better for me than her contemporary fiction, and I think the reason is that her characters are so complicated they have no discernible inner compass. They can do anything at any point. When Mantel is free to steer them wherever she likes, I experience her stories as random, as though she were plotting them by throwing the i ching. When she works within the events of history, her ability to justify any move any character happens to make becomes a crowning strength. So her Thomas Cromwell trilogy and Smiley’s 100 Years trilogy are in a sense very similar: three book masterworks created by great novelists working within a tight historical framework. The key difference between them is a process difference. Smiley wrote her books one a year, bang bang bang. Mantel spent years on her first two books and has already spent even more years on the third, partly because she took time off to write the BBC adaptation, and partly because, as she’s said many times to all of us who keep on asking, she’d rather keep us waiting than rush to the ending when she isn’t quite sure yet of the route.

I wish Smiley had made us wait. It would have been a long wait, because what I’m envisioning is that she’d have let the years from 2015 to 2020 play out, and then used their events as grist to her mill, as she did with the previous ninety five. It would have been some compensation for the Syrian crisis, Brexit and Trump to have seen her characters deal with them, the way we’re having to.

But on the other hand, two things. One: Smiley is a process person. She works to a rhythm, which is how she wrote these astonishing books so quickly, and why by the year 2020 she’s likely to have written more. Mantel’s achievement will perhaps end up being the greater; but Smiley is going to end her life having written more books. At her level of accomplishment, saying “Could you slow down a bit and make them better?” seems a failure of perception.

And two: my son’s point. The chapters covering 2015 to 2020 may not, in the long run, end up seeming the formal blemish I saw them as on my first reading. Their presentiment of a coming American economic and ecological catastrophe may be the necessary ending that allows this trilogy to speak to what the Trump years — so unforseeable even a year ago — are going to mean.

Empathy will save us, unless it gets us all killed

I have found in the last ten days that I avoid saying or writing the name of America’s new president, possibly in the same way that I would avoid putting weight on a broken limb; though it may be more like the way I used to avoid looking in the dark corner where the monster might be hiding, when I was six years old. I could say that I’m just tired of our new monster, or that I know that attention is the thing he wants above all else and it’s a small thing I can deny him. Really I’m in a state of violent recoil.

ogions-cottage
Ogion’s House: as I imagine it. This being where the Shadow Beast lurks by the door. This was as scary as things got, in my childhood imaginings

I was at a book launch yesterday. The introductory speaker, a librarian, spoke about the capacity of books to place us inside other points of view. She mentioned the US election, the terrible divisiveness of it. I’ve seen a few people in my particular cultural foxhole — the horrified book person foxhole — make this point lately. Stated more bluntly than people tend to state it, it would go, “Books promote empathy, empathy promotes understanding, understanding will help us save the world from Him We Must Not Name”.

I don’t know about this. Consider the analytical-thinking equivalent of empathy, the capacity to see complexity. This is valuable to me partly because it can lead to the capacity to be indecisive. Indecisiveness is something that frequently plagues me; to some degree talking up its virtues is like insisting that a deforming birthmark is in fact a beauty spot. But I do happen to believe that false certainty is the root of a large fraction of our species’s problems. It isn’t just that the American right live inside their own carefully curated consensual reality that makes them dangerous. It’s how fervently they insist on their reality. It’s their lack of capacity for self-doubt. On the other hand, people who don’t doubt themselves can get an awful lot done. The ability to see all seventeen sides of a question may turn out to be the thing that stops my people from stopping the people who think in bumper sticker slogans from trashing the planet. (For the joint purposes of this blog and of my ego, “my people” shall refer to people who find the world interesting and do their best to understand it.)

In the same way, the capacity for empathy may be strongly correlated with the inability to be ruthless when faced with ruthlessness. Again, I’m not sure about this; it’s a complicated question. (You see what I mean.) When people talk about the importance of books, and especially of good fiction, in promoting empathy, there’s an implied claim that empathy is in some way going to help us face the things we now seem to need to face. In certain very narrow tactical senses, that’s possibly true. (The writer Joe Klein gives a nice account of the way Bill Clinton, backed into a political corner by Newt Gingrich’s domination of the US congress after the 1994 elections, came to understand Gingrich’s surprising degree of emotional neediness, and used it to wrong-foot him and gradually regain the upper hand.) In a larger sense, empathy and understanding will save us only if we can teach them to people who have no interest in being taught. They were the right solutions a generation ago, when today’s radical right and blinkered swing voters were learning to see the world; if we can manage to teach them to those people’s children, we’ll be glad of it in a few decades. But for us now, they won’t solve much. They’re not superpowers. They’re merely the fundamental values that give our lives meaning.

It’s good to embrace complexity and refuse the jihadi mindset and see the other point of view. I suspect these qualities are going to matter less in the short term than a willingness to fight like dogs, stand up for our neighbours, and call bullshit in loud don’t-fuck-with-me voices. Even here, in New Zealand, where you might think that the only true danger Trump poses is the little matter of our species possibly going extinct after we miss our very last late chance to stave off the worst effects of climate change.

That sounds so alarmist. Don’t you get bored and annoyed when people reach for hyperbole, in this age of permanent mandatory outrage? But it isn’t hyperbole, it’s just the nastiest of the range of possible outcomes of a process too complex for us to make firm predictions. I choose to believe it won’t happen, because despair is paralysing and also a form of self-indulgence; the problem with this noble stance of positivity is that it slides so easily into complacent idling. I choose to believe it won’t happen: so I am living in a reality where it won’t happen: so no problem. I also chose to believe we wouldn’t elect Seriously I’m Not Naming Him.

This was actually meant to be a post about books, not about politics and the possibility that America’s new president will be every bit as bad as he’s promised us he will be. I began writing it in July, having been aware for a while that despite my best intentions I was letting this blog die on the vine. I’ve been offered more interesting writing jobs this year than I’d anticipated, which is one of several ways in which my private 2016 has been much more positive than the calamitous public 2016 it’s embedded in.

However. A second good thing to happen to me this year: I had a revelation in the wake of the Auckland Writer’s Festival, in May. After twenty years of reading mostly to deadlines, I found myself looking at all the books I’d bought at AWF, and I realised I wanted the freedom to read them whenever I wanted. I also wanted to read all of Jane Smiley. And reread all of Ursula Le Guin, in chronological order. I abruptly discovered that I wanted to read whatever I liked, for the whole rest of my life, like normal people do. So I decided to stop writing book reviews. In the time I’ve been contributing to the books pages of various New Zealand magazines and newspapers, the space devoted to reviews has gone down substantially, and so have review fees. This is partly to do with corporate consolidation and partly to do with digital disruption, and there are various arguments about what it does or doesn’t mean for our literary culture; what it means for me personally is that giving up regular book reviewing was an extremely affordable decision. I count this as unusual good luck. I’ve seen any number of people get trapped in occupations they no longer love by awkward financial reality.

So it happened that by midyear, when I actually began writing this post, I had a long list of good books I hadn’t written about. I decided I would do a midwinter books blog. I wrote down the list of titles. Then something distracted me for half a minute and the New Zealand International Film Festival broke over me like a tidal wave, and a month later I found myself gasping on the beach surrounded by angrily quacking deadlines. The blog has been parked until now, when it occurred to me that a tiny positive thing I felt like doing in the wake of the election was steer people towards some really good books.

I am going to make that list of books — which by now is now more or less my Best Of 2016 books post, doesn’t time fly — its own separate post, because possibly, who knows, people might like the option of reading it without wading through pages of election maunderings first; I’ll link to it at the bottom of this. But I’m still thinking about how people keep telling me that books are good because they promote empathy and understanding — the bumper sticker would read, “We need empathy, read more books!” — and about the fact that for the last two weeks I’ve only just been able to think about the election and the four years we’ve got coming to us. I wasn’t kidding about not wanting to say the bastard’s name. I really do not want to go there.

I will of course get over that. We have to go there. No way out that doesn’t go through. But while some of the books I’m going to write about do happen to offer some very good tools for thinking about the world we now find ourselves in, that really isn’t why I’m writing about them now. Truthfully, I’m turning to books at the moment for one of their other important functions. Nothing wrong with escapism, as my beloved C.S. Lewis famously once said: if someone accuses you of reading for escape, remind yourself that people opposed to escape are known as jailers.

It’s nearly summer in New Zealand right now. But it’s cold outside. Here are my books of midwinter.

Hello Hello. (The blogger introduces himself)

David Larsen, January 2014Hello. I am a recovering arts journalist. For a lot of the last 20 years I was putting most of my time into parenting. (This is not a parenting blog. See my possibly-never-to-be-written post, “Bragging, Complaining, and Letting Your Friends Know Your Choices So They Can Worry About Their Own: Why Writing About My Children Makes Me Queasy”). This began when Said Children were pre-verbal, and, brief break from the not-talking-about-children policy follows, being at home 24/7 with human beings you adore but who can’t talk to you in words of more than one gurgle will drive anyone mad quite quickly.

So I started writing book reviews for local papers, and this grew into a substantial hobby, and ultimately into about 2/3 of a career, by which I mean that arts journalism of various types began to take up most of my spare time, and then quite a lot of my parenting time (we home schooled; I’d take the children with me to shows or to meet people I was interviewing, it was a whole thing) – but without ever paying what you might call a commensurate percentage of the bills.

For a long time this was fine and more than fine. I had a supportive co-parent and the money worked out, in the sense of there always being just fractionally more than we needed. The writing was fun, the films and books and concerts were wonderful, and the chances to talk to people I admired – writers, mostly – was a great gift.

However.

My children are now grown, and looking around for opportunities to extend my 2/3 career into the real thing, I find that journalism – who knew? – is somewhat in a state of crisis, especially in my tiny little country with its tiny little economy. I’m a New Zealander, which is a wonderful thing to be. New Zealanders like to append phrases starting with “but…” to this sentence. I think it’s our British heritage: the silver lining must always be seen to have a cloud, or you’d be tempting fate. In my case, the cloud is that I can’t earn enough money doing the work that I’ve been putting most of my time into lately. So while I shall still be writing for Metro and ARTicle and The Spinoff and various others, I am expecting to make more of my living doing other things in the future, and I am expecting to do more of my writing about writers and films and books and music and the infinite etcetera here on this blog. (WHERE NO ONE CAN EDIT ME). (Only journalists will understand how attractive this is.)

Most of the posts on here at the moment are older bits of work I did for various local publications on the basis that it was work I wanted to do, they needed copy for their own blogs, and they didn’t have a budget for this so they didn’t pay me. This is how most arts-related online-only journalism functions in this country. (See “can’t earn enough money to make a living.”) My new policy is not to write for anyone else unless they pay me: radical indeed. Unpaid writing will go here. This is the plan. Will I end up doing any unpaid writing? One other reason I got into journalism is a tendency to finish things only when someone hands me a deadline; but we shall see.

Meanwhile, here are a few links to things I was in fact paid to do!

An interview with the great New Zealand writer Elizabeth Knox.

An interview with Ursula Le Guin.

An interview with Kelly Link.

My top ten films of 2015.

A long and rant-filled review of The Hobbit: An Unintended Journey.

One of a series of blogs Metro commissioned me to write last year on the New Zealand International Film Festival. (Metro, ladies and gentlemen: the rare magazine that pays for online content.)

 

In the interests of frankness: an interview with Kim Stanley Robinson

KSR1

This is an extended interview with Kim Stanley Robinson, conducted just after his novel 2312 was published in mid-2012. He spoke to me by phone from his home in California. The conversation ranged over Robinson’s career to that date; I’ve inserted a few notes where comments about one or another of his books did not seem self-explanatory. There are a few minor plot spoilers for a number of the novels. For anyone wondering where to start reading Robinson, 2312 is a good entry point, or Red Mars if you want something epic in scale. I discovered him through his short fiction myself, which you can sample in The Best of Kim Stanley Robinson, available here in book or ebook form. A short article based on this interview appeared in the New Zealand Listener.

I finished 2312 yesterday, so it’s somewhat freshly in my mind. Could I start by asking you about pseudo-iteration. And specifically, to begin with, by asking you about pseudo-iteration and Frank. Frank?

Yeah… Frank Chalmers – Oh you mean the way the name keeps coming up?

Not just the name. If not the person then the persona, if you know what I mean. [Interviewer’s note: Pseudo-iteration is the term used by Wahram, one of the two principle characters of 2312, for the way patterns continually repeat in a structured life, but with endless variation. Frank Chalmers, one of the central characters of Red Mars, is in significant ways very similar to Frank Vanderwal, one of the central characters of the Science in the Capital trilogy; and also to Frank Churchill, of the short story “A History of the Twentieth Century, With Illustrations”. And, though I’d forgotten this when I asked KSR this question, to Frank January, of the story “The Lucky Strike”.] Yes… well the iterative and the pseudo-iterative I got out of Gerard Genette, French structuralist, whose main book was translated into English under the title Narrative Discourse, in which he explained everything that novels can do using just Proust’s novel for all his examples. It’s a funny joke, because Proust’s novel is so strange in so many ways, and yet it has examples for every point Genette wanted to make, many of which had to do with chronology. Genette’s structuralist point of view was much more useful to me as a writer than the Anglo New Criticism angles. So I’ve used him all along.

When did you first read him? I read Narrative Discourse first in the late 1970s, and have reread it several times. The pseudo-iterative is just one of many useful concepts in the book, but the one I have used the most. It addresses a big problem for the novelist, which is to to describe daily life and the whole texture of life instead of just adventures where unusual things happen. If you want to describe daily life, you need to find some intelligible or interesting or hopefully exciting ways to write about it, to avoid just doing summarisation. Genette talks about the strange tenses and moods in French that Proust took advantage of, in which sentences often start with “he would…” or “in those days they would…”, implying these were repeated actions, but the descriptions would quickly become so specific, in the usual Proustian way, that they had to be understood as standing for many other incidents that would be more or less like it, but not quite the same. I used that mode a lot in the Mars books, and often elsewhere when I’m describing stretches of time or lived experience, as in The Years of Rice and Salt or Galileo’s Dream. It isn’t quite summary or dramatisation, but is something of both.

The concept of the pseudo-iterative is something I also find to be useful in my life. I am a creature of habit, I like the elements of my daily life to repeat with only small variations, which I enjoy performing. You know, sort of same but different.

Yeah, I kind of sensed that Wahram was the character in 2312 who’s closest to you personally, would that be fair? No, only to the extent they all are. Certainly I can relate to many things he was thinking, but he also was an attempt to come to grips with someone quite unlike me. I think I’ve got just as much of Swan in me, to tell you the truth.

Really? Yeah, sure.

There’s quite a lot of Saturnian characters, so to speak, in your fiction, though, and I tend to locate your point of view more strongly with them. 2312There’s an optimism and a solidity to them, which seems more in line with the overall mood of your work. And also with the the on-going project of successfully producing novels – I mean Swan keeps on producing art, broadly defined, but I can’t imagine her keeping on doing the same thing again and again and again to the extent that you have in your career. Whereas with Wahram, I can imagine that. Yeah. That’s probably right. But I feel fairly labile and variable in my own mental life; I find it very easy to inhabit these different characters. And Wahram in particular is somewhat of an attempt to cast myself into the mind of someone with an equanimity, you might say, that I don’t have myself. I’m often doing that, trying to imagine various others. Ultimately these characters come out of myself, but I’m also watching the people around me and trying to cast myself into the different mindsets of the people I see. And I feel a bit chaotic in my own interior life, so that these phlegmatic or steadfast characters, that’s not exactly my self-experience! [laughs]

Well I wanted to ask actually, in terms of Michel’s system of the four humours, where would you place yourself? [Interviewer’s note: Michel Duval, a psychologist in Red Mars, uses structuralist semantic analysis to combine two personality oppositions that have proved robust in many psychological studies – labile/stabile and extrovert/introvert – to produce a new theoretical underpinning for the pre-modern personality sorting system, the four humours.] I think I would place myself as sanguine, but I look at that quadrant figure and think maybe everybody who is dominantly one thing has the reverse as well, like a coin, so that the sanguine person would be melancholy underneath all that, and feel biochemically lucky not to be melancholy, since the world seems to provide a lot of ammunition for melancholic reflections. But mainly I’m sanguine. But I do think the quadrant might have that double aspect to it.

Would a melancholic person really have a sanguine side? That surely isn’t a good description of Ann Claybourne, who must be your most melancholic character. Well, but many melancholy people forge on very steadfastly in the world, it’s a kind of courage. Their sanguine underside, so to speak. Ann is a good example of what I’m trying to express, yes.

To rerturn to the idea of pseudo-iteration, when Wahram is contemplating marrying Swan, he reflects “Experience has taught all it is going to teach, more experience will be a reiteration, yet nothing ever repeats. Feel that and go on”. How does that relate to the experience of being a mature novelist, with a large body of work behind you, trying to create something which extends that body of work but at the same time is new? How do you establish reiteration as a novelist? What I think it really comes down to is simply the ideas, the ideas for the novels demanding new forms and characters and sentences. That’s where you get new variations even within the form. And the novel is very flexible in that sense. Naturally I fall into my habits, and my characteristic modes of attack on the various problems, so I don’t think I come up with novels that look wildly different from each other, but they feel pretty different while I’m working on them.

They feel pretty differently on the inside too; while obviously, they’re your novels, you couldn’t mistake any of them for someone else’s writing. I guess the last two [Galileo’s Dream and 2312] have felt more strongly connected to your greater body of work than some have, in the ways they tie back into the Mars books, and also tie those books back even more into the earlier science fiction, The Memory of Whiteness in particular. Yeah, that’s right I think. Galileo made a huge difference to me. It was Galileo himself, and also the fact that I moved my writing outdoors. I work only in my front courtyard, with a Japanese maple overhead to give me shade so I can see my laptop. The climate here is the back end of a Mediterranean climate, a little too cold in winter and a little too hot in summer, but I put a tarp overhead when it rains, and write outside no matter what the weather is. It’s quite a beautiful experience. There’s the birds, the clouds, the weather, and facing up to the cold if it’s cold.

And Galileo was such a tenacious stubborn worker, a grinder. Writing about him I came to admire the old man so much, I thought well, I can grind out a few more novels without complaining about it. And the material was just gold for a novelist, Galileo was a beautiful character. So that book brought me back to enjoying the process, and 2312 is a continuation of that. I felt like I had a good idea, and I had a very helpful push from my editor, Tim Holman at Orbit. He was really supportive of the Dos Passos format.

What was the book looking like before his input, in what ways did he encourage you? He encouraged me to portray the whole society that Swan and Wahram lived in, to go big. It was a challenge, and I kind of groaned, but the more I thought about it the more I thought, he’s right. This is an obvious opportunity, and the love story won’t work unless it’s in a credible society anyway, and so you get the social aspect as well as the personal aspect of the novel, and the more I thought about it the more excited I got.

How did you arrive at the idea of using the intertextual extracts and lists the way you do? – because that really expands the book. It was a bit of an accident. A small press here in America, Centipede Press, was reprinting John Brunner’s Stand on Zanzibar and The Sheep Look Up, and I was asked to write the introductions. I said yes and went back and looked at his books, and saw again that his formats came from KSR6John Dos Passos’ USA trilogy, but I had never actually read the USA trilogy. So I did, and it boggled me. I think it’s equal or better than the novels of the greats of American twentieth century literature, Hemingway, Falkner, Fitzgerald and the rest. It is a great novel.

I don’t know it at all. Very few people do. It’s not in the canon. He was a leftist in the 30s and a rightist in the 50s, so he was absolutely backward to the American literary-political zeitgeist in both decades. In the Fifties Dos Passos was like Arthur Koestler, he turned hard against the left and became a cranky old right-winger, and this damaged his literary reputation.

Anyway, his USA trilogy invented the format I used, and it’s quite powerful. There is a stream of consciousness strand, and prose poems that describe prominent Americans, which are tremendous pocket biographies; then also newspaper clippings, either true or invented, all of them examples of American weirdness. These sections alternate with more typical scenes that follow characters who keep changing, and the characters all pinball around, and only in the third volume do they strand together, in quite a clever way, in terms of plots impinging on each other. But the way the characters bounce around, out of control of their lives, is something I tried to mimic a little in the Kiran chapters of 2312.

Yeah, that’s fun. It also approaches being a weakness in the book, in that Kirin only just escapes feeling like a plot mechanism wandering at large. Events always sweep him exactly where your larger structure needs him to be. Because Swan and Wahram are allowed much larger internal realities, the fact that they also go where the story needs them to be doesn’t feel contrived. They’re driving the book, the book’s not driving them. That’s true. Still I’m glad Kiran is there, I think his story is a good angle on Venus, and it’s a relief from the interiority of both Swan and Wahram. I think readers need variety in pacing. Every chapter should not confront you with the same pace and the same mood, there should be some flux and heterogeneity.

Yeah. And in fact, Kiran works fine. Would you consider a book in which he’s the principle character, or one of two principle characters? No, I’m done with 2312. I like the idea that a novel encapsulates an entire story world. The feeling that there are possible sequels or loose ends is a good feeling for a reader to have, but not something one should actually try to satisfy.

You still haven’t told me about Frank. By my count you have three of him – Right. – I may have missed one… when did you decide to do that? How conscious – no, it must have been extremely conscious. Why did you do that? Well let’s see. [laughs] My explanation may cause you to groan, but what it comes down to is that all of my liars are called Frank.

[Laughter in quite large quantities; interviewer had been gnawing on this question for years, and did not see this answer coming] That’s too good. It started with the first one, with Frank January from “The Lucky Strike,” Janus being two-faced. I like to be kind of Dickensian with character names. The Mars trilogy in particular is filled with meaningful names. And so, when I realised that Frank ought to be named Frank in the Mars books, being also very duplicitous, I had the pattern, and it was easy to name Frank Vanderwal in the climate trilogy, because he too is two-faced.

Trilogies. You’ve done three. So a trilogy of trilogies. Did you do that as a kind of conscious completion of the meta-form? No, it was basically just an accident. The first one I always thought of as being some kind of triptych, and not really a trilogy anyway. Interviewer’s note: The Wild Shore, The Gold Coast and Pacific Edge offer three different near-future Californias, linked together by the presence of an old man called Tom, who seems to have been a boy or a young man when the three time lines diverged.

It’s interestingly similar to the situation with Frank, in that you’ve got the three Toms – I mean the one Tom who exfoliates in three ways – I wondered when there were three Franks if that was in some sense a continuation of that idea. [This was a better theory before interviewer noticed there are at least four Franks]. Maybe a case could be made for that subconsciously, but for me those exist in different departments. KSR7I always knew that Tom would be in the first three books, he was the structural element being repeated and having different lives. I felt that was a new structure, the triangular structure of the California books. Then the Mars book was intended to be one novel, the climate trilogy was intended to be one novel. So I think of them as Victorian triple deckers, but of course I guess that’s what a trilogy is anyway.

Kind of, yeah. So essentially I’ve done two very long novels, and another quite long novel in The Years of Rice and Salt, though I did try to compress things there. 2312 is another attempt at compression – hoping for the same amount of information, but squishing it down.

I think it’s a more successful attempt than The Years of Rice and Salt. 2312 has the advantage that there are all those links to your wider body of work, so you don’t need to fit as much in. The entire history of the Mars books is grandfathered in, for one thing. At the point where Swan looks down on Mars and someone comments “I hear it’s an interesting place”, that’s a very nice line. So consciously resonant. I thought that would be the only time we’d touch on Mars in the whole book, it’s such a nice little glance. Although it’s lovely to end there as well, in that same John Boone crater – Thank you for that. I thought 2312 would never go to Mars, so it was my little joke, to wave at it while passing by. And I really am done with Mars. So it was a late decision to make it the place of weddings, and to tie it back into the book. It struck me as a little surprise at the end, a last little poke. Surprises are good, and so I was pleased, but that was a very late decision.

Ha! Oh, that’s very nice to know, actually. That changes the reading experience interestingly, because I imagined, with that line of Swan’s, that I was being told to expect no more glimpses of Mars, and then at the end I felt double-bluffed… speaking of the Mars books – another repeated pattern. Pauline was John Boone’s AI. Now Swan has one with the same name. Yeah. This is English major stuff, the explanation for Pauline. That was Robert Browning’s first poem, an imitation of Shelley, a poem about a tortured young poet with an ideal, basically a rewrite of Shelley’s “Alastor”. A Memory of Whiteness is another rewrite of this early poem of Shelley’s. But Browning turned against his poem, he actually bought up copies of “Pauline” and burned them, and tried to suppress the memory of it, and he largely succeeded, although of course he didn’t get all the copies, and people interested in Browning have more of an interest in “Pauline” rather than less. It’s not a very good poem, but it’s an homage to Shelley by a 20-year old, very unlike the mature Browning. I was interested in this when I was doing anxiety of influence studies amongst the British poets, a project in graduate school, and I liked both Shelley and Browning. It’s funny, when you’re young it’s all Shelley and Keats, and as you get older suddenly Byron looks so much funnier, and wiser too. I thought Byron was a cynical old bastard when I was 20, and now there’s nobody funnier. Anyway, that’s why all of my AIs are named Pauline: she was the guiding spirit for the young poet in the Browning poem, a kind of Ariel figure, and thus somewhat like my personal assistant AIs.

I’ll ask you about another echo. Different sort. Wahram thinks of Swan as Diana on the hunt, when they’re following the caribou they’ve just reintroduced to Earth. Now earlier on, immediately after the reanimation, she thinks of herself using the exact same words. It’s just a passing metaphor when it goes through her mind, but when he uses the same phrase it becomes codified. Which has an odd effect. It’s like this similar line of thinking is threading itself through two characters. It’s not particularly implausible that they should have the exact same thought; but you do this in a number of contexts, in a number of books – allow the same phrase to thread from character to character as though they’re all in some sense inhabiting the same mind; which of course they are. How consciously do you do that? I often do that very consciously. In the attempt to make novels beautiful objects, like vases, there’s a shapeliness that is invisible and has to be intuited or felt. I have a tremendous joy in stone work, by the way, because I can finally see the patterns and touch them. Anyway, in terms of creating beauty in a novel, these repeated phrases have an effect, I hope, and I also like to alter them slightly, in the manner of a villanelle. Often it’ll take the full two years of work to have these ideas come to fruition. For instance, in the Galileo book there’s this phrase “the tumble of days” which recurs several times, and in the last page I realised I could change tumble to tumbrel, because Cartophilus was in the French revolution going off to the guillotine. That was very satisfying, a sweet twist, although actually Bantam thought I had made a mistake, and thus misprinted it as tumble, and I had to get it corrected. But it was a nice needle poke out of that repetition. I have no idea if people notice these things, but I do think they have an effect. You read the novel and you feel there’s something going on. It doesn’t have to be a conscious perception to have an effect.

The phrase “horizontal brothers and sisters”, used to describe animals during the reanimation – I’m not entirely sure I like it. Is it yours, did it come from somewhere? My problem with it is that not all animals are quadrupeds, so it doesn’t quite work for me literally, and all siblings are horizontal in terms of a family tree schematic, so there’s no distinction there between animal brothers and sisters and human brothers and sisters – so I’m not quite sure what work the phrase is doing. That’s an interesting point. The phrase comes from John Muir, the California nature writer.

Yeah yeah. He’s in your story “Muir on Shasta”. 

john-muir1
John Muir

Yeah. Muir is an important figure in my life, because of the Sierra connection. And I liked the phrase when I ran across it, because he was trying to get people out of that Victorian or Biblical mindset that the beasts of the field are there to be our servants. So as a first statement of wildlife preservation I’ve always liked it. Muir left the church, but he shifted his religious feelings over to the high Sierra. I have a lot of sympathy for that, and his phrasing is often quite good; but you know, no phrase will serve entirely with something as big as that.

You must have some idea how your language effects readers – if nothing else you must discuss them intensely with people who read them as you’re writing them. And you must get feedback once they’re published. Not at that level of fineness. While I’m writing them nobody else is reading them, so they don’t get discussed. I don’t want to show them to anybody til they’re done. And after they come out, the discussions are not usually at that level of fineness. Although I have to say, the academic discussions have gotten tremendously stronger. During the course of my career it’s gone from nearly nothing to nearly more than I can keep track of. I read essays about my work now that boggle my mind. They teach me things I didn’t know.

How does that change your thinking about your work? Are you pleased, displeased, neither in particular, that you haven’t been getting that kind of feedback for the entire length of your career? Would it have changed your career? I presume it would, because it is audience response, and it is an interactive process. It’s one of those hypotheticals I can’t really track, and I’m glad I don’t have to. But mainly I am pleased. Ever since Red Mars I’ve felt that the people who find me are the ones who are meant to find me. I had a transformative experience in the writing of the Mars books – for whatever reason, they gave me a way to do everything that I wanted to do. There was enough room in them to try all the things I wanted to try. I threw off certain mental restraints and decided to do anything it took to get that story told, including looking slow, looking cumbersome, the various complaints people have about the Mars books – I think they manage to overwhelm these problems of hugeness or monstrosity.

Oh they’re not huge or monstrous. Well good, thank you! Although they are in a way. They test the Plimsoll Line.

No, but there can be no argument about that, surely. As you say they’re one great novel, and the scale of them and the things you take on, and the various problems you’re solving simultaneously – I won’t hear words said against the Mars books. Well thank you for that. I’m proud of them, I think they hold up, I can actually go back and read them as if I’m just a reader myself, because they’re so big and so far in my past that I don’t remember them, so I can read them. And I’m glad I don’t have that project before me now. God knows what I would do with it. Now I have this urge to cut to the chase. I might not be as patient as I was when I was writing the Mars books. And they needed that patience, that was right for them.

To what extent – very possibly to no extent at all – is your Accelerando future an act of advocacy? To what extent could it happen, to what extent would you like it to happen? That’s a good question, because I don’t know if it could happen or not. One of the things 2312 is is a question. Could we both wreck the earth, and have a rather active space civilisation at the same time? Could the earth be thoroughly wrecked, and yet also be flourishing in certain limited respects? I don’t know the answer to those questions. They’re proposals that I’ve put out there, saying could it be this way? Whether it’s physically possible or not I’m not quite sure. I have this double feeling, that the sciences are making us immensely powerful, so that the potential for a flourishing future civilisation a few hundred years from now is really quite realistic, and yet at the same time we’re in this dangerous moment, where we’re thrashing the environment and we have climate change, and it’s quite clear that politically the system is being manipulated by certain people who want to keep the destruction going, because they’re not convinced that it is destructive, or they don’t care because they don’t think it’ll apply to them or their families. So they’re going to be hard to beat, even in the best scenarios, because they have amassed a lot of money and political power resulting from money. So in 2312 I’m contemplating a future that seems to include environmental disasters like the raised sea levels, not at all unrealistic to postulate, and yet at the same time have things flourishing, because of materials science, because of medicine, because of all of the things that we’re learning. The ways we can manipulate nature and biology are becoming rather stupendous with potential. 2312 is an attempt to splash all that into one story. It’s a distorted lens aimed at 2012, at where we are right now. Science fiction always works like that, 2312 is not a particularly special case. Science fiction is a way of talking about right now by way of strange forms of metaphor, that have to do with temporal dislocation and cognitive estrangement, etc.

Specifically though, would you like to see us colonise Mars? Could we, should we? I think we should, but I also think that for a very long time it’ll be like what we’ve done in Antarctica. So you can’t really talk about colonising it so much as having some scientific stations there. Mars could be more like Antarctica than the New World, or Australia; not colonisation or full inhabitation, but scientific stations in a very bleak place. Interesting as such, and useful. We’ll get important information out of it, and we’ll get a sense of adventurousness and beauty, but it isn’t at all central to the human story. I think we ought to do that on Mars as soon as we can.KSR2

The terraforming project is a different order of business, on a different time scale. You have to postulate a healthy earth, a healthy human civilisation, expansive and powerful and not screwed up. So it’s kind of a utopian wish. But yeah, sure, we should terraform Mars, and make it a second Earth. And if we do that we will have done a great thing, because we will be in a somehow healthy situation on Earth itself.

I’m intrigued to know that you’ve done time as a house husband. Because so have I, and the scenes in the Capital trilogy where Charlie is trying to keep his working life afloat while looking after Joe – it’s authentic, anyone who’s been there can tell it’s either researched very well or written from personal experience. Life with primary charge of a young child while you’re trying to get things done – there’s nothing quite like it. Yeah. It was a blessing in my life. I was taken by surprise… I mean by the time we had kids I was 37 and had my habits all in place, and so it was kind of a revolution – to become servant of this little inarticulate god, etc. Also, they don’t teach male writers in America about child rearing, the model is always Hemingway or Kerouac, it’s pretty much alcoholic solitary adventure; family life just doesn’t come into it, and nor do portraits of young kids. So as I lived it, I began to realise, not only was I getting a lot of joy out of it, in terms of the day to day, but also it was material for more fiction, where once again I could write out of my life, rather than out of books. Because I have a horror of writing only out of previous books, out of one’s book knowledge.

That’s the great problem with the professionalisation of writing. Yes. And I am not outside that problem, because once I gave up teaching, which was an awfully long time ago, I haven’t done anything but write either. But I have parented, and I have wandered in the mountains. And I’ve worked a garden. So the things I’ve done myself I’m desperate to find ways to write about. That’s a real driver for me.

James Joyce says to you, in the introduction to The Planet on the Table story collection, that you must solve the aesthetic problems of your time – it’s a resonant phrase. What have you perceived those problems as being? (Interview’s note: KSR’s conversation with Joyce is only to be found in the first edition of Planet on the Table; it was left out of subsequent editions. For a number of reasons, including Joyce’s use of a logarithmic scale to describe the increasing complexity of his own books, and his furious pursuit of a hastily retreating KSR across the winter snowscape of Zurich after the latter asks, “Typos, in Finnegan’s Wake? How could you tell?”, it’s worth tracking down.) KSR8That’s a good question. I think I was trying to place Joyce’s blessing on my head for choosing to be a science fiction writer. I made that choice because I thought it was the best realism for our time. Because we are all now living together in a science fiction novel; that’s what history has become. The 25 years since I wrote those words about Joyce have just made that ever more obvious. So, one basic aesthetic problem one faces is, what genre do you choose? I chose science fiction. But I wanted it to be a science fiction open to the general public, who if they happened to pick up my book, would be able to comprehend it without the genre training and background. If you did have the genre background, then all the better, you would see how I might be playing off the earlier science fiction writers. But it wouldn’t be necessary.

Okay then, can we talk about the quantum walk chapters of 2312. It strikes me that those really demand the kind of reading strategies you learn as an English major. There are only the three of them, dispersed throughout the book, and they’re very short – the first one took me by surprise, and I didn’t really succeed in reading it. I mean I read it; but when I struck the second I realised I needed to physically focus my eye on each phrase, absorb it, and then move onto the next. I usually scan prose text continuously. Now that switching of reading strategy is something you don’t necessarily need to know how to do as a science fiction reader, by and large. I can see why you take the risk of forcing your readers to figure it out; you’re trying to portray a different kind of consciousness, and how else could you do that – but did you hesitate? I was confident that in the body of the larger novel, if I kept the quantum walks short enough, that people would slow down and deal with them. The lack of punctuation and the gaps would force them to look at it phrase by phrase, and quickly twig that this was an artificial intelligence, and begin to think hard about what does that mean, what is consciousness, and what happens if you’ve got a computer mind that is spinning a trillion times the speed of ours but doesn’t have human connective faculties or body or upbringing, etc. So a scattershot collage of phrases that are popping into the foreground of this artificial consciousness – it was actually problematic, to think is this how it would be, is this how it would work? For those passages I looked back into a lot of the stream of consciousness novels, so it is an English major’s thing, but I thought, make it short, make it clear that it is a computer mind. Try to keep the reader’s focus on the characters, in this case, on a quantum computer mind. And in the end those passages are only about 15 pages out of 575.

Yeah… that is true. And it’s a novel that calls attention to its own techniques – you’re constantly changing voices, the intertextual bits do that. That isn’t a problem. But with the quantum walks, the first one frankly defeated me. By the third one – I was wrapping up the novel in my head at that point, I was reading it to resolve the plot, so again, I didn’t get the full force of it. The second one was gem-like, it was lovely to read, the “gaudeo”s in particular – so beautiful. Thank you. It helped that this particular computer has been heavily programmed with the poetry of Emily Dickinson.

Yes I did notice – I thought you were taking a risk, having an actual Dickinson poem on the last page. Yeah. But she was the appropriate commentary. She is kind of like a quantum computer. You can’t understand her.

Okay, I have a follow-up question I want to leap to, but just parenthetically – what order did you write the book in? I naively tend to think of books as written in reading order, but there’s no particular reason to have done that with this one. Did you write the various extracts and lists whenever you needed to drop them in, or after you’d written the rest of the book, or some other way? I think the best way to describe it is that the first draft mostly told the story of Swan and Wahram, and their scenes, and then I wrote Inspector Genette and the Kiran scenes, and all along I was trying to write supporting materials. It was a really mixed project in that regard, and one of the things that happened as a result was, I lost my sense of what it would be like to read the thing in the same way that readers would read it. I couldn’t simulate that in my mind. That always happens, of course, but this time it was worse than usual.

How much time will have to pass before you can do that, do you think, if you ever can? Oh a long time.

I mean you can read the Mars books that way now, but that’s going back a bit. Yeah. It takes years or decades to be able to read my work as if an outside reader. But in 2312, there was a certain point where I had the thing in more or less its order, where the extracts and lists served not just as arbitrary interruptions, but actually helped the plot; so, for instance, right when Swan is getting irritated that no one wants to solve Earth’s problems, that’s where you have the list of bad excuses that we always make for not doing things to help others. So I did place everything as carefully as I could. But how it then would read to people, well, I was really dependent on my first readers getting back to me.

You’re familiar with Ursula Le Guin’s late short stories, the ones she was writing in the middle 90s? Anthropological pieces where each one is set on a different planet and she manages to give you a whole planetary society, usually in the course of a reasonably short story. Yes, I’ve read those. Four Ways to Forgiveness, and also in Birthday of the World I think.

They’re experiments in form, as much as anything, and what’s really striking about them is the density of information she achieves, a novel’s worth of detail typically, built into a short story. 2312 struck me very similarly, but a trilogy’s worth of detail, expressed in the space of a novel. Playful, formally inventive. Really fun. It was fun. One of the things the form gave me was the ability to jam a lot into a small space and then call it a prose poem, rather than an expository lump. You can play all kinds of games. You can cut sentences off when the reader will be able to supply the end of the sentence on their own, because the trajectory is clear. Those kinds of games added a real pleasure for me – not only was it getting more compressed, but it was getting funnier, and more springy, and I could use those repeated phrases that I spoke about. By the time I was about halfway through I was having a blast. Which doesn’t always happen.

Was Galileo’s Dream a pleasure to write? It was, yes.

The Mars trilogy is a single novel, you’re right that you have to view it that way, and it’s your great novel, if one has to say that you have one great novel. But as a thing compressed between two covers, Galileo’s Dream is also your great novel. KSR5It’s the single richest volume you’ve written. But it’s such a densely woven thing. You have to live in it, it’s more work to read than 2312 – 2312 has a lightness, an expansiveness, it’s very easy to read, in a way that Galileo’s Dream is not. I can easily imagine that 2312 was fun to write. Yeah, well with Galileo’s Dream I wanted to make sure that I did justice to Galileo himself, and be accurate to his life, so that despite my backstory and my science fiction dream-life, the detail of Galileo’s real life is properly conveyed. That meant a mass of interesting small points. It also meant covering about 25 years of his life. Even that is something of a stretch for a novel. So it has a density, and a length, that makes it yet another big novel, yes. Cartophillus was really the saving grace there, the idea that I wasn’t the narrator. I feel that in focusing on Galileo, and moving outdoors to write, I brought back a great deal of joy to my writing life.

The manoeuvre of moving outdoors really interests me. Could you describe your outdoors environment a little bit more? How much nearby noise-making activity is there, to what extent do you have an open space around you? I’m in a suburbia on the edge of town, so there’s a county road that can be loud. In spring the birds’ singing is amazingly loud. In the winter they’re much subdued. I’m in a courtyard at the front of my house, I’ve got a café table and a comfortable chair. If it happens to be raining I put a tarp overhead, tied up to the trees at a tilt so that the rain runs off toward my feet. I’m under trees, a Chinese tallowberry, a Japanese maple, and also a mock orange, so there’s dense shade. The birds are sparrows, goldfinches, scrub jays, doves, and hummingbirds, with crows and magpies and hawks and geese above. I actually know some of the birds on an individual basis. So I’m surrounded by greenery, and in the winter it’s a little bit bare, and in the summer it’s a little bit too hot… but summers I’m generally in the mountains. I take the summers off, somewhat, and then in the school year when I’m home writing, I write every day now. It sounds gruelling, but it actually helps a lot. Every day out in that courtyard.

How long do you write? Per day, how many hours? Doing first draft I write about three hours per day, and then when I’m revising I write much more, because I can look at sentences and fix them pretty much as long as I’m awake. Revision is where I begin to feel that I’ve got some power over the material and some results sitting in front of me that look satisfactory.

Yeah, the effort of imagination involved in primary creation – Yeah, it’s a push.

So doing this six, seven eight hours, seven days a week, this isn’t too great a strain on your family life? Well, it’s my job, so they’re used to it. I do take breaks to do the family things, then I go back to it.

Can I take a hard left to another passage I wanted to ask you about, kind of the inverse of the quantum walks, which is Galileo’s science lesson, if we can call it that, the passage where he overflies the history of mathematics in his mind. I said that the quantum walks seem to require the reading strategies of poetry – this seems to require reading skills that you’d pick up from science fiction. Yeah, they’re dense, gnarly scenes. I wanted Galileo’s future math tutorial to be a visual experience, a pedagogy of the entire body. So I had to get quite imagistic, and the concepts themselves are difficult.

It’s ecstatic writing; I think it’s one of the definitive hard science fiction sequences. It’s also embedded in a novel which in the main strikes me as more accessible than it is itself. It’s a potential sticking point the same way the quantum walks are. Sure. All I can say is, I do like variety in novels.

Can I ask a few questions about your early life. What did you read as a child, when did you know you wanted to be a writer? Oh, and also – why do you use the name Kim Stanley Robinson? I began reading young, and I loved it. I seldom watched TV, I didn’t know anything about movies, I was always a bookish kid.

Did you not watch TV because you had no TV, or because you just chose not to? No, we had TV, and I watched a little of it, but it was never as good as the books I was reading. So that if I had a choice, and I did, I would rather read a book. I early ran into Huckleberry Finn, which was a magnificent book with an enormous impact on me. I was living in an agricultural community, and I felt really that I could be Huck Finn. This was a mistake, because I was right on the edge of the giant translation of southern California into suburbia. Southern California got wrecked right in front of my eyes. Out of that childhood I became a science fiction writer. When I ran into the new wave of science fiction, that struck me as realism, as the best way to convey California in the 1970s. The literature best describing the way that time felt was new wave science fiction.

When you say New Wave, you mean which authors particularly? Well, Le Guin, Delany, Zelazny, Disch, Russ, Ballard, Wolfe, M. John Harrison, Keith Roberts. Michael Moorecock was in command of the British new wave since he was editing New Worlds, you know, publishing writers who were making science fiction into something extremely exciting and dangerous.

Okay. When some people say the New Wave they just mean two or three people; you really do mean all of them. I mean it as a period, as all the science fiction being written between 1965 and 1975. Following Fredric Jameson, I like to talk about time periods rather than styles or individuals, and so by New Wave I simply mean those years. That gets you some people like Jack Vance or Poul Anderson who were doing good work but were not defined as New Wave. And many things changed in those years, it felt like history itself was coming off its axis, rolling in new directions. So that was very exciting to me. I became an English major and began to write poetry, then science fiction short stories. Happily, Damon Knight was an editor who was distributing the literary credit he had accrued over the previous thirty years to new writers he liked, and he bought my first stories and got me started. I sold a story to him when I was 22.

What was that first story? “In Pierson’s Orchestra,” which later became the first chapter of The Memory of Whiteness.

And the use of your full name – I sometimes wonder whether that creates a kind of distance – whether it’s a conscious act of self-creation, you know, my writer self is different from my private self. That is very true, yes. I am Stan, and that distancing from the books can be a comfort. But Damon said to me, your parents gave you a very good name. It’s a travel name, you sound like a travel writer, because Kim is of course Kipling’s Kim of India, whom I was named after, and Stanley is like Stanley searching for Livingston, and Robinson is like Robinson Crusoe. And also it’s gender-ambiguous, he said, so that won’t do you any harm. He was very canny.

Two major threads that run through your work are memory, the imperfection of memory, its implications for knowledge and especially for the discipline of history, and also brain damage. Brain alteration. I’m thinking particularly of Sax, and also of Frank, in the Capital books, and of the “Ridge Running” story, and also of what Swan does to herself in various ways; but particularly of Sax and Frank, who both have head traumas and experience various forms of somewhat ambiguous change as a result. Where do those threads come from, why are they so huge for you? For a long time I felt like I had a nearly photographic memory. That faded on me through my thirties. As that went away, I thought, well what if you were 600 years old? Would you have forgotten huge tracts of your life? – and then would it matter that you were 600 years old, or would you effectively be gone? And so I wrote Icehenge.

And there’s also something very peculiar about memory, which is if you had someone to tell you what you did at a dinner party in 1985, it might pop back to you in its fullness. But because you don’t have a recall mechanism, you can’t find it in your own head. And so it sits in there, and will never be accessed. I know this is true, because I keep a daily journal, very minimal, merely the facts of the day. My wife and I play a game where we check what we were doing on that day 20 years ago, and now 25 years ago, and a lot of times I’ll read a passage and we’ll remember the day and be able to tell each other about what happened at that dinner party that night. But without me looking at the journal and giving us that prompt, we never would have thought of that night ever again. So I think evolution accidentally gave us a great power to lay down and store memories, but not an equally good recall mechanism. It’s odd, this discrepancy, a strange part of being human.

I was interested in brain damage all along, as with Joe in “Ridge Running,” and I thought that was what should happen to Sax, because I wanted him utterly transformed. I wanted him tested, forced to grow a new mind starting from his ultra-rational position. Then while I was writing the climate books, I was playing softball and misjudged a line drive and caught it on my nose. It was a quite terrific hit, it knocked me to the ground, broke my nose, I was bleeding like you couldn’t believe. Essentially it was what happens to Frank Vanderwal. I was stunned for about a week afterward, and I had to contemplate what could have happened, from instant death to brain damage to more lingering problems. I think all it was in reality was a mild concussion and a broken nose, but it was quite an accident, one of the worst of my life. And in those climate books, if interesting things happened to me in those years, I put them in the story. So it was similar to Sax’s story, but different enough that I felt it was okay to use it. In fact quickly it became very right.

Last thing. I wanted to seize the chance to ask you about A Short Sharp Shock, because it strikes me as being really out on left field, among your novels. If you were grouping them in physical space, you’d need to position it further from the centre than any of the others – perhaps it’d be out in one direction, and Years of Rice and Salt would be in the opposite direction, equally distant from the main body – it’s just not like the other books. How did you come to write it? KSR4When our first child was born, we weren’t getting much sleep. I was gearing up to write Red Mars, and I knew it was going to be a long novel, a historical project, a realist project. I was often insomniac, and I had always had a desire to do a book that was like George MacDonald or David Lindsay, because I felt that a fantasy novel should be truly strange, like theirs are. There should be new elements. And I was living in Washington DC and I wanted to be back in California, I had a kind of dream California in my head. So often I’d be there in the middle of the night with our kid, trying to give my wife a break, and I wasn’t getting any writing done, it was just in the first months of his life, and I was thinking to myself, I’m not a writer just because I’m a professional making a living. I’m a writer as a way of being in the world, as a self-definition, and I should write no matter what. So I said to myself, let’s just write whatever comes and do that fantasy. Now’s the time for it. It should be short, it should be sharp, it should be shocking. And as I wrote it, I let happen whatever happened, I let the story lead me around that world on that peninsula. I’m quite pleased with it, because of that personal history and because of the way it turned out. I would actually have dreams and say, okay, that’s what happens next. And in the end it seemed to work.

That is how it feels! It feels like you’re channelling something from quite deep down. It’s really wild, it’s quite unanticipated, and there are all these gorgeous things in it. The folk with the trees growing out of their shoulders. It’s a grand book. It’s a grand little book – a little grand book? – in a way that counterpoints the Mars books very nicely. Thank you. I am pleased with it. I wish things like that would occur to me more often, but wishing doesn’t make it happen, you have to wait and watch.

 

20 Hours of Harry Potter #4: a review of the film series

Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows

DH6

Part One

In which our heroes sit round in tents a lot and forget everything anyone’s ever told them about sand dunes. This is my favourite film of the series, and that is a 180 reversal of my initial reaction. Commercially it’s the least successful of the eight, and the critical consensus has so far been that it comes by its poor-for-Potter box office honestly. I say “so far” because up until the release of the last film, I don’t think too many critics had gone back and rewatched it, and it was only the second viewing that sold me. When we saw it on the big screen, less than a year ago, I was entirely un-wowed. A moody, contemplative Harry Potter movie. Excuse me?

Yates had done his best, I decided, with unpromising source material. When I reviewed the book, I’d written this about the chapters that correspond to the film’s third act:

Cue weeks and months of sitting around in tents. Rowling is sticking to her one book, one school year structure, even though she’s abandoned the geographical constraint of keeping her main characters in school. She doesn’t have a year’s worth of actual plot, so… lots of paragraphs about how, yet again, our heroes failed to do anything this week except argue.

So it makes sense that the film should feel like the price we had to pay to make it to the good stuff. At least, it makes superficial sense. What occurs to me now, and I’ll concede it’s a little strange that I managed not to come up with this startling insight earlier, is that a film is not a book. The camping chapters of the novel are marred by the sense that too much time is passing between significant events: Harry and Ron are risk-takers, and Hermione is a planner, and all of a sudden Rowling requires them to just… pause, and get grumpy with each other. Rather than a genuine dark winter of the soul, it feels like an authorially imposed low to set up the coming highs.

Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows: Part I

The point being that by now we know these characters very well. But in the films, we’ve never got to spend very much down-time with them; and once Yates fits in all the plot-mandated events even of half a book, we don’t get all that much down-time here, either. The camping scenes come after an hour’s worth of fighting, escaping, being attacked, getting away, and raiding the enemy stronghold in disguise. They last less than forty minutes, in the course of which there are two extended brushes with death, the first of them wonderfully nightmarish, in the literal sense of feeling like an out of control dream that gets darker and darker, and the second supplying the answer to the question which has slowed our heroes down: how do we destroy a horcrux?

Forty minutes of character-driven introspection, less one corpse-animated-by-giant-snake attack and one battle with a fragment of Voldemort’s soul, does not amount to a dreary wasteland of existential gloom. I should not have been so surprised to find, watching this again the night before the final film opened, that I loved these scenes. Ron gets to sidestep his usual light relief sidekick duties and be a person. Harry and Hermione get to talk. They even get to dance. (This much derided scene is a perfect example of the sorts of things critics will pick on when a film hasn’t met their expectations and they don’t have a good working analysis of its flaws: its sweetness can so easily be mocked as cheap sentiment. It’s always tempting to claim the sophistication high ground when a film tries to tug on your heart-strings, in case it turns out that you were just having an emotional day when you watched it and everyone else on the entire planet found it risible. But sometimes, as here, those mockable moments are the real thing).

Yates takes full advantage of the unprecedented opportunity to shoot most of a Potter film outdoors, leaping from scenic location to scenic location in the style I usually refer to as Film Tourism For The Geographically Illiterate. You know how this works: characters set out from the west side of Mt Ruapehu, turn left at Milford Sound, pause for lunch looking out at Kapiti Island, and make camp at Cape Reinga. Yates, however, is dealing with people who have recently learned to apparate. (Full marks to Rowling for being the first writer in ages to come up with a good new word for “teleport”; fantasy novels build their brave new worlds out of language, and, little as she ever describes the things she refers to, she still manages to refer to them with words that make her mostly inherited concepts seem entirely her own). So he can quite legitimately bounce around Britain pointing his camera at the beautiful bits, and beautiful they do look. But the chief pleasure of the film is getting to see Harry, Ron and especially Hermione more relaxed, or at least sufficiently becalmed that there’s nothing for them to do except talk. (Hermione has usually been off in the girl’s dorm when Harry and Ron have had moments like this in the past). The pauses between action beats are never long enough for me to think, as I did with the book, hey, this isn’t like them, even though by the calendar it takes just as long here to get to the story’s headlong final sprint. Instead, what I think is, “Hey. It turns out I care about these people. How pleasant to be in their company.”

DH5This pleasure is partly an artifact of having spent a week working through the series: I’m as deeply marinated in this world right now as I’ve ever been. Rowling’s ability to inculcate that fannish sense of immersion is at the core of her impossible, ridiculous commercial success. I don’t really have an explanation for the degree of that success, and I’m impatient with people who imagine they do; post hoc analysis of something unprecedented so often amounts to a covert scramble to appear knowing in the face of the unknown. I haven’t seen a really convincing account of why Rowling went not just mega, but meta-mega. Rags to riches, that’s a great narrative. Rags to self-made billionaire – guys, we need a new narrative. But I’ll suggest this: it matters that Hogwarts is a boarding school, and not just because it lets Rowling surf on the long tradition of English boarding school stories. These characters get to live together, and we get to live with them: there’s immersion for you. So, my family has just spent a week immersed, and that’s part of why I enjoyed this film so much more this time; its strengths are proportional to one’s investment in the characters. There’s also the fact that it’s designed to be seen immediately before part two – it’s the first half of the five hour final chapter, not a complete series entry in itself. When you watch it and plunge straight on to the finale, as we did this time, both films benefit a great deal. You have to respect Yates for seeing that in the long term, it was worth working to a rhythm that was going to leave his initial theatrical audiences feeling as though they’d been given half a story and sent home, as indeed they had.

That hollow sense of unfinished business would have been strengthened by the location of the film’s two major blemishes, which both come towards the end. First, Harry, Ron and Hermione’s capture by the snatchers, which occurs after a desperate race through the woods, because obviously it would be cheating to use magic to get to safety. It’s not written that way in the book, and it makes no sense whatsoever; in terms of internal logic it would be no less silly to have them stumble across Ron’s old enchanted car and stage an exciting getaway attempt on four wheels. Perhaps a few lines of dialogue about the extreme implausibility of the car turning up could have been dangled in front of us, to hint that they were too distracted by its presence to remember how to apparate.

And then we get the death and burial of Dobby. How I’d missed Dobby. How appropriate that even watching him die annoys me. There’s a nice moment when he comes to their rescue by unscrewing a giant chandelier and dropping it on Bellatrix – a hat tip to his essential cartooniness which actually comes off. But his brave falsetto announcement that “Dobby is a free elf!”, the slo-mo oh-no spinning knife which seems… to be about… to hit him just as they apparate away (oh look, they’ve remembered how), his touching death in Harry’s arms… no. Sorry. I am not touched. Even before the bit where they bury him – “properly, without magic” – in a sand dune. Sand dunes migrate. Surely it isn’t only coastline-overendowed New Zealanders who know this. Why do Ron’s brother and sister-in-law not take one of them aside and say, “Look, we’re going to end up with bits of decomposing elf on our cute little coastal cottage doorstep, I know the spot’s got a great view, but could you bury him somewhere else?”

That’s how the film ends, and it’s the worst misjudgement of Yates’s Potter quartet. You could mount an argument that Half-blood Prince, being the quintessential Hogwarts story and lacking any serious flaws, is therefore the stronger film. I suppose it would be perverse to respond that a true Potter film needs a serious flaw, to fit in properly, though this idea is part of how I do in fact deal with Dobby, and with the things that annoy me in the last film as well. The reason I’m motivated to make such feeble excuses is that Yates is doing something here that delights me: not just judging, correctly, that you need to draw back before you take a flying leap, but reversing the usual weighting between Harry, Hermione and Ron’s friendship and the furtherance of the plot. If the series were a school time table, which is not a wildly inappropriate metaphor, this film would be the free period. There’s a pile of course work we should probably get on with, but… let’s talk. Let’s argue. Let’s hang out.

DH7

Part Two

Have I mentioned that I like the music in the four Yates films? Not passionately; but it stays out of the way when it isn’t needed, there are some good original tunes, especially Nicholas Hooper’s theme for the training sessions in Phoenix, and the residual John Williams material is deployed effectively. This comes to mind now because the final film opens with a series of scenes in which there’s no music at all, and very little background noise. The distant sound of waves breaking, the odd seagull overhead, and silence, over which people talk in low voices. Warwick Davis, excellently flinty as the goblin Griphook, and John Hurt, as an exhausted and frightened Olivander, provide the central trio with the foils they need to generate an intense, focused, this-is-it vibe. And then it’s off to rob the goblin bank, and all hell breaks loose.

DH8I have not always been a fan of Helena Bonham Carter, and especially not of her Bellatrix Lestrange. Bellatrix is a madwoman; but there’s mad, and then there’s flouncing, mincing, stop-your-ascent-you-went-over-the-top-half-an-hour-ago-and-are-now-heading-into-orbit mad. However. In the bank raid, Hermione uses polyjuice potion to disguise herself as Bellatrix, meaning that Bonham Carter is required to play Hermione attempting to play Bellatrix. There have been a number of these polyjuice potion moments, and this puts all the others in the shade. It helps that Bellatrix normally comes on like a cross between a deliriously drunk British nanny and a rampaging bull elephant; all Bonham Carter has to do is dial it back a bit and she’s halfway to a remarkable change of register. But she goes the rest of the distance on pure skill, giving us an Emma Watson who briefly happens, to her considerable discomfort, to be in the wrong body, and then moving very slightly towards a Bellatrix impression. Very slightly is indeed as far as Hermione would be able to go.

I love the white dragon in the Gringotts vault. (So much weight to its movements, such a strong sense of a real abused animal in its flinches. It isn’t a special effect, it’s what you get when special effects are put in the hands of storytellers who know their business). I love the escape from the bank. I love the use of the John Williams music to herald the return to Hogwarts; I adore the showdown between Snape and McGonagall in the great hall; and when McGonagall, racing to prepare for the imminent arrival of a large army of Death Eaters, pauses to say, “Potter… it’s good to see you”, I am newly inspired to track down every film Maggie Smith has ever been in. DH10In the books, Molly Weasley establishes herself as Harry’s substitute mother, a relationship which never quite gets enough room to blossom in the films. Smith’s McGonagall, who doesn’t get that many scenes either, is very clearly his substitute grandmother: stern, formidable, quietly proud of her boy.

To abbreviate the lengthy list of “I love this bit” remarks, I spent the first two thirds of the film on cloud nine. “It all ends here”, says the poster, which seems an unambitious claim on the face of it – yes, we can now announce that the last Harry Potter movie is the last Harry Potter movie! – but there really is a sense of a grand undertaking coming to a close infusing these scenes, managing to give them added punch without making them seem overblown. Pulling this many threads together into what amounts to a two hour running battle is on the face of it just another instance of the usual challenge facing the makers of ensemble action movies; we see films attempt something similar every year. But this congeries of fight scenes has more story behind it than any comparable film I can think of, and way, way more minor characters to deal with. Many of them spend the whole film in the background; some of them die there. Had I not spent a week refreshing my familiarity with the series, these don’t-blink-you’ll-miss-it send-offs might have struck me as overly perfunctory. (Who was that dead person? Wait, was that another one?) Because I recognised all the characters (even Tonks, who scarcely makes it into the films at all), their flickering deaths registered as an effective way of conveying the unsentimental reality of war. Coordinating it all must have been quite the technical feat. I imagine David Yates and his producers are off lying on beaches right now, muttering, “It’s over… it’s actually over”, and waiting for the nervous twitching to subside.

It’s a very dark film. Literally: when Harry, Ron and Hermione confer in the cottage stairwell at the start, they’re only just visible in the dimness, and when Voldemort’s army appears on the hilltop overlooking Hogwarts, they’re dark shapes against dark land, only the pale glimmer of their heads marking them out. The light levels throughout are extremely low, with the well judged tactical exceptions of Snape’s memories and Harry’s King’s Cross of the mind. We deliberately chose to see the film in 2D, partly because the rest of the series was shot that way and we wanted the continuity, but mostly because this film was also shot this way, and then converted to 3D in post-production. The difference between films shot with 3D rigs and films bumped up to the higher ticket price after the fact is the difference between Avatar and Green Lantern, which is to say the difference between landmark and landfill. But aside from the fact that conversions tend not to have a very strong 3D effect, or to use it to any great purpose, there’s the detail that 3D glasses are polarising, meaning they screen out about a third of the light that hits them. For this film, so dim to begin with, I thought this would mean half the scenes getting lost in the murk. Friends reported this wasn’t the case, though they didn’t find the 3D added much; one friend who knows a lot more about this stuff than I do explained that 3D projectors compensate for the light loss effect by using brighter bulbs. The problem with this – as I discovered when the boys and I decided to go see the film again, this time in 3D – is that the brighter bulb compensated a bit too well. This time, when the death eaters appeared on the hilltop, they were quite easy to make out. I’d liked that “hordes half-hidden in the gloaming” effect. The impact of the 3D, in any case, was negligible, even in the vast caverns of Gringotts, which ought to have felt wider and deeper in this format. I suppose now I need to see the film a third time, in 2D again, to check whether that first viewing’s dimness wasn’t a one-off effect of a sleepy projectionist turning the dial to the wrong setting.

I would see it a third time, actually. So many fan-boy moments. Ron’s expression as he urges Hermione to destroy a horcrux in the chamber of secrets, to which they’ve returned to find a horcrux-destroying basilisk fang: Rupert Grint has not very often been asked for intensity, but it turns out he can burn like a magnesium flare when he needs to. This leads inevitably to the next fanboy pleasure: Ron and Hermione’s first kiss, which is made unexpectedly loveable by the way they laugh together afterwards: “We finally got here”. And speaking of things that have taken a while to happen, when Ron figures out where Harry’s vanished to before Hermione does, she looks distinctly taken aback: at last, at last, it occurs to someone – Yates? Klove? Watson? – to play the “Hermione’s always got the answer” trope for laughs.

DH11Harry is in the Room of Requirement, a risky creation of Rowling’s in that it turns itself into whatever the person entering it wants it to be, and therefore comes very close to being the ultimate in narrative contrivance. The room functions, among other things, as Hogwarts’ equivalent of an attic; as Harry wanders around it, searching for one of the final horcruxes through the piles of things wizards have dumped here over the years, we see any number of props from the other films abandoned in the shadows. It’s one of the nicer “say goodbye to all this, folks” moments, and it provides the perfect setting for Harry’s final showdown with Malfoy. The mix of mutual dislike and faint but real mutual respect Radcliffe and Felton manage here is exactly right – it seems to imply a much richer and more interesting feud than the previous films have actually found time to dramatise for us, an acknowledgement, in a quiet way, that there was always more going on at Hogwarts than we got to see.

DH12Which is also the case with the relationship between Harry and Snape. I worship at the shrine of Alan Rickman, but this role has not asked a lot of him, and, pleasing as it’s been over the years to see Snape’s sarcasm performed by someone who understands the lethal potential of a slow drawl and a raised eyebrow, Rickman can do so much more. We’ve seen hints of his range in Phoenix and Half-blood Prince, but there’s really only one scene in the series – books or films – where Snape steps out of his assumed character and shows us his real one, and it comes after his death. It’s Rowling’s best sudden reversal, and even though anyone with half an eye for a plot twist would have sensed there was a revelation pending, Rickman makes it work. (Reader, I cried). The death scene itself makes precious little sense if you stop and reflect on it. Harry and the others have raced down to the boat house to find Voldemort so they can kill his snake, which they think is the last horcrux; naturally when they find him distracted by a conversation with the man who killed Dumbledore, they’re too polite to interupt. But Rickman and Fiennes play the exchange so well it’s easy to forget that there are secret onlookers just outside the window, who by rights ought to leap in, kill the snake, and apparate away, saving Snape’s life in the process. This is the last and the purest instance of Harry acting as our surrogate presence in Rowling’s world; in fact it effectively reassigns Harry briefly to our world. For the duration of the scene, he’s sitting with us in the audience.

Fiennes. Again, I worship at the shrine. But do you think, when Rowling decided to pay tribute to Voldemort’s close relationship with snakes by denying him a nose, she had any inkling someone was going to have to play the role on screen? You can just about imagine a terrifying dark incarnation of evil who doesn’t happen to have a nose; and in fact you don’t have to, because Fiennes just about manages to present us with one. That soft, adenoidal voice, the sinuous, slightly effete body language. But I’ve seen a few photos of him in costume, but with the nose not yet edited out. He’s so much more sinister when you’re not troubled by that urge to snigger.

Evil is such a problem for heroic fantasy. Earlier this year I interviewed Patrick Rothfuss, whose The Name of the Wind is the best received debut fantasy novel of recent years. He discussed some of the dead ends he’d gone down in trying to avoid the usual fantasy cliches: “For instance, I decided there would be no villain. It’s always bothered me, the way fantasy villains behave. Why would you want to destroy the world? That’s where you keep all your stuff! So I threw out villains, and after about two years working on the story, I realised actually, sometimes you kind of need an antagonist”. Voldemort is the antagonist Rowling’s story kind of needs, and he’s not a lot more. The will to power, the fear of death, and the inability to love: that’s Voldemort, and since the first thing new students at Hogwarts discover is that they’re sharing the place with a bunch of ghosts, the fear of death part has always struck me as slightly underexamined. Still, there it is, the difference between Harry and He Who Must Not Be Named, once you acknowledge that Harry is willing to use all of the so-called unforgiveable dark magics if he’s desperate or angry enough, is that Harry loves his friends, and is ready to die for them. I like the roar of static which crests as he walks towards Voldemort to sacrifice himself. It’s almost the last thing in the film I like unreservedly.

DH13The King’s Cross maybe-afterlife scene works, in the book. Here, it seems to suffer from editing compression. Several times, Harry’s exchange with Dumbledore changes tack in a way which might suggest that Harry is confused – well, he has a right to be – and continually thinking of new things he wants to ask. But the leaps don’t feel entirely natural; Dumbledore’s comments keep ticking the “we absolutely have to fit this bit of explication in somewhere” boxes without quite adding up to a real conversation. My guess is that there was rather more to the scene originally, and it got edited down when the film went long. The sense of disjointedness is faint, but this scene is so vulnerable to errors of tone. Rowling manages to bring on Harry’s dead mentor, have him dump a heap of exposition on us, and then send her equally dead hero back for another bout of wand slinging without making me feel that she’s changing her own rules just to get a happy ending. Here, the demons of narrative contrivance can be heard gnawing on the edges of the screen. When Harry says, “I have to go back, don’t I?”, it feels as though he’s moved from grief at leaving all his friends to understanding he gets to live quite a lot too easily. And Michael Gambon’s delivery of Rowling’s very best line – “Of course it is happening inside your head, Harry, but why on earth should that mean that it is not real?” – falls flat. Sometimes, when you’re asked to say something portentous, the best thing to do, unsubtle as it may seem, is to allow yourself to sound portentous.

In the book, Harry plays dead after he returns to his body, allowing himself to be lugged back to the castle and displayed to his horror-struck friends, and then slipping under his invisibility cloak when Neville provides a distraction. The last great battle erupts around him, and he stays invisible, watching, until Molly Weasley kills Bellatrix and Voldemort is about to kill her in revenge. That’s the moment when Harry throws off the cloak, and, with the whole Hogwarts community watching, duels with Voldemort in front of them, killing him cleanly. This, in the heroic fantasy game, is the very definition of a money shot. Our hero returns from the grave just as the guy who killed his mother is about to kill the mother of his best friend and his girl friend, and not only does he save her, he kills the bad guy and saves the whole damn world, with everyone he knows looking on: does this need tinkering with? Are you kidding me? Maybe the bit where Harry treats Voldemort to a lengthy explanation of why the Elder Wand isn’t going to save his ugly hide could be viewed as dispensable, though it’s perfectly in keeping with the mystery structure the books all adhere to. (It’s Harry’s Poirot speech: “I suppose you’re wondering why I’ve called you here today…”) But for the rest – film it as written! Circle the pair with your camera and make sure you get reaction shots of every last significant onlooker, and thank Rowling for serving up such a perfect ending.

DH3Or you could do what Yates does, and make up your own ending. This let me down terribly, the first time I watched it. The second time, I found I liked his version well enough, because in fact it works fine on its own terms. But its own terms are generic. Good guy and bad guy fight their way through multiple locations, while supporting cast fight their own battle to give the good guy his shot at victory. (In this case, they have to kill Voldemort’s snake, his very last horcrux). Main fight, minor fight: cut back, cut forth, cut back, cut forth. Victory condition fulfilled! At the last moment! But look! Good guy and bad guy have both dropped their weapons! They elbow-crawl painfully through the rubble… they leap up, armed again! They fire!

Harry wins. Colour me amazed.

This is the finale’s analogue to Dobby’s tragic death: the flaw that I have to explain away to myself by muttering, “Well, a Potter film can’t be perfect, it would just feel wrong”. Though I do like the way Voldemort dies, disolving into fragments of burning paper. It’s as though the films, having got what they needed from him, are giving him back to the books; or, if you prefer, it’s as though the films are announcing that now they’re brought the story to its end, the on-paper existence of these characters can be dispensed with.

I’ve raided the books for details while I’ve been writing this review, and a few times I’ve found myself sitting down and rereading chapters I hadn’t gone back to for ages. I’m currently halfway through The Half-blood Prince, which I’ve never reread before now; together with The Order of the Phoenix, it was my least favourite of the books when I read it initially. Rowling is such an odd writer. It’s hard to comment on her style without appearing to sneer, because sentences really aren’t her thing. Images aren’t, either; or at least, she doesn’t put much of her story across in strongly visual terms. Names, she’s superb at; characters likewise, though sometimes I get the impression that one character or another has remained largely trapped in her mind, never managing to find the right words to incarnate themselves fully on the page. When Sirius Black died at the end of Phoenix, I could hardly bring myself to care, because I didn’t feel as though I knew him. Rowling, famously, wept while she was writing the scene. I conclude from this that Sirius was a much richer character in her imagination than she ever conveyed to me, and that she never realised the internal character and the one on the page didn’t match.

The films round these half-translated characters out. Ginny Weasley never gets much screen time, but I buy her relationship with Harry entirely. I never did in the books. These are, in fact, unusually film-friendly books: even though there’s so much in them that films can’t accommodate, the films let the story take on dimensions the books lack. It will be another ten years before I feel up to watching the early ones again. But watching all eight of them together has been a delight.

20 Hours of Harry Potter #3: a review of the film series

OP1

Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix

Before we began our one-week rewatch, I would have said this was my favourite of the films. I remember telling friends excitedly that there was finally a Potter movie that worked from start to finish: a streamlined, self-contained fantasy action drama. The astonishing thing was that it should be the movie of the longest and flabbiest of the books, the first one written after the film series had got off the ground, and the first to feel like a slog for much of its length. It was like seeing a hippo turn into a greyhound.

Or at least, so I thought at the time. In retrospect, confronted with the longest children’s book ever published, Yates and first-time Potter writer Michael Goldenberg were more or less forced to think laterally rather than literally, and it’s a book that begs to be trimmed. An easy job disguised as an impossible job: the very best way to come aboard the franchise. And look who comes aboard with them. OP4Imelda Staunton’s Dolores Umbridge is the single best character in any of the films; there are better characters in the books, but it’s the juiciest part in the film series, and Staunton knows exactly what to do with it. From her pink woolly cardigan to her prim little laugh, Umbridge (it’s one of the great villainous names of all time) is so perfectly, ridiculously pleased with herself that it takes a while to realise she isn’t a figure of fun. The scene in which she tortures Harry, looking him calmly in the eye and explaining that he knows, really, that he deserves it, is the most frightening one in the series. This is what evil looks like, children. Not a nasally challenged bald guy with a snake fixation: a well dressed, matronly figure who collects cute kitten pictures and believes without question that everything she does to you is for the best. Umbridge briefly goes by the title Hogwarts High Inquisitor, but that isn’t the main reason kids who’ve seen this film will think of her when they read about the Inquisition.

OP3The other new character is Luna Lovegood, played by Evanna Lynch, who’d never appeared on screen when she beat out every other hopeful at the auditions. Luna is a problem for the film, in that she’s attractive, kind, likeable, and gets far more quiet moments with Harry than Cho Chang, the girl Harry’s supposed to be in love with. That relationship doesn’t work as written by Rowling (who writes romance like a 14 year old boy worried his friends will think he’s gone soft), and it doesn’t really work here, largely because Lynch is so good, and because Luna seems to occupy the place in the film where Cho needs to stand. But aside from that, she’s a wonderful addition to the cast: the first teen who comes on board knowing how to act, rather than learning in front of our eyes. In that sense, she personifies the film, which, uniquely among the first five Potters, needs virtually no excuses made for it. Yates, who had a strong TV background but had never directed a cinematic feature before, seems to arrive with a fully formed understanding of how to turn books into good films.

It’s visible from our very first glimpse of Harry, walking through long, sun-bleached grass. The camera is looking up at him, and moving at a tangent to his line of walk: the shot only lasts a few seconds, but it’s dynamic, and the straw colour of the grass is subdued compared to the settings the films tend to favour. It conveys Harry’s mood in the wake of Cedric Diggory’s murder, but more than that, it looks different. The subliminal feel is of looking through new eyes. Or, to switch body part metaphors, of being in good hands. And we are. Harry starts this film walking alone. He ends it at the head of a group of friends, all walking in the same direction. It’s such a simple thing, but it contains the whole film. Note first that Yates is smart enough not to despise simplicity, and second, that this film is organised around a central idea capable of being simply expressed.

Yates focuses in on the most important strand in the book, which also happens to be the most film-friendly. (Or Goldenberg does; or perhaps it should be “Yates and Goldenberg do”; I wish I knew more about their working relationship, but I do observe that the things I like about this film persist after Goldenberg leaves the series). Harry, having had an appalling experience none of his friends shared, is feeling isolated and angry. (Radcliffe is good at isolated and angry. More precisely, he’s good at intense. He can turn himself on and off very effectively. What he can’t do is adjust the volume or, outside a very narrow band of happy/furious/confused, change the channel). Being angry, he turns his isolation into a point of pride. The film is about his friends’ attempts, eventually successful, to get him to see that he needs their help, and that they need his: an idea which you’d only have to oversell very slightly to reduce the film to a happy-clappy Hollywood Hallmark card. Yates leaves it slender and unobtrusive enough that it merely serves as a thread through the book’s maze. The montages in which Harry trains the newly formed “Dumbledore’s Army” while Umbridge extends her influence at the school are fast moving, sophisticated, often funny, and they feel fresh. None of the earlier films manages to convey so much information so cleanly.

The film’s streamlining of the story does cause one major blemish, which I hadn’t remembered. Umbridge ultimately gets her comeuppance from a group of enraged centaurs, after the government she represents enacts a series of racist laws restricting the rights of sentient non-humans. These laws barely make it into the film – one of the swirls of newspaper headlines that Yates uses to keep us abreast of affairs outside the school includes a line about centaur unrest, but it flashes by pretty fast – so when the centaurs attack, it has a deus ex machina feel. What’s up with those horse guys? Never mind, that’s Umbridge out of the way, on to the big fight scene! Staunton’s knit-wear Nazi deserved a less arbitrary-seeming downfall.

OP5But compare that big final fight scene, and especially the culminating duel between Dumbledore and Voldemort, with the clunky big set pieces of the earlier films, which so often seemed to be about throwing dragons around the place just to show the effects budget off to the max. Here the action is fast, fluid and above all visually lucid. A single example: when Voldemort shatters all the glass in the giant Ministry of Magic foyer and hurls it in splinters at Dumbledore and Harry, Dumbledore throws up a shield which transforms the barrage into sand as it passes through. It’s a striking image – impending death turning into one of the icons of lifelessness, a mini-desert showering down around Dumbledore’s feet – and it makes literal as well as figurative sense, because glass, of course, is made from sand. This isn’t how the fight goes in the book; Yates and his team have worked out a sequence of attacks and counter-attacks that follow a purely visual logic, requiring no dialogue, no explanations, just an audience with wide open eyes.

 

HP2

Harry Potter and the Half-blood Prince

Hogwarts under Umbridge isn’t Hogwarts. In the seventh film we won’t see the school at all, and in the eighth, Voldemort’s lieutenants will take over as teachers, encouraging senior students to practice dark magic on first years, after which the final battle will level the place. This is the last of the films in which the world’s premiere school of witchcraft and wizardry is itself: the English boarding school reimagined as combined surrogate family, holiday camp and training ground for superheroes. If you want evidence that nostalgia is a form of insanity, consider this: I could not have enjoyed Yates’s version of Hogwarts as much as I did without the sense that I was being granted a last glimpse of a place I’d come to know and love, even as I was simultaneously experiencing the pleasure of finally seeing the school done right, after all those irritating earlier attempts. This pang of regret at losing something that drove you crazy while you were living through it is the essence of the school-leaver’s experience, so you could argue that Yates, in pulling our feelings into synch with his characters’, has managed to turn the weaknesses of the first four films into a retrospective strength. “I never realised how beautiful this place was”, Harry says to Hermione just before the credits roll. It would be a hokey choice for a closing line, except that it feels earned.

Harry is standing on the battlements as he says that line, looking out at the castle and its wide, wild grounds – at once the perfect location for a fantasy school, and one that tells you not to think too hard about Rowling’s world. The despised orphan boy gets to go live in a castle, with the great wizard in the high tower and the kindly gamekeeper in the cottage nearby and the monsters in the surrounding forest: it’s all very Grimm brothers. The reason it’s all very Grimm brothers is that castles began receding into the romantic past the day after cannons were invented, stone walls being an effective defence only if your enemy can’t bombard you with high speed flying rocks; and in Rowling’s version of history the wizards have had far more effective artillery-equivalents than cannons for longer than Hogwarts has existed. It isn’t the castle that keeps Voldemort’s army out (briefly) in the final movie, it’s magic. So what’s the point of all those draughty stone corridors, exactly? If you just liked the look, wouldn’t you keep the outer shell and put something better designed for living in inside it, using the same sort of TARDIS magic as the Weasleys’ tent?

Never mind. The old pile does look pretty. At several points in this film the camera roves around it in long, sinuous takes that invite us to notice what a lot goes on in a school: more than any one person could keep track of. Though Harry’s chief job this time is to act as our surrogate, watching other people and trying to figure out what they’re doing and why, Yates lets us see more than he does; this is as close as the series comes to a film in which Harry is a minor character. In one particularly lovely shot, he sits with Hermione at the base of one of the school towers, comforting her. The camera rises and rotates, and halfway up the tower we get a glimpse of Ron and his new girlfriend (hence the need to comfort Hermione; Emma Watson is great in this scene). The camera keeps moving, still rising but now drifting away sideways, and above and behind the tower we see Draco Malfoy, staring blindly out over the rooftops.

HP3In any of the previous films, Malfoy, were he granted five whole seconds of screen time to himself, would have used them to glower hatefully down at Harry, there being only the one tune in his song book, “hateful person who hates Harry and is hateful about it”. Tom Felton, who plays him, would have worked the moment like a pantomime villain on hard boil, sneering and smirking and maybe pouting a little, because in those early films he was a truly wretched actor. Not that he would have been given the chance; little as Rowling does with Malfoy in the books, the films do a lot less. It’s a pleasant shock to find him suddenly promoted to Harry’s opposite number, a boy required by his mentor to shoulder an adult burden, struggling under the weight and pushing the film’s plot forwards in the process. Somewhere along the way Felton has gone from wretched to halfway competent; and if that sounds like faint praise, consider what a leap it is, and the damage bad acting can do to a good story. Competence is all the film needs in this particular role, which is not a testing one, but it needs it absolutely.

Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince (#6)

For some really good acting, we’ve got Jim Broadbent playing Horace Slughorn: a typically inspired Rowling name, though in this case the personality it deftly sketches for us is not one I could get enthusiastic about, before I watched Broadbent fill him out. Slughorn is a slimy bon vivante whose virtues are mostly a side-effect of his vices; he’s too timid and too lazy to be evil, but too selfish and too greedy to be good. After Umbridge he seems very low rent. That’s what this film’s more relaxed ensemble story needs; bringing in a new personality as strong as Umbridge’s would use up all the available oxygen. Slughorn’s comfortable relationship with his own shallowness lets us see what a great craftsman Broadbent can be. His best and most complex moment is well calculated, in that it’s also the one that matters most for the plot: the one where, slightly drunk, Slughorn tells Harry, who has been hounding him for information about Voldemort’s time at the school, about a gift Harry’s mother gave him, and the day he learned she was dead. A foolish old man, brought to the brink of taking a very slight personal risk not by principle, but by sentiment and alcohol: Broadbent lets his face relax into a baby’s look of hurt wonder at the failure of the world to keep his golden girl alive, and it’s entirely moving without being at all likeable. Daniel Radcliffe, trying to show us Harry taking in this nugget of precious information about the mother he never knew while simultaneously turning the screws on the only man who knows Voldemort’s secret weakness, is well out of his depth; he can do misty-eyed, but he can’t get his voice to suggest it’s a testing moment for him. Reaching for grief and conviction, all he comes up with is loss-inflected anger, which unfortunately sounds a lot like petulance.

Harry knows all the right things to say to get the information he needs in this scene, because he’s riding high on a luck potion. The moment just after he knocks the liquid luck back and just before he goes looking for Slughorn is Radcliffe’s other acting nadir for the film: as he drinks it the camera tilts up and rotates our point of view right over the top of his head, suggesting the world has just flipped 180 degrees, and Radcliffe tries to give Harry a sunny-stoned voice and expression, to match his abrupt shift in perspective. He tries so hard. Unhappily for him there’s a comparison fresh in our minds: a couple of scenes earlier, Ron has also been dosed with a potion, in his case a love potion, and the idiot mooncalf expression with which Rupert Grint gets this across is priceless. As with a lot of Grint’s best moments, it’s a very broad bit of work, but it’s what the scene asks for, and he delivers the goods.

HP1Great happiness: I’d forgotten there was a quidditch match in this film. We haven’t seen one since Prisoner of Azkaban, and none of those early ones pleased me very much. The reason, I realise now, is that in the books Rowling makes her absurd game so real, and at the same time manages to use it as a handy venue for story-advancing events; whereas in the films there’s mostly been time only for attending to the story. Philosopher’s Stone: Harry’s broomstick tries to buck him off. (It’s Quirrel, trying to kill him). Chamber of Secrets: the rogue bludger breaks his arm. (It’s Dobby, trying to scare him away from Hogwarts before the basilisk can kill him). Azkaban: the dementors attack during the game. (It’s, um, the dementors. They’re just not very nice). Film, once you solve the tricky problem of actually sitting someone on a moving broomstick (ouch), can make the dream of flying seem real, and I’ve always wanted to see a quidditch game that felt like a game, rather than a modified fight scene. The flying has never been allowed to be the main point, before, but here, the only issue at stake is – surely not? – whether or not the match goes well for Gryffindor, and in particular for Ron, who’s been having a crisis of confidence. Yes: we’re allowed to take an interest in the game purely on its own terms. The camera follows flyers round the arena in smooth, fast-rushing motion, until Ron breaks in from out of shot, cutting across our path several times to block goals. The game nets him a groupie who quickly becomes his first ever girlfriend, thus breaking Hermione’s heart and justifying the scene’s use of several of the film’s precious minutes from a character development/plot diagram point of view (scenes that make it from book to screen in these later films have won a fierce battle for scarce real estate), but its real excuse for being here is that it’s so much fun to watch.

Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince (#6)

The quiet-before-the-storm calm that allows all this jollity to proceed unimpeded ends when Harry succeeds in getting Slughorn to tell his Voldemort story. Dumbledore and Harry go off in search of one of Voldemort’s hidden soul-fragments, the horcruxes that make him immortal, and find it on an island in an underground lake: that is, in near-total darkness. This enables Yates to shoot the scene very nearly in black and white, setting up a wonderful effect when Harry is dragged into the lake by Voldemort’s horde of undead guardians and Dumbledore rescues him, unleashing sheets of flame which fill the screen with violent colour. Michael Gambon moves his arms in giant, effortful circles as he directs the flame in its expanding spiral: we’re looking at a display of immense power, but we’re also seeing an old man strain against his limits. And then – this is my favourite edit in the whole series – we cut to a bird’s eye view of Malfoy, lying motionless in bed. White hair, white sheets, dark coverlet. It’s almost a return to the cave’s black and white, a negation of Dumbledore’s fire. Malfoy is about to get up and let death eaters into Hogwarts, and Dumbledore is about to die.