John Barth: The Development

More than five decades ago, John Barth published The Floating Opera (1957), the first of the fictions through which he would weave the narrative spell that has enchanted, challenged, and amused readers ever since, in works as acclaimed and variegated as The End of the Road (1958), The Sot-Weed Factor (1960), Giles Goat-Boy (1966), Lost in the Funhouse (1968), Chimera (1972), Sabbatical (1982), The Tidewater Tales (1987), and Where Three Roads Meet (2005). His newest book, The Development, is a comic concert of linked stories set in a gated community in the author's native Chesapeake Bay country, an enclave inhabited, by and large, by a cast of comfortably well-off -- but not, alas, untroubled -- retirees. With characteristic playfulness and profound attention to age's vagaries and vicissitudes, Barth's tales open a Pandora's Box of wayward passions, mortal worries, and apocalyptic weather.

In early September, with publication of The Development imminent and Tropical Storm Hannah threatening his Maryland tidewater home, I talked with Barth by telephone about his new book and his long career. What follows in an edited transcript of our conversation. -- James Mustich

James Mustich: As I was doing some preparatory reading for this interview, I came across a statement that, I imagine, is a decade-and-a-half old by now. . . .

John Barth: Some of them are a half-century old.

JM: Well, I'm not going to mention the year I first read one of your books, because that's going to make me feel old and you feel even older! In any case, in the statement that caught my attention, you remark that the protagonists of your books tend to be about your own age at the time you are writing them; and you go on: "When you reach age sixty, you have a feeling perhaps that your readers might not really be so interested any more." But you've been undaunted: your new book, The Development, appears as you advance into the further reaches of your septuagenarian decade, and its cycle of stories is set in a gated community that, if not entirely a retirement community, is largely inhabited by retirees.

JB: Right. And let me add, quickly, that the Development community is completely hypothetical -- as far as I know, there is no such community anywhere hereabouts on the eastern shore of Maryland. I should add further that there are exceptions to that generalization of mine about protagonists' ages: I wrote my first novel, The Floating Opera, when I was 24, and its protagonist is in his mid-fifties.

JM: Such a setting, hypothetical or not, is one that hasn't been prominent in American fiction, and I wonder what the first whisper of your muse was on this book.

JB: As it happens, my wife and I spend about half the year here on Maryland's Eastern Shore -- the Chesapeake Bay country where I grew up and where we enjoyed living while we were both on the academic calendar over in Baltimore (myself at Johns Hopkins and she at St. Timothy's School). We still spend our summers here; but we're fortunate enough to be able to shift in the winter season, like many another east coast snowbird, down to Florida, where we live, in fact, in a very pleasant gated community along the Gulf Coast. So I have some experience of that.

It struck my muse's fancy to imagine, first (with the initial short story, "Peeping Tom"), a couple in a comparable sort of community transmogrified to tidewater Maryland. And, although in my recent decades I've taken a renewed interest in the shorter forms of fiction -- the novella and the short story -- I'm a novelist by temperament, Jim, a narrative marathoner rather than a sprinter. So it is my habit -- I guess it's just a reflex from my essential metabolism as a novelist -- that after I write one story, the muse scratches my head again, and I write another story, maybe sharing some of the same locale or thematic elements; then, like any old novelist, I begin to see connections and start to imagine perhaps a series of stories -- not a novel, but something that would be a whole larger than the mere sum of its parts. That was the case with my first story series, Lost in the Funhouse, and even more so with the second one, The Book of Ten Nights and a Night; it is here, too. Some of the characters reappear in the different tales, and, as you suggested in your question, they share the life of a gated community, which includes being more or less of an age, being more or less empty-nesters, et cetera.

JM: You've said somewhere that, "Every story is a way of getting to the end while postponing the end."

JB: Did I say that? I rather like that.

JM: Yes, it's very good! That came back to me while reading this book -- because all of your books, going back to your very first The Floating Opera have been concerned with endings -- suicide, apocalyptic imaginings, and so on.

JB: Yes.

JM: But with The Development, the sense of ultimacy that has pervaded your narratives takes on a new and more poignant meaning, because the ends of the characters are palpably "coming soon," if I may allude to a title of yours. They're approaching -- I can't help mentioning another -- "the end of the road," which casts a different glow on these themes that you've engaged for so long.

JB: Right. Not surprisingly, some critics, and my wife, and myself, and my muse, have all remarked on what they kindly call an increasing vein of autumnality, as we would kindly put it, which perhaps shades towards, how would we say, winterality -- or something like that!

However, going back to what you said earlier, I hope you would agree that most of the stories, even from the beginning, while they often have to do with the END, always, I hope, leave a door open for the next story. On with the story! That's the end of that: on with the story.

That comes in part from my natural disposition and temperament; but it also comes from the example of my favorite navigation star, Scheherazade of the Arabian Nights, who for me, ever since college days, has been the most poignant emblem for the storyteller's situation. That is, her life is always on the line from story to story, just as, metaphorically speaking, every writer's life is on the line from book to book. Scheherazade is only as good as her next piece, the next story that she tells both to save her life and to go on with the larger story -- to help save the kingdom. I have no such aspirations as that -- only to go on with the story.

I keep reminding people who bring up this subject of my personal mileage getting rather high that I remember my late, lamented friend John Hawkes telling me once a couple of decades ago (we were all about 60 then), "Jack, I have this feeling that I may have passed my peak." To tease him, I said, "Well, you know, Jack, my plan is to reach my peak at around age 80 or so, and then go into a very slow decline." I would remind him that, among other examples that might be quoted, it's said that Sophocles wrote Oedipus at Colonus, which is one of his best plays, at age 90, and that was back in those days when life expectancy was probably about 45. So we'll just see.

JM: Readers who haven't yet read The Development will be delighted to know that the door is held open yet again at the end of this one.

JB: They might even want to know that, before I picked up the phone for you this morning, I had put down the Parker 51 pen with which I first-draft all of my manuscripts, having completed the day's output on yet another work in progress, though it's much too early in its gestation to talk about it.

JM: How long have you had that Parker pen?

JB: That Parker pen has an interesting history. I think I've talked about it somewhere in one of those memoir books that I published some decades ago. I bought it round about 1963 in Rochester, England, in a stationery shop that was reportedly the original Mr. Pumblechook's premises as described in the Dickens novel Great Expectations. It's a British Parker 51 that I bought in honor of Pumblechook's creator, having just cracked its predecessor -- an American Schaeffer pen, I think it was, a fountain pen that I carried in my shirt pocket -- on the battlements of Hamlet's Castle in Elsinore. It was my first European tour. I was traveling with my then little kids in a camper bus in Europe on ten dollars a day, or whatever it was back then. I leaned against the battlement of Hamlet's Castle to look out over the coast of Denmark, cracked my fountain pen, and ruined my shirt. The next stop was England, and I went to Rochester and bought this one. That was 1963, and forty-five years later I'm still scribbling my first drafts with that same Parker. It will outlive its owner, I'm sure, and though I don't like to think in these terms, it may outlive anything he's written with it.

JM: I've been interested to learn that before your literary career, you were a jazz musician.

JB: I sure was. My first ambition in high school was to be an arranger. I'd been playing drums in a swing band down in Cambridge, Maryland, through high school, and my plan was to go up to Juilliard to study orchestration, or, as the big band jazz players call it, arranging. I could never have been admitted to the regular Juilliard program, but I did go up to study in their summer program. I was going to be an arranger as well as a drummer.

I found out very quickly in New York that the young man to my right and the young woman to my left were going to be the real professional musicians of their generation, and that what I had hoped was a pre-professional talent was really just an amateur flair. In those days, you didn't prepare to go to college from the time of conception, so I came back home at summer's end to see what I was going to do next -- probably go to work in my father's soda fountain-lunchroom in town -- and found that I had won a scholarship to Johns Hopkins, a school which, I swear, I'd forgotten I'd applied to. Probably that's improving on the facts, but it's what I felt at the time.

Faute de mieux, I went over to Hopkins, and since you had to major in something, I thought I might try my hand at journalism (I'd written a humor column for the high school paper). But I found out that they didn't really have a journalism program, although they did have a brand-new Department of Writing. So I signed up to be a creative writer, and had, first of all, to read everything, because I hadn't read very widely, and I had to get some sense of what Umberto Eco calls "the already said" -- those millennia of writers that had gone before me -- and then to find out whether I had any kind of voice of my own. That took a lot of trial and error.

JM: Do you think that whatever creative impulse led you to conceive of a musical career in terms of arranging carried over to the page? There seems to be a lot of orchestrating -- and re-orchestrating -- of themes through the books, and even of actual material.

JB: Very keen-eyed of you to point that out. Once I was over at Hopkins as an undergraduate, and later as a graduate student, I had a wonderful job to help pay my tuition: filing books in the library. The area where I worked happened to be the stacks of the Classics Department and what was then called the Oriental Seminary, where all the old Arabic and Sanskrit and other tale collections were shelved. I was soon very much immersed in the old tradition of the frame tale, in which somebody tells stories within a story, as immortalized in Boccaccio's Decameron, The Thousand and One Nights, and others. Under that influence, I suppose, I found that when I began to write my own books, I was happiest when I could take a received, venerable form or idea or theme and re-orchestrate it to my present purposes. I've certainly done that in books like The Sot-Weed Factor, which re-orchestrated, if you will, documentation of life in colonial Maryland as well as Ebenezer Cooke's original satirical poem, which was the first piece of satirical literature about the colonies written over here. I've done that to other material in a number of books since then, and that, no doubt, continues. At heart I'm still an arranger -- though not the failed arranger, I hope, that I turned out to be as an aspiring professional musician.

JM: Certainly not! You mentioned story cycles. Most of us are familiar, at least in a cursory fashion, with The Thousand and One Nights. But I am intrigued by another work you've written about, The Ocean of the Streams of Story.

JB: Yes, I think in Sanskrit it's called Katha Sarit Sagara -- and that exhausts my knowledge of Sanskrit right there. Conventionally, it's translated as The Ocean of Story, but Salman Rushdie, when he spoke of it . . .

JM: In Haroun and the Sea of Stories?

JB: Yes -- Haroun and the Sea of Stories plays on the same thing. The literal translation is just what you've said, The Ocean of Streams of Story. It imagines a narrative ocean into which all the little creeks, streams, tributaries, and rivers of narrative from all sources finally flow. I love that metaphor, and since I happen to live on a tidal creek here on the Chesapeake Bay, off the Chester River, I watch a literal stream flow in twice a day, as well as ebb out. I never fail to be reminded that the creek in front of our house comes and goes from the river, which comes and goes from Chesapeake Bay, which comes and goes from the Atlantic Ocean, which intermingles with all the other oceans in the world. So I literally live on the tidal verge of the ocean of streams of story -- which I hope won't overflow its banks tomorrow when Tropical Storm Hannah muscles through!

JM: Now, The Ocean of the Streams of Story is enormous, isn't it?

JB: It really is. And it's a story about an even longer, never-finished story. In the English translation it runs to seventeen folio volumes, yet this is supposed to be only the remaining one-seventh of the original work, which, for reasons that are explained by the playful anonymous authors in the frame tale, was destroyed at the command of the gods or whatever. What we have left is only the remaining seventh that was rescued before the whole thing was burned. So this Ocean of the Streams of Story is a very considerable body of water. Years ago I published an essay about it, called "It's a Long Story."

JM: If I recall correctly, you've written about having swum this ocean while working the night shift in a Baltimore Chevy factory. Is that true?

JB: Yes. I did read a great amount of it that way. I also swam another ocean there -- that was a very useful night shift. I read the Harvard Classics on that job: most of Dr. Eliot's Five Foot Shelf, starting with Volume One and going more or less through to the end. And then I dived into the story ocean. I was no Michael Phelps, but I managed to at least get myself wet in the sea of narrative before that summer ran out.

JM: In these tales, and those told by Scheherazade, you've recognized what you call the expansiveness, the inexhaustibility, of narration. Would you talk a bit about the idea of narration as a central component of consciousness?

JB: I'm sure it is central to consciousness. Daniel Dennett, the "neuro-philosopher" at Tufts University, puts it very succinctly in one of his books -- and I happen to have a neuroscientist son out in Colorado who I think would second this notion. In a very real sense, says Dennett, we are the stories we tell ourselves and others about who we are: One's ongoing self-awareness is the antecedent of the pronoun "I." Now, I'm neither a philosopher nor a neuroscientist, but I agree that the narrative of our ongoing consciousness -- our sense of our biography, and so forth -- is central to our identity. Since we're conscious of time and our existence in time, our life is a kind of ongoing story. For better or worse, it doesn't have the kind of edited narrative functionality that a well-written piece of fiction does, but we surely do edit it as we go along, in retrospect.

JM: We certainly edit it in retrospect. But just as stories are the realm of memory, they are also the province of simulation -- of the what-if.

JB: Exactly -- because they involve both memory and projected imagination in the everyday affairs of life, not to mention the everyday affairs of writers at their writing desks.

JM: In reading The Development, and then returning to some of your earlier books, it has struck me that it's not invention per se, but narration itself that's the engine of your works, in a way that it is not for most other writers.

JB: I don't know whether it's not the same for most other writers, but I'll grant that it may be true to a conspicuous degree of my writing. For better or worse, this narrative awareness has gotten to be seen as one of the trademarks of what came to be called "postmodernism." I'm uncomfortable with all such labels. Since we can't talk without labels and categories, they have their usefulness, but it's at least as important to recognize the differences between, say, writers who might be labeled as postmodernist or whatever as it is to speak of their similarities. Certainly, when I was in the company of writers grouped together with me as postmodernist by critics and reviewers -- late comrades like Donald Barthelme and John Hawkes and Kurt Vonnegut and William Gaddis -- we were all much more impressed, I think, by the differences between what we were separately up to than by any similarities.

It certainly is an aspect of what people like to think of as postmodernism that the author is aware, and makes the reader aware, that what he is in the presence of is a fiction. But I would like to remind anybody who cares about it that such literary self-reflexivity has a long and honorable history, going all the way back to the Greek playwrights; their plays were performed outdoors in a theater during the daytime, and they would often have their actors refer to a single circuit of the sun -- "And now the sun sets" -- just as the sun was really setting. Or think of Shakespeare having his actors say, "All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players..." That is playing for fictive purposes with the idea that life itself is a kind of fiction. Okay, end of sermon.

JM: Let's circle back to the idea of the frame tale. You once wrote, "I must add, though, that except for such famous stories as "Ali Baba" and "Aladdin" and the great Sinbad cycle, I ultimately found the tales in The Thousand and One Nights less interesting than the frame tale. Even more so in The Ocean of Story. The frame's the thing, I suppose." With regard to narration's relation to consciousness, I'm wondering where the frame tale fits in. Is it beyond or outside of the narrative in some way, and thereby outside of the self?

JB: You're talking now about Life and Art. Is that right?

JM: Well, yes. Where does the frame tale live?

JB: The frame of the tale, you mean.

JM: Exactly.

JB: Mind you, I'm treading on very amateur ground here, but I would guess -- extrapolating from the position that I've attributed to Daniel Dennett earlier in our conversation -- that the frame for that ongoing story is, of course, our capital-S Self, and our sense of our ongoing capital-L Life, with its successive episodes. We may be more or less conscious of thinking of it as a story. We may only now and then, if ever, in the case of ordinary non-writer types, think of it as a story (although I don't think it's all that unusual, even among non-writerly types). But I guess that would be it.

Let me say, by the way, that I would still second what I said then about the stories in The Thousand and One Nights, and particularly those of The Ocean of Story, very few of which I now remember. It is the frame that sticks in one's mind. I would have to add quickly, though, that I would hope that that wouldn't be the case with the frame to my series of stories, because to me, as no doubt was the case with the anonymous authors of The Thousand and One Nights and of The Ocean of Story, the individual tales are important, too.

JM: Much of your work to me poses questions about the freedoms and constraints of the book as an object. You've explored the future of stories, and the new life technology might give them, in Lost in the Funhouse, and in a story I remember called "Click," with a web of faux-hyperlinks in it.

JB: Right.

JM: But even without resorting to technological metaphors, your sense of story has always striven to make the margins of your pages malleable, to transform the book into a kind of inexhaustible cycle.

JB: Sounds like something I would have to plead guilty to. Mind you, I used to be more interested in the edges of the envelope, so to speak, than I am now. Back in the days when tape recorders were something new, for example, it intrigued me that they offered an interesting avenue back to the oral narrative tradition, which by centuries precedes any written storytelling tradition. It amuses me now to look at the jacket photograph on the back of the first edition of Lost in the Funhouse, because it's so dated in so many ways, as I hope the stories are not; there I sit, in the high 1960s, in front of an old reel-to-reel Ampex tape recorder of the sort they used to have in recording studios. I'm smoking a cigarette and have my '60s sideburns half down my chin. So it reminds me of how dated that particular kind of experimentation is already. Obviously, the Electronic Literature Organization and other outfits like that continue to explore alternatives to the page and the line, but I myself am less interested than I used to be in those alternatives. I still have a kind of perfunctory, almost dutiful curiosity about things like digital books and so forth. But as fiction in its printed form threatens to become more and more of an endangered species, my long-standing appreciation for the feel and the look and the texture of the bound book and the printed page grows greater and greater. Things like digital readers don't appeal to me at all. A screen that I have to read off of is an office tool that I value, but not something I want to engage with for pleasure and instruction.

JM: Speaking of the pleasure of books as objects, you mentioned when you first picked up the phone that you had just received your author's copy of The Development, and I wonder if you might share what having the finished book in your hands means. How does it compare to the experience of being presented with your first published book, fifty years ago?

JB: It still has that same little frisson of here-it-is-in-its-finished-form; it really is a different experience, tactile and otherwise, to pick up the bound hardcover, even with a slender little book like The Development, as compared with the paperbound galleys. I am in love with manuscript and with stories in all their successive forms, from the time they come out of my Parker 51 pen onto the three-ring loose-leaf binder page, to the look of them on the computer, where I transcribe and begin to edit them, to the printouts, which I edit further; and then the galleys (PDF these days) follow. It must be what it's like to watch one's child grow in the womb and go through its evolution, which recapitulates the evolution of the organism to some extent (when my children were being gestated and born, you couldn't see them, the way that you can now, until after they got born). In short, I am fascinated by all the stages of a book's evolution.

Then the little thing -- or the big thing, depending on which book it is -- at last comes in the mail, and I pick up the finished copy. And though I've read it many a time already, including the corrected proofs, I will now take this slender series of nine stories and, in my evening reading time, I will sit down -- not with pen in hand anymore -- and read the finished copy, and hope to hell I don't have any last thoughts, or later thoughts. Not to mention hoping I don't see any typos or the like. But I have a copy editor at Houghton Mifflin who lets nothing get by, so I don't imagine I'll be seeing any of those.

JM: The galley was remarkably clean as galleys go these days. I don't think I found one typo.

JB: Well, it goes through several filters. My wife, bless her, who is my first reader and best critic, is very sharp-eyed -- not only catching typos, but also applying her wonderfully retentive memory so that she can say, in effect, "Look, you played this card on page 4 and you forgot to pick it up on page 137." Or as Chekhov said, "If you hang a rifle on the wall in Act I, you have to fire it in Act III." You needn't shoot out all the lampshades in the room -- just fire the damn thing.

After I've scoured it, and then my wife has scoured it and made not only her galley-proofing criticisms but her literary criticisms as well, then I revise it, and it's off to whoever my editor or copy editor happens to be. There is such a turnover in the New York trade now that one often doesn't get to know one's editors as well as one used to in days gone by. After it's been vetted and the copy editor has had his or her say, comes the final authorial review, and then that last more or less serene business that I just spoke of -- looking at the newly delivered child and hoping not to see any birth defects.

JM: Let's turn to the gestation of some of your earlier literary progeny, if we may. I've been delighted to discover, since they are particular favorites of mine, that the novels of the Brazilian writer Machado de Assis had an energizing effect upon your muse in her fledgling days.

JB: Very much so.

JM: His books are quite remarkable, and -- Epitaph of a Small Winner was written in the 1880s, I think -- their sensibility belies their age. Has Machado been a continuing source of inspiration?

JB: Not a continuing one, and I wish I remembered his novels now better than I do. At the time I first read him -- this was graduate school days or shortly thereafter, I guess -- I was a lover of Rabelais and had already read Diderot's Jacques the Fatalist (although I had yet to read Sterne's Tristram Shandy). What seized me about Machado was the way he combined the kind of formal inventiveness that so enlivens Gargantua and Pantagruel with the genuine passion of conventional storytelling; he's telling involved stories, involving real people and real emotions and so forth, but he manages to spruce them up by narrative intrusions, by playing with layout and typefaces, and what have you. In Machado's novels, those things are remarkable foreshadowings of the sportiveness that comes into literature in Europe and the United States in the 1960s, and goes on to be dubbed postmodernism.

JM: He also shows how a playful mind on the page can engage dark themes.

JB: That's right. My term for it at the time was "romantic formalism." I invented the term when I finally realized what I was reading there, and found a way to begin to apply it to my own work in those first novels -- The Floating Opera, The End of the Road, and The Sot-Weed Factor. Machado had some of the emotions and passions and straightforward storytelling of the romantic realist tradition, but at the same time, some of the playfulness and inventiveness of what would later be called formalism.

JM: In the new book, there are a couple of stories ("Toga Party" comes to mind immediately) that take unexpected turns. Do the turns your tales take ever surprise you?

JB: Sometimes so, sometimes not. Back when I was teaching my graduate seminar in fiction writing at Johns Hopkins, visitors like Joe Heller and others would come through, and I remember Joe saying that he always wrote his last chapter first. I think he was exaggerating a little, but he said he couldn't imagine beginning a novel without knowing how it was going to end. In complete contrast to Heller's assertion was a remark of E. L. Doctorow's (he didn't make it to my students, but one of my students who'd been working with him quoted him, and it joined part of the bag of things that I would repeat to everybody as often as possible). Doctorow said that a novelist doesn't need to see any farther down the road than his headlights allow him to see. In other words, all he needs to know is whether the next turn is going to be a left or a right. I would remind my students, of course, that he was E. L. Doctorow and they were first-time novelists -- that it's all very well to cross bridges when you come to them, but it's advisable to have some idea whether it's going to be a footbridge or the Golden Gate. As Heller liked to say, those last chapters he claimed to write before he could begin his novel were not binding contracts; by the time he got to them in the course of writing the rest of the novel, he might very well see a little or a lot that would need to be changed.

Now, for me, it depends upon the book. Sometimes I do have a pretty clear notion, at least by the time the real composition gets going, of what the shape of the action is going to be. Other times, I work with a much more vague idea -- "It might be this, it might be that" -- but I know it's going to be this or that. After decades of experience, one gets to trust one's instinct. If you have a hunch that this X will clarify itself as you proceed, then it might be all right to see only as far as you can see down the road with your headlights. Other times, I would certainly need to have some sense of my ultimate destination. In "Toga Party," for example, I knew before I started the story that it was going to end with the survival of that fellow who attempts to commit hara-kiri, so to speak, with a machete at the end of the evening's festivities, but that the people who had witnessed it would end up, almost to their own surprise, committing a kind of joint suicide pact by association, if you will, and succumb to auto fumes in their closed garage when they got home. In that case, I knew where the story was going to go. It was a matter of finding the most strategic, and I would hope entertaining, route to getting there.

JM: You have created an enormous body of work . . .

JB: Not compared to some people. [LAUGHS] Not compared to Joyce Carol Oates or John Updike, another of my literary acquaintances.

JM: . . . and I'm wondering if there is one book you would recommend to an eager, uninitiated reader about to dive into the "ocean of the sea of Barth."

JB: I don't know, but I'm glad you asked the question in that form instead of saying, "Which is the favorite of your books?," because one doesn't like to choose among one's children. I have certainly written more than one kind of book, and I think a reader of The Floating Opera or The End of the Road would be surprised to discover their author had written books like The Sot-Weed Factor or Giles Goat-Boy -- one does go through various transmogrifications as one goes along. So I guess it would depend on which Barth you wanted to dip your toes into.

I look back on that row of volumes in my workroom with mixed feelings about some of them. I'm not going to go into any detail. I note that of late, for example, they have gotten thinner, and that's probably a function of age -- I don't know whether I've got another large novel in me or not. But I would say that the pleasures -- I hope they would be pleasures -- of The Floating Opera or The End of the Road are different from the pleasures of The Sot-Weed Factor or Giles Goat-Boy, which are no doubt different from the pleasures of the shorter forms that followed in Lost in the Funhouse and the novella triad Chimera. Then I got off on that very long project, LETTERS, which was a recapitulation, in a way, a kind of retrospection of the things that had gone before.

After a book like LETTERS, one wants to take a kind of deep breath, so then came the novel Sabbatical, which was a sort of . . . well, you see how these things go!

JM: Where does your reading take you these days?

JB: My reading is always all over the map. I was just remarking to somebody yesterday that a certain fraction of it comes from the books that publishers send me hoping for a blurb, even though I explain that my vows to the muse do not permit blurbs except for first books by good former students. If I like the first book well enough, they're allowed to recycle the blurb as much as they want to for subsequent publications; but otherwise, no blurbs. But publishers are always hopeful of one nonetheless; that's part of their business. So I read a fair amount of contemporary fiction because it has been sent to me by a publisher, or because my wife or I have read an interesting review of it somewhere.

Another considerable fraction, since I did teach for many decades, is the work of my former students. For the last twenty-five years or so of my teaching career I was teaching very good graduate students at Hopkins. Not surprisingly, a number of those have become published writers, and a fair number will send me their books. I always used to tell them at the end of our seminar together that I hoped they would send me all of their published work, because I would be curious to see where they'd gone literarily and to find out whether I had done them any permanent harm [LAUGHS]. But I always told them as well to never again send me an unpublished manuscript, because I'd had enough of that by that time! So a certain strand of my reading is focused -- with pleasure -- on work by people like Louise Erdrich and others whom I have coached or at least who were in the program that I taught in.

Then, for a third -- or wherever we are in this division -- fraction, I still like to go back to the past. For instance, just recently, I was reading a writer friend of mine who had been reading Maxwell Perkins's letters to his authors, Scott Fitzgerald and Hemingway and Thomas Wolfe and so forth, and I realized I'd never read Perkins, despite having heard so much about him. So I got his collected letters out of the library and read them with considerable pleasure, and with some envy of those days, when authors like Scott Fitzgerald and Hemingway and Wolfe had such editors as Maxwell Perkins. Two or three times in his letters, Perkins speaks of Erasmus's In Praise of Folly, and I thought, could I really have never read that? I went and looked in our house library here, and sure enough, there was a Penguin Classics edition of In Praise of Folly, which I am just getting to the last pages of now. Erasmus may have to wait until I finish rereading The Development, and I hope there will be no connection between In Praise of Folly and the folly -- or whatever -- of my latest effort.

Last year, I was rereading the Roman Bronze Age writers, like Petronius, who wrote the Satyricon. I do like to go back and dip my fingers in narrative antiquity in addition to reading things just off the press and things in between.

JM: I was surprised to discover that your first novel, The Floating Opera, which is fifty years old, has recently been awarded an Iranian literary prize as the best foreign novel translated into Persian for the year 2008.

JB: Did you hear the rest of the story?

JM: No.

JB: Then let me tell you. That was a considerable and mixed-feeling surprise, both to my agent and myself, as the word came through. A chap who reports on foreign literature from Tehran to the Guardian and elsewhere was the one who announced to us the prize. Among our surprises was that we didn't know that edition existed; it was a pirated edition, because Iran doesn't subscribe to the international copyright agreement, the World Intellectual Property Organization Treaty. The reporter was hoping I would write an acceptance statement, which would be published in the Tehran newspapers and read at some prize ceremony, I was told. I agreed, but I wondered with my agent how to respond. Should I tell them to go to hell because it's a pirated edition, or what?

In the end I decided that here was an opportunity to do something a little better than that, I hoped, and I vetted this with my agent before I sent it back to them. I spoke to the guy, saying, "I will accept the prize and will write a short statement if you and the people you represent will pledge that my statement will be published and read in its entirety, or else I will refuse the prize." So I wrote a statement saying, in effect, that "As one who has always loved Scheherazade, it gives me considerable pleasure to be translated into a language akin to hers -- to have a Persian version, so to speak, of my earliest novel. At the same time, it makes me very unhappy that the copyright was violated without the author's consent, and I urge Iranian publishers and the Iranian government to subscribe to the World Intellectual Property Organization Treaty."

My agent thought, "Okay, that sounds right," and the reporter said, "Okay, that sounds okay." I've heard nothing since. But interestingly, Jim, in connection with that, we got an offer for a Russian edition of one or two of the novels, and Russia, too, does not subscribe to the international copyright convention. But a couple of Russian publishers, unlike the Iranian ones, are uncomfortable with this situation themselves; they don't want to alienate the source of much of what they would like to publish from Europe and the United States and elsewhere, and so a couple of the publishers at least are trying to abide by copyright regulations, even though the government doesn't officially subscribe. In checking all this out before signing the contract, they turned up four of my novels that, without my even knowing it, had already been translated and published in Russian editions; two of those will now be republished under a proper, legitimate agreement. So who knows what editions may lurk out there in other languages that one doesn't even know about?

JM: With all I've read about Iran in the past three decades, it's somehow encouraging to learn that somebody is translating books like The Floating Opera into Persian.

JB: As we know, and as was more evident before the last few years of increasingly strained relations between Iran and the United States, there was a considerable moderate movement in Iran some two or three prime ministers back, and hope on the part of many Iranians of having friendlier relations with the West. Surely, the publisher who would translate a book like The Floating Opera is a publisher who -- to say nothing of his readers -- takes some interest in things beyond the reach of orthodox Islam. So let's cross our fingers and hope.

--September 5, 2008

July 27: The American novelist and critic Elizabeth Hardwick was born on this day in 1916.

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