Posts Tagged ‘the art of fiction’
February 26, 2014 | by Dan Piepenbring
Michel Houellebecq is fifty-eight today.
You’ve said that you are “an old Calvinist pain-in-the-ass.” What do you mean?
I tend to think that good and evil exist and that the quantity in each of us is unchangeable. The moral character of people is set, fixed until death. This resembles the Calvinist notion of predestination, in which people are born saved or damned, without being able to do a thing about it. And I am a curmudgeonly pain in the ass because I refuse to diverge from the scientific method or to believe there is a truth beyond science.
—Michel Houllebecq, the Art of Fiction No. 206
February 19, 2014 | by Dan Piepenbring
Happy fiftieth birthday, Jonathan Lethem!
You don’t seem to have bothered to rebel against your parents’ milieu—their bohemianism, their leftism.
I tried. It’s very hard to rebel against parents whose lives are so full and creative and brilliant—the option is my generation’s joke: the rebel stockbroker. That wasn’t for me. I wanted what my parents had, but I needed to rebel by picking a déclassé art career. My father came from the great modernist tradition, and so I found a way, briefly, to disappoint him, to dodge his sense of esteem. Very briefly. He caught on soon enough that what I was doing was still an art practice more or less in his vein.
I felt I ought to thrive on my fate as an outsider. Being a paperback writer was meant to be part of that. I really, genuinely wanted to be published in shabby pocket-sized editions and be neglected—and then discovered and vindicated when I was fifty. To honor, by doing so, Charles Willeford and Philip K. Dick and Patricia Highsmith and Thomas Disch, these exiles within their own culture. I felt that was the only honorable path.
—Jonathan Lethem, the Art of Fiction No. 177
February 13, 2014 | by Dan Piepenbring
All my life I ate noodles. Because my mother used to repair old lacework. And one thing about old lace is that odors stick to it forever. And you can’t deliver smelly lace! So what didn’t smell? Noodles. I’ve eaten basinfuls of noodles. My mother made noodles by the basinful. Boiled noodles, oh, yes, yes, all my youth, noodles and mush.
—Louis-Ferdinand Céline, the Art of Fiction No. 33
February 7, 2014 | by Dan Piepenbring
Charles Dickens was born today in 1812.
The most illuminating thing that ever happened to me in those early days was winning as a Sunday-school prize a copy of David Copperfield. Now, I’d read Tom Swift and earlier Bunny Brown and his sister Sue, then moved on to the Rover Boys and Tarzan. But here came David Copperfield. I was dismayed that it was about six hundred pages long. But when I began to read I got so caught up in it—when I finished it, I realized that I’d been in the presence of something realer than real. I knew David better than I knew myself or anyone else. The way Dickens told that story caught me right then and there.
Was reading David Copperfield an early catalyst for making you a writer and not just a reader?
I absolutely think so. I didn’t react immediately, but eventually it made me want to do what Dickens had done—make a world that’s somehow better in focus than real life, which goes rushing past you. He showed me how to do it too.
—Shelby Foote, the Art of Fiction No. 158, Summer 1999
December 13, 2013 | by Sadie Stein
You’ve said you can’t bear to have a bad sentence in front of you.
Yes. I still can’t. Makes me ill.
—Amy Hempel, the Art of Fiction No. 176