Founded in 1953 by the estimable trio of George Plimpton, Peter Matthiessen, and Harold Humes, The Paris Review is one of those worthy little magazines which people of a literary bent tell themselves they should read regularly, and perhaps even subscribe to. But as things pan out, very few act upon such inklings, and most of us get on with our lives without any discernable loss for not having done so.
The only time I bought it was when John Banville was interviewed by Trinity graduate, Belinda McKeon, and I read nothing more than the interview itself. Indeed, its interviews, published under the title The Art of Fiction, have always been the magazine’s main attraction – its sole attraction, almost. Having interviewed E.M. Forster in its first issue, the Review brings a weight to the table which causes most writers slouched opposite to sit up and speak their whole truth; for these interviews are not tomorrow’s fish and chip paper. Posterity calls.
When, in 2003, George Plimpton gave up the ghost at last, the newly appointed editor of the magazine Philip Gourevitch, in a stroke of supposed genius, acted upon Ernest Hemingway’s prediction that the magazine’s famed Art of Fiction interviews would “make a good book when collected.” Why this wasn’t done under Plimpton’s reign is beyond me, for these books of interviews – a sort of Best Of, which has now reached its fourth volume – have generated more publicity and, I would hazard, more revenue in the last five years than the magazine itself has in its last twenty-five. These four volumes, which boast (very briefly) such luminaries as William Carlos William, William Faulkner and William Styron, are now available to buy as a box set, hand-cut and very handsomely packaged indeed.
Reading the interviews is an exercise in literary naval gazing – of that there is little doubt. Writers are asked by how they go about their day, where writing fits into it, how long they spend doing at their desk, how they approach the blank page, what they think of their own work, and how they have gone about writing, rewriting and editing specific books or poems.
“Do you feel you have any conspicuous or secret flaws as a writer?” Philip Larkin is asked in the Vol.2, for instance. “So many critics equate the success of a writer with an unhappy childhood,” E.B. White is informed in Vol.4. “Can you say something of your own childhood in Mount Vernon?” One brave interviewer asks Ted Hughes to talk about burning Sylvia Plath’s journals after her suicide, which the former laureate does to his credit – briefly.
Yet in an age obsessed with celebrity, with actors over characters, with backstage over the stage itself, it would be very odd indeed for those interested in books not to be interested in their authors and their private, yet professional lives. These interviews, often conducted by friends of the authors, are loaded with enough literary gossip, anecdote and invective to fuel a series of educated dinner parties.
Scan through some of the grumpier British writers for amusing (if eventually tiresome) occasions in cultural ignorance and intolerance. “Joyce started off writing very well,” says Evelyn Waugh, smoking a cigar in his pyjamas, “then you can watch him going mad with vanity. He ends up a lunatic.” Waugh’s interview is monosyllabic and lifeless; questions are answered as if to the police or as if, having given everything he had to his art, the Waugh is now simply spent, ready for bed.
Philip Larkin happily ignores North American literature: “Someone would say, What about Ashberry? And I’d say, I’d prefer strawberry.” And then, perhaps for the sake of fairness, happily ignores Latin American literature as well: “Who is Jorge Luis Borges?” Yikes! Meanwhile, we’re told that his best friend Kingsley Amis flung a copy of his son Martin’s novel Money across the room when a minor character named ‘Martin Amis’ was introduced. Graham Greene denies everything and then more or less asks the Review to leave his home about twenty minutes into the interview.
Stephen King and Georges Simenon are the collection’s headlights, two veritable banks of erudition. These two writers, who are usually considered little more than writers of ‘popular fiction’, are consistently, though alternately articulate, always enlightening and very often instructive. Any aspiring writer would do well to read these interviews before storming on unto the breech. “Writing is not a profession,” Simenon warns, “but a vocation of unhappiness. I don’t think an artist can ever be happy.” Glum, yes; but for anybody willing to ply this unhappy trade, these two interviews are full of very useful technical advice. For instance, Stephen King, who comes across as a very funny and genuine guy, reveals his views on editing: “To edit ‘in the camera’ – to make changes on the screen. With Cell that’s what I did. I read it over, I had editorial corrections, I was able to make my own corrections, and to me that’s like ice skating. It’s an OK way to work, but it isn’t optimal. With Lisey I had a copy beside the computer and I created blank documents and retyped the whole thing. To me that’s like swimming, and that’s preferable. It’s like you’re writing the book over again. It is literally a rewriting.”
These books are invaluable for writers and readers alike. Sadly, this review is not a large enough chest to offer more than an idea of its abundant treasures. When asked what any novel of his mean, Martin Amis answered: “The novel, all four hundred and seventy pages of it. Not any catchphrase that you could print on a badge or a T-Shirt.” The same goes for these interviews. The quotes they gather are certainly revealing and frequently amusing, but each interview should be read as a whole. Occasionally, the reader will come across a bad interview, in which the author is uncooperative, brusque or downright boring. But, to borrow a phrase from Simenon, many of these interviews sit down proudly at posterity’s desk, “almost works of art.”
