Clinging to hope nonetheless

CYNTHIA RAMSAY

Shalom Auslander’s astute and cynical, not to mention humorous, observations of the human condition no doubt offend some readers. But, as edgy – and profane – as his writing can be, it is always insightful, and his is a voice that should be heard. He is a brave choice to launch this year’s Cherie Smith Jewish Community Centre of Greater Vancouver Jewish Book Festival on Nov. 24 and, while interviewer Hal Wake will have his hands full, the audience should leave the Rothstein Theatre with their stomachs aching from laughter and their heads full of interesting perspectives to consider, as the following interview between Auslander and the Independent shows.

JI: Reading your writings, and notably Hope: A Tragedy [Riverhead Books, 2012], I feel like I’m sharing an “inside joke.” What feedback do you get from non-Jews – do they get the jokes? And do you concern yourself at all with “outsider” perceptions, or fueling antisemitism, which I imagine has been suggested at least by one person (or maybe not)?

SA: Well, that’s two questions. We’re off to a bad start. We already have no basis for trust between us. I’m sure I’ll get over it, in time, but it will be a slow process. I don’t get feedback from anyone, to be honest; I don’t read reviews, or articles or even most of my e-mails. I’m happier that way. From what I can tell, though, neither the idea of being weighted down by history, nor being terrified of death, is an exclusively (or even particularly) Jewish phenomenon. As for antisemitism, well, I’ve only been on this planet for 40 years, and I’ve only been publishing for the last 10; antisemites weren’t exactly starving for fuel before I came along, and they won’t be after I’m gone.

JI: Out of curiosity, [because they feature prominently in Hope: A Tragedy and appear in your other writings] have you ever met Elie Wiesel or Alan Dershowitz, grabbed a beer? Either way, what do you think it is about these men that have made them such Jewish icons?

SA: One suffers, the other sues, and they’re both writers. What else is there to being a Jew? I mean, other than wanting to f[—-] your mother.

JI: You have written that you still believe in God, and therein lies your problem, but that you no longer blame God for the misery in the world. Can you flesh out those concepts a bit, not necessarily connecting them?

SA: I don’t think that’s quite what I said, though who knows, I’m full of shit most of the time; I was raised to believe in God, and to believe He is an asshole, and, in times of fear, or worry, or sadness, I have a tendency to revert to that belief, sort of like a former alcoholic running to have a drink when they get sick, laid off or when they catch their best friend banging their wife. That hardly qualifies as belief as much as it does as addiction. The problem is that even when the wiser, healthier part of my mind is in control, and even when I can acknowledge that there is no God, it doesn’t exactly cheer me up – because the world is the same fetid cesspool it was before, and now the blame can only be laid at mankind’s feet, or at the feet of a cruel and uncaring universe. Or both. So basically, we’re f[—-]ed either way. Ain’t it great to be cured?

JI: In an[other] interview, you talk about having “acted out” in various ways, including pot and “dark books” (I think that was the term you used), while trying to find your place in the world, which you never would have imagined to be as a writer. When did you write your first story, and/or when did you start thinking of writing as a career? What other types of jobs have you had?

SA: I dropped out of Queens College CUNY after about three weeks and needed to get a job. I’ve always been a reader, so I figured I’d get a job writing something, perhaps for a newspaper or magazine. Journalism though, inexplicably, requires a degree, so all I could do for money was get a job writing copy in an advertising agency. It wasn’t until later that I realized words could do more than make me a buck; they could also let me destroy my enemies and take revenge on all those who mistreated me. Depending on the hardcover sales, of course.

JI: In the same interview, I believe, you talk about the potential for literature of being elitist, and that this attitude – of considering Beckett as a god was the example offered – was as stifling/hurting as religion tends to be. Can you explain that parallel more in depth?

SA: I came from a stifling world that was filled with gods and prophets and holy books, and found what I thought was a very different world in books – a world I threw myself into, desperate for its vital lack of respect, for its pervasive contrarianism, for its endless laugh-making. From Cervantes up through Nabakov, everyone was breaking rules, taking the piss, pointing out the clay feet of the idols they were supposed to genuflect before. I couldn’t imagine anything more rebellious, more punk; Beckett and Kafka were like the Ramones for me. What I found, though, as I moved from reader to writer, was a world as religious and narrow-minded as the one I’d left. The NYT book review is the Word of God; The New Yorker is the holy Temple; the prophets change now and then – the Roths soon give way to the Franzens, who soon give way to the Diazes – but that is all that changes. It’s a fake, a fraud, and it imposes a seriousness and religiosity on something that, in my life, was so critically unserious. So, it pisses me off.

JI: Holocaust/genocide preparedness is a recurring theme, not just in Hope: A Tragedy, but in your other writing as well. What does it mean if an entire culture is carrying the weight of this fear? In what ways is it healthy, for lack of a better term, or more likely inhibiting?

SA: What Kugel [the main character of Hope: A Tragedy] is suffering is what we all suffer – the unfortunate intersection of fate and hope. If you’ve been raised to believe that (in my case, for instance) your fate is to die in a Holocaust – or in an Inquisition, or being raped by Cossacks or getting blown up by Arabs – then what is the point of hope? Why pretend that anything is going to be better? So, history to me is a double-edged sword: perhaps we can learn something from it (I doubt it, and we haven’t yet, but I’m willing to give it a few more decades), but it is also a weight around our necks. If your fate is to be murdered, or brutalized, or buried in a mass grave, then why learn it? Kugel wants his son to be surprised at the next Holocaust, the one his mother keeps saying is just around the corner – let him be shocked, dumbfounded – “They’re killing people in ovens these days? Get the f[—-] out of here!” And maybe he’s right.

JI: What makes optimism/hope so hard for you to completely abandon?

SA: Because there is nothing else. That doesn’t make it right, though; a heroin addict can be honest about the misery of his addiction. Besides, I have two children; I don’t get to be hopeless anymore. It was easy for Beckett and Kafka – no kids. No birthday parties, or late-night talks about monsters and death. So, I have to force myself to be hopeful, or I’m being a shitty parent. It’s like suicide: I don’t think it’s a bad option ... and I liked knowing it was always there in case I needed it; but once you have kids, that option has essentially closed, or you’re an asshole. You have kids, you agree to live on this stinkhole of a planet until someone or something else does you in, that’s the deal. Your suicide window of opportunity has closed. I feel that way about hope, too. Is life hopeless? Probably. But, suck it up, asshole, you’ve got kids now. Go read Curious George and tell them tomorrow will be a better f[—-]ing day.

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