George Saunders: We are lovable beings, but we are finite.

The popular American author, George Saunders, spoke to the newspaper To Vima about his new novel, Oblivion and Lincoln (translation: Giorgos-Ikaros Babasakis), which is in the running for the 2017 Man Booker Prize. Interview by Grigoris Bekos. The interview was published on Sunday 1 October and you can read it below:On 22 February 1862, two days after his death from typhoid fever, 11-year-old Willie – son of the iconic US President Abraham Lincoln – was buried in a marble crypt. That very same night, the distraught father – wishing to mourn a little longer beside his lifeless child – visited Georgetown Cemetery alone. George Saunders structures his new book around this historical event; the Greek title is *Lethé and Lincoln* (the original English title is *Lincoln in the Bardo*). The ‘bardo’ refers to Buddhist tradition; it constitutes a transitional stage, an intermediate state between death and rebirth. Well, the American author transforms this into an unpredictable fictional setting, creating a sparkling, polyphonic story featuring the most human ghosts we have ever encountered in the pages of literature. And that is why he is a nominee for the 2017 Booker Prize... You are in fine company on this year’s shortlist, Mr Saunders, alongside Paul Auster, Ali Smith...’It is, of course, a special honour, and I must admit that it had the strange – though somewhat reprehensible – effect of making me like myself a little more, of fuelling my ambition for much grander projects.”You were devoted to the short story. How did your first novel come about? Was it an experiment that simply went well this time? Did the material you had to work with play a part? ‘I have the feeling that, in this case, the material itself demanded that I handle it in this particular way. I must tell you that, for the most part, I had been cleansed of my desire to write a novel; but I loved the core of this story so much that, once I had properly embarked on the process of actually writing it, the story itself demanded to become something more extensive than a short story. An extremely important advantage for me was, as you say, the experimental nature of the project – I tried to get inside the mind of a ‘newcomer’, so to speak, to adopt his perspective, so that I could discover from the outset how a novel is written. I believe, more broadly, that when an artist begins to mature, they must look steadfastly ahead, indeed provoke in themselves a sense of wonder or bewilderment regarding what they do, and reject complacency, the ‘autopilot’.How did you find out about that particular visit by Abraham Lincoln? ‘At some point, back in the 1990s, my wife’s cousin began telling me about this incident – a tiny seed of history – as we were driving past Oak Hill Cemetery in Washington; namely that President Lincoln, broken with grief, kept the body of his dead son in the crypt. The image lodged itself in my mind and stubbornly refused to leave for nearly two decades. I wrote a play that didn’t turn out well; I tried to forget it, but I simply couldn’t. Gradually, I began to realise that the reason I was trying to escape from all this was my fear that I lacked the skills and qualifications to complete such a book, something terribly distressing for me. Giving up on the project seemed to me like a kind of artistic death. And so, in 2012, I started writing it, absolutely convinced of the outcome: I would give up. But that was when – in a strange way – the book really took off!’ The Buddhist concept of ‘bardo’ is essentially what makes the ‘action’ in your novel possible. In what way exactly did it serve you? ‘I used this transitional condition because it helped me – it reminded me, to be precise – that I must constantly imbue the afterlife with a mysterious aura. In that state – or at least based on the limited understanding I actually have of it – what keeps the soul trapped is precisely its inability to comprehend the state it is in. This means that the soul continues to misinterpret what it is (as is always the case) as something else: a permanent, stable, unchanging entity. This differs slightly from the Roman Catholic Purgatory, in the following sense: the bardo (again, I’m talking about my own version in the novel) is a more flexible and changeable state – in contrast to Purgatory, where, once you’re there, you remain until the end of the world, sitting on some uncomfortable bench or something similar, I don’t know...’. What is striking, if nothing else, is the ‘form’ you chose. Beyond the technique, did you perhaps want to link the president’s personal drama with the stories of ordinary Americans at all costs? ‘Look, all the questions you’re asking are truly very important. For me, however, the whole game of writing and fiction lies in finding, as a writer, a voice that is entertaining. Which means a voice that is literarily accomplished, rich, and at the same time accessible and approachable – that is what I devote myself to faithfully every day, and it gives me great pleasure. Otherwise, everything becomes so rigid, so harsh and, moreover, so restrictive.”Why not, for example, a monologue by Lincoln? ‘When I thought of writing the novel from Lincoln’s own perspective, I simply became depressed, and that is a thoroughly bad place from which to start. It seemed to me that it would be incredibly painful to extract anything authentic or entertaining from his own voice – it would be far too contrived, somewhat deterministic, if you like. An old student of mine predicted, quite out of the blue, that if I ever wrote a novel, it would be a series of monologues – and at that moment something clicked in my head! —the prospect of a tangible possibility, a playful mood, opened up within me.” You write about death in a way that doesn’t depress the reader. Do you approach death differently as a writer and as a person? “What I feel about death has been described beautifully by Woody Allen: ‘I’m not afraid of death – I simply don’t want to be there when it happens’. Otherwise, I believe this: art is something that helps us move towards this inevitable destination for us all; it helps us – if you like – to become familiar with the prospect of death, to redefine it in such a way that, perhaps, it does not seem so alien and terrifying to us – I must admit, of course, that for me this has not worked at all so far; indeed, it may even be making things worse, yet I remain optimistic...’.So? “I think we fear death because we have an innate tendency to invest in ourselves to an excessive degree, as if we were going to remain in this world forever, as if we were the centre of the universe. When we write, and imagine the lives of others, this may result – I say may – in our individualism being somewhat diminished. The same may be true of prayer or meditation. All of this can teach us (and constantly remind us) how things really are: we humans are lovable beings, but finite ones. And all this energy we expend to discover who we truly are is nothing more than a Darwinian trick – it makes us want to stay here longer and longer, by any means and at any cost, which is generally good for all species of fauna and flora, but then again, in the end someone has to foot the bill.You mentioned a bill... Does literature serve a purpose, more specifically, Mr Saunders? ‘I think literature performs a very important but rather humble task: it soothes the reader as an individual. It probably has a more effective impact on the sort of person who doesn’t really need this ‘softening’ all that much; even so, however, who among us doesn’t need to refresh our humanity and compassion towards others every now and then? Speaking as a writer now, for me it is preferable – and better – to focus on and address an imaginary reader, an intelligent, thoughtful person with good intentions: if you manage to inspire such a person, then you have achieved something as a writer. How meaningful can this inspiration be? Can it change them? “Even if your influence, as a writer, is only going to last a few hours for the reader, the fact that someone feels more present and more human in their daily life is, for me, a priceless gift. Something that has certainly happened to me, too, with many of my favourite books. Beyond all that, however: who knows? If we look back at history, we will see that great literature has always existed, but it has always been alongside violence and destruction. What can I say? Good literature is perhaps simply like good sex, or a delicious meal, or effective exercise. Literature is the pressure valve on the lid of the pot in which the evil nature of human beings boils...’ I heard you talking somewhere about ‘radical tenderness’. It sounds wonderful. What exactly is it about? “Ah! I haven’t really thought about the full scope of that concept (laughs). Basically, though, this is what I mean: on only a few occasions in my life — and for a brief period — I have happened to feel overwhelmed with love for certain things or people (following the death of a loved one, for example) and I have experienced just how boundlessly all-powerful this state is: that is, to sense the true place of a thing or a person in the world (a temporary place, not necessarily central, a place of service to others). After that, every decision seemed clear and there was little fear or uncertainty. We usually equate ‘love’ or ‘compassion’ as a way of life with weakness, but we need to consider the examples of Jesus or Buddha, or, for instance, the example of Gandhi, to see how invincible this is: to live in a state of unadulterated love and reduced individualism. Does literature, beyond beauty, also have a duty to cultivate a certain morality? ‘Perhaps. I wouldn’t pin all my hopes on literature in this regard. Literature is undoubtedly a space where you can certainly be free. Sometimes, however, I have found that precisely when I am working within a specific logic imposed by a text, I also clarify my own beliefs more clearly. And as I focus, with each new draft, on a specific character (through the prismatic lens of language), I have the sense that what is happening, reality, let’s say, is somehow slowing down, and at the same time it’s as if I’m watching myself create a kind of second-degree empathy. We practise and do it on paper, for years on end, and perhaps things would go better if we applied it to the world around us, if we pushed ourselves. Perhaps...’.You followed Donald Trump’s election campaign closely and wrote about it in *The New Yorker*. How did that come about? I mean the president himself...’That is precisely what a large proportion of Americans are now asking themselves on a daily basis. I don’t think, however, that any of us has the answer. One factor is certainly the incredible concentration of wealth at the top in the US over the last thirty years: the rich have become vastly richer, whilst the poor have become even poorer. I liken this pivotal development to a community living on a mountain where the oxygen has gradually moved upwards and now exists only at the summit: it is natural for the people living lower down, at the foot of the mountain, to feel anxiety and unease.”How do you relate this image to Donald Trump? ‘I am referring, of course, to one aspect of the whole situation, and that is the appeal Donald Trump holds for the working classes. But even that does not cover the whole picture, given that the new president proved attractive only to white working people. People of colour did not support him. Donald Trump played on certain primal insecurities and exploited them, particularly the misguided tendency we have as a nation to think of our country as a white place. We must also take into account another key factor: the poor quality of the education provided, our national inability to grasp, from his dubious rhetoric, that this man in fact neither understands nor cares – nor has he ever been willing — to learn anything about our political system, world history, etc. So, in other words: I have no idea! Like many others here, I feel disheartened and disappointed, and I’m waiting to see where all this will end up.’ You can find out more about George Saunders and his books published by Ikaros here.