May 27, 2018

Loose webs of fluid light racing
over coral convolutions.

The quiet squeegee of my flippers
under water, the tick and fizz

of bubbles beside my ears. I dive,
the water grows colder, and tightens

its embrace of my inflated lungs.
The fan corals wave and wave.


February 25, 2018

But anyone who has lived though a tornado knows that the sky
afterward will be just as blue

and shimmering-white. The landscape might be littered with washing machines, coffee cups, shredded pinups, and drenched,

broken-back couches, but the air will be filled with infinitely various bird song, and red-stemmed weeds will still be standing by the flattened corn.


February 8, 2018

This dying to live
in the never


January 20, 2018

It's all just a roaring
of the mortal


January 6, 2018

Here I am again, glassed,
gleaming amid vegetal
prolixity, a parallel
unity, a way of being

free in a way of being
indifferent. See me here,
this reflective camber
amidst blue and green,

this stillness again,
this warp of sky and forest,
untouched, untouchable.
Alight. Afloat


January 1, 2028



December 22, 2017

So, I have this endless
argument with hope.
You know: the doorbell

chimes and nothing's
on the stoop but this

hole in the middle
of everything.
No payoff, I mean.

I'm suckered
again-and by no one
but myself...


December 9, 2017

with my



Blow out


December 1, 2017

Within my present
joy, my past joy,


November 22. 2017

Bear amid the birches,
hunched, shambling,
radiant black.


October 13, 2017

The floor beneath Thomas Jefferson’s feet bucks and sidles, and the heads of the seated passengers rock all in one motion. From the set of her shoulders and the grace with which she rides the heaving floor, he can see that Sally Hemings is more confident now, and more capable. “She has come into her own,” he thinks, and that fills him with a warm appreciation and a sorrow that he has missed so much of her life.



Whispering collisions
of falling



Day after day the rain made a soft patter on their thatched roof. Day after day the green outside their windows grew greener, and there was a sweetness in the air from the carpet of fallen pine needles, but also something stronger: something halfway between the smells of peat moss and crumbled mushrooms. The rain never changed.

The idea was that they would read many books. The idea was that they would hike from lunch until dinnertime, and come home just as the ball of the sun touched the hilltop, and that they would share a bottle of wine in the garden while the sky filled with rose and gold. The idea was that they would make love, sometimes tenderly, sometimes wildly, and wake up with smiles on their faces, but maybe just a bit embarrassed to meet each other's gazes. But none of this happened. None of it turned out to be possible.



The dreams of the joyous man
always end
with a waking, variously sad,

the heart indifferent
to the possible.



Another kind of emptiness is the gap between desire and object. Gina saw this emptiness as proof that we have no place on this earth. Desire assumes that its object is on the other side of the gap, whereas there is no other side. The object itself may exist, but the journey to the object does not, because the journey is endless, because nothing ever changes, because emptiness is where we start and where we end.



Our laughter makes
a sort of music, and we
are all drunk, dancing,
trading bright glances
and lingering embraces
—our love promiscuous,
both innocent and not.
Eventually our footsteps
echo along empty streets,
and in the morning
we wake to find ourselves
in our phones: cheeks
shining, eyebeams
askew, our lips warped
by unremembered jokes.



Black bird in black
night, sleepless,



Along this road:
so many abandoned

And further on:
the road
bearing your name.

Time no longer

a warehouse

with useless



The crowd disperses and the sky between the rooftops goes sodium-purple, cadmium-blue, then gray, then powder pink, and we make our way

across the deserted avenues and through the condom-strewn wilderness to a mud and blood

colored current, the Rio del Plata. And the air is filled with the dartings of strange birds, and their unfamiliar songs.

Except that they are not unfamiliar, because we are natives of this city—right?
And the songs evoke the mornings of our childhoods.

That’s true—isn’t it? I can’t believe that after thirty years I am still trying to figure this all out.



It turns out we are not the lampshade, but the velvet night, not the rounded stone, but the water rushing

overhead in loud and silvery hallucination. We are ball lightening in a forest filled with blackbirds.

How could so much possibility be squandered on us? How could you have taken off your dress

and never noticed? And your flesh be such perfect iron and leather, and mine ivory? We do this all the time.

They call us liars, yet we are slick with purity. It is falling from the sky.



We hurry to the charred field,
and let loose our silver balloons,
only to come home and find
that mice have colonized
the library, that squirrels rule
the world between the rafters,
and spiders fog the corners
with complicated thought.



In fact, we have no choice but to live this unending surprise of who we are, and to suffer the joys of our relentless need to be.



...It was as if they had never
gone anywhere at all, as if
the fragrant jungle through
which they walked were being
dismantled, inconsistency
by inconsistency, until finally
they found themselves
sitting on wooden chairs,
beneath a buzzing fluorescent
light in that small, white,
windowless room they had
always known as the truth.



Oh wild room of my harping
insignificance, let me avian
this orifice one dance before
the factoid billows the info-
mercial at sun and star.

That just wish, that
evaporation of addiction
all-sundered and under-
numbed by pin moss,
give me yet
your dear love.



I stand
on melting
ice, ringed
by endless




Unrelenting: Bone.

Dark heart

Left by
the horizon: my small

Mute, mute, mute

Fire above the fire:
the broken

We are two.
I, alone,
am one.

Never again. Never.

The slap
and the silence

I remember: white
upon white.



Closed in: the lid

Once and

No. No. No.
I am not.




First blue, then rose,
dawn erases the street-
light’s changeless

orange, adds a set
of footsteps, a solitary
motor, an infant’s

emphatic syllable
to the city’s
unending roar.




later, near those
mountains and far
from home, I came

upon that church,
and found your name
in the guest book.

I was entirely
alone in that small
stone room.

I imagined you,
also alone, looking out
the windows

at the yellowing
grass, the road, that huge
sky. Once I asked you

what matters most
in your work.
It must be honest, you said.

Honest how? I asked.
Honest, you said.
Just honest.

--From "Time to Think"



May becomes June. Moths blizzard the porch light. Crickets jingle in the darkness amid a sparse galaxy of street and window lights. The hum of the world is sometimes intensified by the long, sad moan of a distant train, or the crunching whisper of rubber against asphalt as a car rumbles behind two advancing cones of illuminated roadway.



The hardest part of the dance is figuring out how much is art and how much life. Your ankle and foot doing that chop, chop, chop

between my knees. My thigh between your thighs. Okay: Here comes the passion part!

You are bent so far back you are practically lying on the cobblestones, and my face is so close to yours I can smell

the sweat on your upper lip. The crowds in San Telmo love this. Their silver overflows.



Have I seen you before?
Are you the woman whose
glance I caught last night
in that wanton moment
after the cheers when all
the glasses were refilled?



Have these wild beauties
come again
to my rescue?



Loose webs of fluid light
racing over coral convolutions.



Planes angle
off runways

beyond eight
lanes of traffic

and fling their
gigantic noise

against the hotel’s
glass flanks.



Gratitude. Always.



Those giant
suits into which
we insert our tiny
limbs, then totter
blank-faced into
our commercial



The sky is wild with snorts, the earth fragmenting with hoof falls. All the papers exclaim, in London

tube light, by lantern in Mumbai: The ringed noses are running again, their horn points blood-bright,

their wooly bellows billowing down our streets,
their red flags on our hillsides. We’ve reached another end, the papers claim.

The dolts are back at our tables, devouring our joints, fingering our entrails, taking their pleasures in our beds.

Every breast has been invaded, every eyeball cracked, every truth revealed as irony. “You thought you knew joy,”

they mutter inside our heads. “Now we will give you joy.”



Alone in the kitchen
my phone,

pigeon couple
on the window ledge,

bright dawn.



We have failed so many times, but we are back
in the ditch, with our picks and our generous expectations.

All of us: mud from eyeball
to hallucination. That’s just how we were born. You know that business

with the gold watch, the cake and candles, that ongoing collaborative delusion? We fall for it constantly, every one of us

convinced he can build a better life out of what spills off a truck: Bang, bang!
Pass me the pliers, you idiot!

We’re magicians
with smothered doves in our hats, monkey Rembrandts with fists

crammed in paint cans, beneficiaries of failure’s only grace: the ubiquitous proximity

of zero. You lose everything?
Big deal! It was all messed up anyway, and you can always

try again—which is the wafer of eternity that keeps us wanting, and that star there, that pink winker in the quitting-time sky.



I have no words of my own today, only these from Auden's beautiful, "September 1, 1939":

Defenceless under the night
Our world in stupor lies;
Yet, dotted everywhere,
Ironic points of light
Flash out wherever the Just
Exchange their messages:
May I, composed like them
Of Eros and of dust,
Beleaguered by the same
Negation and despair,
Show an affirming flame.



Biking along the Hudson
this too hot November
afternoon, the low
sun browned by leaf
dust, time visibly
passing, yet every
instant endless.



The trees became the ragged
black frame of the sky—
and the sky so star-filled,
like daylight shattered
into brilliant motes.



These last
summer days
of autumn, I walk
in flip-flops under
yellowing trees,
that old yearning
that ache of joy
against sorrow,
that vision of
a better life—all
of life I have ever

Desire itself
is life, infusing
these mere facts
of sunlight, yellow
leaf and restless
air with beauty,
and this shambling
between all
I’ve lost and all
I can never have
with clarity
and grace.



Last night I dreamed
we actually were

at that prairie

Morning sun
on the breakfast table.

The two of us
just talking.




A cry
the night.


The dark
with teeth.

Fear and



From "Himalayan Diary"


I like the term “lose your soul” for the way it implies that one’s most essential being is both precious and something you yourself can destroy.

Of course, the truth is that, short of death, one can never “lose” one’s being but one can change it into something less or more precious.

My being—essential or otherwise—seems especially precious to me this clear, cold morning at this camp in the Himalayas near the borders of Kashmir and Tibet, after a day during which I believed myself close to death many, many times.

Eight hours driving along the edges of precipices with nothing but cement blocks, rusting oil drums or, often, only the crumbling edge of a one-and-a-half lane two-way road to preserve us from plummeting a thousand feet into a rushing river.

Down the gravel slopes I could see cars so devastated by their falls that they looked like shredded tin foil, and in one village I saw a van that had been transformed into a crater of metal junk by a falling boulder.

We often had to drive around boulders, some the size of armchairs, others as big as houses.

Yet Indian families traveled these roads as happily as American families might trundle off to Cape Cod.

I am prepared to admit that I am neurotic.

But still I was abjectly terrified for hours on end.

And so, at this moment, my life now and all the thoroughly ordinary things I have to look forward to seem a sort of blessing.

But is my “soul” this life of “ordinary things” that now seems so precious?

In the Christian tradition the most essential part of one’s life is almost always understood to be one’s moral being, or virtue.

Too lose one’s soul is to cease to be virtuous, profoundly, within the depths of one’s being.

What actually is precious about the soul-as-moral-being?

Or what exactly is it about leading a life in accordance with one’s morality that might be described as precious?


The sense that what you are inside is the same as what you are outside, that you actually are the being you wish to represent yourself as to the world.

There have been periods of my life when I have felt, despite all my limits, confusions and weaknesses, that I am, morally speaking, more or less the person I want to be.

And there were still other times when I wanted to be a person who did things I could not justify morally.

And I became that person.

Or I became divided into two people: who I seemed to be and who I actually was.

Mostly I am thinking of one particular time, during which I felt a great deal of pain, and caused a great deal of pain, and yet never felt more completely alive.

There is a joy that comes from being in harmony with one’s own beliefs, and a joy that comes from abandoning that harmony.

Though there are limits to how much disharmony—or discord—one can experience and still feel one is living a life one wants to recognize as one’s own.

A limit to the intersection of discord and joy.

Maybe what I’m talking about is the kind of joy one feels when a jazz soloist departs from the melody, or even from the idea of music as we generally understand it.

A joyful crossing over into chaos and noise.

The joy of human freedom.

Which may be the same thing as the joy of doing what is forbidden.

All my life, my first response on being forbidden to do something has been a fierce ache to do that very thing, and my first impulse on being required to do something has been a fierce desire to do the opposite.

Our spirits rise as a jazz musician goes into a solo, but at the same time we are always waiting for the solo to end.

For our return to the comfort of the melody, or for the quiet joy of the melody’s simply being there to return to.

Continuity. Reliability. Refuge. The known world.

Even as our transgressions feel as if they are life itself, we are always longing for a return to that harmony of one’s life (or soul) and one’s belief about what one’s life is or ought to be.

And sometimes our return to that harmony brings us more joy than our discordant sojourn did, but not always.

It is a mistake to think we have a single, internally (and eternally) harmonious self, just as it is a mistake to think there is harmony between all good things.

There have been times when the very traits I had once thought virtues came to seem weaknesses.

The virtue of loyalty, for example. Or tolerance. Or the capacity to love.

Sometimes there can be no return to harmony.

The improvisation is almost always smarter, more thrilling and less sentimental than the melody it is based upon.

And so sometimes the joy we feel is not merely at the exercise of freedom, but at the discovery of a better self.

Or a self that possesses virtues different from those of that self we have grown used to thinking of as our own, that self we present to the world, or that we—or the world—designate as “real.”

And so sometimes the desire to reestablish the harmony between the self one actually lives and the self one wants to present to the world yields far more pain than joy.

Pain that can last a lifetime.

Sometimes simplicity is precious and sometimes it is a lie.

Sometimes the life in harmony with what we believe is a betrayal of who we are.

Maybe what is most precious is simply the fact that I am breathing this clear, cold air, that I am in this valley beside this loud, racing, silt-paled river, watching bronze sunbeams tip over jagged, snow-laced peaks to light the mountainside just in front of me, and that this is all so extraordinarily vivid, vital and beautiful.

Maybe my simple being is the primary good and precious thing.

Maybe my moral being is only precious insofar as it enables me to be more completely in this world as it actually is.

Certainly one’s morality ought to be consistent with the world as it actually is—or the human part of the world, since morality concerns only the effects we have upon each other.

So does this mean that my soul—my “most essential being”—is actually the part of me that breathes, sees, hears, feels, loves, loathes, thinks, wants, fears and hopes?

Is that a “part” of me, or “the whole”?

But still, there is something precious about being in harmony with the people in one’s life—though such harmony is not necessarily the same as living in harmony with one’s morals.

How often in human history have people avoided recognizing an evil in their midst so that they might live in harmony with their neighbors?

Discord: Middle English: from Old French descord (noun), descorder (verb), from Latin discordare, from discors ‘discordant,’ from dis- (expressing negation, reversal) + cor, cord- ‘heart.’

Third Posting in My Much Neglected Blog

February 6, 2013

Tags: Writing, unconscious, Ziggurat, Hemings, Jefferson

I delivered the following talk about the role of the unconscious in my writing at Johns Hopkins on February 4, 2013. I began my presentation by reading parts of two works of fiction. The first was “Ziggurat,” a version of which was published in the New Yorker in 2009. Here is a link:
The second was an unpublished excerpt from my novel-in-progress, HUMAN EVENTS. Here is the first paragraph:

“A drizzle grays the air when Thomas Jefferson and Sally Hemings visit the Museum of Miscegenation. They approach the columned and domed marble edifice (which Thomas Jefferson cannot help but notice is in the Palladian style) along an avenue of plane trees, all-but-invisible droplets drifting between bare branches tipped with the tiny lettuces of just-bursting buds. The drizzle coats the square cobbles like breath upon a mirror, and Sally Hemings, wearing leather-soled shoes, finds the footing so slippery she has to cling to Thomas Jefferson’s arm until they are inside the museum.”



I am going to talk about the role of the unconscious in my writing, and in my writing career. But I should probably start by telling you two things.

The first is that I am the son of a psychoanalyst. People have often asked me if my father psychoanalyzed me when I was a kid—a possibility that would have horrified him, I suspect, as much as it does me. While I never lay on a couch and told my father my troubles, I did grow up in a house where it was a truism that people rarely said or did what they thought they were saying or doing, and that my real self—especially in regard to my fears and desires—was and would always be something of a mystery to me. I grew up thinking less that I was the captain of my self than a passenger, or even a stowaway.

I remember being utterly fascinated, when I was eleven or twelve, by the idea of an unconscious mind. I was struck, in particular, by how complex judgments—whether a kid I had just met could be trusted, for example, or the solutions to riddles or “brain teasers”—could just pop into my head without my having given them one single instant of conscious thought. It was clear to me that such judgments could not have come into being without the rational consideration of much evidence and many possibilities—but if this consideration hadn’t happened in my conscious mind, where did it happen? I was similarly curious about even my most ordinary thoughts, memories, and fantasies. Why was it that one memory would come into my head rather than another? Or how was it that my thoughts were framed in a particular set of words? Clearly some mechanism of selection and construction was at work here, but I had no access to it. And then, of course, as a newly minted adolescent, subject to bouts of blushing shame, shyness, and a multitude of anxieties, my own emotions often felt far more like an affliction than an expression of my being. In those days, I tended to think of my consciousness as a room into which thoughts and feelings arrived through something like a mail slot in a door that—no matter how much I wanted to—I would never be able to open.

The second thing you need to know is that, as the dutiful son of a Freudian, I had a well-developed Oedipal need to replace my father’s authority and ideas with my own. The result is that I am not a Freudian, not a student of psychoanalysis, and that when I talk about the unconscious, I am going to be doing so very much as an amateur. Mainly I’ll be talking about my own private mythology—that is: about a way of making sense of the world that does not necessarily reflect the way the world actually is. It occurs to me, in fact, that what I have to say partakes so much of the mythological that in many instances you would not misunderstand me if, for the word “unconscious,” you were to substitute “muse.”

Having just disavowed my paternal heritage, I will now quote my father, who, himself, said he was quoting Freud. “Little decisions,” my father told me more than once, “can be made by the conscious mind, but for the really big things, you have to let the unconscious do the work.”

You can see the sense of this remark if you think about falling in love. We all know—perhaps to our chagrin—that we cannot decide to fall in love. We can draw up long lists of virtues, and construct entirely rational arguments as to why it would make sense to fall in love with a particular person—but all such efforts are sadly pointless. Love comes, or it doesn’t. And there is nothing we can do to make it come—or, sometimes, to make it go away.

In a similar way, writing just came to me. I never truly chose to be a writer. Rather, after much uncertainty and considerable guilt, I finally understood that I had never really had any other choice.

I vividly remember the moment I first felt I wanted to write books. I was in third grade, staying up way past my bedtime, reading a novel that I couldn’t put down. The book, of course, had a person’s name on the cover—possibly it was Robert Heinlein. I knew that that the names on the covers of books referred to the people who had written them, but before that night I had never really thought about what the labor of writing actually entailed. And then, in an instant, that whole labor came clear to me: As a writer, I would live in worlds I delighted to imagine, and then, through words, I would transfer the people and events of those worlds, along with my delight, into the minds of my readers. From that instant on, writing possessed an irresistible allure for me. Of course, I still wanted to be an astronaut or a deep sea diver, but the desire to write was more potent and, in the end, had a great deal more staying power. I had, in effect, fallen in love, though it would take a great deal of time for me to truly recognize my love and accept it.

Over the couple of decades that followed, I decided many times that I would not be a writer. The first girl I loved loved me partly for my writing. But, encouraged by her mother, she also thought writing was something I would grow out of as I matured and, in particular, as I came to understand my obligation to provide a reliable living for my future family. I was inclined to agree with her. Who was I to think that I had the talent to succeed at such a risky venture? And even if I did, what made me think that I had the right to indulge so selfish a pleasure, not just because of the deprivations my indulgence might inflict upon my innocent and deserving wife and children, but because the lush and highly fanciful writing that interested me most seemed so trivial and effete—or, to use the operative word of that moment in history—“irrelevant”?

This was the late ‘sixties and early ‘seventies—the era of civil rights and anti-war protests. From a purely rational and moral point of view, it was impossible for me to consider writing anything that wouldn’t somehow help to end the multiple injustices I saw all around me. I still feel this way, in fact. The problem was—and is—that the sort of writing I had fallen most passionately in love with had only the most indirect relationship to the real world, and thus to the effort of rectifying all of those terrible injustices. Even worse, one of the things I loved most about writing was language itself, but not language as a mechanism for understanding and affecting the world, language as music, rhythm, texture, and often as a nonsensical assemblage of nuances, associations, contradictions, and inter-reverberations.

I had no choice in this particular love. It chose me. Or, rather, it was me, and I only found out about it when it slipped through the letter slot and took over my life. So, although I never actually wanted to get over this love, I thought I could channel it—save its most trivial aspects for my private moments. Meanwhile, I would be responsible: morally, politically, and financially. So, when I graduated from college, as all my friends were going off to responsible futures in medicine, law, or book publishing, I worked at ABC News. I was a desk assistant—a menial job that had launched many careers in TV journalism.

Everyone assumed that my ambition was to become a news writer, producer, editor or even an on-air correspondent. And that’s what I thought I should want to do. But the fact was, I just couldn’t. No matter how hard I tried, I found TV journalism boring, trivial, phony, and corrupt (but that’s a topic for another day). Also, since I was working the night shift, I often had hours with no pressing work to do, and so, sitting at a desk in front of three monitors constantly broadcasting the major networks, I wrote the first story I would ever publish. Just about the only times I felt truly engaged and alive on that job were when I had that story rolling off the spool of my typewriter.

After a year at ABC, I decided that I would be responsible in a way that seemed more in accordance with my natural inclinations: I would become an English professor, and work at my “real” writing in my spare time. But this was only another decision that didn’t stick. While I loved literature, I was bored by scholarship, and deeply irritated by scholarly writing. I also discovered that the whole idea that I might write fiction and poetry while building a career as an English professor was embarrassingly naïve. If I were to have any hope of getting an academic job and then tenure, I would have to devote myself so exclusively to scholarship that I wouldn’t have a minute for my “real” writing—at least not for years.

Around the time I got my MA in English, I published the story I had written at ABC News in the Partisan Review—and so, with this stamp of approval, I gave myself over wholly to that calling that had first taken hold of me when I was eight years old. This doesn’t mean that I didn’t sometimes try to talk myself out of my ambitions. I had other jobs that would have been, especially around the time my first child was born, much better careers from a moral and financial point of view—but my four a.m. self-interrogations on this matter were rarely more than empty ritual. My decision had been made—though it would be something of an overstatement to say that I—the conscious entity that I think of as myself—actually made the decision.

While my unconscious desires—and, no doubt, fears—were playing a stealth role in the evolution of my writing career, they were playing an even more significant and, for the most part, equally covert role in my writing. As the son of a Freudian, I took it for granted, of course, that the unconscious influenced and was reflected in my writing, but I had no idea how comprehensively and coherently until I was putting together my first collection of short fiction, Rescue.

I didn’t want that book to be just a batch of stories; I wanted the stories to add up to something more, to build toward some sort of collective statement, insight, or effect. So one afternoon, I decided to read over all the stories I had written and see if, in fact, they had anything in common. To my utter astonishment, I found that, in every single one of them, the protagonist was already dead at the beginning of the story or died at the end. I had had no idea that this was the case as I was writing these stories. The discovery threw me into a low-grade panic: How could I possibly be so morbid? Did this apparently congenital pessimism condemn me to a short and miserable life?

On a closer reading, however, I discovered three other things about my protagonists: 1.) They were almost all in love. 2.) They all were trying to do some sort of good, generally as an expression of their love. 3.) They were mostly failing, often as a result of their own imperfect nature.

As soon as I made these discoveries, something else came clear to me. The death in my stories was not exactly death. Rather, death was the ultimate symbol for and manifestation of the indifference of fate. What my stories were really about was the effort of my characters to resist irresistible fate through the assertion of an ideal—an ideal that was not only beyond their capacity to completely fulfill, but most likely ill-conceived in the first place. This meant (at least I hope it did!) that my stories were not nearly so grim, that they were, in fact, celebrations of the miraculous existence of idealism—and of love, too—even in the face of total negation. Or, to put it another way, my stories were all taking up that age-old debate regarding whether good intentions had moral value independent of their consequences, or lack thereof… And I should probably admit that the tentative answer implied by many of my stories was that they did.

I don’t want to oversimplify. Obviously a great deal more was going on in my stories than these themes, nor were all of my stories equally focused on them. Nevertheless, one of the things that convinced me that these themes were of fundamental significance in my writing was that, as I considered them, I realized they all concerned issues I cared about profoundly, and had struggled with my whole life, even if I had never fully articulated or connected them before. In the light of this struggle, then, and of the fact that these themes were so clearly articulated in my stories, I only found it all the more astounding that I had never given any of them one instant of consideration as I was writing—which meant that all of this complex and—to me, at least—very significant thinking had gone on beneath my awareness, which is to say: entirely without the participation of the hub of consciousness I called myself.

Again: I don’t want to oversimplify. As I hope shall soon become clear, my writing is always the result of a dialogue between my conscious and unconscious minds, and the role conscious thought plays, both in the inspiration and in every stage of the execution of my stories is absolutely critical—a point illustrated by the fact that, as soon as I became aware of the themes I had been exploring in my work, I began consciously writing other stories in the same mode, a couple of which turned out to be the very best in my book—or so I felt at the time. And then Rescue was followed by two nonfiction books, both of which were intended to make political arguments I was fully conscious of before writing the books, and that, in fact, inspired them. Also, insofar as writing these books required the piecing together of facts, documents, and statistics, and a constant and resolute attention to the realities I was trying to render, my conscious mind probably played the dominant role in their composition.

All that being said, it is also true that when, some years after I had finished these two books, I considered them in conjunction with Rescue, I discovered—again to my complete surprise—that they both told the story of an idealist who had tried to do the right thing and failed. In the case of Will My Name Be Shouted Out?, my memoir about teaching creative writing in the public schools, I was the one who was trying and failing, and in Orphan Trains, a history of an early child welfare effort, the man making that effort—Charles Loring Brace—was the striving failure. These books, like all of my other stories, were also about many other issues and followed many other courses of action, but even so, the power and endurance of this unconscious obsession of mine was undeniable—to the point that, as some of you may already have noticed, both the Minotaur, who desperately wants to find that he has not eaten the new girl, and Thomas Jefferson, that slaveholding idealist of freedom, are both protagonists cut from a decidedly familiar mold.

I am extremely happy for many reasons that I wrote both of my nonfiction books, but it is nevertheless true that the decade I devoted to nonfiction, seriously impaired my ability to write fiction. After I finished Orphan Trains, I went back to a novel I had started even before Will My Name Be Shouted Out? I worked on it for several years, but just couldn’t give it life. The story was well conceived, the prose was polished and clear, but the book had no magic, no soul. It was like that poor person with whom even the longest list of virtues and the most compelling rational arguments can’t make us fall in love.

Finally one summer, my family and I were going on a holiday, during which we would be traveling from place to place. I didn’t see how I could possibly work on my novel with so many interruptions, so I decided that, instead of fiction, I would write fourteen lines of poetry every morning. I also decided that whatever I wrote would be utter nonsense, somewhat in the style of Gertrude Stein’s Tender Buttons, or of Frank O’Hara at his least restrained, as in, say, “Second Avenue.”

This experiment turned out to be astoundingly successful. I wrote a great deal more than fourteen lines a day, and felt that it was the most vivid, fresh and original work I had done in many years, and perhaps ever. It will probably come as no surprise, however, that my poems were not utter nonsense, that as wild as the language and the imaginative leaps may have been, I found myself once again exploring a fairly coherent body of themes.

I was so happy with this writing technique that, when I got home, I decided to try it out on fiction. I made it a habit to start writing first thing in the morning, before breakfast, when my mind was still groggy, and still partially in dream mode. I also tried not to give one thought to what I was going to write until the instant my fingers touched the keys of my computer. And lastly, I tried constantly to make things difficult for myself. At each turning point in a sentence, I would reject the most natural follow-through and try to come up with some surprising alternative that I hoped would ultimately also seem natural, as well as true, if not in the sentence I was writing, then as a result of the sentences that would follow. Both of the pieces I have just read were written in exactly this way, as were all of the stories, fanciful or realistic, in Here Comes Another Lesson, and all of the fiction I have written since.

With “Ziggurat,” for example, I really did have no idea what I was going to write when I sat at my computer. I simply put my fingers on the keys and typed the first phrase that came into my head: “The new girl sat at the computer in the corner…” What was she doing at that computer? I had no idea, but I decided to see what would happen if she was playing computer games. I chose the names Ziggurat, Panic! and U-Turn only because I thought they were each funny in a different way, but clearly “Ziggurat” immediately began to germinate in the back of my mind. The phrase “new girl” suggested, of course, that my protagonist had just started at a new school, and so would most likely be sitting in a corner of, say, the computer lab. But this possibility felt more like a door closing on my imagination than a door opening. So instead I wrote, “This was in the pine-paneled section of the Labyrinth…” The Labyrinth came as a total surprise to me. It too had a natural implication: the Minotaur. But this one I decided to go with, because it instantly opened up a whole series of conflicts, weird contrasts, and comical (if also horrible) possibilities that I thought I could build a story out of.

My mind was not nearly so blank when I sat down to write the episode I have just read from Human Events. For one thing, I had already been working intently on the novel for several months, and had amassed a couple hundred very raw pages. For another, shortly before I began to write, I had been out riding my bike and, seeing a smear of rain beneath a distant cloud, the phrase “a drizzle grays the air” had come into my head. I was all but certain, as I sat down to write, that I would start with that phrase. My imaginative choices were also constrained by the fact that every section of the novel I had written thus far focused on either Thomas Jefferson or Sally Hemings, or on the two of them together. I didn’t know what this section of the novel was going to be about, but as soon as I had typed my opening phrase, I saw Jefferson and Hemings walking in a misty space under an avenue of plane trees. Where were they going? I wondered.

“The Museum of Miscegenation” was the big surprise in this opening, and it was just the sort I like most: an utterly absurd notion, that, by that very fact, would automatically allow me to approach whatever human concerns my story would bring me from a fresh and, I hoped, illuminating perspective. The trick, however, would be to make this absurd institution feel real—but only to a point, because it is the readers’ sense of the simultaneous reality and unreality of a story like this that gives it a thrilling, dreamlike unpredictability, and that gives me the maximum freedom to provide my readers with yet more surprises, and ones that, in their implications at least, might grant them access to some form of truth.

And so, having come up with the absurd notion of the Museum of Miscegenation, my first task was to make it seem real—and the best way to do this was to make it tangible to the senses. So I made the museum marble, in the Palladian style, and at the end of an avenue of plane trees, with “all-but-invisible droplets drifting between bare branches…” and so on. I did not know, however, until Jefferson and Hemings had stepped inside the cathedral-size lobby of the museum, that they had come to see an exhibit on their own relationship. As soon as that notion occurred to me, almost the whole rest of the story came in a flash. I knew right away that Jefferson and Hemings would go backwards through the show, that the displays and other viewers’ responses to the displays would constantly cause them sorrow and pain, that Jefferson would experience humiliation and regret and, to some extent, recognize his moral failure, and I knew that, in the end, Sally Hemings would put on that yellow dress (I saw it as yellow from the first) and that, as she and Jefferson looked into each other’s eyes, they would both experience, from their separate points of view, the full complexity and import of their powerful bond. I would, of course, use my conscious mind to work out many of the particularities of this story (which objects would be displayed, for example), but its basic scenario came to me all in an instant, through that mail slot in an unopenable door.

As I am sure is already obvious, I have an enormous respect for unconscious thinking. On the whole, I think the unconscious is far more concerned about things that truly matter, and that, in some ways, it is smarter, wiser, and more honest than the conscious mind. Our conscious minds, after all, are so often crammed with triviality as we write. We worry about whether we have any talent, for example, or enough talent, or whether we should get up and make another cup of coffee, or what we might have for lunch, or we wonder what is that tiny black spot on the wall anyway: a pencil dot or a bedbug? The unconscious mind is far more monomaniacally concerned with the things we least comprehend and that most trouble us: our desires, our furies, and our fears. And since those things we least comprehend and are most troubled by are likely to be mysterious and troubling to a high proportion of our readers, they are what most draw those readers to our work, and make them take it to heart—at least if we can give them a deeper understanding of their vexing conundrums.

At the same time, of course, the unconscious is notoriously egotistical, selfish, indifferent to fact, and the source both of delusion and of compulsions to commit acts that might shame us, hurt innocent people (including those we love), and even land us in a prison cell or the grave. And in writing, as in life, conscious thought is one of the main mechanisms by which we attempt to civilize and make the best of our unconscious urges. For me, conscious thinking generally plays its most important role in writing when I am about to begin revising the first solid, complete draft of a story. Having tried up until that point, to simply let the draft come, I now analyze it line by line, and attempt to understand what each phrase or detail might mean to my readers, and how it will influence their comprehension of and feeling for the story. I do this because I want to be sure that I always say exactly what I mean and mean exactly what I say. I never want my work to be fake. I never want to imply significance when there is none. And, most important of all, despite my respect for the unconscious, I want to be sure that it has not led me to imply that something false is true, or that something I object to is good. Very often I have to think long and hard about one or another element of my story, because, of course, I don’t always know what is true or right. But in the end, my decision to let that element be or to change it is almost entirely conscious.

As some of you may know, the version of “Ziggurat” that Jean McGarry has distributed is not the one that appeared in The New Yorker. I no longer remember how this happened, but at some point in that magazine’s extremely rapid and intense editing process, an essential element of my story was inadvertently dropped—and I didn’t notice it, alas, until I reread the story in the published issue. The Minotaur in “Ziggurat” means many things to me, and I hope to my readers as well. One of the ways I see him is as a representation of human nature—which entails both the capacity to feel compassion and love, and, unfortunately, as we see in the news every single day, the capacity for heartless indifference and savage cruelty. In The New Yorker version of the story, the Minotaur seems to become civilized by his love for the new girl. And, at least after he begins to worry that he might have absentmindedly gobbled her up, he seems to entirely give up his original barbarity. Much as I would like to believe that love can quell our worst tendencies, I felt this version of the Minotaur perpetrated a sentimental falsehood about human nature. And so, when I prepared the story for my book, I inserted a brief section just before the end, in which the Minotaur encounters evidence of his continuing barbarity, and so wonders, “[I]f, at some intersection, he had accidentally turned right and left simultaneously, and thereafter wandered ever farther from himself. Or if, in some other way—only just beyond the limit of his comprehension—he were not, in fact, the one who had spilled the blood with which his lips and hands were stained.”

While in “Ziggurat,” I was trying to render a truth about an abstraction called Human Nature and about characters who lived entirely in my imagination, in Human Events I am trying to represent two real people about whom hundreds of thousands of pages have already been written, and, more to the point, whose relationship has been the subject of passionate controversy. As a result, my conscious mind has had to play a much more prominent role in every stage of the composition of this book than in any other work of fiction I have ever written. I have employed a number of tricks in an attempt to give my unconscious maximum freedom. I have been writing scenes entirely out of chronological order, and I have been switching randomly from realistic fiction, to fantasy, to essay, to prose poetry. I have also been throwing in my own drawings and extended quotations from historical documents—anything I can to keep myself stimulated, guessing, a little off balance, and in territory I can’t quite make sense of. But at the same time, I struggle constantly to keep even my wildest imaginings in accord with the historical record—although, of course, when it comes to my more fantastical sequences, I mean a particular type of accord. While it would be utter insanity to imply that the real Thomas Jefferson and Sally Hemings ever attended the Museum of Miscegenation, I do hope that the feelings my characters have as they re-experience their relationship are consistent with the feelings the real Jefferson and Hemings might have had.

And this brings me to the biggest challenge I face writing this novel.

Although I have written history and biography, I am neither historian nor biographer when I write about Jefferson and Hemings. I am a novelist, and as such I am not writing about these two people to set the record straight, but because I want to tell a story—a story about how even the best qualities in human beings can be warped by the circumstances in which they are living (with the most significant circumstance Jefferson and Hemings had to contend with being the institution of slavery), but also a story that would explore the netherworld of that complex bond we so often venerate as "love"—and, not surprisingly, this aspect of the story is the one that has been the most troubling to me, even as it has also been the most inspiring.

As someone who thoroughly accepts the notion that a slave's inability to say "no" to her master means that any sexual relationship between them is a form of rape, the notion of associating "love" with Hemings and Jefferson's relationship has caused me grave trepidations. The last thing on earth that I want to do, is to tell a story that can come off as an apology for rape or for slavery. That said, there is, in fact, a fair bit of evidence (though all of it circumstantial) suggesting that there were at the very least positive aspects to the feelings Jefferson and Hemings had for each other. There are references in the journals and letters of Jefferson’s friends to his having been made happy at the end of his life by the attentions of a female slave. And Sally Hemings actually did take Jefferson’s glasses, inkwell and shoe buckle when she left Monticello after his death, and when she was near death herself, she gave them to their son Madison, who in turn passed them down to his daughter—something that seems highly unlikely to have happened had had Hemings viewed her life with Jefferson as unending torture.

My sense is that whatever attachment Sally Hemings may have felt for Jefferson must have partaken to some degree of the Stockholm syndrome—that love-like emotion that kidnapping victims often come to feel for their kidnappers—and that his love for her was infected to no small degree by condescension, at the very least. For reasons that I don't entirely understand, these ambiguities are turning out to be a powerful source of inspiration for me. I am eager to explore that uneasy frontier where love as a source of joy and strength becomes a painful vulnerability to oppression, and my hope is that over the course of my novel both my readers and I will come to a much deeper understanding, both of this feeling we call "love" and of the human heart in all of its beauty, fortitude, vulnerability and perversity.

One cannot write a novel about people who have actually lived without making it consistent to a considerable extent with their actual lives. To fail to do so would be to risk interfering with readers’ suspension of disbelief, and possibly turning readers away all together. But the main reason I want my book to stay so close to the historical record—although sometimes, admittedly, in an eccentric fashion—is so that I may guard myself against sentimentality and even the appearance of an apology for slavery. By constantly thinking about the nature of Jefferson and Hemings’s relationship—as I am even this very minute—and by forcing myself constantly to confront the barbaric particularities of slavery and, especially, of Jefferson as a slave holder, I am trying to make myself wiser and more clear-headed, so that I may not only understand but feel the realities of Jefferson and Hemings’s lives. This effort is almost entirely conscious, and it is, I believe, the sort of dialogue between the conscious and unconscious minds that all literary works must undergo if they are to fully realize themselves and fulfill the ideals of their genre and, really, of all art.

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Selected Works

Conjunctions: 60, 2013; Best American Short Stories 2014
Conjunctions 55, 2010
From Various Journals
Teachers & Writers Magazine, Nov.-Dec. 2000
Selection from ORPHAN TRAINS: The Story of Charles Loring Brace and the Children He Saved and Failed