Lessons in Taxidermy came out at about the same time as a couple of new novels about 9/11.
My book presented a true account of a child forced to confront danger and despair. The novels use imaginary scenarios and characters to explore an event the writers did not experience, except in the pages of a newspaper.
My book received uniformly good reviews; the novels are receiving some extremely hostile attention. I haven’t read all the novels so I can’t comment on the relative literary value of the books, but I think that I understand some of the public reaction.
It is not, as some writers have stated plaintively, that there is no longer a need for novels. The trouble with writing about 9/11 is that most people are not prepared to accept that an individual who was not harmed in the attack could profit off an event that caused so much collective agony.
This is in my opinion a more honorable position than the implied voyeurism (and explicit exhibitionism) of the memoir form. I did not want to profit on my childhood, or settle scores, but still felt compelled to tell the stories. Figuring out how to structure the book in a way that was not mercenary delayed publication by years.
Much of the gossip about these novelists hinges on the size of their advances. Why? Because the vast majority of writers do not earn a basic living wage. The normal human response to disparity is jealousy – which is of course pernicious and banal, so I will not address it.
As Byron often points out, you would have to be a capitalist to care.
The more important issue is a question of ethics: what is the responsibility of the writer, in the writing?
My book does not feature even a single reference to 9/11, and this was a deliberate choice. I thought that it would be cheap and lazy to use an event that I did not directly witness as a narrative theme. Beyond that, although I’ve written a memoir, I do not believe that most direct experience is appropriate to use for some obscure literary goal.
If I was trying to make a point with my own book, it is that human suffering is not symbolic. My pain, and rage, stand for nothing whatsoever. My body is simply a body.
This does not mean that the events of the past few years have not influenced my writing and life. Within weeks of the attack I was on a plane for Italy; there were perhaps a dozen other passengers and we all stared down in shock at the smoke billowing from Ground Zero. Wandering around Rome, I started to take the notes that form the foundation of Lessons in Taxidermy, and resolved that I would move to Europe at the first opportunity.
Back home again I watched the digital economy implode, and the print publishing world destabilize to a perilous degree. My small family felt the impact as advertising revenue vanished and companies across the world failed. Colleagues lost jobs, and I had to implement major changes in my business to adjust to the new normal.
Then someone I love nearly died in an accident. Then two people I loved committed suicide.
There is no way to communicate how desperately horrible that time was. I can say this with conviction because I tried, and failed, to write that book. I generated two hundred thousand words on the subject, not a bit of it interesting. That manuscript was junk, and I threw it away.
One of the primary difficulties in writing about 9/11 or the devastation of New Orleans is the fact that the events are not, essentially, extraordinary. They are tragic. They are inexcusable. But events of this scale and severity happen all the time, all around the world, and always will.
The experiences I describe in my book are not shocking, despite what some reviewers say: fear, hunger, confusion, and terror are normal features of too many lives. This is called the human condition. Only a society that is both spoiled and complacent would think otherwise, or fail so miserably to respond.
But I am a member of that society; worse yet, a citizen expatriate. I love my country but I left, a decision more wrenching than any other I’ve experienced. With the action I made a deliberate statement of intent: I moved to a different country because that was the only option that might offer my children material security.
This does not mean that I stopped thinking about what is happening at home. I’m just hampered in writing about it because of my belief that I am most qualified to address what I know is true. In other words, I am not a novelist.
I do not have an imagination sufficient to comprehend what evacuated people are dealing with right now; but in a way it is merciful that I cannot, because I am already stricken and adrift, my mind churning with all the hundreds of bureaucratic details.
To translate: I will not rush off to write a short story about people stranded in an attic while water rises as a way of expiating my own anxiety. I am a pragmatist, and must continue to reiterate that public health and safety should be of paramount concern to a wealthy nation.
I find solace in almost nothing except literature, and recently I’ve been reading books written during and just after WWII. Jean-Paul Sartre, Simone de Beauvoir, George Orwell, MFK Fisher, and scores of others certainly believed that their experiences were fit subjects for review, analysis, and even fiction.
Their books tell us something about what happened in those years; their ideas challenge us to debate the meaning of existence, and the responsibility of the writer, long after the lives have ended.
Should we ask whether current novelists are making an appropriate choice in writing about 9/11? Probably, but only if we also ask why so few people have dared attempt to render a literary account of this part of our history.
The decision to publish these books is not better or worse than the instinct that many people have to remain silent in the face of tragedy. My decision to exclude ideas, episodes, or people from a book about danger is no more or less ethical than any other decision made in the text.
Writers write, or don’t write, according to their own idiosyncratic desires.
Marguerite Duras asked Why do people write about writers? Surely their books should suffice.
But remember, she wasn’t just a novelist, and her life was not summed up by a colonial love affair. She is also the author and protagonist of La Douleur.