9UNP0223SD_Wallace_Robinson_WordPress

- Good evening. The trouble with these events is that nobody comes to literary readings anymore. 
(LAUGHTER)

We're going to let a few people stand in the back, but we're going to have to actually lock the doors. This is a Book Festival first. We're going to be turning away people, I think. This speaks to the power and the popularity of the two writers we have going tonight. My name's Dean Bakopoulos. I'm the former director of the Book Festival and other things. 

I'm here tonight to welcome you on behalf of the Wisconsin Humanities Council. The 2008 Wisconsin Book Festival is made possible by a huge litany of sponsors including the Argosy Foundation, the Evjue Foundation, IMS, the Isthmus, Overture Center for the Arts, thedailypage.com, the Pleasant T. Rowland Foundation, the American Girl Fund for Children and the National Endowment for the Humanities. Dozens of other organizations of hundreds of individuals contribute their time and funds. Thanks to all of them. A special thanks for our festival volunteers who are in the bright green T-shirts, should you have a literary emergency during the course of the night. 
(LAUGHTER)

If an epiphany is simply too much for you to take, please see one of these trained individuals. 
(LAUGHTER)

Also in the lobby, there will be a book signing and book sales after the show. 

If you want to support the festival and these authors this a great way to do it, is to actually buy a book. Not to be heavy-handed. The other things you need to know is that the readings tonight will wrap up by 8:30 so if you're going to another event you will have time to get there. And if you are going to another event you also get a literary masochist medal on your way to the next event. Tonight's event with Marilynne Robinson and Ron Wallace, two of the Midwest's most beloved and cherished writers, is made possible with funding from the UW Madison Creative Writing Program, which has graduated some of the most distinguished and handsome young writers in America. 
(LAUGHTER)

I mean these guys are good looking. 
(LAUGHTER)

Our first reader tonight is going to be Ron Wallace, who probably needs no introduction but I'll give him one. It gives me great pleasure to introduce Ron Wallace tonight. 

He's the author of 12 books of poetry, fiction and criticism including "For a Limited Time Only," which is available in the lobby, along with other books like, "Long for this World New and Selected Poems," and "Quick Bright Things," a foray into the field of fiction. We promptly kicked him out. We don't need somebody this talented switching genres in mid-career. Those are all wonderful books. He's a great writer. He's the founder and co-director of the creative writing program at the University Wisconsin Madison, editor of the University Wisconsin Press Brittingham, and Pollack Poetry Series, a wonderful and beloved husband, father and grandpa. He divides his time between Madison and a 40 acre farm in Bear Valley, Wisconsin. The late poet and writing teacher Richard Hugo wrote that Ron Wallace's poems ring with validity. Like Hugo, Wallace is an accomplished poet and remarkable teacher. In his capacity as the founder and co-director of the creative writing program at UW Madison, perhaps no writer in Wisconsin has done more for aspiring young writers and poets. 

He has certainly done a great deal for me as a teacher and a tireless advocate for young writers trying to find a niche in the literary world. He is truly a treasure in this state. We've been trying to get him to read for seven book festivals now! For those of you who have not had the benefit of studying with Ron in his classroom, you still can access this Wallace magic. He has a similarly profound impact on any reader who comes across his poems. His work is some of the most wonderful poetry one can read. Because of his rare and increasingly impressive gift of articulating dualities. His poetry can be simultaneously celebratory and melancholy. Simple and complex. Overjoyed with satisfaction, and swirling with longing. 

I know of no American poet who can inspire such powerful emotions in such a playful and pleasurable way. Please join me in welcoming Ron Wallace. 
(APPLAUSE)

- Thank you Dean, for that handsome introduction. Those of you that don't know, Dean was in our first class of MFA students and was, in fact, the most handsome. 
(LAUGHTER)

And that's why we brought him in, not for his writing. But you can tell from his introduction that he's a good writer. It's a real honor for me to be reading here on Saturday night at book fest. 

And to be reading with Marilynne Robinson who is one the truly great American writers. I just reread "Housekeeping and Gilead," and just finished "Home." And as you know, these are beautifully moving and lyrical and thought-provoking books, so you're in for real treat tonight. But first, about 30 minutes of poetry. 
(LAUGHTER)

Dean's introduction said a lot about me, but not everything, and so by way of a little further introduction I want to read an autobiographical poem. And I should say that those of you who of heard me read before, you will have probably heard some of these poems. That's all right. They're immortal. 
(LAUGHTER)

This poem is entitled "Local Hero." My nickname growing up Was Rusty Wallace The same as the race car driver By that name Who roars across the headlines Of the St. Louis Post-Dispatch Rusty Wallace Triumphs Or Wallace Wins Again Oh, say the little old ladies At my mother's church Who remember that small boy Fondly Joseph in the Christmas pageant Towing his squeaky donkey Down the aisle Altar boy in surplus And muffled silly grin Soprano in the choir loft Spinning out his tinny solos In the high compression air Oh, you must be proud of him Such an illustrious career The grueling work he's doing So very dangerous All that power and speed The terrible crashes She used to try to explain It wasn't me On those oversized tires Athwart that throbbing engine The packed house Hoping for a victory Or a crack up How I drove Only the smaller vehicles Sonnets and Sestinas Villanelles Though I'd been known To hazard a bit of fast talk Take a joyride In free-verse But they'd have nothing of it Oh my You're much too modest We've seen him race On track that man is Is pure poetry Him and his whole pit crew So now my mother smiles And acquiesces yes Her son's a winner After all And when on Easter Sunday I'm back to visit From wherever They're cheering imaginations Would have it The aging pastor driving His old slow message home About how we'll all Be resurrected At the finish line one day If we power up our lives With the high octane of prayer His metaphor nod In my direction And I feel all eyes on me I'm Rusty Wallace Local hero NASCAR barb extraordinaire Fastest damn poet On the track 
(LAUGHTER and APPLAUSE)

I thank you for that. And I'd love for you to applaud every poem, but then we wouldn't get to Marilynne. So save your thunderous applause until the end. But thank you very much, that helps. One little in-joke there you might not have caught, him and this whole pit crew, I'm referring both to myself as a racecar driver, and also as a poet published by the University of Pittsburgh Press and the Pitt Poetry series. With my colleagues Jesse Lee and Amy, who are also Pitt poets, the whole "Pitt" crew. 

I didn't say it was a funny joke. One other, I hope funny poem before we get down to business here. This is a poem for smart people. I tried to read it in La Crosse and it didn't go over. 
(LAUGHTER)

But here in Madison-- Oh, there's a La Crossean! 
(LAUGHTER)

But here in Madison, I tell you, people appreciate linguistic intellectual humor. A quick background, when I was writing sonnets some years ago I titled one of my sonnets "The Aesthetics of Beauty." And I sent it to Quarterly West and the editor said I'll publish this if you just call it "Aesthetics," because aesthetics of beauty is redundant. 

Aesthetics means the study of beauty. So changed the title to get it published, I'm not proud. But it irked me a little bit, and so I wrote this poem for that editor called "Redundancies." I've always wanted to have Backups for everything Two houses, two cars Two computers, two kids I'd have two wives Two hearts if I could So don't tell me I can't have The aesthetics of beauty As the title Of the next chapter Of my life Where beauty is concerned I would double my money Have two for the price of one I've never had a problem With second chances Second opinions The tautology of repetition Has a certain interest A certain charm Got you, got you again Perhaps it has Something to do with being The ontology of being Or knowledge The epistemology of knowledge 
(LAUGHTER)

Let me repeat, again On each diurnal day I look for some teleology Of purpose Why not be doubly satisfied Twice blessed I would make a gift Of this present I would consider my choice Of options I would examine the theology Of religion The inspiration of breath The optics of vision I would be Twice the man I am 
(APPLAUSE)

There's one thing that's not true in that poem. I don't really want two wives. My wife Peg is here. 

She's inimitable, incomparable, irreplaceable. That's the only untrue thing you're going to hear tonight from me. One is enough. So many of the poems tonight are from this new book, "For a Limited Time Only,." published in August. The first poem in the book is entitled "Trouble." Which is largely what the book's about. Trouble of various kinds, old age, illness, death, loss, depression, miscommunication. When I went it to my editor at Pittsburgh, he said I'll publish it but it's the most depressing book I've read in a decade. He gave me a couple of months to think about it, and so I did restructure the book and added some new poems about my grandkids you'll hear later, but it starts with "Trouble." 

Trouble How we think we abhor it Crossing the street To avoid meeting up with it Pretending if it knocks Not to be home Going out of our way To disavow any knowledge Preferring to go it alone Who in their right mind Would look for it Ask for it Who wouldn't do their best To stay out of it And yet, who is it always We bring to the table Who besides misery Provides better company And sometimes trouble sneaks up on you, as in this poem set in Australia where my daughter lived for seven years. We were visiting and had this experience. "In the Sweet BNB." In Brisbane The butcherbird Belying its namesake Wakes us every morning to music A carol of flutes and bells Australia's in drought The news from the States War and sleet And yet this bird That we've never seen Cascades like a stream After rain Swells and eddies around What would otherwise Be the bone-dry swale Of the day How pleasant to lie here Half a world away From everything we know And be blessed By this benediction That rinses the whole sky clean Who could consider rage Or rapaciousness With a bird like this On the wing Such trills and arpeggios Such grace and such peace At breakfast the landlady says She attracts them By hanging up Hunks of raw meat Which is what you feel like when you're diagnosed with cancer. As I was with prostate cancer some years ago. And it was disturbing, you know, I could die, but on the other hand I thought gee, I could write poems about this. 
(LAUGHTER)

So, I did. And I'll read you four of those. "Jilted." 

He had no symptoms No burning sensation No retention problems No difficulties To speak of whatsoever And so when the doctor said "Cancer" in that solemn tone That's reserved for consolation Or telling the one You loved so dearly You don't love them any more And we all know How that must go He said, "No thank you" Life wasn't Going to jilt him now He wouldn't let it go For how could something he loved Not love him? Was it something he'd said Or done? Then he'd be good He'd bring it flowers and candy He'd write it silly love poems It would be his tootsie-wootsie In the summertime again "Abracadabra." This poem describes the treatment. Anybody gone through treatment for cancer? I opted for radiation treatment. And this poem, the Linac 4 in this poem is the machine, the radiation machine you get radiation on for a six-week period. I remember the first day I appeared in the basement of University Hospital in Radiology. Dr. Mark Ritter was there with six young, blond Wisconsin residents. 

And he introduced them, Stacy, and Susan, and Janine, and Tiffany, etc. and they said okay, Mr. Wallace, drop your pants. 
(LAUGHTER)

And so it went. So this poem looks the treatment as a kind of magic act, I guess. "Abracadabra." Enter through the door Marked Linac 4 Take the tiny towel For false modesty Is always better than none Now drop your trousers Mount the table Bring your bony knees Upward to your chest While they tie Your feet together And give you The rubber ring to squeeze What little comfort you can From misdirection Let them levitate you And then apply The ultrasound gel Depression probe Adjusting The planning parameters With the computer Sleight of hand Ah, the indignity of it You feel like such a rube Caught with your Proverbial pants down As they vanish from the room Let Linac 4 begin to hum It's cool dispassionate hum The classic apparatus With its obligatory patter Moving its mesmeric armature Over your rigid body And finally it all Comes down to mathematics How the cells divide And multiply And the physics Of how the trick's done Who's to say That there could be no alchemy In the 21st century No magic, no necromancy All you want Is just to be a stage prop In the act of Linac 4 Your cancer but a coin A card, a key, a rope A rabbit In the top hat of the prostate Now you see it Now you don't Okay, now here's a risky poem. I've only read it once before in Madison to an undergraduate audience. It was before the book came out. 

We took a vote to see whether I should include it in the book, and the vote was yes, so I did. Now you can tell me whether I should have or not. This is a somewhat embarrassing thing that happened to me as I was doing research on prostate cancer. True story. Here it is. This is entitled "Professor Penis." 
(LAUGHTER)

A student walks in my office To find a penis On my computer screen It's a giant penis It fills up the whole screen This penis Is just a line drawing A medical penis for the record And certainly not a penis That might arouse anyone Or a penis that Would hold intrinsic interest For penis lovers anywhere I'm doing research Penis research I tell the skeptical student 
(LAUGHTER)

The penis, whisked away now As I close the penis site Actually a prostate cancer Penis site But faced with A giant line drawn penis Who would believe That most unlikely penis excuse? 

I'm feeling something like A penis As the student A male, thank God Whose own penis is tucked Discreetly between his legs Penis He's got no penis Nervously burbles Penis is all he can think of Penis, penis, penis As he flees the room Taking with him my penis Back to his friends And family, and dorm A penis, by now he's shouting On his screen, a penis Can you believe it? And from now on Professor Penis The whole student body Will call me Professor Penis they will call And I will rise 
(LAUGHTER and APPLAUSE)

Well, as far as I know, the cancer treatments were successful. I've got an appointment on Tuesday to see the doctor. And he says I shouldn't use the word "cured," but here's a poem entitled "Cured." It's basically a found poem taken from the American Heritage Dictionary definition of cured. "Cured." Like a ham or bacon Irradiated, preserved The foodstuff That will never go bad I'm saved, as by salting Or smoking, or aging I'm hardtack I'm salt pork I'm beef jerky The cancer's been remedied Eradicated As if it were just a bad habit It's been vulcanized Subjected to chemical action Or heat Rendered infusible or chemically inert I'm rubber I'm plastic Let death Try to mess with me now I'll stick in his craw 
(LAUGHTER)

Well, of course of my cancer isn't the only trouble in the world. There are bigger problems. After September 11, Billy Collins, who was Poet Laureate of the United States at the time, was asked whether he would write a poem about the tragedy and he said no, he wouldn't. But he went on to say that every poem he wrote was a statement in opposition to war, terrorism, tyranny and hatred. That creativity was the best response to destructiveness. And I agree with that. If everybody who is out there fighting a war right now would write a poem or paint a picture or dance or compose some music, I think the world be better a place. But every once in a while you want to write a directly political poem and so with the election coming up I will read two that and not in the book. And they're going to be, I hope they're relevant after the election but maybe they're relevant now. The first one is a paradel. 

Does anybody know what a paradel is? A paradel is a form invented by Billy Collins. As a joke, sort of a satire of all those very complex 16th century forms that were invented in the south of France the villanelle, the sestina, the canzone. And he made this form up. He published it in a book. There was a review of the book that said the book was pretty good, but that the form poem from the 16th century was terrible. He didn't know how to handle those form poems. He should stick to free verse and let the real formalists handle those poems. Well, he made this up. It was just a joke. 

The reviewer didn't get it. So people across the country started writing paradels and an anthology of paradels came out last year. But here's what a paradel is. A paradel is a 24 line poem. It's got four six-line stanzas. In the first stanza, the first line has to be repeated as the second line. They're identical. The third line has to be repeated as the fourth line. They're identical. The fifth and sixth lines have to use all the words and only the words that have appeared so far in that stanza. 

Same thing in the second stanza, first and second line the same, third and fourth the same, fifth and six. When you get to the fourth stanza, you have to use all the words and only the words that have been used previously in the poem and, of course, in the poem you've had two new lines in each stanza, that's six lines so you get your lines that way. Any rate. It seemed like a perfect form for this poem which is called "A Paradel for Donald Rumsfeld." 
(LIGHT LAUGHTER)

Another car bomb Goes off in Iraq Another car bomb Goes off in Iraq Don Rumsfeld shakes his head And smiles, stuff happens Don Rumsfeld shakes his head And smiles, stuff happens Another Rumsfeld Goes off in Iraq Don car bomb shakes his head And smiles, stuff happens George Bush is busy With strategery George Bush is busy With strategery The last pre-emptive strike Was no success The last pre-emptive strike Was no success The last George Bush Is busy No success With strategery Was pre-emptive strike The only option In the face of 9/11? The only option In the face of 9/11 An unnecessary war, chaos Thousands dead An unnecessary war, chaos Thousands dead The face of chaos The only dead option Thousands in an unnecessary 9/11 war Was, is George Bush The only option? Often busy Iraq The dead thousands Face Don Rumsfeld Chaos smiles And shakes his stuff An unnecessary last car bomb Of pre-emptive strategery Goes with another strike No success happens In the 9/11 war 
(APPLAUSE)

Oh, we have to applaud for Barack Obama. 

That's on a web site, by the way, called whyweareinIraq.com, which is all poems about the Iraq war and they're not all, some of them are in favor of the Iraq war, it's very interesting. It's not a politically oriented site. WhyweareinIraq.com. And as long as we're on that topic. My students don't know the difference between lie and lay. Do you? Everybody gets it wrong these days. I tell them that lie is intransitive and lay is transitive. Lay takes an object; you lay something down. You lie or recline. 

And if I know them really well sometimes I hazard a kind of sexual joke as a mnemonic device, I say if you lay someone you're treating them as an object. If you lie with them in the biblical sense you're reclining with them. My colleague, a friend of mine poet Kelly Cherry when she wanted to condemn someone, she would say, they don't even know the difference between lie and lay. So this is called "The Difference Between Lie and Lay." In truth My students don't know it Although the consistency With which they all get it wrong Might argue the obligatory lie For all my rants Of transitive intransitive It just never seems to stick I can lie and recline Till I'm blue in the face Say lay makes lover turn object My off-colored joke lying flat On a desk between us Laid bare there In what might be a lie So much past and past-perfect Have laid laying to rest That, no lie I might as well be Just a lay person Lost in my own grasp Of correctness Hell, even our President Whenever he goes nuclear Can't keep his grammar straight As he and his acolytes No students of truth Lay on us lie after lie 
(APPLAUSE)

All right, enough trouble. I'm going to conclude with five poems of celebration. I have terrible teeth, but I do have my teeth. My grandparents didn't at my age. 

However, I have a terrible fear of needles. So I take all my dental work, and it's extensive, without Novocaine. So that's one thing you have to know. The second thing is there's a theory that the smile originated in prehistoric times as a kind of snarl, as a way to keep people away. It still is kind of disarming. Somebody smiles at you, you don't want to beat them up. Anyway this poem is entitled "In Praise of my Dentist." In Praise of my Dentist First, for the pain The exquisite pain The incomparable Egalitarian pain Acidic, electric, lemony Metallic More taste than pain The sharp shrill of the drill The tart shriek of it Its slow grind Its feathers And then its beak And then For the innocuous conversation Between dentist and hygienist Over my head As if I'm not even there Small gossip about What was it today, parakeets How his father raised parakeets How he bred them for pets In summer, outside in the aviary In winter, all over the house And then For the ultimate artistry As he sculpts a shrine In my mouth Filled his gallery With silver and gold Artifacts past which A whole world of words Will pass A hunger will always be filled The molars masticating the dark The canines and incisors Gleaming In what we now deem a smile But which once said Keep off, stay back This shield That still keeps us intact Did I mention the pain? The colorful parakeet of pain? A silly little poem for my sister. 

And I thought sure my editor would make me take this out. He makes me a take a lot of minor little poems out. He didn't. I have great affection for this little poem. So I'm going to read it. My sister Terry Ann got divorced couple of years ago, very happily went back to school went to library school at the College of Pharmacy Library in St. Louis now. She called me up excitedly to tell me how her life was changing. This poem is called "Tattooed." "Tattooed" for Terry Ann. 

My sister gets a tattoo And calls me up to tell me Guess what your crazy Spontaneous sister did? And I say, I don't know Got married? No Bought a house? No She's 50 for God sakes Who knows what I think she'd do But got a tattoo, she says Oh, I say What do you mean 'oh', she says I think 'Oh' is self-evident So I say nothing And she says I got a tattoo So I say, you got a tattoo She says, that's more like it A tattoo And I say, a tattoo And it goes on Like a military parade A tattoo A tattoo A tattoo 
(LAUGHTER)

Three poems about my granddaughter Ruby, at various stages. I slipped these in at the last minute into the book, at the end. It sort of picks up, balances out the death and dying at the beginning. So you've got life, new life at the end. This one is called "The Old Mower." 

Tired My patience flagging I've dragged myself Out to the garage Where my three And three-quarters As she likes to insist Year-old granddaughter Ruby Is helping me With a push lawnmower We found under The ramshackle back porch Where I guess I must have Stashed it over 30 years ago Seized up with rust and funky Beyond what a bit of spit shine And oil could fix And yet a little WD-40 I offer And what's WD-40, says she As we spray the blades And wheel housings And our feet and hands And whatever else Seems to be in the way And I tell her And WD-40, she says I like that And now we'll apply Some masking tape, I say And what's masking tape Says she And I tell her And, hey, she says A big grin spread over face I like that Masking tape, says she Now we'll apply some primer I say And what's primer, says she And I tell her And, hey, she says I like that, primer Grandpa Rusty My childhood nickname And her pet name for me You sure do know a lot About everything And I start to demure In my typical Self-deprecatory way But then I find myself smiling Why yes, I guess I do And setscrew, she says I like that, and gear And gismo, and blade And suddenly the mower's new And I'm 63 and three-quarters And hey, I say I like that We're both pushing hard Now together And we're Blowing the grass away 
(LIGHT LAUGHTER)

This one's called "Little Quack Quackito." I'll read two more. Does anybody know that story? It's a bedtime story. It came in a Cheerio's box. It's a little book about this little duck Quack Quackito. So I'm reading the story to her and she kind of has her own little narrative going on at the same time, and they go together here. You'll also notice a theme in the reading sort of looking back to the beginning there's a little symmetry here. 

"Little Quack Quackito." We're reading the story Of little Quack Quackito And his sister And brother ducklings Widdle, Waddle Piddle and Puddle How they're too afraid To hop out of the nest Into the pond with their mother When, I've got a vagina My granddaughter Ruby says As splish Widdle plops in the water And Ernie Her three-day-old brother He's got a penis And splash, in goes Piddle Uh-huh, I say Thinking how do I navigate That deep water Thinking how best to stay safe In the nest of my book And come little ducking Says little Quack's mother You can do it As Waddle hops in the water And it's right here, says Ruby The wing of her arm Bent under her nightgown Forefinger pointing out That bright destination Look And I look, not wanting To indicate anything's wrong With this innocent invitation Not wanting to pay it Too much attention When, no, mama we're too scared Cried Puddle And little Quack Quackito And then sploosh In goes Puddle And, do you have a penis Ruby asked me And I blanch, as little Quack Alone in the nest now Looks at the water Sniffs the water Touches the water With his foot Could he do it? Did he dare? And then splish, splush Sploosh, splash Yes, I do, I say 
(LAUGHTER)

Wondering how that will float And, oh, Ruby says Growing bored now Leaving Widdle and Waddle And Piddle and Puddle And their mother And little Quack Quackito To swim off to sleep Now that That story's over Okay, I'm going to close with one quiet little poem. But before I do that, let me thank you again for coming. It's a great audience. I think I'm going to attach myself to all of Marilynne Robinson's audiences. But the one thing I worry about among many things, but the one thing I worry about in events like this is the book signing afterwards. 

I can forget anybody's name. I can forget my best friends' names. The last time I read in Madison up at Canterbury Book Store when it was still Canterbury Book Store, a father came up with his son who was one of my students, a very good student and the father said, Mr. Wallace my son loves you. He thinks you're the best teacher around, you take your students, you're personally involved with them, you care about them, could you sign this book for him. And I don't have a clue what his name is. At any rate, so I will ask you this, either don't buy a book -- 
(LAUGHTER)

Or if you do, no matter how well I know you when you come by, tell me your name. Okay, that way, I've already seen some people here. 

Nancy Wipperfurth I just ran into I could not think of her name until I sat down here and suddenly it came back to me. I haven't seen her for years, but at any rate. Okay. Let me just close with this little poem entitled "For Ruby, Age 2." When she was two, whenever she would get hurt, or something bad would happen, she would say, "It's okay. It's okay." "For Ruby, Age 2." It's okay, you say About the bare toe you bloodied On the cold sidewalk This morning And have worried about all day Not letting anyone wash off The dried rust That reminds you of its trauma It's okay, you say As if a truth Has just surprised you A calm come over you An understanding It's okay, you reassure us So you'll be reassured Yesterday, the lame cow In the hayfield Its foreleg festering with flies Was offered up the same Fond consolation It's okay As the farmer made his slow way Racross the ragged field To gather and dispatch it You're learning what we've known Most all our lives The world's a world of hurt This safest situation Can open up its maw And bare its teeth And tear the skin off The most innocent objection And stub the very life Out of every smile you know But it's okay, you tell us It's okay. We've got your word And despite The mounting evidence The world is reassured Thank you. 
(APPLAUSE)

- Thank you Ron, for that wonderful experience of hearing you read such fine work. The next, our next reader and our final reader tonight is Marilynne Robinson. Allison, the wonderful director of the Book Festival, has done a great job this year. 
(APPLAUSE)

She called me on Thursday, emailed me on Thursday and said we need someone to introduce Marilynne Robinson. Every writer in town is too scared to do it. 
(LAUGHTER)

Because she's that good. I said why would you call me? 

And she said because you started this whole thing. And I was intimidated, but overjoyed to do it. But Marilynne Robinson is one of those writers who has reached a point in the literary stratosphere that the rest of the writers around her can only look up to. Her last few novels have been huge accomplishments, but she came out of the gate with an amazing accomplishment, as well. And so I'm humbled and honored to have her here at the festival. Thrilled we were able to bring her here and glad to introduce her. Marilynne Robinson's 1980 novel "Housekeeping" won the Hemingway Foundation Pen Award for best first novel. Her second novel, "Gilead," won both the 2005 Pulitzer Prize for Fiction and the 2004 National Book Critics Circle Award. And prompted New York Times book reviewer James Wood who never really gives anyone a good review to proclaim that, "Robinson's words have a spiritual force that's very rare in contemporary fiction." Her latest novel is entitled "Home," which is the companion piece to "Gilead." 

As a novelist, Robinson possesses that rare gift. A quiet, cumulative power, graceful, lush and wholly credible, that is transformative for readers. When one arrives at the end of Robinson's novel, one feels inexplicably transformed. This is a writer who understands America's complex spiritual condition in a profound, compassionate way. We readers are blessed that she shares such understanding with an articulate vision and exquisite prose. Please join me in welcoming Marilynne Robinson. 
(APPLAUSE)

- It's a great pleasure to be here in a nice literary town. We consider, we in Iowa City consider you to be basically the nearest thing we have to a twin. 

And thank you for the wonderful introductory reading. It certainly warmed the crowd. I got here actually without the book that I had marked for my reading, and so I'm making my best guess about where would be a good place to begin. And then I will read until I've run out of time. I do have a watch. In any case... Let me see. Well, I'll start here. I haven't read very often from this book. I complicate my life by creating books that are a little bit difficult to read from. 

They have no chapters. In this case, I have male characters whom I hope I can read reasonably well. And I also have people singing songs. Which I can't do myself. In any case... Well, here. You can see this is not a triumph of organization. 
(LAUGHTER)

I marked entirely the wrong places in this hurry to read, to find out what to read. Here we go, let's start here. 

It's at the top of the page. 
(LAUGHTER)

This is a story, the novel is a companion to "Gilead." It occurs simultaneously with it and it describes the same events largely from the point of view of the Boughton house, the friend of John Ames, who is the pastor who is the voice of Gilead. I'm reading from part of the novel where Jack, who has come back to Gilead for reasons of his own, is trying to find someway to be there, trying to make peace with his father and find a relationship with his sister. They've begun to settle in, to a certain extent. They have in common the fact that their venture to the outside world and into adult life has ended or is ending rather painfully for both of them. So Jack has come back and he's broke. His sister's trying to sort of help him out. And she realizes that she really ought to buy him some clothes. 

The next day, Glory went to the hardware store and bought two pairs of the tan cotton pants and three of the blue denim shirts local men wore when they were not farming, or fishing, or dressed for a funeral. They were folded over cardboard. Stiff when they were new. But she would put them through the wash twice and press them a little and they would be fine. She guessed at Jack's size. Anything long enough was too wide but he would have to make the best of that. While she was hanging them on the clothesline he walked over from the garden and stood with his hands on his hips watching. He said, those for me? If you think you could use them. He laughed. 

I'm pretty sure I can. He said, thanks Glory. And he reached over and touched a sleeve appreciatively. There was no irony in the gesture. I'll have to owe you for this. You don't owe me anything. I took some money out of the piano bench. I'm as broke as you are. I lost that other suitcase. I know. 

He was quiet for a minute. You had a pretty good job. I did. That bastard took your money. She shrugged. I gave it to him. It doesn't matter. I didn't have any real plans for it. He nodded. The old fellow thinks you had to quit teaching because you got married. 

And you know differently. Yes. None of my business. He took a cigarette from his shirt pocket and tapped it on his thumbnail. What? I've often thought, he said, I mean, it's been my experience that women can be too kind. Too kind for their own good. She laughed. I've thought so too from time to time. You're kind. 

Case in point. He studied her face, wincing against smoke from his cigarette. Then he said, could you forgive him? He glanced away. Sorry, none of my business. He said, you brought it up last night; I was just wondering. She smiled at him. Right, he said, you don't like to talk about. There was something that charmed her in the fact that her brother, the one true worlding in the whole tribe of Boughtons, seemed to be asking her for advice or for wisdom. Standing there in the sunlight with the wind hushing in the dusty lilacs of their childhood and laundry swaying on the lines where the school clothes used to hang. 

He looked older in sunlight. It brought out a sort of toughened frailty in him. But standing at a little distance, looking away at nothing in particular, he had that oblique and hesitant persistence about him that meant he was in earnest. So far as she could tell. So she said, could I forgive him? I'm not sure I understand the question. But the answer is no. He nodded. I don't wish him any harm and I'm glad I'll never see him again. I don't enjoy being reminded of him. 

Sorry. I wouldn't have mentioned it but you did bring it up. You said I'm not hard to forgive. Something like that. Were you good to her? I tried to be. He shrugged. Then if she's a kind woman, she'll probably forgive you. Of course, I don't know what you did, what she'll have to forgive you for. He laughed and tossed away his cigarette. 

I'm not sure I do either. There were so many things she put up with. It's what I am as much as anything, what I'm not. She got tired of the problems. I should have been more protective somehow, he said. I tried that. Once I sort of defended her honor. Not wise in the circumstances. Then, it probably wouldn't matter if she did forgive me. I thought she might write though. 

He said, you get used to kindness. After a while you begin to count on it. You miss it when it's gone. She said, I know a little bit about that. And he nodded and the lilacs rustled and the sun shone and there was quiet between them, a calm that came with being of one mind. So she had to say, you shouldn't lose hope. He laughed. Sometimes I really wish I could. She said, I know about that too. Why hadn't she bought clothes for him weeks ago? 

Because he was a stranger she was afraid of offending with so personal an attention. Because her buying clothes for him would allude to his poverty and offend him. Because it might seem like a subject of conversation for people who saw her buying them and this would embarrass and offend him. Because he was vain in particular and Jack. Cheap, sturdy work clothes were not the kind of thing he thought he should wear and they would offend him. But in fact, she saw him check the shirts on the line several times, and when one of them was dry enough he brought it in and ironed it and put it on. The pants were heavier and took longer to dry. She saw him check them too. Then walk over by the orchard, pick a fallen apple off the ground, throw it up on the barn roof and wait and catch it when it came down. And throw again. 

Her brothers all did that when they were boys. Jack looked a little stiff as if he were making an experiment in attempting this lonely game after so many years. Tentative as he was, it might have meant happiness. Ames strolled over that evening after supper for a game of checkers, he said but he and their father sat on the porch with the board between them and talked quietly together, the way they did when advice of some kind was being sought and given. Glory brought them ice water and left them to themselves. It was a courtesy Ames paid to his friend to seek out pastoral wisdom even though he must have had wisdom of his own to spare after so many years. And since he was, by temperament the more obliging of the two, and therefore seldom in particular need of wisdom, his own or Boughton's, all the same he would offer up some soul to her father's contemplation and then they would consider together as they did in the old days how to mollify, comfort, instruct. Boughton had resigned his pulpit ten years earlier under circumstances that made Ames especially careful to respect his views. The Sunday school children were marrying. And the married couples had settled into difficult ordinary life. 

And the grave old men and women who had taught the Sunday School children about bands of angels and flying chariots were themselves crossing over Jordan, one by one. So he helped Ames think through whatever question might have arisen among the congregationalists whom he knew better than his own former flock now through these murmured consultations. Yes, he would say. A good deal of tact will be called for in dealing with that fellow. Then Ames would say, that's for sure. During these conversations, her father's expression assumed its old sagacity. The gentle shrewdness of the practiced shepherd of souls. But I tell him where matters stand, I'd be frank about it. His eyes would kindle with the thought of firmness and candor, the memory of those old pleasures. Ames always watched him with a kind of bemused and wistful respect as if he were now the younger man and his friend had aged past him into a venerability he might never attain. 

Yes, he said, I would certainly be frank. Jack came upon them there talking together. She heard them greet him in a word or two and then he came into the kitchen with cucumbers from the garden. His shirt bloused and his pants gathered a little under his belt but she was pleased all in all with the way he looked and she could tell he was too. He managed to seem a little dapper somehow. A thing his pride required. She knew this was a relief to him. He washed the cucumbers. Cucumber's smell like evening, he said, like chill. Need any help? 

When she said no he went to the piano and sat down and began to play softly and tenderly a favorite hymn of his father's. He played it softly and she thought, very tenderly. She went into the hallway to listen and he glanced up at her sidelong as if there were an understanding between them. But he played on pensively without a hint of detachment or calculation. Come home, come home, ye who are weary, come home. The old men fell silent. Earnestly, tenderly, Jesus is calling, calling for you and for me. Her father sang, Ames with him. Then Rock of Ages, then the Old Rugged Cross. And when that song was over it was night. 

It had begun to thunder and rain one of those storms that come after dark and change the weather. The old men sat there silent for a long time. She brought Ames an umbrella and after a while she heard him take his leave. She was afraid the damp might make her father uncomfortable. But he asked her very kindly to leave him alone for a little while. He said, tell Jack that was wonderful, I was proud of him. She found Jack in his room, the door open, lying on his bed reading a book. She said from the doorway, Jack, papa told me to tell you it was wonderful you played for them. He said he was proud of you. He considered. 

Was Ames still there when he said that? Not when he said it to me. Ames would have known it anyway. Jack nodded. I suppose he would. Good. Thanks, Glory. It rained soundly and satisfactorily overnight. There was talk of drought and one good rain would not end the worry, but it did make a beautiful morning, a mild and fragrant wind and shimmering trees loud with birds. Jack had left the house early. 

Glory heard the creak of the screen door before the sun was well up. His restlessness took on the aspect of virtue, rousing him out of bed in the dark and sending him out into the garden to expend the sour energies of failed sleep. She went down to the kitchen and started a pot of coffee and sat in the porch while it brought itself to the kind and degree of fragrance her family had always preferred. Then she poured a cup for Jack. She found him out by the clothesline. He pulled the line down and released it, and raindrops flew up, brilliant in the morning light. He did the same with the next one and the next. Thanks, he said, as he took the cup from her. She saw that he had brought the gasoline can out of the barn. He said, back in a minute. 

And went into the housing and came out again with his suit on hangers and a dish towel over his shoulder. I'm going to do a little dry cleaning. He poured gasoline into an empty coffee can and soaked the cloth and then sponged the sleeve of his jacket, saturated the bulge at the elbow and the creases on the inside of the elbow and pulled it straight. He glanced at her. This sort of works, he said. After awhile the smell goes away. Here. He handed her his cigarettes and his matches. I can be absent minded. She said, I've heard that people did this, I've never actually seen anyone do it before. 

He said, sheltered life. The whole of that morning, he worked at his suit. She saw him stand back finally and study it as it swung there in the wind and apparently decided it was good enough since he emptied the coffee can out on the ground and carried the gasoline back to the barn. She went out to see for herself and it did look to her as if it had fewer of the signs of hard use than it had had before. That it looked more impersonal, less conformed to one particular life. In the breeze there was something game about it, even a little jaunty. No wonder he was pleased. He came inside, washed up and made himself a peanut butter sandwich. Want one? I'll give you half of mine. 

All of it. I washed my hands, he said. What is the French for sandwich? I'm pretty sure the French for sandwich is sandwich. He nodded. I was afraid of that. So I'm at a loss to make this slightly gaseous object more appealing to you. To me, for that matter. Jelly? Hate the stuff. 

It can be good in doughnuts. He lifted the top slice of bread and looked under it. An ugly food, peanut butter. If I stuck a match, perhaps I could serve it to you flaming, Madam. As they do in the finer restaurants, mademoiselle. No thanks, I'm having soup. Want some? He shook his head. I am hungry in general. It's the particulars that discourage me. 

Then you might as well eat your sandwich. True, he said. Do we still have that baseball mitt? Yes we do, I put it in my closet. I was afraid you might find some way to swap it for a hair shirt. He nodded. That was prudent of you. I was thinking if you still had it, I might borrow it back. She said, sure, as soon as you finish your sandwich. I do this, he said, only because I trust you to have my best interests at heart. 

He ate it in eight bites and washed it down with a glass of water. Well now I've fed the beast, he said. It should stagger through till supper. It's an oddly patient beast, my carnal self. I call it snowflake. For, you know, it's intractable whiteness, among other things. A certain lingering sentiment attaches to it. It reminds me of my youth. She brought him the mitt. He said, kids his age are always losing things so I bought another baseball. 

I mean, I was always losing things at his age. That's fine. He put the mitt on his hand and popped the ball into the pocket with a flick of his wrist, that ancient gesture. I thought Ames might appreciate, a kid ought to learn how to play catch. I was good at baseball. I thought he might remember that. It's a good idea Jack. I don't think you need to worry so much about what Ames thinks of you. I know what he thinks of me. It can't get much worse. 

So that doesn't worry me. Then what does? You're right. Deranged by hope. I guess I thought he might look down upon me from his study window and say to himself, he's a cad and a bounder, but I appreciate his attention to my son. He laughed, that won't happen. No need to worry about that. What a stupid idea. Glory said, I've been meaning to ask you to take the New Life and the Nation over to the Ameses. They don't subscribe. 

Ask Lila if Robbie might like to play little ball. She says yes, the Reverend won't object. He nodded. All right, I'll do it. Nothing ventured and so on. After half an hour she walked out just far enough to see Jack and Robbie in the road in front of Ames' house. Robbie encumbered with a big stiff glove, scrambling after the ball when Jack tossed it and throwing it back halfway in something like the right direction. That's the idea, Jack called. The child squared off and punched his mitt ready for anything. The next toss bounced of his shoe. 

Jack laughed very kind laughter that she had not heard for decades if she had ever heard it. He ran forward to field Robbie's throw and when he turned around he saw her. He waved. Home soon, he called. She called back, no hurry. Sorry she had distracted him. He looked like a man full of that active contentment that makes even ordinary movement graceful. He looked at ease in sunlight. She hoped old Ames had indeed gazed down upon him. He might have seen him as his father did for once. 

After half an hour, Jack came in through the porch. He smiled when he saw her. That was all right, he said. What a funny kid. He's a nice kid. I don't think I'm grooming him for the majors though. He wants to play for the Red Sox. I'm not saying he has no chance at all. You have to be black to have no chance at all. There's Jackie Robinson. 

Ah, yes, Jackie Robinson of Dodger fame. There's a Larry Dobie, Willie Mays, Frank Robinson, Roy Campanella, Ernie Banks, Satchel Paige. I'll give you a nickel if you can tell me which one plays for Boston. I confess I haven't given much thought to baseball lately. Clearly. There are those in St. Louis who think of little else. I've had many earnest conversations on the subject. She looked at him. With Della? 

One or two of them with Della. She knows what matters in this world. Glory laughed, well I'm pretty sure I don't. Here I've been wasting my time worrying about radioactive fallout. About strontium 90. He said, believe me, she worries about that too. Jack let a day pass and then in the afternoon he took his ball and glove and went to Ames' again. When he came back he seemed pleased. The kid's shaping up. He actually caught one on the first bounce. 

He said, it was all right. They even asked me to stay for supper. Lila asked me, but I don't think the Reverend objected. He didn't seem to. Why didn't you stay? He shrugged and smiled. They were being polite. Of course they were being polite. The doesn't mean they weren't really inviting you. After a moment he said, I have learned in the tedious course of my life that it is safer not to presume on these courtesies. 

I've taken the bait often enough to know how it feels when the trap shuts. Better to forgo the pleasures of, you know, pot roast and mashed potatoes. She said, you want to get yourself on better terms with Ames, how can you do that if you don't let him treat you like a friend? Ask you to supper? It's the most ordinary thing in the world. He nodded. There it is. My lifelong exile from the ordinary world. I have to learn the customs. And somehow persuade myself that they pertain to me. 

He looked at her. That's where it gets tricky. No, you just have to relax a little and remind yourself that you're dealing with a very kind old man. He said, it's really more complex than that, Glory. The other day, I gave his kid my glove to use so he ran upstairs and took the old glove Ames' keeps on his desk and brought it down to me. I guess it once belonged to the long departed Uncle Edward. It seemed harmless enough to me to put it on, I mean it wasn't as if I were going to be catching anything with it. But, you know, I stole it once, temporarily. I don't know why. And Ames' knew and I had stolen it because who else would bother. 

And I was the town thief. So today when he came up the road from church there I was with that thing on my hand and nothing to do but stand there. He looked at it and looked at me and he didn't say anything about it and neither did I. But I could tell that he was reminded of all that, my troubled youth. And it was embarrassing. For him too. I think you forget how long ago all that happened. Yes, and here I am today, John Ames Boughton, solid citizen, a miraculous transformation. He laughed. He was thoughtful for awhile and then he said, if I had it to do over again, I mean, adolescent criminality, I'd try to restrict myself to doing things that were explicable. 

Or least appeared to be explicable. I'm serious. It's the things people can't account for that upset them. The old gent used to ask me, why did you do that Jack? And I couldn't even tell him I did it because I felt like it. Even that wouldn't have been true. What did I want with an old baseball mitt? Nothing. But there wasn't really much to steal in this town. It would have been hard to find anything to want. 

Anything that might make it seem as though I had a motive. So all my offenses were laid to a defect of character. I have no quarrel with that. But it is a problem for me now. Glory said, if the Ameses ask you to supper again, say yes and stay. Promise me. He laughed. Will do. On my honor. He said, you have a feeling for these things. 

And the very next day, having toiled earnestly in the vegetable patch, in the flower beds from dawn till noon, and having tightened the joints of three Adirondack chairs that had always slouched together under the kitchen window as if to be indolently serviceable in the event that something in the yard between them and the barn should attract spectators. And having re-strung the clothesline, he came into the house, ironed his shirt and polished shoes. I'm feeling useful, he said, productive. That's good for morale. So is the tan. He pushed up his sleeve to show her. There's a definite line there. So there is. She had learned to worry about these hectic outbursts of purposefulness and to know there was no point in trying to dampen down. He said, I believe this is Thursday, so tomorrow is Friday, and Ames will probably be working on his sermon. 

He won't welcome interruption. He said, I will probably go to church on Sunday. I can do that. My suit no longer smells combustible. Just slightly automotive. 
(LAUGHTER)

I wouldn't want to alarm anyone. He laughed. So all this was in preparation for supper at the Ames' for which he had not been invited. But he left the house in the early morning pausing in the door, in the early evening, pardon me, pausing in the door to look her and shrug as if to say wish me luck. 

When he was not home for supper she told her father that she thought he might have been invited by Ames and Lila. Yes, her father said. I hope John will take some interest in him. That is a thing I've wished for many years. When you give a man a namesake you do expect a certain amount of help. Ames was a help to me of course. Not to Jack so much. I don't mean to criticize. I guess I wasn't much help to him either as far as that goes. The old man wanted to wait for him in the porch so they sat there together in the mild night. 

You can't see the lightning bugs through these screens, he said. You can't see the stars. But at least you get the breeze. He heard the crickets. After a little while he said, Ames will need his rest. Old fellows can't tolerate these late nights. I hope he will realize that. And then they heard footsteps and Jack came up the walk and up the steps. Nice evening, he said. His voice was soft and calm. 

Glory knew that her father noticed it too. Yes, the old man said, yes it is, a fine evening. Jack said, they were very kind. The boy likes me. And Mrs. Ames seems to think I'm alright. I suppose you talked a little politics Jack. Yes sir, he says, Stevenson is a very fine man no doubt. His father laughed. There's no persuading him. 

He'll agree with anything you say but when the chips are down it's Eisenhower. Yes, I know what it's like trying to reason with him where politics are concerned. He hasn't been around so much lately. Maybe I've been trying too hard. Jack said, he talked a little bit about his grandfather. Yes, he likes to tell the old stories. The Boughtons weren't here for most of that. We left Scotland in the fall of 1870 so we missed out on the war and the rest of it. There was a lot of what you might call fanaticism around here in the early days. Even among Presbyterians. 

That old fellow was right in the middle of it from what I've heard. And then in his old age he was about as crazy as is possible to be and still be walking the streets. I would never have named you after that John Ames. We were used to him of course. We felt sorry for him. But he was crazy when I knew him. And before that too, I believe. Jack was quiet for a while. Then he said, Ames seems to have had a lot of respect for him. His father said, the old settlers you know, the old families, they used to tell stories they thought were just wonderful. 

And then I think they began to realize that the world had changed and maybe they should reconsider a few things. It's taken them a while. Ames was pretty embarrassed about the old fellow while he lived always talking with Jesus. I suppose he didn't tell you about that. He told me. He told me the story about his grandfather leaving Maine for Kansas because he had a dream that Jesus came to him as a slave and showed him how the chains had rankled his flesh. I've heard the story before, of course. I always thought it sounded enviable. I mean, it's have that kind of certainty. It's hard to imagine. 

Hard for me to imagine. Certainty can be dangerous, the old man said. Yes, sir, I know, but Jesus, it seems as though he might have shown someone his chains. I mean, in that situation. You might be right, Jack. I'm sure Ames would agree. But when you see where we are now still trying to settle these things with violence, I don't know, live by the sword and die by the sword. Jack cleared his throat. The protests in Montgomery are nonviolent. The old man said, but they provoke violence. 

It's all provocation. There was a long silence then Jack said, this week I will go to church. I will definitely go to church. That's wonderful Jack, yes. He helped his father to bed and then he came into the kitchen. You were right, he said, it was fine. I said the grace. I'd practiced this time. I was polite, I believe. I didn't talk enough to get myself in trouble. 

I don't think I did. I'm not saying anything changed, but it wasn't a disaster. Macaroni and cheese. I cleaned my plate. He laughed. Thank you. 
(APPLAUSE)

I left a few moments, so that I can respond to questions, if anyone has any questions. Yes? 
(inaudible)

Do I relate more to Jack or to Glory. That's really hard to say. You know, I like all of my characters. That seems to be a condition of fiction for me, that I have to like them all. And it's whoever, whatever persona I'm assuming in a particular moment, even in a conversation. I'm always trying to hold up the side of whoever's the speaker. So I'm on both sides. I always am. Yes? 
(inaudible)

Well, I haven't thought of doing that. But then I went back to a book of non-fiction that I had been working on before I wrote "Gilead." And these characters did not leave my mind. I kept thinking about them. And I'd had the same sort of experience after "Housekeeping," but in that case, I just steeled myself and waited until they vanished, you know. But in this case, I thought, why do that. If they want their book, I will give them their book. Yes? 
(inaudible)

Well, we know about World War II, that Jack evaded the draft. 
(laughs)

That's in "Gilead," you know. Right. But aside from that, I also don't mention Korea. There is just a limit to how many things you can gather. And of course, the old men would be too old for World War II. Yes? 
(inaudible)

- "Gilead" was a very positive and hopeful book. 

But at the end of "Home," I felt very sad. Did you intend that feeling? Did you intend for this story that is told twice now, for the reader to feel sad about this? 

- Well, you know, I actually hoped that the books could be read in either order. I hope that they were autonomous. I didn't really want this to be something that would have that kind of direct interpretive consequence, by virtue of coming second. I think that there's, you know, there is blues. You know what I mean? I don't think that any art would encourage anyone to believe that there's not a place for sadness also, in the things that are represented in literature, or wherever. I'm talking about, of course, the civil rights situation before the civil rights movement really gained power. 

And that's, you know, that is a sad subject. At the same time, since the civil rights movement is alluded to, anybody that knows any American history, knows that something else is coming after this. You know, there's-- Should I say this or not? 
(laughs)

I hate to be in this position of interpreting my own book, you know, because if it's not on the page, what's the meaning of it? There's an idea that I have, that's very important to me, that even a very fine, very intelligent, very thoughtful, metaphysics can always be disrupted. And the fact that it's vulnerable to disruption is relevant to the fact that it refers to a larger meaning, rather than being sufficient to it. And when Lila comes into the church and Ames first notices her there, he says it's like a dream he had where, you know, he's giving what he thinks is a fine sermon and then Jesus comes in and sits down. You know? And in a way, if there is a way in which for me Jack functions in that same way. 

There are fine things. There's this beautiful metaphysics. There is a lot of intellectual scrupulousness, and so on, in this little town that he walks into, you know, among the clergy that we talk about. But at the same time, by virtue of stepping into the situation, he has a sort of radical other view, that makes you understand that this is an encapsulated reality, basically. There's a larger role to challenge it. Yes? 

- I think your description that metaphysics can be disrupted shows that one can look beyond oneself. It's certainaly true of "Gilead." 
(inaudible)

There's still something about the end of that book that was hopeful. 

I don't mean that sadness is-- 
(inaudible)

I mean it's the sadness of the three characters, the whole family. 

- Well, you know, I don't know. 
(laughs)

Books have their meanings for readers. In a way they're, you know, they're autonomous beings after you publish them. But what you find out in the ending, as sad as it is, and as sad as it's seen to be by Glory, nevertheless, these people love him. They come back. The place that he calls home is a home in their imagination, and so on. 

They want him. They want to find him. And I think that's something, in a way, that is more positive than anything else that Jack could've imagined. Yes? 
(inaudible)

Well, it's odd. You can start out with a very slender sense of a character, but if for some reason or another, you have a detail that opens into a much more fully imagined character. Like when I began writing "Housekeeping," I remember that one of the first sentences I wrote was "Sylvia always had cold hands." And this is not a sentence that actually appears in the book. But the detail of the coldness of her hands somehow, you know, just her character eminated from that, in a very large degree. 

I was profoundly consistent with it. And with Jack, there are certain mannerisms, and a kind of style of humor, and so on, that I simply knew would be characteristic of him. You get little glimpses of these characters. It's sort of like seeing someone out of the side of your eye. And then the interest of writing them is that in the course of writing them, you find out what you do know about them. It's a strange thing. I often compare it to dreaming, simply because I think most people have, and I have, dreams in which someone will be a very powerful figure in the dream, and be someone that I've never seen before, but whom I can interpret as being reassuring or ominous. You know, who has a scar. You know what I mean? Often, details of their appearance that are very, very strong in my imagination, although they don't correspond to anything I know in the real world. 

I finally have become sort of agnostic, as far as the whole subject of fiction writing is concerned. I don't really know why I'm obsessed by the things that obsess me. One time, years ago, you know, when I was teaching in England, in 1983 or 1984. I was on a street in Canterbury, and I saw a man open a letter, a man standing on a street corner. He was this very sort of sturdy working class guy. And obviously, the letter was devastating to him. And the way that he responded to it, and what I could read, also, in his manner, was that he solidified his body in a way. He spread his feet. You know what I mean? You could see that he was making himself gravitationally capable of absorbing what it was that he was reading. 

And I never spoke to him. I have no idea who he was. But for some reason, the vividness of that moment, and the fact that was he was doing was so visible to me, a complete stranger, at a distance, you know. It's that kind of detail that you pick up as you go through the world. And often, it finds its way into a book. That moment is in "Home." And who knows? All I can say is that you pass through the world, you see little eloquences that people are unconscious of, and so on. You see mannerisms that they're never aware of. And out of that, you begin to interpret all kinds of things about them. 

And it's half play and it's half a very serious exploration into how do I know what I feel I do know about the world and what human beings are, and how you read them. Any other questions? Okay, thank you. 
(applause)