Matthew Langione (ML): David, you have perhaps the single longest job description that I have ever seen! [laughter] Your enterprises are really quite diverse. Is there any unifying quality about what you do?
David Applefield (DA): Well, it¹s true that I like to think of myself as a cultural guerrilla. However, if I had to pinpoint a unifying characteristic in all that I do, it would be this: I¹m trying to disseminate information, be it literature, politics or culture, that otherwise might not be published. In FRANK for example, I tend to look for works of fiction that might not fit into today¹s mainstream conventions.
ML: Yes, and that¹s certainly a theme in your recent novel, ³On a Flying Fish.² A book editor struggles to publish an ³unpublishable manuscript.² You must have seen quite a few of those over the years.
DA: Well, yes. I like to think of the manuscript as the battleground, where ideas and language duel it out. It¹s literature that is still living‹anything can happen. In my novel, I create a degree of irony. There¹s a manuscript within the story, and of course, both are published [in the novel].
ML: It is indeed a very multi-layered story. You oscillate between first and third person, between multiple narrators. Of course, it¹s part of your rightful literary arsenal. But what impelled you to use it?
DA: Well, frankly, the novel was written over a substantial period of time. And over time, your own point of view shifts. This can translate into a problem, or a richness. I consider my own voice to have layers. So, I tried to weave them into the fabric of the story.
ML: The novel of multiple narrators is really a twentieth-century phenomenon, propagated by the likes of Joyce, Faulkner and even more recently in America, Philip Roth. You yourself have pursued considerable study in literature, first at Amherst College, then later at Northeastern University. How have your studies influenced your writing?
DA: I don¹t think of myself as an erudite person. I pay attention to the innumerable sources of information that we take in about society from high literature, to the writing on the back of cereal boxes, or in the stalls of New York City bathrooms. James Joyce used to claim that he read everything with the exact same intensity. I think that I have a tendency to do the same. I¹ve sprinkled all of that into my novel, wherever I could. As a writer, everything becomes part of your pallet.
ML: You mention Joyce. In your studies, did you ever have any particular favorite authors?
DA: Of course. While I was reading for my master¹s degree, I felt deeply connected to Lawrence Durrell. I admire how he can tell the same story in various ways. And like many other writers and academics, I read ³Ulysses² at age 20. It really marked me. It¹s a book about how to read. It imbued me with a deep receptivity to the endless possibilities of fiction.
ML: For a while it was fashionable to claim that ³the novel is dead.² What is your response to that?
DA: Frankly, the novel can not be dead. I believe that it will never be dead, because it has become identified as a way that we understand reality, and humanity. Humanity, of course, is an endless well. Perhaps it could be said that distinctions between fiction and non-fiction are vastly overstated. In fact, the distinction is imposed upon the writer by business‹the publishing houses. It¹s certainly not essential to the writer. Marcel Proust, for example, certainly wouldn¹t have known how to respond if asked whether his work was fiction or non-fiction. It¹s both.
ML: David, by writing and publishing in Paris, you have inherited a storied tradition of expatriate literature that dates back to the days of Benjamin Franklin, through to Henry James and most famously perhaps, to Hemingway, Fitzgerald, Dos Passos and Gertrude Stein. How do you find that the tradition has been maintained?
DA: Well, today expats come to Paris for diverse reasons. Often they find that they are more comfortable living outside of the U.S. because of their conflict with foreign policy and government. Also, people live in more than one place now, so being an expat isn¹t quite what it once was. Technological advances bring people together. Home has now become where you turn on your computer and check your e-mail.
I try not to think too much about the long and glorious literary traditions associated with Paris. There¹s a certain danger in having a historic sense of self. Yet, there will always be a romanticism about uprooting yourself and relocating. And there¹s no better place to write than right here. Paris is truly a state of mind.
ML: You are an American. You spent a portion of your youth in Canada. Now you are an expatriate writer living in Paris. Where do your literary alliances lie?
DA: That¹s quite an interesting question, especially with all that is going on in the geopolitical sphere. Frankly, I don¹t want to be represented by anybody. There are facets of American culture that I continue to feel connected to‹the candor with which Americans talk to each other, for example. Bearing your heart at the end of an oak bar just isn¹t something that happens often in Europe. There is an American tendency to think that loyal, good-hearted people exist everywhere. Still, I feel equally comfortable in a cafe in Dakar, Paris or Boston.
ML: Your occupation requires you to travel. And travel is a major theme in your recent novel. How has your travel experience contributed to your perceptions of culture that are so important in your writing?
DA: Travel is one of the most enriching vehicles for not only understanding the world, but understanding yourself as well. When you aren¹t connected to a society, you tend to live in your own mind. Your imagination is your key.
The real time of ³On a Flying Fish² takes place primarily in Frankfurt, as well as Paris and Italy. The fictive time is in the West Indies. The move back and forth corresponds with the switches between third and first person. Yet, the characters, regardless of where they are, become immersed in the world of the novel. That¹s the irony. Travel to all ends of the earth, and you are left with nothing more than the solitude of your own heart‹or pen, in this instance.
ML: What has been your most engaging travel experience?
DA: I¹m very attached to an island in the West Indies called Dominica. There are only 71,000 inhabitants, and yet there are 300 rivers! I¹ve been all over Africa. Some of my life¹s richest moments have been passed in the poorest, most desolate countries. Many of my friends in Africa have an almost divine understanding of friendship and trust. And my home, Paris, of course, continues to inspire me. It simply refuses to fall into the realm of banal.
ML: So, it¹s you and the formidable blank sheet of paper. Are there any tricks that you employ to stir the creative juices when they¹re not flowing?
DA: You know, there are no tricks to writing. I¹ve never formally imposed harsh quotas on myself, like some writers do. When I set out a time to write significant portions of a novel, I try to write for four uninterrupted hours a day. Sometimes when I¹m stuck, I take a narrative question and grind it down to its basest practicality. Then I¹ll go take a walk. I find that I cannot avoid writing. My mind is writing my novel when I¹m walking the dog, taking a shower or cooking.
ML: So, as readers, what can we expect from you in the future? Do you have any works in progress?
DA: Oh yes. Right now I¹m working on two things‹a collection of stories, tentatively titled, ³Camel¹s Milk,² and a piece of non-fiction about the origins of my family in the Ukraine.