Tonight, while copying by hand the Jorge Luis Borges poem “The Other Tiger” onto a page destined for an altar to Brigid of Kildare, I realized that the translation of the poem to which I referred, from PEN American Center’s website, was by Alastair Reid, and that Reid had read the poem in 1999 as part of his talk at a centenary celebration of Borges in New York, and that I myself had transcribed that talk from a cassette recording so that it could be published in the first issue of PEN America, and that I had later converted that talk into HTML code, so that it could appear on the very website from which I was now copying by hand, more than ten years later, the Jorge Luis Borges poem “The Other Tiger.”
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On Dream Detection
Drawing inspiration from The Manual of Detection, artist Tony Renner recently completed a new painting, “On Dream Detection.” Visit his website to see a larger version, and to check out more samples of his work. (I especially appreciate his pieces for Philip K. Dick, Tom Waits, and Syd Barrett.)
“On Dream Detection (for Jedediah Berry)” by Tony Renner
Surviving the Perilous Season
I first encountered the work of Brian Conn while helping to edit issue twenty-one of Lady Churchill’s Rosebud Wristlet, the biannual lit zine published by Small Beer Press. Conn’s contribution, a story called “The Postern Gate,” was a dizzying narrative set in a massive castle inhabited by eccentric characters. Complex, vivid, and almost Gormenghastian in scope, the piece stuck with me.
So I was excited to learn that Brian Conn’s first novel, The Fixed Stars: Thirty-Seven Emblems for the Perilous Season, would be published by FC2. The book is out now, and it’s one of the more fascinating—and challenging—novels I’ve come upon in recent memory. Here’s how Brian Evenson describes it: “Brian Conn’s wonderfully perilous crossbreeding of SF and innovative prose reads like what might result if Dhalgren and A Canticle for Leibowitz engaged in salacious acts with The Tibetan Book of the Dead.”
When Brian Conn agreed to an interview recently, I used it as an opportunity to dig deeper into the process behind the creation of this strange and extraordinary book, and that interview is now up at Rain Taxi.
Take This, Brother
Earlier this week, over at the Small Beer Press blog, I revealed a handful of secrets about Meeks, a first novel by Julia Holmes. If you’ve seen me in the last year or so, chances are I talked to you about this book. And maybe talked and talked and talked to you about it. It’s an extraordinary novel, dangerous and funny and strange. It will be in bookstores on July 20th, and I can’t wait for everyone to read it. And yes, I do mean everyone.
On a related note, Julia Holmes and I participated in a roundtable on first books for Hobart recently. We had the chance to discuss the editorial process, as well as a host of other matters. Many fine writers were involved, and you can read the whole conversation here.
What else? Soon I leave for Germany, to speak to the German people about Handbuch für Detektive. But first I’m off to a super secret stronghold in the Blue Ridge Mountains. Speaking of which, here’s a little video about beards.
Border Crossing
Last weekend, I attended the Bloody Words crime fiction conference in Toronto. I decided to drive, which meant crossing the border into Canada near Alexandria Bay. The border guard, who had an impressive mustache and a heavy accent, provided an extraordinary welcome. Here’s how our conversation went.
GUARD
What is your destination?
WRITER
Toronto, for two days. I’m attending a conference.
GUARD
What kind of conference?
WRITER
It’s for mystery fiction.
GUARD
Ah. What is your favorite kind?
WRITER
My favorite wine?
GUARD
No, your favorite kind. Kind of mystery. You like murder mysteries? Ghosts?
WRITER
Yes, the weird kind. Ghosts are good.
GUARD
And you write mysteries? Have you printed anything?
WRITER
Printed? My first book was published last year.
GUARD
Do you have a copy?
(At this point, a little terrified as I dug out a Manual of Detection paperback, I was beginning to think of the final scene of Cronenberg’s adaptation of Naked Lunch. But the guard only took the book and set it down in his booth.)
GUARD
OK, how much?
WRITER
You want to buy the book?
GUARD
Well, it’s mine now. How much should I pay you for it?
WRITER
Alright. Ten dollars.
GUARD
This is a used copy. Do you have a new one?
WRITER
No, I’m sorry.
GUARD
Then you’ll have to sign this. Sign it to Sophie.
(The guard gave me ten dollars Canadian, returned the book, and handed me a pen. I started to sign.)
GUARD
Can’t you write bigger than that?
WRITER
Yes, sir.
(I have small handwriting but I did my best. The guard took back the book and the pen.)
GUARD
Do you have any firearms, weapons, mace, or pepper spray?
WRITER
No, sir. Who’s Sophie?
GUARD
She is my wife. Me, I like to support the arts. But this better be a good book.
WRITER
I hope she enjoys it.
GUARD
I hope so too. OK, you move along.
On the way home, I decided to cross at Niagara instead. Getting back into the U.S. turned out to be a different kind of experience. The American guard took the keys to my car, opened the back hatch, and searched through everything there—leaving clothes out and bags unzipped, as my traveling companion and I later discovered.
The Hammett Prize thin man, pictured (for purposes of scale) next to one of Small Beer Press's World Fantasy Awards.
He also discovered some apparent contraband: copies of the five free books given to everyone who attended the conference, which I’d completely forgotten about and hadn’t thought to declare. He wanted to know why I hadn’t told him about these books, and threatened to fine me, and to confiscate everything I’d acquired in Canada.
If he’d gone through with his threat, he’d now have some great reading material, as well as a shiny new Dashiell Hammett Prize. But in the end he let us go, and the thin man sculpture is safe at home.
I often feel like a border-crossing nomad in my writing life. Mostly I try to pretend that the borders—between genres, between forms—don’t exist, or can be redrawn as needed. So far, thanks to the many wonderful readers and writers of various communities, as well as organizations like the International Association of Crime Writers and the International Association for the Fantastic in the Arts, that experience has been more like the former border crossing and not at all like the latter. I’m sincerely grateful.
In other words, mystery folks, thanks for letting me be weird. And thanks, fantasy folks, for letting me smuggle in all those guns and trench coats. I’ll see you on the other side.