Jonathan Lethem’s latest novel, Dissident Gardens, begins with Jewish housewife Rose Zimmer getting kicked out of the Communist party for having an affair with a black police officer. Rose’s character was loosely based on Lethem’s own grandmother, whom he described as “fearsome.”

I spoke with Lethem over the phone about his latest book, Brooklyn, and why he hates the article headlines on Salon. Lethem is the author of Fortress of Solitude, Chronic City and Motherless Brooklyn, which won the National Book Critic Circle Award in 1999.

What was the genesis of Dissident Gardens?

It originates inversions of my own family history. Mysteries I grew up with, surrounding both my mother and grandmother, who were gone before I could approach them as an adult and demand some accounting or some explanation for things that fascinated me, things that had always been under a pall of legend or silence—in my grandmother’s case, a lot of silence.

What was your grandmother like?

My grandmother was a first-generation immigrant. She grew up in the back of a candy store in Brooklyn. She couldn’t be more classic in a way, one of six daughters pointed toward marriage and gentle assimilation, but she was an iconoclast. Without going to college she became self-educated and secularized and politically radicalized and those things separated her from her origins in many ways. Her own separation from the spiritual and intellectual life of her family inaugurated her sense of estrangement or betrayal.

I always knew her as someone with a multiple sense of betrayal in the world: politics had failed her; the Jewish god had failed her and New York city was always on the verge of letting her down. She was very dynamic, very charismatic; I loved being with her, but she was a pretty fearsome human being for a kid to hang with too. [Laughs] There was a mystery in her life: what has she done as a single woman after her husband left her in the forties? I couldn’t name it at the time, but her life was rich and problematic and she was a formidable person. She wasn’t just a grandmother. She wasn’t around for me to really interrogate by the time I could articulate those questions, so instead I wrote a novel and made it all up to satisfy my own sense of fascination.

Are you satisfied?

Hah! What happens when you render intimate parts of your own experience in fiction is that it becomes a formal problem. The novel has demands; the characters suddenly gain a gravity which attracts other kinds of material and so the character divides from life and factuality and becomes something else. The novel is a derivation and a confabulation—it isn’t life itself. As much as you as may fill it up with those feelings at the outset, it becomes something else completely. There isn’t even a question of that kind of satisfaction. I’d only be satisfied if I could hang out with my grandmother again.

One of your characters, Cicero, sort of does that in the novel. As a random segue, I find myself getting lost in your language very easily. Your grasp of language is amazing.

I think that increasingly, in the longer books I’ve written since Motherless Brooklyn, I see part of my assignment, my personal imperative and drive, as a wish to create a sensorium, a diorama of past lives or of worlds that I’ve moved through, friendships I’ve known, environments, cultural experiences. I want to reproduce them; I want to trap them in amber. The wordiness—I can be fairly accused of wordiness by now—it’s really just this trick for creating this enormous machine for reproducing past sensations or lost worlds. I guess that’s become more important to me by far than storytelling per se.

Speaking of lost words, you’ve been equated with Brooklyn. I just moved here. I imagine it’s a much different place now than how you described it in your books.

Oh God. It was changing under my feet when I was growing up. When I returned there in my early thirties, there was a kind of shock confrontation with its early gentrification that I depict in some ways in Fortress of Solitude. That was a galactic change. In the last three or four years it’s changed as much again, in ways beyond my grasp. I’m not there these days. The illusion that I’m somehow the master of this territory or can account for it all is very humbling. The world keeps going and turns out to have nothing to do with your sense of taking it personally [laughs].

You’re quoted in Salon as saying that “the literary world is like high school.” What were you like in high school?

Oh, lord. Salon seems to have a special dedication to finding the very stupidest thing I ever say in any given interview and making it the headline of the piece. That’s their M.O. I suspect I was speaking with the kind of irony that immediately gets stripped from the language the minute it gets put in cold type, especially when it gets put on the Internet. I was musing on the fact that a lot of the machinations and hierarchies and alliance-burnishing and so forth that goes on in the world, including the literary world, is no so different from what you encounter in high school. It’s a truly banal remark, but somehow it ended up sounding like I was claiming it as some fierce throw-down on my colleagues — that’s the power of a headline! “Lethem Avenges Himself Against Bullies Thirty Years Too Late”—there’s a headline for your piece, now run with it. God help me.

Let’s not dwell on this any longer, but please be certain you insert lots of “(laughs)” through your piece. You should scatter that almost randomly amidst my remarks to promote the possibility that I’m being provocative or sarcastic. Listen, seriously—the only important thing to say is I’m very lucky that anyone gives a shit about my work. At any given moment I keep that thought foremost in my mind. Sometimes I forget to incant it aloud, but that’s only because it seems so obvious to me. As for the high school stuff, any “popularity” I suffer or enjoy personally means nothing; it’s not me that’s popular, it’s an image of me that the books drag along behind them through the world. The only purpose of that image is to get the books read. That people read them remains a kind of marvel to me.

So back to the question, were you cool in high school? What were you like as a teenager?

It’s a question I ask myself. How should I know what I was like? I wonder about it. I’ve tried to explore it in my work at times, not just to brandish myself on my own sleeve, but because I’m interested in trying to figure out what I was like. Often I receive conflicting clues from other people’s remarks or my own recollections and I think: who was that? I’ve pursued it in the essays in The Disappointment Artist and in the Talking Heads book, that more or less factual me, as opposed to the totally fictional guises that I wear in a couple of novels. I suspect I was probably pretty angry and also pretty cowardly. [Laughs] I experienced myself as devilishly clever and capable, as moving through the world with a kind of sly sideways power of access and insight that none of my behavior would have given evidence of. The inside and outside of the teenage container are two very different things.

You have an almost encyclopedic knowledge of random topics that comes across in your book.

It’s done out of love. I’m the sort of person who traffics in the statistics on the back of the baseball card but it’s not really about that stuff, it’s just articulating some sort of emotional arrow pointing from me to the thing. If you see me flipping around a lot of obscure trivia—”here’s the guy who was playing guitar on Smokey Robinson’s records even though he’s not credited”—it just means my heart falls out of my chest when I hear “I Second That Emotion”. It comes from caring so much that I’m trying to manage the sensation by becoming an expert on the topic. I couldn’t be bothered to know about stuff that doesn’t move me. It’s not like I have any really area of expertise outside my passions. Passions may not be the right word for this stuff—for my emotional cruxes, things that perturb me or reach into me.

What do you mean by having your “heart fall out of your chest?”

There’s something about the way that some things speak to me that I never get over entirely. Plenty of things speak to you once, but some of them, many of them, complete their enunciation: you get it and it’s just a nice song or you forget about it. Other things stir you and can’t ever be finished—those are the things that I find I’ve been very well rewarded by paying close attention to. Whether it’s the squares of slate on sidewalk on Dean Street or a Smokey Robinson song.

Do you find that mainly connected to your childhood?

Of course but it can also still happen. I’m not some sort of finished set of issues, a door that closed when I was seventeen. I believe that I remain eligible to have the world speak to me in that way. I’d like to think so.

The post Jonathan Lethem is Happy You Give a Shit appeared first on Jewcy.

A sach mentshen zehen, nor vainik fun zai farshtai’en: Many people see things but few understand them.

AQUARIUS (JANUARY 21—FEBRUARY 20):

Ruled by wild and erratic Uranus, Aquarians are associated with inspiration and originality. Your symbol, the water-bearer, is a bit misleading—you’re not, in fact, a water sign, but rather an air sign. But unlike fellow air signs Libra and Gemini, Aquarius is a fixed sign, meaning you possess the intellectual acumen and curiosity of the others but aren’t nearly as mercurial.

Aquarius is also the sign of contradictions. Before the discovery of Uranus in 1781, Saturn was your ruler, representing order and conformity. Uranus, with its unusual rotation and orbit, rules rebellion, risk, and individuality. The planet is associated with invention and innovation, as well as a latent ability to perceive the future—which is what it means to be at the dawning of the Age of Aquarius.

Aquarians are patient, intuitive, devoted, and dependable, yet drawn to the unconventional. Your clear-headed determination and knack for reason make you an excellent reformer. But your detachment from your emotions and dispassionate approach to relationships—as well as your keen memory for detail—often cause you to hold grudges. Your understanding of human nature runs the risk of being purely intellectual. Feh!

The new moon in your sign on February 9 favors innovation, exploration of the unknown, and experimentation. With Saturn in retrograde from February 18 until July 8, consider reexamining any outmoded ways of thinking and dealing with unfinished business—you can do so much more than you thought possible. The love planet Venus is in your sign until February 25th, so expect the thrills of freedom and independence. You might not find your beshert in time for Valentine’s Day, but some trial and error may be enough to awaken those dormant romantic impulses.

Famous Aquarius Jews: Gertrude Stein, Martin Buber, Michael Bloomberg, Neil Diamond, Paul Newman, Seth Green, Louis Zukofsky, Carole King, Philip Glass, Felix Mendelssohn, Jack Benny, Stella Adler, Paul Auster, Jonathan Lethem, Art Spiegelman, Betty Friedan, Darren Aronofsky, Judy Blume, Jennifer Jason Leigh, Jerry Springer, Joseph Gordon-Levitt, Pauly Shore, Regina Spektor, Zosia Mamet

PISCES (FEBRUARY 21-MARCH 20): Things may get worse before they get better—Aider es kumt di nechomeh, ken oisgaien di neshomeh. Mars and Mercury move into your sign in February, making compassion and dreaming the order of the day. Pisces can be gluttons for punishment, but if you stand up for yourself without equivocating, the people you need most will rush to your side in solidarity.

ARIES (MARCH 21-APRIL 20): It seems like the universe is conspiring to put all of your plans on the back burner. During February your ruling planet Mars will be transiting through Pisces, the planet of compassion and empathy, which doesn’t exactly jive well with your typical warrior stance. However, ven men darf hoben moiach, helft nit kain koiach—when brains are needed, brawn won’t help.

TAURUS (APRIL 21-MAY 20): You may be feeling cautious in romantic pursuits for fear of rejection, making your prospects appear stalled and limited. But reality is more of a give-and-take than you realized. Before you can experience mekheye, you’ll need do some serious assessment about what you really want out of love.

GEMINI (MAY 21-JUNE 20): While you’ve been trying to focus on your career, mental Mercury’s move into Pisces on February 5 ignites your fantasies and dreams. Practicality may seem boring—if not hazardous—but rather than voglen (wander around aimlessly), be honest with yourself and others about what’s going on in that head of yours.

CANCER (JUNE 21-JULY 20): Cosmic energies are insisting that you broaden your horizons. So ease up and let yourself go—your sanctimonious tendencies often push others away. An epiphanic moment may be in store for you, transforming the way you view your place in the universe.  

LEO (JULY 21-AUGUST 20): Although it seems like everything is working against you right now, this trial by fire could be a blessing in disguise. While domestic matters may take center stage, you’ll be strengthened by the realization that you’re a light that won’t go out. You’re the richtiker chaifetz (the real McCoy), you feisty felines—just hang in there and the method to this madness will eventually reveal itself.

VIRGO (AUGUST 21-SEPTEMBER 20): As charming as you can be, you’re often guilty of haken a chainik (talking for the sake of talking). The only way to get close to people is to interact with mutual regard and empathy. Try listening for a change and the rest will follow.

LIBRA (SEPTEMBER 21-OCTOBER 20): A wise man once said, “the world is a tragedy to those who feel, but a comedy to those who think.” Since Libra is the sign of balance, you would do well to find a way to mediate between thinking and feeling. After all, heaven and hell can both be had in this world—ganaiden un gehenem ken men baideh hoben oif der velt.

SCORPIO (OCTOBER 21-NOVEMBER 20): You’ve been oysgemutshet (worked to death, tired out) for far too long. Don’t hate the player, hate the game: examine the source of your frustration. The truth has many faces—der emess hot a sach ponimer—and admitting that the past just isn’t through with you will help you make the changes you need for a brighter future.

SAGITTARIUS (NOVEMBER 21–DECEMBER 20): Freud interpreted the dual nature of Sagittarius as the ego’s way of navigating the warring id and superego. For fiery Sagittarians, it is often oder gor oder gornit (all or nothing). Rather than force something that just wasn’t meant to be, try to rise above the shtuss and learn to love the dueling sides of yourself.

CAPRICORN (DECEMBER 21–JANUARY 20): With your ruling planet Saturn in retrograde from February 18 to July 8 and planets moving out of your sign, you may feel a particular sense of loss and confusion. For now, focus on your health—mental, spiritual, physical—rather than gesunte tzores. Gather your strength, for soon you’ll regain equilibrium.

What’s Your Sign?
Capricorn, the Cardinal Earth Sign
Sagittarius, the Adventurous Archer
Stinging Scorpio
Lovely, Lawful Libra
Virgo, the Anxious Maiden
Leo, King of the Jungle

(Art by Margarita Korol)

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The post Jewcy Horoscopes: Aquarius, Sign of Contradictions (Jan. 21—Feb. 20) appeared first on Jewcy.

The Brooklyn literary community muttered a collective “what a dick” this morning when New York Magazine reported some comments that were made by Jonathan Lethem to the LA Times.  Lethem who was born in Boreum Hill and whose most successful novel name drops Brooklyn in its title, said, “Brooklyn is repulsive with novelists, it’s cancerous with novelists.”

This is not only wrong on so many levels, but a bit hyperbolic.  Just because a place has lots of something, doesn’t mean that it’s cancerous with it.  Is Brooklyn cancerous with Pizza?  Is it cancerous with models? (Wait, don’t answer that…)

What about Brooklyn rich literary tradition?  Lethem’s comments go on to state that more or less that Brooklyn is not a good place to be a writer.  This is like saying that Belgium is a bad place to make waffles.  The worst part of it all, Lethem is now a California resident.  So while he lives out his Californication fantasies, flirts with Scientology and transitions to screenplay writing, we’ll be enjoying our cancerous pizza at Roberta’s and going to better readings.  Maybe while in Pomona, Lethem will write a great novel to back up his statements.  Considering that Lethem lived in Brooklyn while writing, You Don’t Love Me Yet there might be truth to his statement after all.

The post Boroughless Lethem appeared first on Jewcy.