I interviewed Jordan Castro about The Novelist, one of the funniest and most surprising books I’d read in a while. We talked about mirth, cringe, sin, the importance of writing books that aren’t boring, and Marianne Williamson, among many other things.
Concrete by Thomas Bernhard seems like it might’ve served as some inspiration for The Novelist. Is that true? Can you talk about that book’s influence on you, and Bernhard’s influence in general?
I actually didn’t read Concrete until after I finished The Novelist, which I think was a good thing, because if I’d read it beforehand I might not have written The Novelist. I loved this sentence: “I don’t have to be demented to assert that Schopenhauer had a dog on his shoulders and not a head.”
The novelist is kind of embarrassed about liking Brett Easton Ellis and also about Jordan Castro. Is it necessary to confront this kind of embarrassment and insecurity about what you like in order to write well? To conquer it or resolve it? Is this something that’s come up for you as a writer?
In order to write something great one must move through the cringe. We go about our lives in this impressionistic, mimetic stupor, and we “like” things for flimsy reasons that often have to do with how we think others perceive them. But so much of what has become profoundly meaningful to me has started off as something that made me cringe. One should confront the cringe through the process of multiple drafts, and ultimately work it into something better—but I think it’s important to see it there first on the page. Otherwise you haven’t gone far enough—you’re still pretending. It’s better to risk being cringe than to be so afraid of humiliating yourself that you’re forever only surface-level posturing.
I’ve noticed you use the word “mirth” kind of frequently, in interviews. Can you talk about that?
“Mirth” is a great word. It just means something like “laughing gladness.” I think of it as having more depth than “happiness” or “joy,” which have become so brutalized through overuse that they have lost all meaning. “Mirth” shows up in the KJV a lot, often in kind of ominous ways – “The heart of the wise is in the house of mourning; but the heart of fools is in the house of mirth” — but still, I think our literary culture could use more mirth. Everyone’s afraid of looking like a fool. But we need literary fools.
I like when the narrator in the book describes making to-do lists as “spiritlessly arbitrary.” Do you make to-do lists?
I have a planner that maps out days in half-hour increments, and I try to plan my day the night before, then wake up and stick to the plan. But lately I’ve been terrible about it. William James has a great line about habit: “There is no more miserable human being than one in whom nothing is habitual but indecision, and for whom the lighting of every cigar, the drinking of every cup, the time of rising and going to bed every day, and the beginning of every bit of work, are subjects of express volitional deliberation.”
I like the part of the novel about the editor tweeting about eating shrimp chimps/chips. How do you write humor? Does it come naturally as you write? How did you think of the shrimp chips?
I can’t say what I want to say here—it would amount to gossip—so I’ll move on to the next question.
The Novelist confronts the way books are criticized not based on their literary qualities, but on the assumption that there are dangerous hidden meanings or political beliefs within them. Do you feel pessimistic about book-reading and book reception, at this moment in time?
Overall, yes, very pessimistic. But, also, my novel did relatively well, so I can’t be too pessimistic. If I, like my narrator, say that people only like stupid things for stupid reasons—what does that say about my novel?
I love the part of the book about how Kierkegard explains the right and wrong life view questions for a novel to ask— “Is life really meaningful?” vs. “How can I live a meaningful life?” Do all good novels need to be centered around the right question? Does it have to be a “life view” question?
I was actually re-reading some of Kierkegaard’s Works of Love the other day, and came across a passage I forgot about:
“How many have asked ‘What is Truth?’ and at bottom hoped that vast spaces would intervene before truth came so close to him that in the immediate now it would determine his duty for action at that very moment? When the Pharisee, ‘desiring to justify himself,’ asked, ‘Who is my neighbor?’ he surely thought that it would develop into a very prolix inquiry, that it would perhaps take a very long time and then perhaps end with the admission that it is impossible to determine with absolute accuracy the concept of neighbor—for this very reason he asked the question, in order to find an escape, to waste time, to justify himself. But God catches the wise in their foolishness, and Christ imprisoned the questioner in the answer which contained the task.”
Asking questions is important—but too often we use them to try to weasel our way out of an answer, or a task.
What is an example of “drug writing” that you really like, or a book that writes about drugs well?
White Out: The Secret Life of Heroin by Michael Clune. I also really like the DMT scene in Tao Lin’s Trip.
This book is so propulsive and the opposite of boring, despite being so concerned with the particulars of mundane things. Did you think about that when you wrote? Not wanting people to put the book down?
In classrooms, I’m told, it’s frowned upon to say a book is “boring,” but when you talk to anyone in any other setting this is the most important thing. If a book is boring, but good for other reasons, people will always feel the need to preface it with, “It’s kind of boring, but—”. If it’s actually fun to read people will just say it’s amazing. All of my favorite novels totally absorb me in some way.
I liked reading the novelist’s entire rant about Eric, and about his liberal arts school Oberlin girlfriend. I liked this line in particular: “It was as if he hadn’t acquired a girlfriend, but a pair of glasses, and instead of dating her, Eric wrapped her around his face and now saw everything through her.” Can you talk about writing this line?
It was actually a late edit to the novel, maybe even during the final round of edits. When I wrote it though I felt like the rant was complete. Sometimes a line just drops into your head totally finished. This was one of those rare gifts.
What do you think makes for a healthy friendship?
Willing the good of the other.
Do you like Marianne Williamson? If yes, what do you like about her?
The other day me and Nicolette were working outside of Sterling Library here in New Haven, and she saw a poster saying that Marianne Williamson was going to be across the street in twenty minutes, so we walked over and they let us in without a ticket. Williamson was saying some good stuff about how the social justice movements of the past weren’t rooted in Enlightenment rationalism, but rather in fundamentally theological ideas about Love and equality and so on, and that, divorced from these roots, they become pathological and demonic—which is true. I don’t want her to be president though.
Do you like Brett Easton Ellis? If yes, what’s your favorite book?
Less Than Zero was big for me when I was younger. There was also an interview on YouTube, I think from Australia, where he keeps ignoring the interviewer to talk about what he wants to talk about, which I remember feeling really inspired by in 2015. Bret, if you’re reading this, holler at me. I want to give you a copy of The Novelist.
How long have you been Christian? Do you go to church?
I got baptized a few years ago at a small non-denominational church in D.C.; right now, I go to an OCA church in New Haven. I love Jesus and reading the Bible and Christian philosophy/theology and talking with people about it, but finding a church has always been hard for me. We go every Sunday though.
A recent tweet of yours I liked is: Sins aren’t about whether something is “right” or “wrong” in an abstract sense but rather about whether it brings you closer or further from the ability to give and experience Love. What prompted you to tweet that?
A lot of people think of “sin” and they imagine an arbitrary rule, imposed by whatever deity, or created by humans, meant to control, or shame, and that if only we freed ourselves from shame, or judgment, then we’d be happy. But the idea of “sin” isn’t only proscriptive – it is also descriptive; it describes a constellation of behaviors and internal dispositions that have a specific effect on the soul. They cut one off from God, who—Christians are unique in believing—is Love. And so sin is that which cuts you off from Love, both as recipient and giver. Sin turns us in on ourselves, and makes us cramped and self-seeking—when what we are made for is self-giving Love.
When I was younger, I thought of Christianity as this archaic set of rules. But it isn’t a set of rules. It’s a relationship.
Who’s your favorite poet?
Georg Trakl
Did you like school, when you were in it?
I hated school and was a terrible student. I would skip class constantly. One year I even had a nurse who would write me passes to leave, and cover for me if my parents called, etc. I’d go read and smoke cigarettes in my friend’s mom’s shed. It was fun.
Have you ever taught before? If not, would you ever teach? And what would you teach?
If anyone wants to hire me to teach for good pay, email jordancastroisthepresident@gmail.com. I’ve been wanting to teach a class about desire and envy in the novel; novels that do interesting things with time; a fiction workshop; and/or a class about “writing the internet.”
You said in an Interview Mag interview that you were going to get off the internet once you were done promoting your novel. Did that happen? Are you good at leaving social media when you need to?
It definitely did not happen. I’ve been very active—sadly. But you know this! You messaged me on Twitter.
What’s your earliest memory of the internet?
I’m not sure about the internet, but my first memory of using a computer was sitting on my father’s lap and pressing the space bar—the “shoot” button—while he and my older cousin played the first-person shooter game “Quake.”
What are you reading right now?
A draft of the novel Harmony by Walt John Pearce.
What are you working on right now?
A novel called Muscle Man, about a Raskolnikov type English professor who hates being an English professor but loves lifting weights.
Aurora Huiza lives between Syracuse and New York. She writes fiction.