The Lost Language of Belief:  A Conversation with Jonathan Lethem
10.13125/2039-6597/1347
In June 2014 Silvia Albertazzi interviewed the American writer Jonathan Lethem in Florence, during the von Rezzori Festival, while he was writer in residence at the Florentine site of New York University. This is the full text of their conversation. A much shorter version in Italian appeared on the newspaper “il Manifesto” on 21/6/2014.
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Silvia Albertazzi
Between
Silvia Albertazzi
The Lost Language of Belief: A Conversation with Jonathan Lethem
Text.Serial.Journal
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Conversation Pieces / Interviews: Ed. Massimo Fusillo
2014-12-02
2014-11-30
2015-01-13
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Silvia Albertazzi
2014
10.13125/2039-6597/1347
Università di Bologna
2039-6597
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Silvia Albertazzi
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The Lost Language of Belief: A Conversation with Jonathan Lethem
https://ojs.unica.it/index.php/between/article/download/1347/1106
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     The  Lost  Language  of  Belief:    
A  Conversation  with  Jonathan  Lethem  
                                Ed.  Silvia  Albertazzi  


        There   is   a   touch   of   shyness   in   Jonathan   Lethem’s   gaze,   a  
gentleness   in   his   manner,   that   puts   his   interlocutor   immediately   at  
ease.  The  impression  you  get  reading  his  works  is  confirmed  when  he  
first  addresses  you:  he  is  one  of  us,  an  individual  who,  as  he  wrote  in  
the   last   essay   of   his   collection   The   Disappointment   Artist,   believes   that  
works  of  art    can  be  “better  than  life,  that  they  [can]  redeem  life”.    
        In   his   universe   of   rock   music,   jazz,   old   films,   cartoons,  
omnivorous   reading   and   all   kinds   of   fiction   –   from   Dickens   to   P.K.  
Dick,  from  Kafka  to  the  postmodern  –  you  can  always  find  something  
that   speaks   to   and   for   you.   Lethem’s   writings   are   the   kind   of   works  
that  make  you  feel  “you  wish  the  author  that  wrote  [them]  was  a  great  
friend  of  yours  and  you  could  call  him  up  on  the  phone  whenever  you  
felt  like  it”,  in  Salinger’s  Holden  Caufield’s  words.    
        I   had   the   opportunity   to   meet   him   in   June   2014   when   he   was  
teaching   creative   writing   at   the   Florence   campus   of   New   York  
University.  The  Italian  version  of  his  new  novel  Dissident  Gardens  had  
just   gone   on   sale.   To   the   surprise   of   his   fans,   the   author   of   such   cult  
novels   as   Motherless   Brooklyn,   The   Fortress   of   Solitude   and   Chronic   City,  
all  of  them  pivoting  around  characters  who  experience  the  difficulty  –  
or   the   impossibility   –   of   growing   up   and   negotiating   the   metropolis  
alone,  had  published  an  apparently  realistic  saga.    
        The   book   tells   the   story   of   three   generations   of   American  
communists,   from   the   Great   Depression   to   the   present   day.   A  
conundrum  for  American  readers  and  their  chronic  historical  amnesia,  
the   book   shows,   in   the   author’s   words,   “what   is   beautiful   and  



Between,  vol.  IV,  n.  8  (Novembre/November  2014)    
Silvia  Albertazzi,  The  Lost  Language  of  Belief:  A  Conversation  with  Jonathan  Lethem  



ridiculous  in  the  American  dream”,  by  telling  the  lives  of  two  women,  
Rose,  a  communist  virago  thrown  out  of  the  Party  because  of  her  affair  
with  a  black  policeman,  and  her  daughter  Miriam,  a  rebellious  hippie.  
Around  them,  a  series  of  men:  Cicero,  Rose’s  lover’s  son;  Lenny,  Rose’s  
cousin,   proud   to   be   “the   Last   Communist”;   Tommy,   Miriam’s   folk-­‐‑
singer  husband;  and,  lastly,  Sergius,  their  frail  son.    
      This   is   a   realistic   novel   only   if   we   accept   Lethem’s   idea   that  
absurdity   is   the   greatest   form   of   realism.   Dissident   Gardens   tries   to  
explain   why   Utopia   is   “the   show   which   always   closed   on   opening  
night”,   as   we   read   in   The   Fortress   of   Solitude.   Yet,   in   Italy   Dissident  
Gardens   has   been   launched   mainly   as   a   political   novel,   being   often  
introduced   to   the   Italian   public   by   politicians   striving   to   establish   an  
unlikely   comparison   between   the   end   of   U.S.   communism   and   the  
present  Italian  situation.    
      I   could   not   help   starting   my   conversation   with   Jonathan   Lethem  
by  referring  to  this  rather  peculiar  political  reading  of  his  novel.  
        
      S.A.  Mister  Lethem,  how  do  you  feel  about  this  “political  appropriation”  
of  your  work?  
      J.L.  The  first  thing  to  say  is  that  because  I’m  not  understanding  the  
Italian  that  is  spoken  around  me,  I  can’t  read  my  own  press  release  in  
the  language  and  the  situation  is  out  of  my  control.  After  many  years,  
I’m  entering  into  a  mood  of  bogus  acceptance:  you  know,  the  books  are  
how  I  wanted  them  to  be  and  the  rest  of  the  world  is  out  of  my  control.  
And  what  I  would  say  is  that  I  don’t  know  these  people  who  introduce  
me   and   their   political   ideas:   probably   if   I   could   hear   them   through  
your  ears  I  would  be  very  uncomfortable.    
        
      S.A.  But  does  the  same  happen  all  around  Europe?  
      J.L.  It  is  different  in  different  countries,  but  of  course  the  question  
whether   it   is   a   political   book   or   whether   it   isn’t   comes   up   again   and  
again   and   it   did   in   the   States   as   well.   But   everywhere,   even   with   the  
awkwardness  with  language  and  the  extreme  emphasis  placed  on  the  
political  context,  I  always  say  that  the  book  is  about  human  suffering,  
human   desire,      and   the   paradoxes   of   our   position   in   the   world,   so  


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isolated   and   so   dependent   on   other   people.   And   these   issues   to   me  
transcend   politics,   but   they   also   describe   politics,   the   politics   of  
everyday   existence.   And,   you   know,   they   are   extremely   difficult   to  
define   and   to   talk   about,   and   people   will   always   prefer   to   talk   about  
anything   that   is   more   clarified,   more   tangible,   more   black   and   white.  
That   is   true   anytime   I   offer   a   novel.   If   there   is   something   that   people  
can   talk   about   instead   of   the   ambiguities   of   fiction,   they’ll   make   that  
preference.  
         When   I   wrote   Girl   in   Landscape,   for   better   or   worse   I   let   it   be  
known   how   involved   my   inspiration   was   with   these   images   of   the  
West  you  find  in  John  Ford’s  two  or  three  films,  especially  The  Searchers  
and   The   Man   Who   Shot   Liberty   Valance.   I   was   thinking   about   John  
Wayne   as   a   figure   of   paradox   and   danger   and   American   possibilities.  
Well,   my   reward   for   mentioning   these   things   was   that   everywhere   I  
went  instead  of  discussing  my  novel  we  talked  about  John  Wayne.  This  
is   human   nature:   at   a   certain   level,   the   novel   represents   a   kind   of   an  
abyss.  People  are  terrified  of  falling  inside;  they  are  terrified,  but  they  
want  to  touch  it,  they  want  to  be  close  to  it,  but  they  are  afraid  it  will  
expose  them,  or  test  them,  or  humiliate  them,  or  just  confuse  them.  So  
we   give   them   a   ladder   to   climb   down   the   abyss   and   talk   about  
something  else.  So  I  spent  a  lot  of  my  time  talking  about  gentrification  
or   John   Wayne   or   subculture,   comic   books.   Now   communism,   and  
Obama  and  the  Occupy  movement:  all  these  things  seem  to  be  a  way  
out  of  the  conversation  about  the  heart.  
         
       S.A.  Well,  these  are  not  the  issues  I’d  like  to  talk  about.  In  my  opinion,  
one   of   the   most   important   themes   of   Dissident   Gardens   is   family.   In   your  
presentation   in   Florence   you   called   the   nuclear   family   “a   tiny   utopian  
disaster”    and  you  explained  that  all  your  characters  strive  to  fill  the  void  left  
by   the   destruction   of   the   family.   Do   you   think   that   all   families   are   horrible?  
Can   you   think   of   other   possibilities   apart   from   the   middle-­‐‑class   family  
stereotype?  
       J.L.   I   never   believed   exclusively   in   their   horror   or   in   the   menace  
families   represent   for   the   individual.   I   have   two   children;   I   myself  
reproduced  the  image  of  the  bourgeois  family  exactly.  So,  do  I  believe  


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Silvia  Albertazzi,  The  Lost  Language  of  Belief:  A  Conversation  with  Jonathan  Lethem  



in   alternatives?   Wow,   this   is   a   very   mysterious   thing   to   consider,  
because  it  requires  picking  our  way  out  of  the  present,  out  of  the  reality  
that   immerses   us.   Images   of   family   are   one   of   the   most   powerful  
containers  for  our  culture  and  I  am  subject  to  this  as  much  as  anyone.  
One  thing  that  I  would  say  is  that  I  am  more  and  more  trying  to  look  at  
the  family  historically,  in  any  kind  of  capable  way,  and  I  observe  that  
the   family,   as   I   know   it   and   as   you   probably   know   it,   the   bourgeois  
family   in   such   extreme   isolation   from   other   kinds   of   social   order,   is   a  
very   new   creation.   Until   quite   recently,   the   bourgeois   family   existed,  
perhaps,  but  it  was  also  part  of  a  larger  community.  
         
       S.A.  But  the  bourgeois  family  is  so  strong  that  in  your  novel  even  people  
like  Miriam,  who  lives  in  a  hippie  commune,  tend  to  reproduce  it.    
       J.L.   Well,   she   does,   but   she   has   a   genuine   appetite   for   testing   its  
limits.  She  was  forced,  in  a  way:  at  home  she  had  no  father,  and  with  
Rose,   her   mother,   she   had   no   great   storytelling,   she   had   only   the  
starkness   of   a   mother   and   a   daughter   facing   each   other   across   the  
abyss.  So,  she  had  to  invent  a  new  image  or  die.  And  so  she  put  her  bet  
on  many  tables:  friends,  folk  singers,  the  Village,  the  commune  …  She  
is  one  of  the  people  I  lived  my  life  with  and  I  recognized  around  me  –  
my  mother  was  one  of  them  –  who  are  genuine  “bon  vivants”,  I  mean  
people  whose  energy  flows  out  into  other  people  and  then  makes  them  
larger.  Miriam  has  this  talent.  
         
       S.A.  Talking  about  families,  it’s  impossible  not  to  refer  to  mothers.  In  my  
reading,   the   key   to   your   novel   is   to   be   found   in   Cicero’s   intimation   to   his  
students:  “Let’s  talk  about  your  mothers,  fuckers!”.  I  found  the  way  you  put  
women   and   mothers   at   the   centre   of   this   story   extremely   interesting,   also  
because,   apart   from   young   Pella   in   Girl   in   Landscape,   your   protagonists  
have   always   been   men.   What   really   amazes   me   is   how   real   your   “mothers”  
are:  Rose  and  Miriam  are  women  of  flesh  and  blood.  For  this  reason,  I  should  
almost  say  that  yours  is  not  a  book  of  ideas,  but  a  book  of  bodies,  if  you  know  
what  I  mean.    
       J.L.  Thank  you.  If  there’s  one  thing  I  wanted  to  say  is  that  the  book  
is   about   the   body   and   the   predicament   of   the   human   body   moving  


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through   social   and   political   space,   but   always   subject   to   its   hungers,  
and  its  cravings  in  a  very  animal  sense.  It’s  not  a  political  book,  it’s  a  
book  about  the  lives  of  people  who  believe  themselves  to  be  political,  
it’s   about   their   sufferings   and   their   desires.   I   didn’t   invent   Rose   and  
Miriam:   I   opened   the   door   to   them   with   my   grandmother   and   my  
mother.    
          
        S.A.  And  how  about  Diane,  Cicero’s  mother?  She  is  a  minor  character,  
but  she  is  very  important.  Cicero  is  shaped  by  her  absence.  
        J.L.  She  is  important,  but  this  is  what  I  have  done  many  times:  in  a  
way   Diane   is   a   reversion      to   my   old   paradigm   of   the   disappearing  
woman.  Even  As  She  Climbed  Across  the  Table  is  a  book  about  a  woman  
who  disappears:  it’s  quite  a  light  book,  one  of  my  first  books.  The  tone  
is   quite   frivolous,   but   it   is   an   important   book   for   me,   artistically,  
because  it  highlighted  that  very  fundamental  image  which  I  was  to  use  
again   and   again.   You   can   find   it   even   in   Chronic   City,   used   with  
political   implications.   Ironically,   if   I   ever   wrote   a   political   book,   in   a  
sense   it   is   Chronic   City.   It   focuses   on   what   is   wrong   with   reality.   It’s  
quite  angry  ,  and  it’s  quite  specifically  angry  about  capitalism.  You  can  
take  this  book  as  a  giant  critique  of  the  war  and  the  culture  of  2004,  a  
moment   when   I   was   horrified   by   New   York   City,   and   our  
administration.   But   people   don’t   respond   to   it   that   way   because   the  
characters   don’t   seem   to   be   political,   they   are   rather   living   in   a  
frivolous  way.  
          
        S.A.   Is   this   why   you   decided   to   put   some   leftists   at   the   centre   of  
Dissident  Gardens?  
        J.L.  No,  I  didn’t  want  to  have  the  critics  taking  my  book  seriously  
by  having  my  characters  behave  seriously.  But  in  a  way  the  two  books  
are   strangely   two   halves   of   a   whole   because   one   is   a   book   about  
amnesiac   characters,   who   float   free   of   history,   but   in   the   background  
you  see  this  immense  disaster.  Chronic  City  is  like  a  Hieronymus  Bosch  
painting,   but      in   the   background   is   Bosch   and   in   the   foreground,  
Seinfeld,   a   sit-­‐‑com,   and   the   two   things   don’t   seem   to   connect   until   the  



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Silvia  Albertazzi,  The  Lost  Language  of  Belief:  A  Conversation  with  Jonathan  Lethem  



characters,   the   comedians   inside,   begin   to   notice   the   painting,   and  
realize  that  they’ve  been  living  in  hell.    
        Dissident  Gardens  is  about  something  I  had  to  understand  in  terms  
of  the  body  –  that’s  why  I  nodded  so  gratefully  when  you  said  that  –  
it’s  about  the  forms  that  idealism  takes  when  you  actually  try  to  live  it,  
and   move   it   into   your   world,   into   your   intellectual,   family   life,   into  
your  professional  life,  into  your  neighbourhood,    into  your  house,  into  
your  relationships,  and  all  the  different  ways  it  becomes  deformed  and  
distressed,  and  absurd  and  tragic.  But  I  was  also  using  something  I  had  
available   to   me   and   was   suddenly   able   to   write   about   very   directly  
which  was  a  lot  of  information  about  the  lives  of  the  leftists,  because  I  
grew   up   among   them,   and   identified   with   them,   and   still   feel  
passionately  for  them.  So  this  gave  me  access  to  emotional  information  
because   I   knew   what   kind   of   lives   American   leftists   had   led   and   the  
cost  they  had  to  pay.  
          
        S.A.  There  is  a  sentence  I  truly  appreciate  in  your  work,  but  I  am  rather  
afraid   to   quote   it,   because   it   is   very   personal   and   I   don’t   know   if   you   would  
like  the  idea  of  tackling  it  with  a  complete  stranger.    
        J.L.  Go  ahead.  
          
        S.A.   It’s   the   close   of   The   Disappointment   Artist,   when   you   write:   “I  
find  myself  speaking  about  my  mother’s  death  everywhere  I  go  in  this  world”.  
What   impresses   me   in   this   sentence,   apart   from   its   poignant   personal  
significance,  is  that,  even  talking  about  such  a  tragic  occurrence,  your  accent  
is   on   space   and   movement.   You   don’t   write:   “In   everything   I   write”   or   “In  
any   question   I   answer”.   It   seems   as   if   your   loss,   and   the   telling   of   this   loss,  
were  the  space  on  which  you  build  your  house  of  words,  as  if  each  road,  each  
motion  brought  you  to  this  everywhere  (or  nowhere)  which  is,  in  any  case,  in  
this   world.   Recently   I   read   your   analysis   of   Talking   Heads’   record   Fear   of  
Music   and   I   found   this   same   sense   of   void   and   loss   in   your   description   of  
David  Byrne’s  “fear  of  nowhere  theme”,  together  with  the  idea  that  this  “fear  
of   nowhere”   can   “evolve   toward   reconciliation”.   Indeed,   you   write   that   you  
can  abide  with  nowhere,  “you  can  dwell  there,  even  gratefully,  so  long  as  you  
don’t  require  it  to  be  a  heaven”.  This  might  be  the  meaning  also  of  the  image  of  


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your  work  I  always  carry  with  me:  the  ending  of  The  Fortress  of  Solitude,  
where  during  a  snow  storm  father  and  son  find  themselves  together    “in  a  sort  
of  middle  space,  in  a  cone  of  white”.    
        J.L.   I   understand   and   I   can   add   to   that   account,   because   I  
recognize   it   as   the   very   definite   account,   the   centre   of   my   work.   And  
I’ve   never   heard   it   put   in   terms   of   space   so   specifically,   but   I’m   very  
compelled   by   that.   Now   let   me   tell   you   a   story   or   a   kind   of   a  
description  of  how  I  have  modelled  my  own  emotional  relationship  to  
my  work    and  its  images.  There  is  one  thing  I  came  to  understand  and  
this   is   extremely   relevant   to   Dissident   Gardens   and   Fear   of   Music:   that  
my   mother’s   death   became,   obviously   by   now   I   understand,   the  
organizing  image  of  the  world  for  me.  There  was  a  loss,  a  central  loss,  
that  must  be  endured  and  you  constructed  your  sufferance  around  this  
loss   afterwards.   Simply   speaking   of   me   as   a   persona   made   up   of  
cultural  possessions  –  the  friends  I  made  at  the  age  of  fourteen,  fifteen;  
the   books   I   read   at   fourteen,   fifteen,   sixteen   (P.   K.   Dick,   Graham  
Greene,   Patricia   Highsmith)   –   the   music   –   Fear   of   Music   –   the   films   –  
Kubrick  and  Godard  -­‐‑,  I  arranged  myself  around  this  loss,  and  I’m  still  
that   person.   And   yet   it’s   not   enough   for   me   to   see   this   as   something  
that  magically  and  suddenly  occurs  just  because  my  mother  died.  For  I  
think   its   origin   as   a   deep   image,   a   metaphor   for   me,   actually   comes  
before   my   mother’s   death   and   even   before   her   illness.   The   city   I   was  
living  in,  and  the  family  I  was  living  in,  and  the  counterculture  I  was  
living  in,  were  all  crumbling  utopias  before  my  mother  died.  New  York  
City   in   the   Seventies   was   defined   by   the   sense   of   its   failure,   it   was   a  
dystopian   city,   it   was   irreparable,   and   yet   we   lived   in   it.   The   Sixties’  
dream   that   my   parents   embodied   by   1973,   ‘74   was   crumbling   around  
us   in   so   many   ways,   all   so   well   documented:   and   the   coming  
repressive   response   to   it   in   the   form   of   the   Reagan-­‐‑Thatcher   era   was  
due   to   come.   The   price   was   to   be   paid.   My   own   family,   which   was   a  
beautiful,   fascinating   delicate   construction   –   my   parents   had   a  
beautiful  world  full  of  friends,  of  neighbours  –  was  in  disrepair.  Their  
marriage   was   in   disrepair.   I   felt   the   extraordinary,   multiple   image   of  
loss:  the  world  is  marvellous  but  it  is  on  the  verge  of  destruction  and  
collapse.   My   grandmother’s   relationship   to   the   idea   of   the   Holocaust  


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and  of  the  destruction  of  the  European  utopia  was  so  powerful  to  me.  I  
was   a   child,   it   was   very   irrational,   it   didn’t   make   sense,   but   I   was  
influenced  by  her  feeling  that  you  might  think  that  the  world  is  great,  
but  the  Nazis  are  coming,  they’re  gonna  take  it.  So  all  these  things  were  
telling  me  in  different  ways:  “Get  ready;  the  bomb  is  gonna  fall”.  And  
then   my   mother   died,   and   it   became   the   confirmation.   It   wasn’t   a  
sudden  random  event  that  reoriented  me.  Instead,  my  mother’s  death,  
strange  as  it  may  seem  for  a  fourteen  year  old  boy,    was  a  confirmation  
of  a  world  view  that  had  somehow  already  arrived.    
            
          S.A.  And  do  you  still  have  that  world  view?  
          J.L.   Sure.   After   I   had   any   other   …   But   you   know,   this      loss  
describes  why  I  see  temporary  utopias  as  being  infinitely  worthwhile.  
This  is  what  I  try  to  do  when  I  connect  the  image  of  the  communists  in  
Dissident   Gardens   not   with   political   history   but   with   the   idea   of   the  
temporary  utopia,  the  moment    in  You  don’t  Love  me  yet,  when  the  rock  
band  has  a  Gestalt  for  one  day,  or  images  that  are  scattered  all  through    
Fortress   of   Solitude   –   the   boys   playing   on   a   street   who   for   one   brief  
period  don’t  know  they  are  black  and  white  and  play  together,  so  they  
have  a  temporary  utopia,  which  is  doomed,  the  world  is  gonna  take  it  
away,  but  that  luck,  those  days  have  happened,  and  even  elsewhere  in  
the  book,  there  is  a  convention,  absurd  as  it  may  be,  those  people  are  
coming  to  that  hotel,  to  share  a  little  dream,  and  for  one  weekend  the  
world  is  there,  until  they  have  to  go  back  to  their  terrible  jobs.        
            
          S.A.  Thinking  of  the  rock  band  who  have  a  temporary  utopia  just  for  one  
night  and  one  brief  song,  I  can’t  help  wondering:  If  the  show  went  on,  would  
it  be  like  the  one  that  goes  on  and  on  in  Heaven  in  a  Talking  Heads’  song,  that  
is   to   say,   always   the   same   song,   always   the   same   gestures?   In   other   words,  
when  it  is  not  temporary,  is  Utopia  “a  nice  place,  a  good  and  desirable  place,  
yet  deadly  boring”  (to  quote  from  Fear  of  Music)?  
          J.L.  Yes,  there  is  also  no  sustainability  if  you  invest  in  this  image.  
The   temporary   nature   of   utopia   is   one   of   its   fundamental   properties.  
It’s  an  experience,  not  a  place,  it’s  not    a  product,  you  can’t  put  it  in  a  
can,  it’s  a  passage.  


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       S.A.  I  believe  that  sometimes  places  tell  the  stories  better  than  people  do.  
This  is  what  happens  in  your  novels:  for  instance,  Motherless  Brooklyn  and  
The  Fortress  of  Solitude  are  told  by  Brooklyn  in  a    way,  that  is  to  say,  they  
could   not   be   set   anywhere   else.   What   amazes   me   in   all   your   works   is   your  
characters’   relation   to   places   in   general   and   to   cities,   in   particular.   In   your  
essay   on   Fear   of   Music,   I   found   a   sentence   which   seems   to   explain   the  
attitude   to   the   cities   of   people   like   Dylan   Ebdus,   the   protagonist   of   the  
Fortress,  or  Miriam  in  Dissident  Gardens  or  her  husband  Tommy:  “Cities  
have  a  lot  of  people  in  them,  more  than  families  do,  but  we  go  to  them,  often,  to  
be  unknown.  And  then  our  cities  become  our  families,  and  we  might  find  we  
have  to  venture  forth  from  those  as  well”.    
       J.L.   This   is   what   happens   in   my   life.   There   was      a   time   I   had   to  
leave  New  York  even  though  it  nourished  me  because  I  felt  too  visible,  
the  city  was  looking  at  me  too  much.  I  couldn’t  hide  any  more.  
         
       S.A.  And  you  won’t  go  back?  
       J.L.  No,  well,  I’ve  left  it  several  times  now,  and  I  seem  to  go  back  
and  round.  I  feel  very  proud  of  those  books  about  Brooklyn,  especially  
Fortress,   for   the   intensity   of   their   relationship   to   the   place.   I   almost  
hesitate   to   say   “about   Brooklyn”,   because   Brooklyn   is   too   big.   You  
know,  when  I  was  writing  Fortress  I  told  myself:  forget  doing  the  great  
American  novel,  forget  doing  the  New  York  novel:  I  can  just  do  Dean  
Street.  I  can  just  get  what  I  feel:  the  complexity,  and  the  sensations  and  
the  tribulation  of  my  experience  of  the  street.  
         
       S.A.   Are   the   Sunnyside   Gardens   of   your   latest   novel   an   equivalent   of  
Gowanus  of  The  Fortress  of  Solitude    in  terms  of  a  temporary  urban  utopia?  
       J.L.   Yes,      Dissident   Gardens   is   almost   like   my   mother’s   Fortress   of  
Solitude.   Her   departure   from   the   outer   borough   to   Manhattan  
reproduces   that   pattern   of   yearning   and   regret   between   the   outer  
boroughs  and  Manhattan,  in  many  ways.  
         
       S.A.  Do  you  have  a  plan  of  setting  a  novel  in  each  borough  of  New  York?  
What  will  come  next,  after  Brooklyn,  Manhattan  and  now  Queens?  



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Silvia  Albertazzi,  The  Lost  Language  of  Belief:  A  Conversation  with  Jonathan  Lethem  



        J.L.   No,   no,   I   don’t   think   I   have   anything   to   say   about   the   other  
boroughs.  
          
        S.A.   Anyway:   in   your   work   Brooklyn   represents   a   sense   of   past   and  
continuity;   Manhattan   stands   for   historical   amnesia.   And   Queens?   What  
about  Queens?  
        J.L.   Well,   Queens   differs   from   Brooklyn   in   a   very   specific   way,  
because   Brooklyn   is   a   failed   rival   to   Manhattan.   They   were   two   great  
cities,   then   one   destroyed   the   other;   one   absorbed   the   other.   But  
Brooklyn  retains  that  injured  vanity,  because  it  remembers  that  it  was  
once   a   great   city,   too.   Queens   is   the   original   suburb,   it’s   the   bedroom  
community.   It   was   never   its   own   place,   it   was   always   the   suburb,   it  
was  always  servicing  Manhattan.  
          
        S.A.  Yet  in  Dissident  Gardens  the  people  from  Queens  have  what  you  
call  a  “boroughphobia”  for  Brooklyn  …  
        J.L.  Well,  you  know,  you  can  still  detect  traces  of  boroughphobia.  
When   I   grew   up   in   the   1970s,   people   who   were   courageous,   worldly,  
brilliant  and  curious  would  sooner  go  to  Italy  than  cross  the  Brooklyn  
bridge.  It  was  unspeakable,  in  some  ways,  it  was  the  unconscious.  
          
        S.A.  De  Certeau  wrote  that  places  are  stories  waiting  to  be  told.  I  wonder  
if  Dissident  Gardens  is  that  secret  song  of  New  York  Tommy  Gogan  wants  
to  sing  in  your  novel?    
        J.L.  That’s  good,  I  agree  completely.  I  have  an  immense  affection  
for  Tommy  Gogan:  if  he  had  more  courage  he  could  have  been  a  kind  
of  great  artist,  he  would  never  have  been  a  Dylan,  which  is  what  with  
his  talent  he  must  become,  he  would  never  become  that  kind  of  artist,  
he  is  so  disruptive,  but  this  other  impulse  he  had,  to  be  a  documentary  
songwriter,  was  a  little  more  ready  to  possess  his  own  gifts.  It’s  funny,  
because  he  is  very  ashamed,  he  works  from  sort  of  non-­‐‑fiction  sources,  
and   maybe   I   identify   with   him,   because   to   do   this   book   I   had   to  
become  also  a  researcher,  and  the  voices  in  the  book  are  not  mine,  the  
voices  come  partly  from  historical  documents.  I  hope  the  book  doesn’t  
scream  of  research.  I  was  absorbed:  often  I  would  do  research  and  then  


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ignored   it.   You   know,   it   had   to   go   with   me,   it   had   not   to   go   into   the  
book.   I   thought   I   was   bursting   with      understanding   of   these   people,  
these   times,   these   places,   but   I   didn’t   want   to   put   all   of   this   on   the  
page:  I  just  wanted  to  know  it  myself.  
         
       S.A.   Your   novel   appeared   more   or   less   at   the   same   time   as   Inside  
Llewyn  Davies,  the  film  by  the  Coen  brothers  set  in  the  Sixties  in  Greenwich  
Village.  Was  there  any  relation  between  them?  
       J.L.   Yes,   there   is   and      it   was   very   funny.   To   build   the   Tommy  
Gogan   chapter   I   depended   on   three   sources:   my   ancestors’   memory,  
because  my  mother  was  part  of  that  world,  and  I  was  so  fascinated  that  
I  took  the  lore,  I  listened  to  the  lore  and  made  it  my  own.  Then  there  
were   two   very   revealing   and   generous   autobiographies:   one   by   Suze  
Rotolo,  who  is  the  girl  walking  arm  in  arm  with  Dylan  on  the  cover  of  
Freewheeling   Bob   Dylan:   she   was   from   Queens,   and   her   father   was   an  
Italian   communist,   she   ran   away   from   Queens,   so   she   was   kind   of   a  
wonderful,  accidental  parallel  to  Miriam;  and  then  the  other  book  was  
Dave   Van   Ronk’s   autobiography.   Van   Ronk   is   a   great   storyteller   and  
his   book   -­‐‑      a   beautiful,   funny,   charming   book   -­‐‑   was   very   useful   to  
create  the  atmosphere  of  Gogan’s  chapter,  so  much  so  that  I  even  put  
Van   Ronk   into   the   book:   he   deserved   to   appear!   And   that’s   the   book  
the   Coens   used:   so   we   were   working   in   parallel,   but   I   didn’t   know  
what   they   were   doing.   When   Dissident   Gardens   was   in   preparation,  
when  I  was  editing  it,  a  trailer  of  Llewyn  Davies  came  out  and  I  saw  it  
and   I   just   laughed   because   even   in   three   minutes   it   was   so  
unmistakable   that   we   worked   from   the   same   book,   and   I   thought,   It  
will  be  funny  when  they  come  out  together.    
         
       S.A.  Did  you  like  the  film?  
       J.L.  I  had  my  reservations.  I  mean:  the  texture  was  fascinating  and  
their   sensibility   always   interests   me,   that   peculiar   morbid   tone.   But   I  
think   sometimes   these   qualities   become   habits,   mannerisms;   and   this  
was  the  case  here.  Did  you  see  A  Serious  Man?  I  think  it’s  one  of  their  
strongest  films  and  I  was  really  hoping  this  would  be  in  that  register.  
Unfortunately,  it  wasn’t.    


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Silvia  Albertazzi,  The  Lost  Language  of  Belief:  A  Conversation  with  Jonathan  Lethem  



         
       S.A.  In  your  books  there  is  always  a  sort  of  anxiety  about  the  possibilities  
of  language.  Very  often  your  characters  feel  a  sense  of  loss  in  the  face  of  reality:  
I’m   thinking   of   Lionel’s   loss   of   language   in   front   of   the   sea   at   the   end   of  
Motherless   Brooklyn   and   of   Chase   Insteadman’s   confession   in   Chronic  
City:   “When   I   look   at   reality,   language   dies”.   So,   which   language   can   –   or  
cannot  –  tell  the  reality  of  Dissident  Gardens?  For  instance,  in  Motherless  
Brooklyn   tourette   was   a   kind   of   metaphor   of   urban   chaos   and   the   need   for  
physical   contact   of   metropolitan   people,   but   it   was   also   a   metaphor   of   the  
many  ways  of  telling  the  city.  So,  which  language  for  the  dissidents?  
       J.L.   Let   me   add   to   your   examples   by   recalling   how   in   Fortress   of  
Solitude  Dylan  looks  at  the  graffiti  on  the  walls  as  telling  the  particular  
history  of  the  city:  the  world  is  made  of  scribbles.  
         
       S.A.  Yes,  and  at  the  end  of  the  novel,  Dylan  and  his  father  alone  in  the  
snow  are  described  as    “two  gnarls  of  human  scribble”.  
       J.L.  Well,  to  return  to  Dissident  Gardens,  you  can  think  of  Lenny  as  
an   almost   tourettic   personality.   He   is   making   a   world   by   inserting  
language,   ideology   and   argumentation   into   every   space.   When   you  
meet   him   at   the   chess   shop,   he   assaults   you   with   his   personality   and  
language:   he   grabs   Cicero   and   overwhelms   him,   not   physically,   but  
with   words,   because   he   is   like   a   language   drunk.   Argumentation  
becomes   a   way   of   putting   a   bridge   across   the   void.   Here   the  
unexpected  authority  of  bodies  living  in  the  world  is  the  equivalent  of  
the   ocean   in   Motherless   Brooklyn   or   the   reality   that   Chase   sees   when  
language   dies.   For   the   communists,   the   ideologues   and   the  
personalities   of      Dissident   Gardens,   the   only   way   to   gulf   the   bridge  
between   utopia   and   reality,   the   fact   that   revolution   is   not   coming  
tomorrow,   is   to   cover   it   with   language,   to   fill   up   this   space   with  
language.   In   fact,   my   view   of   the   past   is   made   of   language,   of  
argumentation.   That’s   what   the   Thirties   were   like:   an   obsession   with  
dispute   and   language.   Even   Cicero   makes   a   language   world   that   is  
very   impressive,   very   bullying   and   very   aggressive,   but   the   way   his  
body  moves  through  space  tells  another  story.  
         


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       S.A.  There  is  a  question  I  cannot  help  asking  the  author  of  The  Ecstasy  
of   Influence:      which   authors   influenced   you   most?   Am   I   right   to   detect   the  
presence  of  Dickens  in  almost  all  your  books?    
       J.L.  Yes,  he’s  very  central  for  me.  I  think  he’s  the  ultimate  novelist,  
but   because   of   the   popular   image   of   him   as   quaint   or   sentimentalist  
he’s   so   very   underestimated.   Yet   he   presents   every   different   talent,  
everything  a  novelist  can  ever  imagine  doing.    
         
       S.A.  So,  when  you  write  that  Rose  is  a  sort  of  Mrs  Havisham  whose  life  
stopped  in  1956,  could  we  infer  that  Cicero  is  her  Pip?    
       J.L.   That’s   pretty   good,   I   mean,   that   makes   sense.   I   hadn’t   really  
consciously  put  him    there,  but  Great  Expectations  is  for  me  the  one,  it’s  
the   best   of   Dickens’   novels:   so,   if   I   reproduce   its   pattern   it   makes  
complete  sense.    
         
       S.A.   Many   critics   compared   Dissident   Gardens   to   The  
Buddenbrooks  …    
       J.L.   This   was   a   red   herring,   but   I   am   only   myself   to   blame.   That  
book  was  never  a  vital  source  for  me,  but  I  wanted  to  be  polite  because  
so   many   people   praised   Dissident   Gardens   by   saying:   “You’ve   done   it:  
it’s  the  leftist  American  Buddenbrooks!    I  just  tried  to  say,  ‘Thank  you’,  
but  this  book  was  never  in  my  mind.  
         
       S.A.  You’ve  been  labelled  “the  heir  of  Philip  Roth:  how  about  him?  
       J.L.   Well,   you   can   only   be   amazed   and   grateful   for   this   kind   of  
praise.  Roth  is  very  important  for  me,  I  nourished  myself  on  his  great  
books,  I  think  about  them  a  lot,  he  was  part  of  this  one,  but  only  as  a  
part  in  a  sequence  of  different  important  touchstones.  This  book  more  
than  any  other  that  I  have  written  is  the  blind  memory  elephant:  it’s  all  
parts;   all   influences   are   specific.   For   instance,   I   was   influenced   by  
Canadian   Irish   novelist   Brian   Moore   when   I   was   writing   Tommy  
Gogan’s   chapter.   Then,   there   is   the   Australian   Christina   Stead,   an  
unbelievable   writer,   with   her   unfinished   autobiography   I’m   Dying  
Laughing   and   the   novels   The   Man   who   Loved   Children,   which   I’ve   also  
taught   several   times,   and   Lettie   Fox,   the   image   of   a   woman   before  


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Silvia  Albertazzi,  The  Lost  Language  of  Belief:  A  Conversation  with  Jonathan  Lethem  



feminism,  making  her  way  sexually  in  the  world,  a  kind  of  model  for  
Rose.    
        
      S.A.   And   how   about   American   working   class   novelists   such   as   Nelson  
Algren  and  Upton  Sinclair?  
      J.L.  I  do  not  have  a  strong  relationship  with  them.  I  identify  more  
with   Jewish   writers   of   the   50s:   Bellow,   the   early   Malamud:   The  
Assistant  is  very  emblematic  for  me.    Some  of  the  most  angry  reviews  I  
received   said:   where’s   the   working   class?   How   can   you   possibly  
declare  this  is  your  subject  and  they  never  appear?  But  in  a  way  I  did  
the  opposite:  I  declared  the  absence  of  the  working  class,  the  search  for  
them,  by  people  who  are  constitutionally  incapable  of  making  contact  
with  them.  Even  Rose  working  in  the  pickle  factory  holds  herself  apart  
from  the  men  who  are  right  in  front  of  her.    
        
      S.A.   To   conclude,   in   Chronic   City   you   wanted   to   write   about   the  
emotion   of   trying   to   give   a   name   to   unnameable   things   without   having   a  
language   to   describe   them.   Now,   what   do   you   mean   when   you   define    
Dissident  Gardens  “an  attempt  to  speak  in  tongues”?  
      J.L.   The   book   is   an   attempt   towards   totality,   probably   it’s   an  
attempt  to  reanimate  a  kind  of  lost  religious  language  of  communism,  
of  belief.                



                                             The  author  
Silvia  Albertazzi    
          
       Silvia   Albertazzi   is   Full   Professor   of   English   Literature   at   the  
University   of   Bologna,   where   she   coordinates   a   PhD   Program   on  
World   Literature   and   Cultural   Studies.   She   is   the   author   of   many  
critical  volumes  and  collections  of  essays,  such  as  Lo  sguardo  dell’Altro  
(the  first  Italian  essay  on  postcolonial  theory,  2000);  the  chapters  on  the  
XVIIIth   and   XIXth   centuries   of   the   short   history   of   English   literature  
published   by   Einaudi   in   2004;   a   geocritical   volume   called   In   questo  


14  
                                            Between,  vol.  IV,  n.  8  (Novembre/November  2014)  



mondo,   ovvero,   quando   i   luoghi   raccontano   le   storie,   winner   of      the   Ist  
Literary   Prize   for   Essay   Writing   “Alziator”   in   2007;   Il   nulla,   quasi   (on  
literature   and   photography,   2010);   Belli   e   perdenti   (on   the   figure   of   the  
loser  in  contemporary  Anglophone  fiction,  2012).  She  contributes  to  the  
literary   supplement   of   the   newspaper   Il   Manifesto.   Her   latest   volume  
on  postcolonial  theory,  La  letteratura  postcoloniale.  Dall’Impero  alla  World  
Literature,  appeared  in  2013.  
          
        Email:  silvia.albertazzi@unibo.it  


Date  sent:  30/08/2014                The  paper  
Date  accepted:  30/09/2014  
Date  published:  30/11/2014  



                           How  to  quote  this  paper  
Albertazzi,   Silvia,   “The   Lost   Language   of   Belief:   A   Conversation   with  
Jonathan   Lethem”,   Between,   IV.8   (2014),   http://www.Between-­‐‑
journal.it/  
  




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