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ReadySteadyBlog

La Feuille: "un site de critique indépendant et plutôt de qualité"

Friday 21 September 2007

Tom McCarthy interview (part 5)


Tom McCarthy, author of Remainder and Men in Space


Below is the fifth and final part of my week-long interview with Tom McCarthy:


Mark Thwaite: Are you dismayed by the current state of the world!?


Tom McCarthy: How could I not be? Beckett’s answer to this question was ‘Let it burn!’ – but then he has Vladimir in Waiting for Godot say ‘Was I sleeping, while the others suffered?’, which I think is the single best and most moving line ever written by any writer, ever. Everything’s political, ultimately – but I think good writing disengages from politics at a superficial level in order to experience it more profoundly.


MT: What are you writing now?


TM: Pathetically, my answer to this question is the same as it was when you last asked it over a year ago. I’m just under half way through a novel called C, which is about mourning, technology and matter. I’m writing it very slowly. It’s called C because it has crypts, cauls, call-signs, cocaine, cyanide and cysteine in it. And carbon: lots of carbon.


MT: Anything else you would like to say?


TM: Keep on keeping up the good work. RSB’s become a staple of my daily meander through cyberspace: the criticism, the links, it’s all good – apart from the announcements of various great writers’ and critics’ deaths, which I always read first on your site. Stop killing off our heroes!

Posted by Mark Thwaite
Tags: , ,

Reader Comments

Monday 24 September 2007

Matthew Tiffany says...

Great interview. We at Condalmo are very much looking forward to Men in Space.

Tuesday 25 September 2007

Rowan Wilson says...

RSB and its involvement in literary murder: good point Tom - there is probably a connection. Could it be 'The Curse of RSB'? It might be time to double bolt your door ...

Mind you, McEwan goes on and on and on...

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Serendipoetry

The Quarrel

The word I spoke in anger
weighs less than a parsley seed,
but a road runs through it
that leads to my grave,
that bought-and-paid-for lot
on a salt-sprayed hill in Truro
where the scrub pines
overlook the bay.
Half-way I'm dead enough,
strayed from my own nature
and my fierce hold on life.
If I could cry, I'd cry,
but I'm too old to be
anybody's child.
Liebchen,
with whom should I quarrel
except in the hiss of love,
that harsh, irregular flame?

-- Stanley Kunitz
The Collected Poems (W.W.Norton)

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