The journalist and the provocateur

Janet Malcolm talks about her new book on Chekhov, the perils of offending journalists and the long shadow of her libel lawsuit.

By Nan Goldberg

Topics:Author Interviews, Janet Malcolm, Books

Janet Malcolm has reason to be gun-shy. A brilliant essayist whose best work has parsed the unstated contradictions inherent in psychoanalysis, journalism and the law, Malcolm endured a decade-long libel lawsuit (1984 to 1994) by psychoanalyst Jeffrey Masson, who accused her of fabricating quotes in her 1983 book about him, “In the Freud Archives” (A judge dismissed the suit, but Masson appealed and the case eventually went to a jury, which found for Malcolm.).

During the years of the lawsuit and even afterward, Malcolm was routinely represented by the press as an example of bad, unethical journalism. Masson’s accusations had found a receptive audience among some of Malcolm’s fellow journalists, perhaps because of her propensity for bluntly stating awkward truths that others prefer to leave unsaid and perhaps even unacknowledged. Pondering her own profession, for example, she famously began “The Journalist and the Murderer” (1990): “Every journalist who is not too stupid or too full of himself to notice what is going on knows that what he does is morally indefensible. He is a kind of confidence man, preying on people’s vanity, ignorance, or loneliness, gaining their trust and betraying them without remorse.”

Happily for her, Malcolm’s new book, “Reading Chekhov,” is unlikely to offend anyone. Part biography, part literary criticism, it is a typical Malcolm work in its hybrid, montagelike nature. And yet it is a departure, too: Its subject is dead, for one thing, and the book does not, like most of her work, attempt to weave together a complete narrative, with a beginning, middle and end, out of interviews, research and common sense. Rather, Malcolm says, she simply wanted to understand the power of Chekhov’s masterful stories.

Salon visited with Malcolm recently at her Manhattan apartment.

Given what you wrote in “The Journalist and the Murderer” about the journalist-subject relationship — that it’s a power relationship and the power is all in the journalist’s hands — why did you agree to be interviewed?

It’s a very good question. At the time [I wrote that book], I did not do any interviews. When the book came out and people wanted to ask me questions, I said, “Well, read the book.”

I did. That’s why I’m asking.

But time goes on … And one of the reasons I did not give interviews, of course, was not just the power in this. I’m just not very good at it. I often have no answers to the questions; I think of the answers later.

I also feel I’ve already said what I want to say in my work. So the questions are asking me to think about things that either I’ve already thought about and set down there, or if the question is a new question, I can’t just answer it right off the bat because the answer won’t be interesting.

In Chekhov’s “A Dreary Story,” the narrator at the end realizes that he lacks a ruling idea from which to make sense of his existence. In your work, on the other hand, it’s clear you center around certain problems, or a series of related problems.

Yes, we all do the same things over again, the repetition compulsion. [You don't think you're starting out] with some ruling idea, but as you go along you realize that you keep coming back to the same subject.

What Philip Roth talks about over and over again in his work is how we can’t know each other, that we keep getting it wrong: We get it wrong and we get it wrong again, and then we think about it and try again and get it wrong again. And that seems to me what you are trying to get at also: What’s true? Is it possible to know what’s true? But I’d really like to hear you describe what your work is about.

I’d love to hear you talk about it rather than me. See, you’re thinking like a critic. Writers don’t always care to write in the kind of consciousness in which criticism is conducted. They would be paralyzed, too aware of what they’re doing. I really think it’s for the critic to try to figure out what’s going on.

That’s what’s delighted me so much about this [Chekhov] book. I’ve really enjoyed figuring out what it is that makes his stories what they are. I read them over and over, and each time I read one of his stories — always, it was a new experience. I would always reach a point where my eyes would start tearing; here it would come again — extraordinary.

What drew you to Chekhov particularly?

I’d read some Chekhov, the plays and some stories, and then a few years ago Ecco Press started publishing his stories, and I started reading them and falling in love with them.

James Atlas was doing this series called “Penguin Lives,” and he called me up and asked if I would do a biography. I didn’t think I had any interest in writing a biography, so I said, “I’m sorry,” but he asked me to think about it and then he called again, and I thought, all right, I’ll do Chekhov.

Actually I think I’d already tried to do a little writing about these stories, which are so mysteriously wonderful.

How did the book end up at Random House?

There was a problem about publishing it at the time the contract said it would be published, so I withdrew the book. It’s hard for me to get to work on one thing when there’s another thing still unpublished.

But another good thing about the change was it permitted me to write more. At Random House I was permitted and encouraged to write more. I feel the book is more complete now than it would have been.

You’ve spent a lot of time thinking and writing about biographies. In this book, you wrote, “Chekhov’s privacy is safe from the biographer’s attempts upon it — as, indeed, are all privacies, even those of the most apparently open and even exhibitionistic natures. The letters and journals we leave behind and the impressions we have made on our contemporaries are the mere husk of the kernel of our essential life. When we die, the kernel is buried with us. This is the horror and pity of death and the reason for the inescapable triviality of biography.” So it’s almost like you started out feeling that you cannot write an accurate biography, that it’s not a possibility.

Well, if you notice I haven’t written a biography really, though there’s some biographical stuff in there, even while I was kind of interrogating the whole question of biography — that’s a sort of theme of mine.

Right. And yet you did attempt something like a biography anyway.

I know. That’s an inconsistency. But I was conscious of never going beyond what’s factual, never trying to imagine what he thought. I don’t think I did; I hope I didn’t — you know, that kind of reading of the mind. I tried to stay as factual as possible.

In researching this book, you spent several weeks in Russia. But the very first scene of your book — sitting with your guide in Yalta where Anna and Gurov sat in “The Lady With the Dog” — reads like kind of a farce, as if you’re sitting there not really expecting any insights and nothing is happening, and yet you’re pretending to be thrilled. And it sounded to me, reading what you wrote, that you didn’t go there expecting any revelations to occur, so I wondered why you went.

You mean you feel I kind of tipped my own hand?

It seemed to me that you were setting out to do this with a sense of irony about it.

I guess that’s true, because the great experience is the reading of the story, so what could be there in that same place? And why would you get from that place what Chekhov got from it?

And yet somehow I felt that I needed to go to Russia. I felt a very strong pull to go there, even though I’ve been skeptical of going to the places where something was written and having an experience that is equivalent. I think people who think that way may be having a self-fulfilling prophecy. But anyway, I went, reluctantly. I don’t like traveling very much. And then when I lost my suitcase, everything was awful.

But that was a great moment. You wrote: “When my suitcase was taken something else had been restored to me — feeling itself … Travel … is a low-key emotional experience, a pallid affair in comparison to ordinary life.” And that realization gave you insight into “The Lady With the Dog,” in which Anna, vacationing in Yalta, finds it “so dull here!”

Also it was journalistically so fortunate. I mean, this is why one does it — because things happen and then you can write about them.

You often comment about people in your work that they “don’t add up.” You said in “The Journalist and the Murderer” about Joe McGinniss, “Like McGinniss’ MacDonald, my McGinniss doesn’t quite add up.” You also said in “The Silent Woman,” that Anne Stephenson’s portrait of Sylvia Plath did not add up, and you said in your essay “The Trial of Alyosha” [in the collection "The Purloined Clinic"], “the Russian novelists knew in the most uncanny way how complicated we all are, how we don’t add up.” Can you talk about that?

One of the answers to that is in Chekhov, in that same story, “The Lady With the Dog” — the passage about private life, you know? That we just don’t make ourselves available:

[He had two lives: one, open, seen and known by all who cared to know, full of relative truth and of relative falsehood, exactly like the lives of his friends and acquaintances; and another life running its course in secret. And through some strange, perhaps accidental, conjunction of circumstances, everything that was essential, of interest and of value to him, everything in which he was sincere and did not deceive himself, everything that made the kernel of his life, was hidden from other people; and all that was false in him, the sheath in which he hid himself to conceal the truth -- such, for instance, as his work in the bank, his discussions at the club, his "lower race," his presence with his wife at anniversary festivities -- all that was open. And he judged of others by himself, not believing in what he saw, and always believing that every man had his real, most interesting life under the cover of secrecy and under the cover of night.]
That’s the problem of biographers, is to get to the self.
The more I think about the problem of biography, the more I think you just have to be roughly right. I mean, there’s kind of an agreement that one subject is more gentle and recessive and reticent, while another is aggressive and exhibitionistic. But what I am going through, inside myself, for instance, you’d never know.
Do we ourselves add up?
No, of course we don’t.
Given that, it’s an impossible task to portray anybody.
But I think people have an atmosphere, and you will write about me in some way that will say something about my atmosphere.
Do you think that you and what you write about were affected in some fundamental way by being sued by Jeffrey Masson?
Well, certainly “The Trial of Sheila McGough”; I probably would not have been interested in the law otherwise. That book, certainly, is very much related to my experiences in a lawsuit.
And “The Journalist and the Murderer”? I know you said in an afterword to the book that there wasn’t any connection. But that seemed, I don’t want to say disingenuous, but the connection I saw was that I imagined you sitting and taking notes and listening to Masson talk, and digging this grave for himself, making a fool of himself. And you were smiling and nodding and writing it all down, while you must have known you were going to basically eviscerate him. And that raised moral issues for you.
There are two things I want to say. One is that when I wrote “The Journalist and the Murderer,” I thought my case was over, because the judge had dismissed it. If it hadn’t been over I don’t think I would have wanted to write that book.
The other point is that the real ideology of “The Journalist and the Murderer” came out of an intervening piece. I didn’t write “The Journalist and the Murderer” right after the Masson lawsuit. I wrote a long piece about a woman named Ingrid Sichy ["A Girl of the Zeitgeist," 1986], and I interviewed her for over a year, and during those interviews we did a great deal of talking about this subject. Then I got that letter from McGinniss’ lawyer and it kind of dovetailed. But then the book was unpopular. People were angry at the first sentence, at the lead, and then by that time the Masson case was being appealed.
It was a bad confluence.
Yes, a bad confluence. [But the Sichy interviews were] where I became very conscious of it as a subject, rather than, as you were speculating, while I was interviewing Masson. That was not my view of what I was doing when I was interviewing Masson. I personally liked what I wrote. I mean, that’s the way he was; I tape-recorded him and wrote about him as he was. And sometimes people don’t like themselves the way they are. So it was a surprise to me.
Would you be surprised today?
I think I now more understand that there’s a gap between what people would like to have written about themselves and what they project themselves as.
However, when you wrote that first sentence of “The Journalist and the Murderer,” you must have known then that you were going to antagonize journalists.
I had no idea.
Really?
Absolutely none. I just thought it was a nice piece of rhetoric, and actually my husband, who is my editor, said, “You shouldn’t begin this way, you should begin with some piece of history” — something that was more conventional. And then my daughter read it and said, “Oh, what happened to that sentence? You should put it back.” So, probably, if it had been the way my husband said …
Your life would be very different.
Yes, [that sentence] would have been buried there somewhere, and nobody would have …
Maybe, but you know, you’ve done it in other places as well. You said about biographers, for example, “The biographer at work is like a professional burglar breaking into a house, rifling through certain drawers that he has good reason to think contain the jewelry and money, and triumphantly bearing his loot away. The voyeurism and busybodyism that impel writers and readers of biography alike are obscured by an apparatus of scholarship designed to give the enterprise an appearance of banklike blandness and solidity.” So, you know you’re being provocative, right? I’m not saying you’re being the slightest bit inaccurate, I’m just saying it’s probably going to offend some of the people who are going to be reading it.
I think until all this tension began with the Masson case, I was living in this kind of nice, protected environment, at the New Yorker. I knew the readers were somewhere out there, but I felt very private and I wrote for the people I knew. But after all this stuff I became more conscious of writing in a larger community, and it’s not as pleasant to write in that kind of subconsciousness than it had been.
But you didn’t tone it down?
I guess not.
What are you working on now?
I’m working on art, actually. I’m making collages. I’m going to be in a group show in January at the Lori Bookstein gallery, and I’m thrilled about it.
Is this your first show?
My first show, yes. There are 16 of my collages there. I’ve been working on them for the last few years.
Do you see any relationship between your collages and your writing?
I think so. I like to think about my work as kind of collagelike. A friend who’s a critic [Lee Seigel] is going to write the catalog for the show, and he says he thinks there’s a connection, so I’ll be interested to read what he writes.

: Nan Goldberg's fiction, book reviews, and author profiles regularly appear in the New York Post, the Newark Star-Ledger and other newspapers and magazines. More Nan Goldberg

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A designer of perfect homes no one can live in

Meet the backyard architect whose book shows off inventive micro-homes with eye-popping, comic-book-style art

SLIDE SHOW

By Emma Mustich

Author Deek Diedricksen in his $100 disaster relief shelter, the "GottaGiddaWay." (Credit: Bruce Bettis/Reprinted with permission from Lyons Press)

View the slide show

Topics:Books, Author Interviews

Photographs of tiny houses — like the ones Derek “Deek” Diedricksen regularly shares on his blog — tend to fascinate even those of us who might never be moved to try amateur carpentry ourselves. But open the new, expanded edition of Diedricksen’s book, “Humble Homes, Simple Shacks, Cozy Cottages, Ramshackle Retreats, Funky Forts, and Whatever the Heck Else We Could Squeeze in Here!” (out Feb. 1 from Lyons Press), and you’ll see this backyard architect’s inventive micro-homes through an entirely different, more exciting artistic lens.

Builders, be warned: This is not an instruction manual. Instead, Diedricksen’s book is bursting with abstract creative concepts, all outlined in eye-popping, full-page black-and-white comic-book-style drawings (you can see some examples — along with a number of photographs — in the slide show that accompanies this piece).

Over the phone, the author explained that, while small house fans shouldn’t necessarily look to him for step-by-step tutorials, his ideas (particularly his recycling tips) can be adapted in countless construction-related contexts. And you don’t have to be a tiny house fanatic to admire Diedricksen’s resourcefulness, or to wonder as you read — as the author himself wonders in his introduction — “how much space … you really, truly need to live well.”

This started out as a self-published project. How did it get picked up by a publisher?

I started selling the book out of my basement. Before that, I’d tried to get a children’s book published; I went through all the avenues, and spent a lot of money copying it and sending it out and all that, but it just never went anywhere. So I put this book together later, and hesitantly released it on my own, thinking that if anything it’d just be a gift for my brother or my father, or other like-minded people. I didn’t even pursue any publishers; I said, forget it — with the Internet and YouTube and all that, I’ll just try to push it on my own. And in a year and a half or so, I sold a couple thousand copies, just by word of mouth. There was a sort of snowball thing with the press; NPR was the first big media entity to cover [my work], and later I was covered by the New York Times and other organizations. That certainly helped move copies out of my basement.

Fast-forward a bit, and then, out of the blue, I had a couple of different publishers approach me. I never looked for any of them; they came to me. I already owned a ton of books from Lyons Press — they’ve done a lot of stuff with micro architecture, including many books that have influenced me — so choosing them was a no-brainer. I couldn’t even keep up with the book anymore anyway, so I [figured I'd] give it to someone else!

The illustrations really make this book stand out from other, similarly themed titles. You do have some experience as a comic book writer, right?

I used to do some comic strips. “Comic book writer” is kind of a misnomer; it was more just comic panels for a couple of Boston-area papers and magazines. I was one of those high school kids … I did well, but was always in the back of the classroom, never really paying attention, just doodling in my notebook the whole time. Eventually, I took that and tried to make it more constructive.

Why do you think tiny houses are so popular these days? Many people who probably wouldn’t ever build one for themselves seem to be fascinated — and there’s clearly a dedicated community devoted to actually making them.

I think there are a couple of reasons. One of them is the economy. With the job situation the way it is, there are a lot of people looking for ways to cut costs, and wondering: “Why do I necessarily need this gigantic house I’m working 80 hours a week to pay for, to heat, to furnish, to maintain?” Bigger houses require much more of all of that. And a lot of people think, “If I can build a smaller house (or even just find a smaller house) to live in, I’m saving myself a ton of money.” I was talking recently to someone who brought up an interesting point — that if you have a smaller house, you’re more or less not allowed to spend more money on junk, because you just don’t have the room for it.

But there’s a whole creative aspect of it, too; there’s a building faction of people who [want to break with the mainstream] in these days of automation and having everything done for you. I did a speaking thing at MIT, and was talking to some of the people there. I said, “Why do you want me out here? You guys are geniuses; I’m this idiot who builds with plywood and recycles garbage.” One of them said that these days, people don’t do as many things with their hands — so what I’m doing is very foreign to them. They were just curious.

Do you think more people come at this movement from the creative perspective? Or because of their political or economic beliefs?

I think it’s a mix of all of them. There are a lot of people out there — I’m one, too — who don’t like to be told what to do. I do have a “normal” house (on the very small side). But when we were shopping for houses, I thought, you know, I really wish I had some really cool homemade, organically built (not in terms of organic cotton, or this and that — more like “free-flowing”) [place].

If you look at books by Lloyd Kahn, for instance, they have all these houses with almost hobbit-shaped rounded walls; they just have a more natural, comfortable feel to them, instead of looking like white-walled boxes. Half the stuff I build, I really don’t draw many plans; I just go out there, have some lumber, sit there, think about it and start just piecing stuff together to see where it takes me.

It seems like many of the houses in your book couldn’t be — and aren’t even meant to be — full-time residences.

There are a few in there that could be, actually. But, I mean, this is true of my videos, too; there are some people who misunderstand it to a certain degree. With my videos, I build these really tiny things, and they say, “Oh, that’s ridiculous; there’s no bathroom or guest bedroom; you can’t live in those.” I tell them to keep in mind that I need to deliver one video a month … Just take the recycled material ideas from this and apply them to a bigger dwelling that you design yourself. I’m just trying to convey the ideas. I’m all for small houses; I’m trying to push that too. But with some of these, I need to explain: Don’t take it at face value; just take some of these ideas and run with them. You can take them and make a 300-square-foot, very livable house. But in two weeks, I can only build something that’s 100 square feet or smaller. I don’t have the time, the money or the yard space for anything else.

Readers should know that this book doesn’t offer step-by-step instructions.

There are definitely a lot of educational elements, especially with recycled materials and construction approaches. I think there’s actually a ton crammed into it — especially visually. I want people to open it and have half a heart attack from the visual avalanche of sketches. Someone compared it to a “Where’s Waldo?” book.

In terms of step-by-step stuff, one publisher approached me and said, “We love the book, but we want step-by-step instructions for every design, and materials lists.” I said that would take me 10 years to do, and the book would have to be 3,000 pages long — because there are something like 60 different cabins in my book. I’d rather throw out a bunch of different varied and eclectic ideas in a hundred-odd-page book. If you wanted full plans and materials lists, there’d probably be four or five cabins in there, and that’s it.

At the end of your introduction, you pose the question: “How much space do you really, truly, need to live well?” How would you answer that question yourself?

The answer’s different for each person. I live in a house in the 1,000-square-foot or so range, but there are four of us and a huge dog. A lot of people say I don’t live in a small house, but it’s about a third of the U.S. average, which is almost 2,500 square feet — and I have quite a bit of stuff. I feel we have quite a bit of space, considering. There are people who live out there in 200-square-foot houses — but keep in mind, they’re by themselves; it’s a single person. So if you do the math, it equates, more or less.

My problem is that I have a lot of hobbies. I own a couple of drum sets; I do some musician stuff and play in a couple of bands. I need some space to store that kind of junk. I keep joking that in my second life I should take up the kazoo or the harmonica. It’d be much more space-efficient.

There’s really no set answer for this question, unfortunately.

How about in the abstract?

I think people could live comfortably enough — two, three people or even four — in a house that’s 500 square feet or less. And that’s a house with laundry in it. (For most Americans, a house has to have a washing machine and a dishwasher; people forget you can go to a laundromat if you want.) Even if you do want to plug all that stuff in, it could be very doable.

A lot of what prevents houses of this size are the codes in certain regions, unfortunately. People feel smaller houses are going to detract from the value of neighboring houses in certain communities — which isn’t really true. There’s a whole political thing behind it, but I won’t bore you with that.

Finally, are there one or two houses from the book that you’d like to single out as the most fun or unusual?

The one that most people — even some real-deal architects — seem to like the most is the “Inverted A-Frame.” I’m a fan of the A-Frame style, based on those cabins that were built as second homes in the ’50s, ’60s and before — and so for the heck of it, I said, “What if you just took it and flipped it upside down? What would happen? Why not?” I had never seen it done before, so I did a sketch of that, and I’ve gotten a great response from that. A couple of people said they wanted to build it, but I haven’t heard from them since.

There’s another one that’s really simple — it’s called “The Pimple” or “The Terrapin,” and it’s a tiny houseboat. I think it’s just a fun sketch; it’s got a giant squid attacking the boat. That’s one I actually haven’t built, but I want to build it at some point in time, and chronicle traveling up some marsh or river somewhere in a mini-documentary. I’ve always wanted to do that.

View the slide show

: Emma Mustich is an assistant editor at Salon. Follow her on Twitter: @emustich. More Emma Mustich

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William Gibson: I really can’t predict the future

The science fiction legend tells Salon that if he had a crystal ball, he'd have put Facebook in an early novel

By Mike Doherty

William Gibson (Credit: Michael O'Shea)

Topics:Science Fiction and Fantasy, Author Interviews, Books, William Gibson

On the Toronto stop of his book tour this month, William Gibson was asked by an earnest 20-something reader for advice: “Give my generation whatever you think is helpful for it to survive.” Where an author with an inflated sense of self-worth might have dispensed a few pearls of wisdom, Gibson replied that one should distrust people on stages offering programs for how to build the future.

As much as people look to Gibson as a prophet, the science-fiction writer who invented the term “cyberspace” (in the 1982 short story “Burning Chrome”) helped conceptualize the ways we interact with the Web (in 1984’s “Neuromancer” and later works) and foretold the explosion of reality TV (in 1993’s “Virtual Light”) is notoriously reluctant to predict the future. The title of his new collection of journalism and essays, “Distrust That Particular Flavor,” is taken from a piece on H.G. Wells where Gibson explains his suspicion of “the perpetually impatient and somehow perpetually unworldly futurist, seeing his model going terminally wrong in the hands of the less clever.” Though he’s often able to extrapolate from the present with great prescience, Gibson prefers to probe, not prescribe.

“Distrust” is the Vancouver-based Gibson’s first book of nonfiction; mostly it deals with aspects of technology, and his prose, as in his novels, is always vivid and keen-edged. And yet the newly written afterwords he appends to each piece can be unflinchingly self-critical. Some articles are very much of their time and place; others cram startling insights into a mere few pages. Still others read like provocative responses to Frequently Asked Questions – one is even titled, “Will We Have Computer Chips in Our Heads?” (The answer? “Maybe. But only once or twice, and probably not for very long.”)

Over a bagel and cream cheese at Gibson’s hotel, the morning after his Toronto talk, the lanky writer, with his friendly drawl, furrowed brow and perpetual mien of engaged curiosity explained how his fiction and nonfiction overlap, and how he plans to dream up more imaginary futures out of the weirdness of the present.

How do you feel when a young reader asks you – or orders you – to “Give my generation whatever is helpful for it to survive?”

Oh, it’s complex. I feel old, and unwilling to be the golden geezer. At the same time I feel sort of avuncular. When I was that young man’s age, I wouldn’t have asked that of anyone. I wouldn’t have thought that anyone over 30 was capable of saying anything much that I should be believing anyway.

Does it hearten you in a way that he asked this, as maybe now there’s less of a perceived gap between generations?

I suppose so. I didn’t really have a problem with that question; I just had a problem thinking of any piece of advice. I should have said, “Never pass up a chance to use the toilet,” and “It’s a good idea to eat three reasonably sized meals a day. Take care of your gums.” [laughs] This is the kind of advice you can actually give younger people.

In your piece about Steely Dan’s album “Two Against Nature,” you write, “I’m starting to feel like a reviewer, which makes me intensely uncomfortable.” Your nonfiction, in general, resembles your fiction in that it’s presented as one person’s direct experience. Are you more comfortable with this method of writing than with a kind of omniscient critique?

Yeah. With the nonfiction, I have an instinctive need to present the material as simply as, “This is what I think it is.” Whenever I sense myself moving into pundit mode, I like to stop and check my motivation. Am I just doing it for some extra attention? Do I actually believe what I’m saying? It makes me a very poor television guest, because I’m incapable of saying anything without qualifying it. It’s very hard for me to produce the sort of demonstrative sound bite that that medium runs on: “X is x, don’t you know?” And mine is like, “Well, I sometimes feel that x is x, but then again, it can seem like y.” The medium doesn’t know what to do with that – at least the kind of trad television that we’ve got.

That said, your nonfiction pieces do tend to start out with strong, declarative sentences, even though there are nuances later on.

Well, that’s probably an attempt to do the culturally accepted thing … When I move into a different form, somebody’s paying me for it, and I have to produce on a relatively short deadline, I become a cultural chameleon and start to emulate, say, the look and feel of a Wired article. There are artifacts of that attempt at camouflage in all of those pieces, and it always made me feel a bit reluctant to bring out a collection like ["Distrust"]: some of it seems forced in a way that I would be uncomfortable with in my fiction. [In nonfiction], the reader wants to be immediately assured that this is somebody who knows what he’s talking about. So I jump into the middle of the stage, make a declarative statement, and possibly by the end of the piece I’ve completely reversed my opinion! [laughs]

You write that you’ve been “mining” one of the pieces in this book “for over a decade now,” for both talks and fiction. Does this mean you have an ongoing relationship with your texts in general?

Someone who’s very familiar with my work can read this new book and see where the nonfiction later bled into the fiction. The flip side is that unless there’s a very pressing professional reason to do so, I very scarcely reread my own fiction. I could not, if it were required of me right now, give you précis of the plots of my earlier novels. I remember scenes and characters somewhat, but I haven’t read them for 20 years, and I know “Neuromancer” very well because I’ve had endless, largely pointless, talks with filmmakers about turning it into a movie. Something someone gave me at the signing last night reminded me that in “Virtual Light” [from 1993] there’s a country song called “Me and Jesus Are Gonna Whup Your Heathen Ass.” I thought, “That is kind of predictive, pre-9/11.” It isn’t really predictive; it’s just that the tendency was there in the culture to think that way, which is why I wound up putting it in the book.

In an afterword, you mention that writing the piece “Dead Man Sings” “was entirely a matter of taking dictation from some part of my unconscious that rarely checks in this directly.” Certain passages in the book are quite poetic in an unexpected way, and I wonder if they might have come from a place other than the organizing journalistic brain. Do you ever write something and then figure out what it means later?

I very seldom compose anything in my head which later finds its way into text, except character names sometimes – I’m often very much inspired by things that I misunderstand. Have you ever seen Brian Eno’s deck of Oblique Strategies? One of them is “Honor thy error as a hidden intention.” That’s my favorite. [At a] hotel in New York a couple of days ago, the young woman who checked me in said what sounded to me like, “Thank you, sir; my name is Tyranny. If there’s anything you need …” I’m not enough of an extrovert to go, “Your name’s what?” … For the rest of the day, I was thinking of young, benevolent female characters with the first name “Tyranny.” Possibly an Asian character, where it’s kind of an ESL issue. Those things inspire me, but what you’re talking about is a result of the process of composition having spun itself up to a certain wonderfully flaky level, where it says something that I transcribe without quite being able to understand it. I’ve learned to trust that, and it seldom lets me down. Occasionally if I look back at something I’ve written I’ll find one of those that I don’t understand, but that’s a bad thing – the unconscious has dealt me a bad hand.

Last night [fellow science fiction author] Rob Sawyer pointed out how opposite his idea of creativity was to what I describe in the introduction to this book. He said that he had to be able to decide beforehand what [a book] was about, how he was going to do it, and then as he went along, he would compare what he was composing to this directive that he had arrived at prior to the work. To me, that’s absolutely incomprehensible; the part of me that sits here having this conversation with you is incapable of doing any very original literary work. The part of me that creates stuff is right now largely offline and unavailable, and I couldn’t summon it if my life depended on it. I have to make myself available and hope it turns up. To me, that’s where the good stuff comes from. It’s like, William Gibson doesn’t get ideas for novels while I’m walking around in the world … [He stops and grimaces.] That scared the shit out of me, because a friend of mine that’s a publicist in New York once told me that the worst sign in the interview is if the author ever starts to speak of themselves in the third person … so I did that for effect.

If you’re traveling somewhere, are you simply aware that what you see around you might seep into something you write, or do you actively seek to have experiences that may be useful?

As William Burroughs liked to say, “A writer always gets his pound of flesh.” No matter what I’m going through, I can always step back and go, “This is material.” [He pulls out his iPad, encased in a black sleeve, and calls up a picture he took of a house in Key West with strange curved shutters that open out into awning-like structures.] I could get a whole novel out of that house. That’s got some mojo going on! Not just the window, but the front door has got at least one layer of inch-thick plywood, no hinges.

I’m a fairly visual writer; I can get an awful lot out of really closely examining a photograph like that. It’s a very interesting exercise that I would recommend to anyone. Take any photograph – preferably a photograph that contains relatively little information (no humans or animals in it) – and catalog everything visible. It usually can’t be done in less than a thousand words, and it can’t be done well in less than about two [thousand]. It always leaves me thinking that pictures really are worth a thousand words, at least, that the visual matrix is so incredibly rich with stuff and meaning, that there’s actually no place to stop. People who have tried it find they stop because they just get exhausted.

Your first three books were set relatively far in the future from when they were written –

For my own purposes I assumed that “Neuromancer” was set in 2035, but I was very careful to keep out of the book anything that would allow anyone to date it by internal evidence, which I think was a smart move, considering the longevity that it has strangely enjoyed.

The next three were set in the near future, and your latest three have been set in an “imaginary present.” Are you working your way around to the past?

I once thought I was, but I think I’ve actually worked my way around to the future again. The first three were full-on “This is the future” genre sci-fi books; the next three were like the ‘90s in high cyberpunk cosplay mode. Those [characters], for me, hadn’t been altered by history at all. They were like ‘90s people, but inhabiting this satirical set. I never saw a critic or a reader even remark on that. They accepted them as folk from the very near future, and noticing the lack of response to that was one of the things that emboldened me to write “Pattern Recognition” [2001] and then the next two books ["Spook Country" (2006) and "Zero History" (2010)], which are speculative novels of the very recent past, in that they are each set in the year prior to the year in which the book is actually published, with huge amounts of internal evidence of when it is. A lot of people said to me, “Why are you doing that? It’s going to date it.” I said, “I want to date it. It’s in some way a description of life, and I want to know which month these imaginary events supposedly happened in.”

The other thing that sent me on that program was a worrying sense I had, by the end of my sixth novel, that my yardstick of absolute quotidian weirdness was actually an ‘80s yardstick. In order to accurately judge the degree of cognitive dissonance I’m inducing in the reader with my fiction, I need a yardstick of how weird the world is right now, and by the time I got to “All Tomorrow’s Parties” (1999), the world outside the window was fully as weird as the world of [the book]. Then we abruptly found ourselves in the post-9/11 era, when the 21stcentury seriously began, and my yardstick was just too short. I couldn’t navigate. Where those last few novels have fit for me in the process was getting myself a really contemporary early-21st-century yardstick of weirdness. And now, if I want to write something set in a future rigorously imagined from this incomprehensibly strange and complex world we now live in, I’ve taken the measurement of that, to some extent, by writing the fiction, just by opening myself further to the weirdness of it.

So now I’m feeling my way towards what that could be. As always at the beginning of the process, I’m completely overwhelmed. It seems to be either impossible or hideously difficult to describe the future of social media from the point of view of characters who would be participating in it, perhaps even while they’re sleeping, and not be paying its workings any mind. A huge part of the work in writing “Neuromancer” was a kind of stage-managing on behalf of the reader. I want the reader to be experiencing something akin to culture shock constantly and be slightly off-balance in an enjoyable way, but never fully lost. It’s a very complex and tedious business to keep the reader supplied with reliable information about the strange place that the reader’s entering, and yet keep it out of sight so that the reader doesn’t have the text issuing what science fiction writers of my day were taught to regard as the “expository lump.” It becomes strategic – the more novel the environment you’re describing, the more complex the act of providing the reader with the oxygen of meaning. A totally disoriented reader generally won’t stick around.

If somehow in 1985 you had the idea for Facebook as the idea for a science fiction story, and you sat down to write it, you’d have all those problems, because the artifact that the character is encountering and interacting with is incredibly complicated and would require a huge amount of exposition or totally adroit set-handling.

: More Mike Doherty

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Dating tips from Dickens, Austen and Tolstoy

Authors Maura Kelly and Jack Murnighan tell Salon about their new book, which harvests love lessons from literature

By Emma Mustich

Topics:Books, Author Interviews, Coupling

It is a truth pretty generally demonstrable: A shrewd eye for the complexities of human nature does not guarantee its bearer an enviable love life. Still, it does often go hand in hand with the descriptive powers necessary to craft a lasting literary classic.

That’s one of the ideas addressed by journalist Maura Kelly and writer (and medieval literature scholar) Jack Murnighan in their new book, “Much Ado About Loving,” which draws advice on matters of courtship, sex and marriage from authors as diverse as Virgil and Sylvia Plath.

Over email, the pair told Salon about their inspiration for the project — and some of its most surprising revelations.

How did you two start working together, and how did the idea for this book emerge?

Maura Kelly: Jack and I got to know each other after I wrote a profile of him for the Daily Beast, pegged to the release of his previous book. We became friends, in part because we liked talking about the books we were loving, and the people we were loving — or trying to love. I was always asking Jack for advice about my dating conundrums. And a lot of times, when we’d be hanging out at his place, he’d start telling me how I should take a lesson from a novel. When I was dating a sourpuss academic, he reminded me of the cautionary tale of “Middlemarch,” for example. (In that book, the main character gets married to an arrogant guy who’s devoted his life to writing a scholarly work — and boy, is she miserable.) Eventually, I began to think, I should bottle Jack and begin selling him to all my friends. Then I thought, Hey, we should write a book!

Jack Murnighan: Ha ha. Yes, after many attempts to fit inside a bottle, I concluded that writing a book would be much easier.

In the introduction, Maura notes that while several of the great writers you discuss — specifically Austen, Dickens and Tolstoy — were sharp social observers, they had messy (or, in Austen’s case, uneventful) love lives themselves. How (if at all) should this color our interpretation of their characters’ romances?

MK: It’s a do as I say, not as I do kind of thing. Those authors weren’t saying, “Live as I live.” They were saying, “We are great amateur psychologists and great observers of life, and we have observed great lives — and failed, unhappy lives — and here’s what they look like.” Turns out, they didn’t look all that much like the lives of the authors!

JM: I can speak from experience that one learns a lot more from failure than from success. Maura and I are both pretty sanguine that our various checkered dating pasts helped give us a lot of the perspective that we share in the book.

What do you think readers might consider the most surprising example in the book?

JM: I was quite taken with Maura’s conclusion in the first chapter (based on Sylvia Plath’s “The Bell Jar”) that if you don’t find any guy good enough, it might actually be your problem. I also tend to get pretty surprised looks when I say that one can find the formula for how to be attractive to everyone in “War and Peace.” Not exactly most people’s idea of the go-to book for dating advice!

Of all the authors whose work you cover, whose romantic observations do you think are the most consistently true to life?

MK: My money might be on Tolstoy — in all those pages, he had the time (and, of course, the writerly skill) to create relationships that so much resemble the ones we encounter in the real world. But I feel a real emotional kinship with Dostoevsky and Dickens, I guess.

JM: I would agree with Maura’s list and also add both Gabriel García Márquez and D.H. Lawrence. I think they had extremely deep understandings of both psychology and human passion.

Do you think 21st-century readers who devour the classics run the risk of measuring themselves against unrealistic romantic examples — since in so many cases, ideals and realities were very different for men and women in past centuries? (E.g., will a female Austen-worshiper venture into the world of romance with unrealistic expectations of what she is likely to find?) Or do you think most of these books offer more abstract, timeless lessons?

MK: A big part of the reason why we did this book is because we found the love lessons in the great books so timeless. I write about Virgil’s “Aeneid,” and the relationship between Aeneas and Dido — which was basically a friendship with benefits, or at least Aeneas thought it was, whereas Dido was a lot more invested. Rereading her story as I was working on the book, I was reminded of how amazingly contemporary it felt. And even with Jane Austen — even with books written during an era when courtship was so much more formal — there’s a lot of philandering and a lot of wondering about where relationships are going that feels familiar. Maybe even more, with Austen, there are questions about finding the person who will help you become your true self, and your best self — about self-realization — which feel very relevant.

JM: Yeah, once you start talking about all-time classic books, they almost invariably have a level of depth and nuance that goes way beyond mere idealization. In fact, quite a few of the novels we cover dramatize the dangers of having rose-colored glasses on (“Great Expectations,” “The Magic Mountain,” “Remembrance of Things Past,” etc.), so I’d say great literature actually helps you keep from living only in dreams.

Roughly how many of the lessons you discuss represent genuine revelations you had while reading particular books — and how many represent the recognition of particular phenomena from your own life (or your friends’) in great novels?

MK: In my case, just about all of them, really! That was another big impetus for the book; so many of the novels that Jack and I love had stories that resembled the ones we were hearing about from our friends, or the stories we’ve personally lived. When we were working on the book, my editor called me to say she’d been counseling a friend through a breakup — and that she’d given the friend my chapter on “Revolutionary Road” because it was exactly what she needed to hear. It’s about how to deal when you’re dating a person who thinks he’s meant for much better things — but he’s never had the courage to see if he can achieve those things. So he marinates himself in a bitter juice of self-importance, protecting himself from the truth about his own insignificance by telling himself how much better he is than everyone around him. “Howards End” also really spoke to me personally — a book about what you should do if you’re dating someone whose political views you don’t agree with!

JM: Yeah, I confess to having sent draft chapters of mine and Maura’s to friends in the last few months just so I wouldn’t have to tell them the whole argument in person. And, as I express in a number of my chapters, I’m still trying to implement in my own life lessons from the books (like not over-idealizing at the beginning), so I’m thinking about the various books and scenes all the time.

: Emma Mustich is an assistant editor at Salon. Follow her on Twitter: @emustich. More Emma Mustich

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Dennis Cooper: There’s nothing numbing about a wild fetish

In a Salon exclusive, the godfather of modern transgressive lit explains why he really loves Disney

By Jeremy Lybarger

Dennis Cooper (Credit: Yuri Smirnov/HarperCollins)

Topics:Fiction, Author Interviews, LGBT

On the spectrum of extreme literature, Dennis Cooper lies somewhere between the Marquis de Sade and the Old Testament. His novels – terse, scatological and violent — are rooted in a kind of apocalyptic morality easily mistaken for sadism. The typical protagonist is a young gay man drifting from one trauma to the next, automatic and emotionally dazed. Cooper’s Southern California interiors take on the gothic ambience of bondage sets, autopsy rooms and theaters of the dark suburban absurd. In the hands of a lesser writer, such subterranean states would be merely lurid. Cooper, however, achieves something close to grace. Novels like “Try” and “Guide,” part of a five-book series called the George Miles Cycle, are often unexpectedly tender. In chronicling his characters’ obsessive search for love, he confronts our most desperate human instinct.

His new novel, “The Marbled Swarm,” is something of a departure. Written in hothouse prose – one part Robbe-Grillet, one part Lautréamont – it’s the confessions of an anonymous 22-year-old Parisian. At the heart of the novel is Chateau Étage, a rural French manor scarred by peepholes, secret tunnels and a mysterious parricide. The house is a symbolic touchstone for the novel’s abundant doppelgangers, cannibals and sadomasochists, all of whom mirror and fracture as the narrative grows ever more precarious. It’s a vertiginous read, more hallucinatory than just about anything else in contemporary American fiction.

I recently sat down with Cooper on the San Francisco leg of his national book tour. Despite repeatedly emphasizing his inarticulateness, he proved witty and deeply focused. Over coffee in a North Beach cafe, we discussed pornography, fetishism, his incendiary blog and why Google will never take the romance out of discovery.

Do you think of yourself as belonging to a transgressive tradition?

No. Only because I always get drawn into that. Some of my favorite writers when I was young would be considered transgressive, but I like stuff that isn’t transgressive at all, too.

A few critics have noted a fairy-tale influence in “The Marbled Swarm.” Is that something you were thinking about?

Only in the sense I was thinking a lot about Disney.

That’s probably not the most obvious Dennis Cooper influence that jumps to mind.

I’m interested in how Disney flattens fairy tales. Disneyland just fascinates me. I grew up in Disneyland, went there a few times a year every year, so it’s in my blood. I still think it’s the happiest place on earth.

But the stuff in the book comes more out of video games. Zelda is the kind of game I’ve always loved and played. It’s kind of like a modern fairy tale. I mean, it has animal protagonists [laughs].

Peepholes, and holes in general, are a recurring motif in this book. Tell me about your interest in voyeurism.

It’s weird. I’m not a voyeur actually. Well, I don’t know … does looking at porn make you a voyeur?

Yes, to some extent.

Because I look at a lot of porn. So maybe in that sense, yeah, I’m a voyeur. I’m interested in the relationship between the reader and the writer, and there’s a kind of power imbalance there that’s essentially voyeurism. In this book I explicitly go into that.

Has the role of the voyeur changed given the Internet?

There’s a big difference between that and a guy who peeks through his curtains at his neighbor taking a shower.

What about cruising? It seems like such an anachronism now.

The cool thing about cruising is you get the whole scale of a person. If you just see someone online you don’t really have a 3-D picture of them, so when you actually meet there’s a period of adjustment where they’re three-dimensional and you have to learn how their faces move when they talk. It’s very disorienting. There are also just fewer places to cruise now. In Paris it used to happen everywhere. I live right next to a place that was apparently a big cruising spot, but it’s gone now. There’s just a little bit of illegal immigrant stuff going on. There are still bathhouses and saunas and shit.

Speaking of Paris, you live there but don’t speak French that well. How has being estranged from the language around you influenced your own prose?

My friends over there speak English, but I’m always mediating what I say because I know they don’t speak the language very well. I think maybe I have a desire to be incredibly articulate. Like, over-articulate everything. And in this book, I wanted to do this thing where you have to wade through the bushes of language to figure out what people are trying to say. I don’t get to employ English in Paris as fully or unreservedly as I do here, so that made me want to really ratchet it up in the book.

There are characters in this book who fantasize about being run over by steamrollers.

Yeah, the Flatsos. It’s based on a real thing.

There are actual Flatsos?

There are enclaves of people who are obsessed with perverse forms of anime or manga. There’s one called guro, which is mentioned in the book, and then all these sub-groups that enjoy violent pornographic manga. There’s a group called squish junkies, and they incessantly draw pictures of themselves or movie stars being steamrolled. Or them having sex with pieces of paper, but the paper will be screaming. But no, there are no actual Flatsos. I mean, you can’t really make your face like a plate [laughs].

What’s the most extreme fetish you know of?

Worming.

Worming?

It’s basically you cut off your arms and legs so you’re just a trunk and a head, and you live like a worm. A master takes care of his slave worm.

Nobody actually goes through with this, right?

I don’t think so. What master would want to … I mean, there’d be shit all over the place.

You’ve been charged with glorifying sexual abuse and pedophilia. All of the disturbing things that interest you are often dismissed as being merely numbing.

It’s not numbing at all. That’s the weird thing I’ve had to deal with. I can do all the nuances I want and critics just aren’t going to see it. I’ve tried everything, every sort of strategy to circumvent that and have people realize it’s not numbing. It’s the opposite of numbing. It’s against numbing.

Does your family read your books?

No. My dad tried, he was really supportive, but my mom was just embarrassed by them. She was horrified when there were reviews in the L.A. Times because she thought her friends would read them and think she was a bad mother.

Which reminds me, I want to return to your interest in porn because it’s something you write about so often. Every high school kid in America has probably watched porn online, and if they haven’t they could very easily. Are you at all nostalgic for the days when pornography seemed more illicit or dangerous?

It’s interesting what happened to porn films. Porn from the ’70s had all these narratives that are impossible to watch now. You’re just fast forwarding all the time because they have these complicated stories with real characters who cry and stuff. They’ll be maybe three sex scenes. And that’s because you were trapped. You had to sit in the porno theater and watch. Now you just don’t want people looking at your desktop; that’s the only thing illicit about it.

Were pornos more artful before the Internet?

Well, they aspired to art but very few of them were ever artful. There was this guy, Wakefield Poole, who did these Fellini-esque ones, and there was Jason Sato, who did Douglas Sirk-ean porn. They were like auteurs. They weren’t very good, but they were kind of interesting. I’m really into Eastern European porn because it’s very strange and bleak. There’s an unintentional gravity to some of that stuff that can be disturbing. I mean, watch porn from Romania or Bulgaria or Russia and you can see they’re all prostitutes and doing it because they have to. You get much more feeling out of it … more worry and conflict. You can’t look at these uncomfortable kids and not wonder what the story is there. It’s not art, but it can have the power of art.

You quit college to travel and gather experiences for writing. Is it still possible for young artists to re-create that kind of random, improvised journey in the age of information overload?

There’s the possibility, but the problem is the Internet is too important. To remove that would be to remove something that’s essential about the way life is structured now and the way our interests are dictated. The concern would be that you’d end up writing something parochial.

But it seems the mythology of the open road and that kind of haphazard, word-of-mouth itinerary doesn’t happen much anymore. Everything is on Google.

But that doesn’t take the glamour or poetry out of it. Reading about something and seeing it is so completely different. I don’t believe the whole idea people my age often have that everything has been lost because information is available. Art and music and writing are just as exciting now as they ever were. People are just as interesting. I don’t see us becoming less interesting because we surf the Internet. I think that’s old people being freaked out.

: More Jeremy Lybarger

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The science of taste

Why can't a blindfolded person tell white wine from red? A top neuroscientist explains how the brain creates flavor

By Hannah Tepper

(Credit: iStockphoto/apomares)

Topics:Food, Neuroscience, Science, Author Interviews

Whether we’re talking about America’s obesity epidemic, mocking the “foodie” movement on “The Simpsons,” the USDA’s revamped food pyramid, or what they’re cooking up on “Top Chef,” food and eating are a national obsession — especially at this time of year.

But just as fascinating is the hard science behind our intimate relationship with food. Gordon M. Shepherd, professor of neurobiology at the Yale School of Medicine, has spent a lifetime researching the brain mechanisms involved in olfaction (our sense of smell) and its impact on flavor perception in the brain. His new book is “Neurogastronomy: How the Brain Creates Flavor and Why It Matters,” out this month from Columbia University Press. Shepherd’s work is anchored in a burgeoning field within neuroscience — figuring out the mysteries behind our olfactory system, the ways in which smells are represented and processed in the brain.

Shepherd argues for the quintessential importance of olfaction in our everyday experience of food. Without smell, Shepherd says, there is no flavor. “Neurogastronomy” takes a detailed look at just how smelling in the nose, mouth and brain produces the unique experience of flavor that we associate with eating our favorite or least-favorite foods.

Shepherd explained why sitting down to Thanksgiving dinner triggers our instincts to overeat, how to do the nose-pinch test, and the best way to fool an experienced wine taster.

What came first, your interest in gastronomy or your interest in neuroscience? Did one lead to the other?

My first interest is in neuroscience, in particular in the part of the brain that processes the sense of smell. And we all think we know what smell is … It’s when we sniff something in and it has a nice smell. But as I went further along I began to realize that increasingly smell was for sensing the flavor of food. It goes almost unrecognized as we eat our food because we think it all comes from taste in our mouths. The more research that I did on flavor, the more I realized that the sense of smell was the dominant sense in flavor — and that we are almost totally unaware of it. The science of smell is increasingly important for understanding flavor, and flavor really contributes to whether we are eating healthy or unhealthy diets.

You explain that smell is a dual sense. It’s composed of orthonasal and retronasal smelling. What’s the difference between them?

Orthonasal is sniffing in. It happens when we sense perfume, something in the environment, or in the aromas of the food we are about to eat. Retronasal is called retro because it comes from the back of the mouth, and it’s the way we smell when we have food in our mouths. While we might not be aware of it, vapors that come from our food while we are breathing out stimulate cells in our nose. That is how smell contributes to flavor. We don’t realize it because all we usually notice is the mouth-feel, the textural quality of food.

In the book, you discuss the ways in which smelling relates to the experience of flavor, and how it is different from tasting. You say that smell is “synthetic” while taste is “analytic.” That’s an interesting idea — could you elaborate on what you mean?

It’s really simple. Taste is sweet, salt, sour and bitter — and umami, a meaty taste. The amazing thing is that when you have something in your mouth, you can taste whether it’s sweet, sour, bitter and so forth. This is analytic, because you analyze taste piece by piece, just as you would picking things up from a table. Each one is picked up separately. Smell is different because smell arises as a whole entity. It’s impossible to take the pieces apart. That’s why we call it synthetic: It’s synthesizing and bringing things together. And these are two aspects of sensation that are very important for the different senses.

One of the simpler concepts in olfaction is that smell molecules bind with receptor cells in our nasal cavity. After that things get a little bit more complicated as far as how information is relayed and processed within the brain.

Smell molecules are represented in the first stage in a part of the brain called the olfactory bulb. The olfactory bulb processes the information about smell in a way that is very similar to the way our retinas processes an image, or the way auditory parts of the brain represent musical patterns. It’s important to understand that smell is not completely unique in the way it stimulates the brain, because it processes information in a pattern, the same way other senses do. Only in olfaction is this sensory pattern represented in the frontal cortex, which is the most developed part of the human brain. All of the other senses have to be relayed forward in order to get to the cortex, so in mammals the sense of smell has privileged access to the front of the brain.

In another interesting part of the book, you mention studies that have shown marked variations in taste between some individuals. In some of these studies people have been labeled “supertasters.” How do their tasting ability and propensity differ from the rest of us?

This has to do, partly, with how many taste buds they have. One of my colleagues has shown there is a correlation between having a high number of taste buds and a propensity to be sensitive to bitter taste. The more taste buds you have, the more likely you are to be a supertaster, and it’s caused by genetic differences. But keep in mind that this difference is specifically in the sense of taste. Taste contributes to flavor, but sometimes taste and flavor are used interchangeably, and they are not the same. There should be no ambiguity between “taste” — which is sweet, salty, sour or bitter — and flavor, which is a combination of olfactory sensations, tactile sensations and taste.

What role do texture and color play in taste?

You can be really fooled by the color of the food you are eating. I mention that you can fool people, and these include experienced wine tasters, into assuming that a white wine is a red wine, simply by dying it red. I think that’s a very good example of how color can be used to manipulate people. It’s something that gives us expectations about the flavor of what we are going to eat, and it’s very well understood by food companies, a point that Eric Schlosser makes in “Fast Food Nation.” You can bet that food companies are studying the colors that kids like to see on boxes of cold cereal and cans of soda.

This might be pertinent, as Thanksgiving is coming right around the corner. What is “the buffet effect,” and how does it relate to some of our instinctual eating behaviors?

The buffet effect, also known as the cafeteria effect, relies on the assumption that if you have only one food in front of you, you will stop eating when you are full. But if someone brings you another plate with a different type of food on it, you are likely to keep eating. And it can go on like this indefinitely. You will eat far more with a variety of foods at one sitting than you would if you were eating only one dish. Fast-food companies know this. They sell a series of things in addition to the Big Mac. Thanksgiving is a good example of how with a dozen different dishes we just keep eating and eating. It’s a very real thing and people who are obese lack control over it.

Many parents tend to struggle at times with kids who are picky eaters. But in the book you discuss some of the ways in which taste and olfaction are relatively plastic. You mention that flavor preferences can change and young children can learn to enjoy certain types of foods from exposure. Do you have any advice for parents of picky eaters?

Well, I know from my own family experience that kids vary widely as eaters. And some aren’t just picky eaters but will refuse almost all foods except for a very narrow few. For kids, eating often means putting something in their mouth for the first time. That first sensation of something in your mouth can be quite aversive at first. And a child is more likely to feel that certain foods elicit a sensory quality that is unpleasant. This is where understanding how the brain creates the sensation of food, with multiple senses contributing, means that a therapist could begin to assess which sensory system is affecting how a child feels about an aversive food.

A lot of the topics in the book made me think about my own personal relationship to food and taste. I don’t know if you’ve ever experienced this, but sometimes I’ll go to a restaurant and notice that although they have Heinz ketchup bottles on the table, the first taste will clearly determine that they’ve filled the Heinz bottles with an impostor brand of ketchup. It infuriates me, and I think it undermines exactly what you lay out in your book: that the human propensity for taste and olfaction is actually much more sophisticated than we might assume. Can you speak to this?

I haven’t experienced that, but it makes sense. I think one of the simplest ways of giving more credit to smell in flavor is the simple nose-pinch test. You pinch your nose and put a piece of candy or food on your tongue and ask what the flavor is. With their nose pinched, most people will be able to tell that it tastes sweet and that is all. Once you un-pinch your nose, the whole flavor of the food is able to travel to the brain, and that is all due to smell. As the subject breathes out, air goes from the back of the mouth up to the nose. This is a simple experiment that you can do around your dinner table. It gives you a completely new appreciation of where your sense of flavor is coming from. People use their sense of smell to get more pleasure out of the food that they are eating.