In praise of ‘The Paris Review’

Since its humble beginnings in a tiny office space of the publishing house Éditions de la Table ronde, The Paris Review has come a long way.

The literary quarterly was founded in 1953 on similar principles to the ‘little magazines’ which supplemented the modernist literary movement of the early twentieth century. Namely, to promote original work from ground-breaking writers, acting as a hub for talent from around the world.

Over the years it has published original short stories from the likes of Vladimir Nabokov, Jean Genet and Roberto Bolaño and serialised several contemporary literary milestones – Samuel Beckett’s Molloy and Jonathan Franzen’s The Corrections being particular highlights in a long list.

Most importantly though, its regular interviews with writers have provided readers with illuminating insights into the life and craft of the author. Beautiful and beguiling, these erudite and eloquent conversations are surprising and absorbing reads, and the interviewees are a who’s who of twentieth and twenty-first century literature – from T.S. Eliot and Ezra Pound through to Haruki Murakami and David Mitchell via Joan Didion and Gabriel Garcia Marquez.

Chances are, your favourite writer has been interviewed. Chances are, he or she says something interesting – like Ernest Hemingway’s admission that his best writing comes when in love, or William Burroughs’ comparison of drug addiction to malaria (“it’s a matter of exposure”).

These are serious writers talking seriously about their serious work. Well, mostly. An interview with acclaimed critic Harold Bloom descends into an informal gossip-cum-rant covering baseball and Playboy magazine.

Discussing Vineland by Thomas Pynchon – the famously reclusive writer considered by some to be our finest living author – Bloom, a highly respected and influential voice, is scathing: “to give us this piece of sheer ineptitude, this hopelessly hollow book that I read through in amazement and disbelief… is immensely disheartening.”

Reading Bloom after this interview isn’t the same. Suddenly his character shines through the academic milieu of his literary criticism, the previously stuffy image of the Yale professor jarring with a new portrayal of the man – an old eccentric who rushes home from the library to catch the Yankees game, a weirdo with an obsession for the 1980’s television personality Jessica Hahn.

Elsewhere, the interviews serve to further our original impressions of writers. When Jack Kerouac is asked why he writes about Buddha but not Jesus, his response is incredulous: “I’ve never written about Jesus? In other words, you’re an insane phony who comes to my house… and… all I write about is Jesus.” Throughout, he plays piano and recites improvised poetry.

It turns out, too, that V.S. Naipaul – who last year claimed that no woman is his literary equal – is actually an odious prick in real life. Constantly pernickety about the phrasing of his questions, he boasts that his work is “extraordinary”, and refers to his colleagues at Oxford as inferior subordinates.

Difficult, engaging, inspiring and dripping in egoism, these interviews are invaluable for would-be writers and interested readers alike. Oh, and they’re freely available online! _See: theparisreview.org/interviews._