Interviews April 2000

The Foreigner

Susan Sontag doesn't feel at home in New York, or anywhere else. And that's the way she likes it

By the late seventies, books such as Against Interpretation (1966), Styles of Radical Will (1969), and On Photography (1977) had established Susan Sontag as an essayist whose concerns stretched from high culture to low before it was fashionable for writers to have this kind of range. Sontag wrote on subjects like film, photography, pornography, and camp with the same zeal she brought to the great European writers whom she helped introduce to American readers. The title essay of her collection Under the Sign of Saturn (1980) is about the German critic Walter Benjamin, and it is no wonder he had special meaning for her. In Benjamin's work many of the contrasting cultural and political concerns of his day—any one of which would have sufficed for a lifetime's preoccupation by more narrowly focused thinkers—flourished side by side. Similarly, in Sontag's essays there is an inclusiveness that may be the closest thing to intellectual unity we should hope for in our multi-dimensional culture. As Sontag says in the following interview, she does not like to exclude.

Having written two novels—The Benefactor (1963) and Death Kit (1967)—in the 1960s, in the 1990s Sontag turned from essays back to her first love. Her novel The Volcano Lover was published in 1992, and In America came out last month. Sontag's novels and essays cover many of the same themes, including theater, collecting, illness, memory, and social injustice, but the novels give her more room to roam than did the essays, with less need to exclude. In the novels she moves through love affairs, lava storms, revolutions and restorations, the Shakespearean stage, and transatlantic steerage. The Volcano Lover is set in eighteenth-century Naples, under the shadow of Vesuvius and the French Revolution. The venues of In America range from a nineteenth-century California commune composed of Polish émigrés, to the mind of famed actor Edwin Booth, brother of John Wilkes. Snatches of Sontag's voice as essayist resurface in the narrative voices of these novels, teasing apart the meaning of events. Whether writing as an essayist or a novelist, Susan Sontag is the best of literary company.

Harvey Blume had a chance to talk with Susan Sontag on her recent visit to Boston.

Susan Sontag
Susan Sontag

Over the years, you have given the word "intellectual" a good name. You have shown that it's possible to be an intellectual in this culture without being an academic.

And I'm very proud of that. But I'm always being introduced with "You are so bookish, you are what most people think an intellectual is." I could live until I'm 200 years old and I'd still be introduced that way. It drives me nuts that I have to constantly deal with what I represent as opposed to what I actually have written. I mean, I've lived my whole life convulsed with various admirations, but I would admire people for their work.

Let's take a really outlandish but perfectly true example. I worshipped T. S. Eliot when I was a teenager at the University of Chicago. I'm of that generation for which Eliot was God. But I worshipped the work, I worshipped the ideas. If anything, that person, if I ever thought about him, was slightly embarrassing. And I didn't think, what does this work "represent"? That's another barrier, another kind of mediation. I was just convinced by some of the ideas, one of them being (it's probably no accident I bring up Eliot) that essentially the work isn't about you; it's impersonal.

I spend a good part of my public conversation dealing with people's ideas about what I represent, as opposed to what I espouse or what the work is worth. In the end, we come back to "intellectual" and "smart." If I were a man, would people always be talking about me being an intellectual or being so smart? I don't think they would.

There's not always an obvious split between the work and the writer, is there? Sometimes the personality of the writer emerges from the work and becomes a force in its own right. I'm thinking of the way Walter Benjamin emerges as a personality in "Under the Sign of Saturn," your essay about him.

Yes, and that's when I realized I should stop writing essays. I thought, I better quit, this isn't an essay anymore, this is a portrait. I'm writing about a certain temperament, the melancholic, and since I'm not really dealing with ideas, I should go back to fiction.

In your essay "One Culture and the New Sensibility" you say, "Literary men, feeling that the status of humanity itself was being challenged by the new science and the new technology, abhorred and deplored the change. But the literary men ... are inevitably on the defensive. They know that the scientific culture, the coming of the machine, cannot be stopped." That was written more than thirty years ago, but it applies pretty well to current debates about the Internet.

What strikes me now is not that technology can't be stopped, but that capitalism can't be stopped. I'm stunned by what I call the total takeover of capitalism. Mercantilist values and motives now seem absolutely self-evident to people. I don't mean to say people weren't previously interested in their own prosperity or material advances, but they did understand that there were some zones of activity where materialist criteria didn't apply. Or that you could have a conflict: you're going to be very well paid for something you think is shoddy or unworthy, and you might actually not do it! I think more and more people don't even understand why in the world you wouldn't do anything to make a buck, and why everything isn't about property.

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