The Anthropology of The Setup: A Conversation With Chris Kraus
The Anthropology of The Setup: A Conversation With Chris Kraus
The Anthropology of The Setup: A Conversation With Chris Kraus
A N N A P OLETT I
This playful depiction of the outsider status of Krauss readers is just one example
of the invigorating and at times excoriating timbre of her writing. Krauss deft use of
what she describes, in our conversation, as a public I, that looks out towards the
world gives her novels an undeniable charge. The complex and flexible perspective
of her narrators, who deftly move between subjective and philosophical accounts of
the experiences of her characters, marks Krauss work out as unique in contemporary
literature. Reviewing Summer of Hate in the Los Angeles Review of Books, Victoria
Patterson writes that Krauss habit of displacing genre and categorization, stumping
traditional narratives of female identity in her works has resulted in her opening the
path for experimental women writers. Her voice is distinct in contemporary fiction,
and while it generates its fair share of fans (Sheila Heti, Kate Zambreno, and Tavi
Gevinson), few have been able to copy the revelatory effects of Krauss writing.
Writing of the experience of coming late to I Love Dick in 2015 and her
heckling by men as she read the ambiguously titled novel on the subway, Leslie
Jamison writes, I knew Iwas holding white-hot text in my hands, written by a
woman who had theorised what these guys were doing with me, with their dick
jokes even before theyd done it. For Jamison, writing in the New Yorker, the
central drama driving Krauss fiction is that of a female consciousness struggling
to live a meaningful life. The meaning of that life, in all Krauss works, centers
AP: Its a very specific encounter you create with this approach of seeking an
empathetic dialogue with the subject. The reader is a witness to that encounter,
we witness the writer Chris Krauss unique sensibility coming into contact with
and seeking some engagement with a specific person. And you are also staging an
encounter for the reader with that material.
CK: I was very inspired by reading Ernst Pawels Kafka biography, The Nightmare
of Reason: ALife of Franz Kafka, a long time ago. He was so intimate with Kafka,
he understood him so well, he could observe when Kafka was being an idiot or
being contradictory without losing respect. Geoff Dyer stages a different kind
of encounter with DH Lawrence in Out of Sheer Rage, but thats much more about
Dyers own process, achieving some state of grace through this contrived struggle
with Lawrence.
AP: Maybe we could talk about the range of real life people, of characters that
you have staged those encounters with in your novels. Lets begin with Simone
Weil, for example, who is a philosopher, an important thinker, an important figure.
Maybe we could talk briefly about why you choseher.
CK: I read her in French while Iwas living a hibernatory domestic life in
the Southern Adirondacks. Itook French reading lessons with our Quebecois
neighbor, Mrs. Jensen, and we read Simone Weil together. At the time Ifelt Weil
was speaking straight to me. Iwas sad a lot of the time, and that sadness that runs
through her books a radical empathy went straight into myveins.
AP: And so could we then contrast your depiction of Weil with Jennifer
Harbury and the way she appears in I Love Dick as a person who you want to
document, youre documenting her career as an activist . ..
CK: Right. Imean, Ijust felt like Iunderstood Jennifer Harbury. Iknew her.
There was a part of myself that was her, that could have done that: Id certainly
known people like her before. Idont think Icould write about someone without
feeling that deep connection you know, Icould have been him or her, or vice
versa. Its a matter of trying to enact the other person.
AP: What we see in the response to your work is precisely this kind of
reaction, Ithink. What you stage in your writing is a certain kind of visceral,
empathetic, intelligent, and emotion-driven response to someones work and what
During those years, we lived in the Adirondacks, and Iwas not doing much.
Sylvere used to say, Youll look back on this as a good time in your life
eventually things will change and youll miss having the chance to be so alone and
receptive. And this turned out to be true. Because it was a very fortunate time to
be in that area. Ibecame friendly with the librarian at the closest small-city library
in Glens Falls, Christine McDonald. Shed moved up there from New York, and felt
she was there for a reason: witnessing the end of a certain kind of rural American
culture. There was no cable TV. There was an independent, subsistence culture
of trapping and wood selling and trading, small farming, and seasonal work, here
and there. Imet people whod been to Albany once or twice in their lives, and
never to New York City, which was just over four hours away. Ijoined the local
Historical Society. History, and to them history was still more a matter of family
stories than things written down. The strange stasis of that area, Irealized, told
everything about the couples situation: why they would flee New York and seek
out such athing?
AP: So theres a different kind of ethics at play in engaging with and inhabiting
the lives of everyday people and bringing them into your fiction that is distinct to
engaging with those public figures. Could you speak briefly about whether you have
ever had an ethical concern around bringing everyday people, private people, into
your novels? Or do you just kind of trust your gut that youre doing them justice?
CK: Nothing in Torpor belittles the local characters. Theres nothing beyond
the personal narratives that they tell about themselves. Youd go and buy wood
AP: Right, yes. Theres always that risk in writing from real life, that people are
either going to wish they got the credit for the thing that you masked or wished
you made them less identifiable.
CK: Yes, and thats a problem of fiction in general. Unless its totally plot-driven
genre fiction, there will always be some reflection of the writers experience, her
friends and acquaintances.
AP: Were coming back to this question of why the transfiction space that
youre seeking to articulate has trouble getting clear definition. Partly its because
were now in this cultural moment thats hypersensitive about privacy, celebrity,
and identity in the sense that people feel increased ownership over their identities.
CK: Yes, people become so protective of their own little personal brands,
right? Ifeel like Ive become a lot more circumspect in the last several years than
when Ibegan writing. Maybe its because at the beginning, there was nothing to
lose. But Ialso think maybe the culture has changed, somewhat. In Lost Properties,
theres a middle section where Ikind of take the piss out of some recent CalArts
grads archiving their summer vacation. It seemed like a big risk to publish
that, even though Ididnt say anything about them that they probably wont say
themselves in a couple of years. Hedi [El Kholti] asked, Are you sure you want
to say this? Are you sure you dont want to tone it down? And Ialready had.
Everyone has become so nice . . . (i.e., cautious). Ithink it would be good to try
and push those boundaries back in the future, especially with art writing. Things go
dead when youre so circumspect.
AP: In many interviews you juxtapose your work against memoir, yet your
work is so closely related to the real world. This proximity to the real world
produces a particular kind of charge, in an aesthetic and ethical sense, in your
writing: it gives your writing a specific kind of the feeling and magnetism. Could
you talk a little about the approach of transcription that seems to define
yourwork?
CK: That term, transcription, or transfiction like a lot of good ideas, it
started out as a scam. Iwas editing Ann Rowers If Youre a Girl as one of the debut
titles for Semiotext(e)s Native Agents, and we wanted to legitimize her writing,
make it seem serious, in the context of Semiotext(e)s French theory list. Sylvere
CK: Yes Ialways thought the point would be to create a public I, that looks
out toward the world. Theres a persistent lag in the culture, that continues to view
female writing in this tradition as memoir. Emily Goulds wonderful novel Friendship
came out this season, and has been mostly reviewed and discussed in the context of
her personal life, as if it were a memoir. Because her characters inhabit roughly the
same terrain as Lena Dunhams Girls, her book becomes a flashpoint for everything
people mindlessly elevate, envy, and then despise. Her contemporary Choire Sicha
wrote a different but similar book that came out last season, same milieu, called A
Very Recent History. Both books are very a clef, and yet Choires was received much
more generously, on its own terms, as a novel. Its hard to believe this disparity still
persists. Both writers are in their early 30s; surely, we should be over this by now . ..
AP: Reviewers and commentators are also talking about a kind of sensibility
that is universal and accessible to the reader, whereas it sounds as if what youre
seeing in the review of Emily Goulds work is this sense that its still personal, that
the work is about Emily Gould, and there is not some kind of universally accessible
sensibility in thenovel.
CK: Yes. Its as if theres a hard shell around the male narrator and a soft,
gelatinous membrane around a female narrator. People love to pick at and prod
and pierce this membrane, but they respect the male narrators shell. Idont know
why this persists. Its very confusing.
CK: Yes, it still does. In a sense, maybe its worse. Mary McCarthy wrote
extremely autobiographical fiction, with her husbands and lovers and colleagues
wholly identifiable, but she was not attacked in quite the same way. Although she
had to leave Wellfleet, Massachusetts, after publishing A Charmed Life, it was such
a wicked parody of her circle there
AP: But she was punished in the local sense, by her community, but not in the
cultural sense. The reception of her work did not punish her for that transgression
even if her community did. Are you suggesting its worse now, so that Mary
McCarthy could draw from life but still be treated as a novelist without this
excessive attention to the personal in the reception of herwork?
CK: Yes, Idont understand how that happened. But, Ithink in the mid-20 th
century, there was this phenomenon of the exceptional woman de Beauvoir,
Simone Weil, and McCarthy all got to be them. No wonder McCarthy resented
the womens movement! As public intellectuals, these few brilliant women were
given the same hard shell of respect accorded the men. But now the idea of the
public intellectual is a joke. We enjoy greater equality, but theres no longer that
exceptional space for a few individuals to slip through.
During the discussion after my talk about Kathy Acker and Ken Warks email
correspondence [Im Very Into You, Semiotext(e)2015] somebody asked why
Ithought Acker would have objected to publishing them, if she were alive
because, you know, wasnt her work totally personal? Well, no. It was not. Her
books were highly composed, hugely different from personal documents.
AP: I think the other thing we can triangulate with this is the rise of celebrity
culture around authors themselves and the need for authors to participate in a
kind of celebrity culture that is in proximity to the confessional. Iam thinking here
of the phenomena of the writers festival where writers go along to be in front of
their readers and be interviewed. And the desire in those spaces is I want to hear
something from the real life of the author.
CK: I mean, yeah, to a really disgusting degree. Each season, profile after profile
appears about the four or five writers whose books are being the most heavily promoted.
Theyre repellent to read, but Ifeel bad for the writers. There must be some who enjoy it,
but Ithink for most people in the end its embarrassing, even personally damaging.
AP: Theres an interesting constellation of things that make this space that
youve been articulating for some time through your work and in conversation
the work of people like Ann Rower, as well, there are things overshadowing
I wanted to talk to you a little bit about the way youre tracking in your novels,
in quite distinct case studies, individual peoples relationship with what we might
call the establishment. It manifests in quite different ways in each book. So youre
partly tracking peoples encounters with quite ephemeral but very powerful social
systems of validation, particularly in the early books, such as I Love Dick. Ithink
thats what people love particularly about that book. And then in Torpor we see a
continuation . ..
AP: Yes, yes. We see that continued with the addition of historical narrative as
a kind of establishment, as a set of rules or set of expectations about how things
play out, that individual characters are very troubled by. And Romania itself is
presented in Torpor as a character in that narrative. And in Summer of Hate you
turn your attention to the prison system and to the problem of the legal system
in the United States and the cycle of debt it creates. So three very distinct books
about three distinct systems. Is the establishment a useful term for this? How do
you think of about that aspect of yourwork?
AP: Thesetup?
CK: Yeah. Ihad an assistant, Amy Stohl, who was a state college philosophy
dropout and she was very clear about this, shed say, Oh, everyone is born
into the setup. Everyone navigates it. Ithink anthropology would be just
AP: Anthropology is a great way to think about it, you undertake observational
descriptive work, but then its offset by this empathetic from of characterization,
so youre really following through the impact of the setup. That seems to be a big
part of the project foryou.
WorksCited
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