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Web Extra: 20 BONUS QUESTIONS WITH
CHUCK PALAHNIUK
I wanted to hate Chuck Palahniuk. Then it would be easier
to tell him the things I didn't like about his new
novel, Lullaby. A Portlander since 1980 ("I can't
leave! All my stuff and friends are here!"), Palahniuk has
crafted a satire-horror hybrid about a dysfunctional Wiccan
family on a cross-country road trip. The family
members--slacking journalist Carl Streator, haunted-house
real-estate agent Helen Hoover Boyle, her
sweet-until-you-cross-her assistant, Mona, and Mona's
eco-terrorist boyfriend, Oyster--are on a mission. They must
find and destroy all extant copies of a children's book that
contains a "culling song," an ancient incantation that, if
recited, will kill whoever hears it.
While the book delivers some laugh-wrenching one-liners and
unabashedly cinematic imagery, I felt the premise and
characters fell short of credibility, and I was prepared to
tell the author so. Which, again, is why I was hoping I'd hate
him. But Palahniuk is thoroughly unhateable. As we chatted,
sitting Indian-style at CoffeeTime, he disarmed me so
thoroughly, I forgot I had issues with his book. Then I
remembered. I fought it, his spell, his Chuck-Charm, and
pressed on.
Willamette Week: Your publicity pack calls
Lullaby a "supernatural thriller," but it didn't scare
me. It's more funny than spooky.
Chuck Palahniuk: It's really hard for me to stay Stephen
King-serious. If anything, I'd rather people be more afraid
after they put the book down, afraid of the outside world.
Sort of a time-delayed horror.
To me, this book reads like an Anne Rice novel written
by Chuck Palahniuk.
Well, that wasn't what I was going for. I've read
Interview with the Vampire, but not any of her
subsequent books, so I didn't have that in my head at all.
Your style--the run-ons, the recurring phrases, the
short-story structure of each chapter--is really distinctive,
but lately I get the feeling you're working from the same bag
of tricks. Is every novel we get from you going to have this
same voice?
You want your style to evolve, if nothing else to make it
interesting for yourself. You want to mix it up some. But you
know that if you change too abruptly, people will be put off.
I don't want to alienate my fans, but I don't want to pander
to them, either. It's a balance. And there's a reason they
liked my stuff in the first place.
A line on the dust jacket to Lullaby calls you
America's "funniest nihilist." These days, a lot of people are
not finding nihilism terribly funny any more.
People get nihilism wrong. Kierkegaard said that in the
face of nothingness, you have complete freedom to reinvent
yourself and the world around you. Destroying everything is
only the first step. The second step is building it back up,
which is much harder. Most nihilists don't think about that
second step.
Oyster in Lullaby and Tyler Durden in Fight
Club are basically terrorists trying to destroy our
culture. Is this something you advocate?
If it means a better world eventually, I would say, "Of
course!" Creating something new depends on destroying
something existing.
Are you saying Osama bin Laden has the right idea?
No, I can't say he's doing the right thing. He's not going
about it in a way I condone. I think it's much better to deal
with these things in the way Michel Foucault would. He would
say, "Laugh at it, disregard it, then do something totally
unrelated, something more attractive, and the other thing will
wither and go away."
I tend to divide authors into two main camps: romantics
and naturalists. The romantic will write about a woman's gown
and the play of light on her hair; the naturalist will
describe the zit on her ass. Are you the preeminent
naturalist?
No, I am the preeminent romantic, entirely. The complete
absence of romance makes romance even more present than
stating it outright. It's the people who deny romance who are
the biggest romantics.
There's only one scene in Lullaby that's romantic
in the sense I'm talking about, where Streator and Helen make
love while they're floating up by this glittering chandelier.
It was atypical for you, and I found it really lovely.
Yes, but I don't want to go there very often.
I can tell! Because there's a ton of gross-out imagery
in this book: diarrhea, vomit, necrophilia, "rectal itching,"
infected feet, "stinking ooze," a body-cavity search where the
officer sniffs his fingers afterward...
Right, because you have to involve people on a physical
level. You can't just state something on a cognitive level.
You have to involve the reader's body in the story as well as
their mind. It's a big part of what Tom Spanbauer teaches. He
calls it "on the body," and in minimalism, you have to create
the story such that the characters have a physicality. The
reader sympathizes with and begins to feel that physicality.
Yes, but what about the physicality of pleasure? The sun
on your skin, the endorphin rush, the wine buzz, the orgasm?
It seems to me you're fixated on the foul, the
scatological.
You know, it's really much harder for me to write about the
pleasurable side of things. If I can come down on a small
bright note at the end of a book, after all of the misery that
came before, then I'm happy. But I just find that if I
concentrate on the good stuff too much, it becomes
disempowered. It's no longer effective.
A central motif in Lullaby is the main character
gluing together miniature houses--creating little worlds,
really--and then stomping them to pieces until his foot is
bloody. Is that what Chuck Palahniuk is doing,
artistically?
No. What Chuck Palahniuk is doing is killing time and
entertaining himself. That's what writing is for me, first and
foremost: dealing with the issue du jour and having fun
doing it. I bury myself in research, then I bury myself in the
craft process. It's a way to sedate myself.
hiss@wweek.com.
Originally published on
WEDNESDAY, 9/18/2002
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