In the flat where he is temporarily staying, David Vann (1966) hangs out on the sofa a bit, tired from busyness and late nights as a result of phone calls to the other side of the world. Not too long ago, Vann's marriage stranded, not without a fight, and the legal settlement is still ongoing. He sighs: 'It was the worst year of my life.'
From the mouth of David Vann, that is saying something. Five suicides and one murder counts his family history, and he lost his father to suicide when he was 13. He incorporated this into the semi-autobiographical collection of short stories Legend of a suicide, a book that no publisher wanted to publish. Vann chose a career at sea, which ended with a sunken boat and bankruptcy. When he became a writer after all, his burden of honour found a literary outlet in his intense and fierce novels. His most recent novel, Aquarium, the first non-autobiographical book published by him, is no less fierce: it is about 12-year-old Caitlin, whose safe world is rudely disrupted when an old man she meets turns out to be her grandfather and dredges up her mother Sheri's traumatic past.
Meanwhile, he has already completed another novel: Woman, Desiring, a book in which he wrote off his divorce. David Vann smiles exuberantly. 'Yes, that was fun to do. One of those guilty pleasures... The veil is thin; the book really contains аll my thoughts on marriage and divorce, only the main character is a woman. The moment when you are at the lowest point when it comes to your own dignity ... well, there it is. I wonder what the public will think of it. Maybe people will think it's terrible.'
Someone on the outside sees a man with a fine literary career, an exciting life, a good marriage. Why weren't you happy?
‘
'I have asked myself that question endlessly, for years. I don't have a conclusive answer to it. Nancy was a wonderful wife, and very focused on making me happy. I will never again find someone so good to me. So why couldn't I just be happy and stay with her? And why did I let the feeling that I needed to leave fester for three years before I talked to her about it?
I think there are a few factors at play. We have no children, and for 16 years it was just the two of us all day every day. We made the mistake of not belonging anywhere; because we had no other family or friends around us, our relationship had to be everything. We had realised the things we dreamed of: we had a boat in Turkey, a house in New Zealand, the freedom to travel. And once you have achieved your goal... well....
A midlife crisis is completely different from what I used to think. It is not about approaching death and wanting to have one last splurge and still dive into bed with women younger than you, or own a sports car. At least, not for me. It's about death not coming soon enough: that's the essence of a midlife crisis. It was the thought of having to go on like this for another 40 years while feeling half-dead and empty inside that I couldn't handle.'
‘
How come you didn't talk about it?
‘
'Initially, I was afraid that if I talked about it, it would also become a reality. I thought my doubts would blow over. But by not talking about it, my thoughts about it actually got worse. It was the second time I had more or less led a double life. The first time was after my father's death, when I haunted outside at night and broke everything. Then, with every interaction with someone else, the feeling crept up on me that I was unreal. That's how it felt now, when we had a nice evening together or with friends, while behind the scenes I was thinking of leaving. I never want to experience such a big lie in my life again.
I was always faithful for 15 years of marriage, but eventually fell into infidelity. I think because I felt I had to leave. We had no problems, got along fine. There was just no reason to leave, so I basically created one. But adultery is SO destructive and I wish I could reverse it. It saddens me that this event is now part of who I am.
I think in a way Nancy is happier now than before, because in a way she was in my shadow. She is moving on a more spiritual path than was possible with me, is doing the things that are important to her instead of making me happy. I have not been very happy these past months; hard work, a lot of travelling and all the legal stuff. Still, I feel better than in the last phase of my marriage, because I felt the weight of the lie, and feared for the future.
Adult life consists of a series of events that damage and hurt you and leave a scar. But that can also make you softer, and milder towards others. You get rid of misplaced pride or delusions about yourself, and also make less rigid demands on how others should be. I feel bad about a lot of things that I realise I cannot undo. But overall, I am happier than I have been in recent years, and part of the happiness lies precisely in that realisation. I am more grateful than before for everything that goes right.'
‘
In your most recent novel, Aquarium, forgiveness plays an important role. It is also the first from which a certain hope emanates.
‘
'That's right. This is the first time I have written about forgiveness. I think that's because of what I was going through with my mother at the time. Because although the characters and situations in Aquarium are made up, in a way the book is indeed about my own life, namely the fact that my mother and I had disagreements for years and struggled to forgive each other. Eventually we did and realised that we missed each other and wanted to be part of each other's lives.
Sheri wants Caitlin and her father to understand what she used to go through, to understand her pain. But how far do you go in that? And why do we necessarily want the other person to understand our pain? These are the questions this book asks.
I have come to realise that in order to achieve forgiveness, you have to let go of that desire and accept that others will not fully empathise with your side of the story. And the more stressed someone is, the worse their suffering is, the less room they have to understand the other person's suffering. Realising that someone cannot think or act clearly because they are so wounded inside is the first step towards forgiveness. Then you can have sympathy for the other person. This is what Nancy and I did recently in our divorce process. We have forgiven each other for taking each other to court because we understand that we both felt cornered.'
‘
David Vann takes a sip and sinks back into the cushions. As always, he is cheerful, laughing exuberantly, especially at himself.
''You know, I've given up trying to find answers to anything in life. I no longer expect to fully fathom who I am or why I do what I do. I can't even say whether I am a good or bad person. The only thing I strive for is: no denial. Whatever I feel or think, I try to be honest. The idea that I might be a good person, someone to be admired, has gone up in smoke. When A Mile Down came out, I got a lot of reactions, about what a failure I was, and how unethical I had acted by going bankrupt. Now I am not only bankrupt, but also divorced. Those are two big social failures. For that reason, many people will no longer trust or appreciate me.''
He laughs.
''People who read my books know a lot about me, about my life and feelings, and based on that they judge me.''
A self-portrait in books?
‘'I think people get to know me better through my work than in personal contact. In each book, I sacrificed myself. The protagonist from Earth is largely based on myself; I used to believe in all this new age nonsense, and I had arguments with my mother. I portrayed myself as a monster. The book is about how ideology can lead to cruelty, and how dangerous that can turn out to be. Also in my non-fiction book Last Day on Earth about a school shooting, I talk about my own background with guns and the time I shot streetlights at night, the worst thoughts I had, how dangerous I actually was. In each and every book, I give up my sense of shame, and the desire to be considered a good person.'‘
That takes courage.
‘'Yes and no. Maybe it's brave not to hold anything back and really show who you are and what you think. But it feels like something inevitable. I also enjoy it; Earth I wrote with great pleasure. That was a crime rather than an act of courage. At least it felt that way. With every page I wrote, I knew I was a bad person, and yet I enjoyed it. Blissfully, I sent it off to the publisher.'‘
I understand you are currently working again on a novel based on your own life, a novel about your father.
‘
'That's right. The book is about his last visit to family in California, just before he shot himself up. When I saw my family back in March for the first time in three years, I discovered new facts. My stepmother told me she had slept with him once more just before his death, while they were apart. She also said she had found his gun in his toiletry bag and had wondered if he had planned to kill her before killing himself.
The book came about because I reflected on the fact that we have all failed. If I had said yes to his request to spend a year with him in Alaska, he would not have taken his own life at that point. I was in denial at that point for a long time. Everyone feels guilty after a suicide and that is a terrible burden. Whereas the suicidal person has chosen it himself and others are not responsible for it. This is also broadly true. But as for myself, after thirty-five years, I still had to face the fact that he would have lived longer if I had agreed. The family failed in many other ways. My stepmother shouldn't have slept with him while he was suicidal; that's not very helpful psychologically. My uncle should not have been dissuaded from the plan to go to Alaska. And my aunt... my father had put the gun on the table and said: it's so easy, I could do it at any time. And she responded by laughing. What an incredible emotional failure! What an utter lack of commitment or helpfulness at such a moment!
The main character in the book is not like my father was. I can't put him down - it was too long ago. Everything is completely fictionalised; things didn't happen or pronounced that way, none of the characters resemble actually existing figures. Only in my head is there a relationship between what I write and reality.'
‘
What was it like to see your family again after years?
‘'I became a stranger to them. When I spoke to my uncle about my divorce, he said that my books had done bad things to my head. That teaching university and literature had been harmful to me. In his eyes, I have become a Martian. I have drifted far away from my origins, and moreover have fundamentally changed myself. I no longer belong anywhere. Home is gone forever.'‘
Is that the price you pay for this life?
‘
Yes, the price is that a gap has opened up between me and my family and friends, and I don't really belong anywhere. I have never been as alone as I am at the moment: no longer married, far away from friends and family. I don't feel lonely, but sometimes I envy people who do belong somewhere, even if it has its unpleasant sides and you have to go to birthdays you don't feel like going to at all.
I miss those friendships where you can just drop in on each other and see each other weekly, but for that you have to live in the same place, and I also like living in different places. I do meet people who I like and who I think will become friends. But they have their own lives and I'm only there for part of the year. So when I'm there, I get scheduled for a nice dinner in the diary, and the rest of the time I don't see them.'
‘
Is it worth it?
Vann nods and smiles.
''Oh well, I am part of a larger community in a way; I go to literary festivals, know people from all over the world. Interesting people working on the same things. With Willy Vlautin or David Mitchell, I could be good friends if we lived near each other. It is a pity that sometimes it takes years before you meet again. But it's worth it to me. I feel incredibly privileged to meet all those people.''
David Vann's work is published by De Bezige Bij.
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