UNDERNEATH THE BUNKER

[First published c.2006. For a more recent interview see here...].

Matthew Taylor-Rosnik – Jean-Pierre Sertin, it’s a privilege to be conversing with you. First of all, how are things?

Jean-Pierre Sertin – They ebb and flow.

M T-R- Uh huh.

J-P S – They also gambol and fritter.

M T-R – Right.

J-P S – Sometimes they even bounce up and down, but very rarely.

M T-R – Okay. Now, the last time we spoke you were still working on a piece called I Choked At The Sight Of It – part of which was published with Underneath the Bunker. Have you now finished that story?

J-P S – Not exactly.

M T-R – Could you explain that answer?

J-P S – Most probably I can. The truth is that I’ve put that project back on the shelf for the moment whilst I work on other things.

M T-R – So you’ve abandoned it?

J-P S - That’s not what I said.

M T-R – Uh huh. It was described at the time as ‘experimental’ literature. Do you agree with that categorisation?

J-P S – To some extent, you could argue that the tag cheapens the content, with its suggestion that experimental literature is no more than some sort of laboratory work. On the other hand, good art is always the result of an experiment. So I don’t mind being labelled as an ‘experimental writer’. I’d hate to be thought of a writer who didn’t take any risks.

M T-R – Indeed. But you must be aware that some of your, um, more rigorous experiments in prose are likely to alienate the majority of your readers?

J-P S – So be it. Good writers require good readers.

M T-R – Could you explain that answer?

J-P S – No.

M T-R – Fair enough. Now if I’m right, I Choked At The Sight Of It was primarily experimenting with the idea of the accidental narrative?

J-P S – That’s the basic idea. Of course, no narrative can be truly accidental, but I was forcing myself to think very quickly around a set of words created in a random manner.

M T-R – As in an unconscious stream-of-thought?

J-P S – No, not exactly. Maybe you could say that the signposts controlling where the narrative was going were based on stream-of-thought, but the prose that led the reader there was in fact carefully thought out. It was more absurd than anything else, but I nevertheless found myself able to deal with some themes along the way.

M T-R – What themes were these?

J-P S – Well, my protagonist was a retired dairyman, forced out of work by synthetic cheese-makers, with a new product called ‘jeez’. He was forced to retire and look after his wife’s father, who was ill in bed. Euthanasia and a synthetic food revolution, those are pretty serious themes. And that was just in the first few paragraphs. Later on, there was to be an intimate meeting with a mysterious woman in a dusty tunnel.

M T-R – Aha. And I seem to remember something about a troupe of elderly joggers who knitted jumpers in their spare time?

J-P S – That’s right, they were in there too. My protagonist spends most of his time wandering around bumping into curious people.

M T-R – He leads an aimless life?

J-P S – Well, he has been made redundant.

M T-R – It seems a pity to have abandoned such a story.

J-P S – I haven’t abandoned it. I was simply working on two projects at once. The other one has now taken the driving seat.

M T-R – Ok. So what is this other project? More experimental literature?

J-P S – I don’t know. But I call it ‘52’ [later published as p.52]

M T-R – ‘Fifty-two’?

J-P S – No: ‘52’

M T-R – Oh I see. And how does this ‘52’ work?

J-P S – It’s an examination of a phenomenon.

M T-R – Ok. What phenomenon is this?

J-P S – The phenomenon of page 52.

M T-R – What’s so special about page 52?

J-P S – Nothing especially. I picked it out randomly

M T-R – But it must have some qualities; otherwise you wouldn’t have dedicated yourself to it, surely?

J-P S – People dedicate themselves to all sorts of useless things. But then, I can’t deny that I’ve fallen under the allure of page 52.

M T-R – I can see that from your eyes, if not the way you’re stroking the arm of that chair. But what form does your examination take?

J-P S – It’s quite simple really. What I’ve done is to randomly select fifty-two books from my bookshelves and photocopy page fifty-two. Then I’ve written a synopsis of each page fifty-two, pasted each synopsis onto a scrap of paper, put all the scraps of paper in a hat and then taken them out again, randomly assigning each scrap to one of the original page fifty-twos. Are you still with me?

M T-R – I think so.

J-P S – Good. At this point, what we’ve got is fifty-two page fifty-twos; each assigned a synopsis of another page fifty-two. The challenge was then to write fifty-two new page fifty-twos inspired by the juxtaposition of the original fifty-twos and the synopses of the original fifty-twos.

M T-R – So that you’d end up with a fifty-two page book of fifty-two one-page stories?

J-P S – I wouldn’t quite call them stories. Many of the pages start and end halfway through a sentence. These are fragments of stories.

M T-R – Except that only the fragments exist. You’ve been creating small segments of large puzzles which don’t in fact exist?

J-P S – In a way, yes. I’ve been creating page fifty-twos. No other page matters. Every page is its own page. There is no narrative beyond page fifty-two.

M T-R – I see. Could you explain the relation between your new fifty-twos and the real page fifty-twos that you photocopied?

J-P S – Yes, I could. What I’ve done is to borrow styles and narratives, but never both. The original plan was to flesh out the synopsis using the style of the original page fifty-two, but when it came down to it, I preferred to rely on whatever came to my head when I read through my source material.

M T-R – So you don’t entirely stick to the rules?

J-P S – Not entirely. At some point a writer needs a little breathing space. So long as I end up with fifty-two page fifty-twos, which to all intents and purposes appear to a reader to be segments of fifty-two greater but non-existent works, I’ll be satisfied.

M T-R – And what about your readers? Do you think they’ll be satisfied?

J-P S – I’m not convinced there will be any readers.

M T-R – So why are you writing it?

J-P S – Do I need an incentive?

M T-R – Perhaps if you supplied some sort of introduction to the work explaining what you were trying to achieve, that might draw some people in.

J-P S – I could do that.

M T-R – Well, what other ideas did you have for it? Has Georgy Riecke promised to publish it?

J-P S – By no means. I was thinking of self-publishing. I thought perhaps I could print off fifty-two copies, enclose them within fifty-two glass bottles and throw them into the middle of the ocean, fifty-two degrees north of the equator.

M T-R – Really?

J-P S – Oh yes. Or maybe I’ll just print fifty-two copies and give them away.

M T-R – Or you could sell them for fifty-two pence?

J-P S – I could do that.

M T-R – How close are you to actually finishing this project?

J-P S – Close enough. I’ve got about twelve pages left to write.

M T-R – And you’re not going to abandon it?

J-P S – I don’t think so. It depends what else comes up.

M T-R – Which reminds me – are you still writing intercuttings?

J-P  S – Of course. It wasn’t a fad.

M T-R – It’s just there haven’t so many around recently.

J-P S – On the contrary, I submitted some recently. Riecke can’t have got round to publishing them yet.

M T-R – I see. And I sympathise entirely. You haven’t thought of approaching another journal?

J-P S – Intercuttings have been published elsewhere, as you may know. Otherwise, I can’t say I’ve had any regrets about the relationship between myself and Underneath the Bunker.

M T-R – So you don’t think that its primary status as a magazine for reviews makes it in any way difficult for original fiction to be recognised?

J-P S – That has never occurred to me. What are you getting at?

M T-R – Well, I… You see, the thing is…. No. Perhaps we ought to talk about that later?

J-P S – Oh, of course. I see. We can talk about that later, yes. But no, I have no problem with, with… whatever you said.

M T-R – Great. Shall we move on?

J-P S – Indubitably.

M T-R – There was one thing which I thought we ought to clear up. It concerns your nationality

J-P S – Oh yes?

M T-R – You’re French, yes, but you write in English?

J-P S – I think you may have misinterpreted the facts. My name is French, but I was brought up in England.

M T-R – So you’d call yourself an Englishman?

J-P S – I’d rather call myself a man.

M T-R – Just plain ‘man’?

J-P S – That’s right.

M T-R – Ok well, that’s cleared that one up. And what about Pierre Monceau?

J-P S – What about him? Is he a man?

M T-R – No, is he French?

J-P S – I really don’t know. Why don’t you ask him?

M T-R – Well, I thought you’d know. Aren’t you some sort of literary team? Like partners in fiction, or maybe even ‘partners in rhyme’

J-P S – Ah yes. Literary is the key word there. We don’t engage in small talk. Our conversations revolve around serious literary topics, that’s all.

M T-R – Okay. So what literary project is Monceau currently engaged in?

J-P S – Don’t know.

M T-R – Right. You haven’t spoken to him recently?

J-P S – No.

M T-R – Is he competing with project ‘52’?

J-P S – Can’t say.

M T-R – Okay. I’m noting some tension here…

J-P S – Not at all. Next question please.

M T-R – Um… I don’t think there was a next question.

J-P S – No?

M T-R – No, but how about, um…. How about: what book are you reading at the moment?

J-P S – Oh… Wait….

M T-R – You don’t have to answer this…

J-P S – No, I can…. It’s just slipped my mind….

M T-R – No pressure.

J-P S – I remember: It’s called The Beginners Guide to Fox-Hunting

M T-R – Fiction or non-fiction?

J-P S – You know, I really don’t know. Does it matter?

[End of the Interview]

Further Reading:

J-P S Sertin Archive