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Sarah Birnbaums Essay

Sarah Vowell is a contributing editor to the public radio program This American Life, which is heard nationally on 300 stations. She is the author of Radio On and Take the Cannoli and most recently The Partly Cloudy Patriot. Vowell has also been a contributor to numerous venues that include Time, Esquire, The Los Angeles Times, McSweeney’s, The Village Voice,, Artforum and Spin. She has taught at Sarah Lawrence College and the Art Institute of Chicago and currently lives in New York City.

Robert Birnbaum: Being a self-proclaimed history buff, do you spend your time in Boston rooting through its resplendent American history?

Sarah Vowell: This is the problem. This is my sixth time here. Every time I am working, so I am always trying to angle in The Freedom Trail, though it never works out. I forced the Boston Globe reporter…I was like, “We have an hour and I would really like to see John Winthrop’s grave.” I’ve always meant to take a proper vacation and see the Emerson and Thoreau and Concord stuff and really do it right. I look forward to actually doing it right.

RB: Is there such a thing as the Freedom Trail?

SV: Yeah. It’s an actual red line.

RB: I don’t know that it is.

SV: It is.

RB: You’re sure?

SV: I thought. It’s pretty much painted on the sidewalk and you can follow it all the way.

RB: Is the Freedom Trail anything other than a marketing tool? It’s not like the Underground Railroad.

SV: It serves no purpose [other] than its own, which is to march tourists cattle-like from one holding pen to another. I don’t think there is anything significant about it.

RB: Doing it right for you would be to visit the State House and Concord and Walden Pond?

SV: Lexington, Old North Church. There is some sort of invention tour where you can go around to different sites of invention. One part of it is a reenactment of Cotton Mather inoculating his kid. One thing I like about the founders and the Puritans is that all of the really big guys—you know, your Ben Franklins and Jeffersons and Cotton Mathers of the world—they were these Renaissance men, interested in all kinds of things. A little-known chapter in the Cotton Mather biography is that he was an early proponent of inoculation. He inoculated his son for small pox, which was seen as somehow heretical, and people were demonstrating outside his window. Even though he was an old-fashioned Puritan, he was very forward thinking medically.

RB: Wasn’t the late 18th century a time when people could claim that they had read every book in print? Isn’t that the claim made for Jefferson?

SV: It’s possible. Jefferson was a real book buyer.

RB: And reader. I must say that I find you unusual because I have a sense that history is a real weakness in education in the US and your interest seems to buck the trend. How did your curiosity in the past come about?

I’ve lived in so many places, I think of the whole country as my home.

SV: Well, I guess like many things, history starts at home. My father is a good old-fashioned history buff and my grandfather was, too. So when my sister and I were children, we were constantly being dragged around to Civil War battlegrounds. And mainly western history sites, things having to do with Buffalo Bill or, “Okay kids, pile in the car, we’re going to see Sequoia’s cabin.” So there are lots of photos of my sister and me perched on top of cannons and things like that.

RB: Is your sister a history buff?

SV: She can go either way. She’ll go. She goes with me to tons of places.

RB: Do you read books about history?

SV: Yeah.

RB: Does your sister?

SV: No. But she really likes American Indian History, so she does read about that. So anyway, my dad wouldn’t just take us to these places or my grandfather wouldn’t just talk about them. They always talked about it in a pretty self-absorbed way in that our family had been part of history in a small way. We were Cherokee and lived in Oklahoma. So there was a lot of chitchat about that and the Trail of Tears and that’s why we are here. We would go to Tsa-la-gi, to the Cherokee cultural center, and watch the Trail of Tears reenactment or go watch the Will Rogers show. So they always showed us such things, not just because we should know about it or because it was interesting, but it was just because we were part of that. We would go to Pea Ridge battlefield in Arkansas and that’s where our great-great grandfather fought in the Cherokee Mountain Volunteers in the Confederate Army. I was a kid there in the ’70s, and the Depression was only essentially a generation before and that was a huge moment in Oklahoma history. So people talked about that all the time. They would talk about Pretty Boy Floyd and how he showed up for dinner one night and didn’t tell them who he was and when my grandmother was cleaning away the plates there was $20 under the dinner plate. Stuff like that. Or WWII, my mother’s brother fought in WWII. And so we weren’t supposed to talk about that around him, and on 4th of July he would get really jumpy when the fireworks went off because he would have flashbacks to the Philippines. History was kind of always in the air and it wasn’t abstract or alien.

RB: Do you agree that Americans don’t seem to care about history?

SV: No. It’s not like I’m an expert or anything. I stumbled into it by doing stories for This American Life on the radio. After I did that first documentary on the Trail of Tears—where my sister and I drove the Trail of Tears—I got mail like I had never gotten mail before from all these families that didn’t know the story. Letters saying, "I sat down with my kids and we talked about American Indian genocide at the kitchen table." Or letters that just said, “I didn’t know anything about this, this is really interesting. I really enjoyed learning about this.” It seemed like people have this thirst for pure knowledge. Part of that does come from the abysmal state of history education in the post-war era. It was more social studies, not history. It was more, "how do we all get along?" instead of what happened, when and where? I think people feel that they missed out. People do not know as much about American history as they would like. When they are drawn to it the thing they come up against is a lot of really dull writing. One thing that I do that expert scholar types do not, is joke around or talk about what it’s like to go there now. [I] think about some idea relating to it and I write it in nice easy essay form where I pick the really interesting bits and talk about that instead of some entire dreary messy chronology. I have a mission when I do historical stories, since I’m not an expert. I would like to be entertaining about it. Also I think of myself as the proxy for the audience. I’m not some know-it-all that spits out all the things I know. I go there and I learn and the listener can learn as I’m learning, learn with me. It feels more neighborly.

RB: Maybe we are saying the same thing. My sense is that what you point out as the terrible state of history education—it is because of the emphasis on dates and monarch’s succession and being made to memorize the dates of landmark legislation, and not the juicy stories about people’s lives. But let’s get back to you. You’re very well traveled for such a young person. You grew up in Oklahoma and as you say in your book, A Partly Cloudy Patriot, your parents wanted to get away from your relatives so they moved to Montana. And then to you went to San Francisco?

SV: No, in between I moved to Portland. That was my lost year of being a coffee girl and going to the movies everyday. Then I moved back to Bozeman and finished college and then I moved to Washington, DC and was an intern at the Smithsonian. And then I went to San Francisco, and then I went to graduate school in Chicago. Then I went back to San Francisco to write a column for 5 minutes and that didn’t work out, then I went back to Chicago, and now I’m in New York. I don’t know if I’m adventurous or can’t sit still. Maybe those two things are the same. I think it has fueled my interest in the idea of America because I don’t think of any one place as my home. If I had to pin it down I would say Bozeman is my hometown. I’ve lived in so many places, I think of the whole country as my home. I never really wrote about this, but maybe I’m so fixated on Lincoln because that was—if I can read into it—his idea of the country too. He moved around so much—he was born in Kentucky, lived in Indiana and went to Illinois and then Washington. If you live in a lot of different places in the country you tend to think of the country as your home more than people who stay in one place who are more locally or regionally oriented. I guess.

RB: I recall futurist books by people such as Alvin Toffler that predicted that high mobility that would become prevalent in America would lead to a modularity of lifestyle that would make the point of view you described a commonplace. I do think people move around a lot, but I don’t think they have the enlightened view that you hold. People always end up being from somewhere and proclaiming that somewhere as the best.

SV: My parents still live in Bozeman, and I go back there all the time and I still have friends there, people I have known for 20 years. It’s a part of me but it’s not all of me. In some ways it makes me at home everywhere and nowhere. There is no one place that the food of the place is my food. There are California things about the way I eat and Oklahoma things about the way I eat. You may walk around with where you grew up as the peripheral vision. In some way, maybe Montana is that for me. I went to school in Holland for a little bit. I remember always pretending there were mountains, because it was just gray everyday. I thought it would make me feel more at home and maybe I do still feel that way—I’m digressing so much I don’t even remember what the question was. But, um, I just met someone today and she was about my age and she was from LA and lived in San Francisco and Seattle before coming to Boston. I don’t know anyone my age that lives where they grew up and that’s the only place they’ve lived. And then there is broadcasting. The regionalists are mad at broadcasting because it means regional speech dies out, we all hear the same thing, and we all see the same thing and thus talk the same way. But I find that incredibly unifying.

I’m a very unprofessional person. All I care about is working with people I like and respect.

RB: No more John Henry Faulks and Studs Terkels?

SV: Studs is a national figure.

RB: But his speech is very Chicago.

SV: Well, everything I said, the opposite is true also.

RB: [Laughs] The only thing I can remember taking exception to in your book was your statement that “Americans love contradictions.”

SV: [laughs] The question I always get asked is some version of a kind of insulting one, from some coastal type, which is (I’m paraphrasing here), “We thought people from the middle of the country were stupid. You’re not that stupid. How do you explain yourself?” A lot of my stories take place in the middle of the country, and I have certain regional things about me that are very formative. Like being a Pentecostal as a kid …

RB: Is showing regional qualities a stigma?

SV: It’s not a stigma. It’s more a curiosity.

RB: It is a stigma. I’ve lived in Boston for 30 years. I came here from Chicago. People here, when they even recognize a population west of Philadelphia, think those people are stupid.

SV: I have a lot fun with that image. One of the stories in the book was about the craze for New German Cinema in my hometown of Bozeman, Montana. It’s so odd. When people think of Montana they don’t think that this little town could be this hotbed of [Werner] Herzog. But it was.

RB: You write for speech, for broadcast. How much different is that than writing for publication?

SV: It comes more intuitively to me, writing for speech. I started working in radio when I was 18 and did news as a college student. There’s just something about my natural way of writing that is pretty colloquial and spoken. As I am writing I perform it, I speak as I’m typing and I reread everything aloud. Not just to make better sense but so it’ll make better rhythm. I definitely think musically, that way. In some ways, when I am just writing for print, it’s more challenging just because…I don’t think in, as you can tell, complete sentences. I don’t think in very smooth subject-to-verb, object-to-period. Everything I say is choppy and if I wrote down every sentence the way I think it, every sentence would have a dash or a colon or semicolon. I am not a simple direct speaker. I have a lot of parentheticals and everything is either choppy or long-winded. It’s natural because people talk that way, and so I write the way I think more easily, and a radio listener or someone sitting in an audience at one of my readings can’t tell I just began six out of ten sentences with the word ‘and’. As a reader, you pick up on that all the time. I am constantly writing something and then, if it’s for print, rewriting a lot just to make it less marked. If something is riddled with parenthesis and dashes and colons, it’s incredibly distracting for a reader. So, yeah, on the flip side of that is that I find in writing more 3rd person things, the historical stories, I much prefer it for print because of all the information you can convey. If you have a lot of names and dates, places it gets murky and complicated if a reader forgets something. If a listener doesn’t pick up a fact in the beginning they have lost it. You either have to keep reiterating the boring information or lose the audience. Also, print is so much better for abstract thought. When you are doing something in real time as an entertainer my impulse is to keep it short, keep it light, keep it moving. Readers are more patient.

RB: Well, the thing about reading is that the reader chooses the pace. Radio means you are going on someone else’s trip.

SV: Yes. I work for a radio show that uses writers, and sometimes we have to gingerly propose that maybe an actor read their work. Not all writers are good readers of their work. That thing I was saying about how in real time people get bored. This is just a simple, technical thing. I find that by reading something out loud it’s a good way of keeping track of what’s good. If am reading something out loud, I find myself looking forward to reading the parts that I really like. If I’m in the middle of something that’s too long and dull and pointless and I can’t wait, that’s a good sign that it needs reworking and editing. I trained as a musician growing up, and I think a lot about sound. So I read aloud to make sure things sound right to me. I’m not saying this is the way people should write; it’s the way I do.

RB: I don’t know about your first book, but the last two have been collections of radio pieces. Do you have any ambition to write a book?

SV: Even the first book was a diary. Yeah, that’s my…I haven’t done that yet. The magnum opus. So, of course, I have that ambition. I don’t have the idea for it yet. That is a very attractive idea for me.

RB: How long do you think doing radio will continue to be interesting to you?

SV: I’m not interested in doing radio per se. I am interested in working for ThIs American Life as long as there is such a show. It’s not because of the medium but because of the process of that show. I really like the editing of that show. It’s rare—as a person, when you can find a group of people and they’re your gang. If that show went off the air tomorrow, would I be scrambling for another radio show to write for? No, I would not.

RB: So your connection to radio is very specific?

SV: Yeah, I’m a very unprofessional person. All I care about is working with people I like and respect. Which is very limiting [laughs]. If you only want to work with the people you like and respect…

RB: How did that become a mark of being unprofessional?

SV: I don’t know. There are lots of opportunities you are presented with to work with people you don’t get or don’t get you. The money’s good or the audience is big, but I don’t really care about things like that as much as liking the people I work with.

RB: Do you have some side projects that you are working on?

SV: My whole life is a side project.

RB: Are you working on a movie?

SV: No.

RB: Do you find it odd that you ended up in New York City, which maybe anathema to every place where you were before?

SV: That’s not true, actually. It’s not for a few reasons? It’s an incredibly national place. It’s what I thought Washington, DC would be like when I moved there. It is national in that every person who ever wanted to go to law school in the country lives there. Not quite the national environment I was looking for. Everyone I know in New York City is not from New York City. It’s basically the nation’s capitol in the sense that everyone is from somewhere else. The media is very national. It’s not like the NY Times is like your local paper. It is but it isn’t…Also, I’m a pretty low key, happy-go-lucky person. And if you are a person like me and you live south of 42nd street, it’s pretty much like living in a college town. You walk everywhere, see your same friends, go to movies and it’s pretty relaxed. Maybe I’m not doing it right?

RB: Well, you aren’t suffering. You are not paying any dues.

SV: Oh no. I would hate to move there, poor and questioning how it all was going to turn out…

RB: Trying to get your 1st book published…you moved there with a job.

Thanks to some good parents and the Federal Student loan program I can do what I want to do. I certainly don’t take that for granted. I may not be the embodiment of the American Dream, but I’m living my little American Dream.

SV: Yeah. It’s pretty much the life I would live if I moved back to Montana.

RB: Do you have to travel much for This American Life?

SV: Not so much for the radio show. I am on the lecture circuit. The lecture circuit is very counter-intuitive in that the bigger deal you become and the better you are at it, the smaller the places you will go. If you are anybody, you can go speak in LA, but they have to really want you to be invited to LaGrande, Oregon.

RB: Where is that, in eastern Oregon?

SV: Yes, near Idaho.

RB: I’m very interested in how Americans see their own country. Other than easterners who see it in some form of that Saul Steinberg drawing of the USA where Manhattan takes up most of the map.

SV: California is like that, too.

RB: I don’t think Americans get how really large and what great differences there are. And—how hard it is to put one’s hands around the concept of the country.

SV: I have this map in my hallway, I call it the Gertrude Stein map.

RB: Because there is no there, there?

SV: Well, what is that thing where there are more places where nobody is than there are places where somebody is? It’s a map of just the towns and counties and for a town to make it to the map it has to have 2500 people. There are vast stretches of the West, where county after county has no town in it. Maybe this is a total clichÈ but there was a New Yorker article about an Egyptian terrorist and he was a critic and very literary. He had a fellowship, he was at Colorado State in the ’60s and was in love with America and he came here and saw how stupid we are. And he went back to Egypt and became this incredible Muslim extremist. A sort of similar thing happened to me when I studied abroad and went to Holland. I was one of those Reagan-era kids of the left-wing variety where I thought the US government was going to get us all blown up. And how much money was being spent on nuclear weapons boggled my mind. I always wanted to go live in Western Europe, like Sweden or the Netherlands where things seemed so together, my ideal of what a progressive democratic socialist country would be like. So I found myself in the Netherlands. It was everything I always thought it would be except it was kind of dull there. That’s the thing about those societies where they are so on the ball that they never make news because nothing ever happens because everyone is fairly okay. It was really dull. Then the LA riots happened in ’92. I was sitting there with my Dutch friends watching the news in Dutch, which I always did to try to learn Dutch.

RB: Impossible.

SV: I didn’t understand anything. There’s this picture and it said Los Angeles and there was something on fire. I thought, “Oh another Los Angeles fire.” My friends were kind of freaking out. And I said, "We have fires all the time. They can handle it." They went, “No, no riot.” And they told me what happened. Then my friend said, “Of course, you’re not going back there.” I said, “Where?” And she said, “America.” I said, “First of all I’m from Montana. And, yeah that’s a drawback but that’s my home.” I remember riding my bike home trying to figure out what was going on, through the Dutch fog. I was heartbroken by the whole thing. I listened to The Beach Boys all night, “Wouldn’t It Be Nice,” the other LA, the Beach Boys LA. I knew I just wanted to go home. I had never been so homesick. Even though it was this horrible thing, I felt part of it. It made sense to me that it didn’t make sense.

RB: You just reminded me of the Carol Reed Film, The Third Man. With Orson Welles and Joseph Cotton.

SV: Uh huh, Vienna.

RB: There’s this great scene on top of a Ferris wheel where the Welles’ character says something to the effect that 500 years of peace and tranquility in Switzerland produced the cuckoo clock while in 30 years or so of internecine treachery in Italy under Borgia rule, it produced the Renaissance.

SV: I love this country unconditionally. I think that means not blindly. It’s like if you are a mother—even Lee Harvey Oswald’s mother still loved her kid. There’s a way where you can love something without having to love everything.

RB: It would appear that is a major motif of your book. Which I take great exception to. My image of patriotism is associated with people who take off their shirts in sub-zero weather at sports events, paint themselves in team colors and stomp around proclaiming, “We’re number 1!” I don’t also associate the feeling of love with a political geographical abstraction.

SV: Really, you don’t? (laughs)

RB: I like regional and local character and appreciate them and I understand that kind of chauvinism.

SV: I know what you mean. There are those people—I always picture them with shirts on. I have been doing a lot of interviews on Pacifica radio stations and I feel like G. Gordon Liddy on those shows. I’m a Democrat and I dislike the Republican Party but I don’t demonize all Republicans. My father is a Republican and he’s an okay guy. I don’t think you are necessarily evil if you are. Those people have a disdain for any show of national unity. They seem as blind as the love-it-or-leave-it types. The truth is in between…I like things murky. I don’t know if this is seeing the glass half empty or half full, but I see everything has a cost. My life is full of all kinds of freedom and I have set it up that way. I know that has a cost. I like to live alone. I don’t want children. So I live alone and don’t have children. But I know that there is that tiny little voice that knows that I have given up that part of life. So that has a cost. I do feel incredibly reverent about the big old-fashioned things like the idea of liberty and the pursuit of happiness. And all of the great inventiveness of this country. But I know it came at this huge cost. How many of the original inhabitants were murdered or enslaved? How many people were left behind and squeezed out and downtrodden by the Darwinian process that built the bridges and laid down the railroad and all that. My parents didn’t go to college. My grandmother was dirt poor, picking cotton to feed her children. I have lived the kind of nice middle-class urban lifestyle that I have because of a lot of their sacrifices. I celebrate that and I appreciate them. I come from all these people that had it hard. All those Cherokee that were kicked off their land or Swedish immigrants that plowed their fields. And eventually here I am. Thanks to some good parents and the Federal Student loan program I can do what I want to do. I certainly don’t take that for granted. I may not be the embodiment of the American Dream but I’m living my little American Dream. A lot of that has to do with this time and place in this country.

RB: Why do we still use this half-empty/half-full glass metaphor? The glass is both. We don’t have to make a choice that is a false choice. Anyway, all good reasons to appreciate your life. My experience with historical education precedes yours and was heavily mythological as formed by the Cold War and its McCarthyist spin-offs. I’ve spent my life since then paying attention to the revisions necessitated by public school historical fairytales I was indoctrinated with. The Founding Fathers were gods, and this a great country and everyone here is blessed and we, by the grace of a Christian god, were ordained to be the policeman of the world. Perhaps my reaction is pathological after years of perceiving patriotism as knee jerk and robotic. And by the way, the Attorney General, Ashcroft, is truly demonic and frightening.

Well, everything I said, the opposite is true also.

SV: Those kind of people drive me insane because they wrap themselves in the flag. This sentiment of censorship and surveillance is to me, the definition of anti-American. It’s one reason I am so obsessed with Lincoln. He was obsessed with the Declaration of Independence and believed it. Who more than him, from his vantage point, could see it wasn’t coming true for a goodly portion of the population. When he talks about a new birth of Freedom, he is trying to make those ideals come true. What you are talking about—that stupid nostalgic education—the thing that needed to happen is for whatever the tide of multiculturalism and feminism to wash over it. Just because Jefferson owned slaves doesn’t mean that the Declaration of Independence isn’t one of the most beautiful things humanity has come up with. Even if he wasn’t making it come true in his life, it’s up to all of us to try to make them come true—even if we can’t succeed it’s a really good goal to shoot for.

RB: Well, one of the contradictions of American life is that it seems to force people to work so hard that they have little time for political activity.

SV: Yeah, I know that’s true. Citizenship—and there is no sexy way to say this—is a duty. With all the drudgery that entails. I’ve had 20 minutes free today. I knew that I was going to have 20 minutes so I set the alarm so that I had time to read the paper. I know what a little civics freak I am and how a hard it is for me to keep track of all this so I can imagine what it’s like for people with actual responsibilities.

RB: You did quote Al Gore on the South African elections where there was a turnout of 98%.

SV: I don’t have a lot of expertise in history, but what I can offer is to keep bringing things up. In weird contexts, too. John Grisham, who I think is a masterful storyteller in some ways, drives me crazy that always the young idealistic lawyer who comes up against the system, at the end of his books, there is always someone who is vowing never to register to vote so they don’t get called for jury duty. Such is their disgust with the state of the legal system. This is a person who lives in Mississippi where people have DIED for the right to vote. Stuff like that is constantly worth reminding ourselves about. It goes back to my feeling that I am standing on the shoulders of my ancestors and their sacrifices. I feel like that about all kinds of things. Voting included. People have DIED FOR THAT RIGHT. I don’t know how we got off on this tangent.

RB: Do you have a plan for your life?

SV: No, my life has been completely and totally unplanned. All the good stuff especially, was unplanned. I would like to write the big book, capitol B. I kind of like how things are right now. So I prefer to maintain. I don’t have any kind of dream, like the house on the lake or whatever prize. Maybe I should get a goal? The thing I am always shooting for is free time.

RB: I’m going to give you some right now. Thanks.

SV: (laughs)

Copyright 2002 by Robert Birnbaum
All photos by Red Diaz / Duende Publishing

Posted in Author Interviews and tagged Robert Birnbaum, Sarah Vowell, The Partly Cloudy Patriot. Bookmark the permalink. Trackbacks are closed, but you can post a comment.

Sarah Vowell is the author of The Partly Cloudy Patriot, Take the Cannoli, Radio On, and recently, Assassination Vacation. She was born in Muskogee, Oklahoma, and raised in Montana. She received an MA from the Art Institute in Chicago. Sarah Vowell is best known for her bits on National Public Radio’s This American Life. She has been contributing editor for the program since 1996 and has been a participant of This American Life’s well-regarded live shows around the country. No doubt the New York Times commendation praising her "funny querulous voice and shrewd comic delivery" explains how she came to be the voice of Violet Parr, teenage superhero in Pixar’s The Incredibles. Vowell also wrote and was featured in Vowellet: An Essay by Sarah Vowell, included on the DVD version of The Incredibles, in which she reflects on the differences between being superhero Violet and being an author of history books on the subject of assassinated presidents—and what this means to her nephew Owen. Sarah Vowell is a former columnist for Time,, and San Francisco Weekly, and she has contributed to numerous newspapers and magazines, including Esquire, GQ, Los Angeles Times, The Village Voice, Spin, The New York Times Book Review, and McSweeney’s. She has recently been substituting for Maureen Dowd on the New York Times Op-Ed page. Sara Vowell lives in Manhattan and reportedly cannot swim, is afraid of heights, and does not drive a car.

Assassination Vacation is an account of Sarah Vowell’s singular brand of road trip, revisiting the historical record of the assassinations of Republican presidents Abraham Lincoln, James Garfield, and William McKinley and visiting key places in her thought-provoking unpacking of the significance of those killings. Her trademark historical tourism manages to include mummies, show tunes, a nineteenth-century biblical sex cult, mean-spirited totem poles, and more. This is my second chat with Sarah Vowell and my first with the voice of a superhero. Vowell, as she claims below, “is not for everyone.” Maybe. Maybe not. Read on and see for yourself.

Robert Birnbaum: I’m wondering what your editors thought when you proposed Assassination Vacation. Was it obvious to them? Was what you were going to do clear to you?

Sarah Vowell: Was it obvious? What do you mean?

RB: Did you have a clear picture of what you were going to do?

SV: Actually, it kept narrowing down. I was going to write another collection with the focus being on death as entertainment. This was just the first story I started working on, and then I quickly realized it was a whole book. Originally it was going to be about all the American political assassinations. And then I narrowed it down to presidents, and then I realized I didn’t really want to write about Kennedy. And also partly because fairly early on when I found that Robert Todd Lincoln, Abraham Lincoln’s son, was there for all three of the first three assassinations—and he had attended the dedication for the Lincoln Memorial—I wanted to write about that a little bit. He [RTL] narrowed it down and gave a natural thread to the story. But in terms of me and my crap—I guess is your question—my team is behind me.

RB: [laughs]

SV: Yeah.

RB: Based on your books selling, on your commercial viability?

SV: Based on the fact that they are proud to publish them, I would like to think.

RB: Sure, of course, but there—

SV: —this is my third book with them. They are behind me.

RB: You said you didn’t want to write about Kennedy? I thought there might be a sequel, since there are more assassinations in the twentieth century.

SV: Everyone knows more about those.

RB: People know about the Puerto Rican separatist’s attempt on Harry Truman?

SV: If you want to do attempts, that broadens it. It’s more Kennedy and his brother and Martin Luther King. I like the distance of talking about the long dead. There are some very serious parts of the book, and some mournful ones, but there is some joking around, and you can do a little less of that when someone’s daughter and brother are mourning them. Or wife and children, in the case of [Martin Luther] King. I’m just not very interested in John F. Kennedy. Also, my books are purely optional. They are not books that need to be written.

RB: They may or may not—I agree with you somewhat. But there is such a thing as historical amnesia. However, amnesia suggests you knew something in the first place.

SV: Uh-huh.

RB: Whereas the problem, perhaps, is that people don’t bother to learn much of American history the first place.

SV: Well, who can blame them. It’s presented in school in such a boring humdrum fashion. When I was in school we might have spent maybe half an hour on Reconstruction, and all of sudden WWI is breaking out.

RB: [laughs]

SV: So this whole period between 1865 and 1901: there is a little room for learnin’.

RB: Hard to argue with that.

SV: For me too. I’m not a historian and not trained as an American historian. One reason I do it [write these books] is that I like learning this stuff. And I learn a lot.

RB: I’m inclined to refer to an observation Nicholas Lehmann made about the trouble with the way American history is taught is that there is too much of it—meaning there is a lot of detail and not a lot of stories: the Smoot-Hawley tariff may not be the compelling concern of that period.

SV: It’s not really true in terms of like, if you are doing American history versus, uh, Mesopotamia or something. It’s a pretty short little period we have going here. But I know what you mean. It’s like a series of laws being passed, wars being fought with definite outcomes, heroes and villains. This happened and of course it happened and there is no like, "What if something else had happened?" There is no drama or real blood.

RB: No sense of the people in the flesh. The people that you are writing about, even that nutjob who shot Garfield—

SV: Yeah, he was a real interesting person. I don’t know how it is in other countries. Part of that has to do with—is peculiar to—America, in that we have this notion of ourselves as inherently good, and our history is supposed to be a look back at our history of goodness. If you are just trying to talk about the presidents as heroic figures and American wars as good wars, then there is no real reason to get into the president’s foibles or questionable wars. If the point of it is to inspire old-fashioned patriotism, then you wouldn’t want to make the people seem like people. You want to make them seem like statutes. You want to tell people about life, liberty, the pursuit of happiness; you don’t want to tell them about Jefferson raping his slaves.

I like the distance of talking about the long dead. There are some very serious parts of the book and some mournful ones, but there is some joking around, and you can do a little less of that when someone’s daughter and brother are mourning them.

RB: Right.

SV: Which, whatever you think of him raping his slaves—it’s not boring. Frankly, there is just a lot of good dirt.

RB: And/or good stories—the kind we find in novels. In fact, you mention Thomas Mallon’s wonderful novel Henry and Clara

SV: I love that book.

RB: A terrific novel based on two real people and the harrowing drama that ensues from their presence in Abraham Lincoln’s box at the Ford theater the night he is shot. There is no shortage of patriotism in Europe, I’m sure; yet I don’t know how much that influences their historiography.

SV: I don’t know. In France, there is an argument for their culture. You have to deal with the whole stupid monarchy thing for most of their history. And their revolution, which eventually ended okay. There are a lot of things to be embarrassed about there.

RB: That’s just the way human history goes.

SV: I guess you could say this about Canada, sort of. But we are the only . . . Our country is based on an idea, not a race. We are actively involved in promoting our idea of ourselves in the world, and Canada isn’t doing that [laughs].

RB: You are not suggesting that—

SV: When I went to school, I was taught [that] America never lost a war. And I started school like five minutes after Saigon fell.

RB: [laughs] James Garfield is most known for being unknown. And Lincoln is the perennial martyr of the nineteenth century.

SV: Yeah, even that. It’s one of those inevitabilities. It’s worth remembering how loathed he was by pretty much half the country. His assassination, as much as the Emancipation Proclamation, is what seals his reputation and engenders this reverence. And also the specific circumstances of the assassination: Booth shooting him on Easter weekend, shooting him on Good Friday, and Lincoln dying Saturday morning; and then Sunday morning every sermon in the country is all about this Christlike martyr. And he’s now unquestionably universally revered in this country, and he was just so hated when he was alive.

RB: You pointed out he had to sneak into Washington DC for his first inauguration—through Baltimore [laughs].

SV: Yeah, because there was an assassination plot against him from the get-go. His desk drawer was full of death threats during his presidency; and he was shot at, at least once. I really am amazed he [was able] to serve an entire first term.

RB: Much of the Lincoln assassination is lore, is well-trod terrain. But you also spent time on the co-conspirators and this odd place Dry Tortuoga, which I had thought was further south in the Caribbean.

SV: No, it’s seventy miles from Key West. It feels further when you get there. I don’t know further from what. It just feels like you are on the edge of the world down there.

RB: It seems the fulcrum of this book, if there is such a thing, is the assassination of James Garfield, who for me, as in the case of Grant, was an unknown entity. I had accepted the conventional wisdom that Grant was a drunk and a loser. Except that he wasn’t—

SV: Well, he was a drunk and a loser and a great general and great guy and a great writer and a terrible president. That’s the thing. Why do we need a historical figure, a person, to be one thing? Like Lincoln said, "He’s a drunk. I wish the others were drinking what he’s drinking."

RB: Well, the thing is, I hadn’t known anything about Garfield, but I found his devotion to reading attractive—he would skip out on just about anything to go and read.

SV: Thank heavens. I was interested in writing about him, but I didn’t know—I started that chapter without a real "in" and nothing to really grasp on to. And then reading his diaries, which I don’t exactly recommend—there are four volumes and there is a lot of filler. I just got the feeling [that] all he wants to do is read—like a total sickness. And when I came across that commencement address he gives as a presidential candidate and he says to the graduates [that] even if you get the job you want, the family you want, it’s really going to cut into your free time. Meaning, you are not going to get to read, basically. And I came to see him as a kind of junkie. I think all readers are sort of like that. We all have jobs and responsibilities and loved ones, but if I imagine a perfect day—the phone of the hook, blinds drawn—

RB: —You don’t read in the sun?

SV: [laughs] Read in the sun? I can do that, but I’m an indoor reader. The sun gets in your eyes, is the problem.

RB: [laughs] One of the great American inventions is the baseball cap.

SV: Okay, that’s a good point. I cede that point.

RB: I was going to say, before we launch into talking about history, is that if I was teaching history in public schools, I would use your books as texts. With a few others [like Zinn’s People’s History and William Appleman Williams, the Tragedy of Empire]. This is the kind of history that people can read and grasp; at least, it’s an entry point or stepping stone to the more serious or deeper history.

SV: Just as I have no real interest in rah-rah flag waving—I am a patriotic person in my own way—I also have very little interest in my own authority. I am confident enough in myself and what I say. I don’t need to overly pump myself up. And a lot of times when I have learned about something, I’ll say how I learned it: where I was, or I saw that in an archive, or I read that in this book, or I learned it from this guy. I am pretty open about my learning process, and it’s like, "Hey, you can come along." I hope it’s kind of welcoming. And also because I didn’t start out as a writer writing about history; I sort of got this history bug the last few years, [but] that doesn’t mean that I stopped being the person I was. It doesn’t mean that I don’t know who Snoop Dog is. I’m still myself and I still watch TV and listen to pop music and talk to my sister on the phone. I am still a person. Sometimes when I’m reading the real upstanding history books, I wonder, "How do you learn that?" The guy was at an archive, because he thanks the librarian—but how’d he get there? Did your wife come too? Who’d you hang out with and what was it like?

RB: You want to know more about the process?

SV: Yeah.

RB: Have you read Howard Zinn‘s A People’s History of the United States of America?

SV: Yeah.

RB: More than once?

SV: No. Do you need to read it more than once?

RB: I believe he has updated it.

SV: I see what you mean.

RB: There was a thirtieth anniversary edition and then an edition update after September 11.

SV: I like people who have their own little corner staked out, and he’s one of those guys. I still like writing about General Grant and Lincoln and all the big guys. I like to write about us little people sometimes, too. I think that [one of] the first books I read was the Bible when I was a kid, and there weren’t that many books around. And the books that were available were children’s biographies. I don’t know if kids read them anymore—like biographies of the Revolutionary War heroes and presidents and Indian chiefs and wild west types: Sitting Bull and Annie Oakley and Paul Revere. I still have an attraction for those boldfaced names.

RB: Kids must still read them—I have biographies of Miles Davis and Malcolm X for my son.

SV: That’s true. Now that you mention it, when I first started on this and I panicked one day—especially with Garfield . . . like I have to really beef up on this especially—like, I went instantly online and ordered bunches of books willy-nilly. To get started, just to have them there as—

RB: —Security blankets?

SV: Or something. Just have them there making me feel guilty. And I just pushed, "Buy, Buy, Buy," and most of them showed up and they were children’s books. And I realized that a lot of the stuff that I am interested in you’re only supposed to be learning about it if you are nine or something.

RB: [laughs]

SV: If you want to know more about Seward’s purchase of Alaska, odds are it’s going to be a kid’s book that tells you about it.

RB: Or the interesting twist of the last generation is that it’s become the stuff of novels—Gore Vidal wrote those novels, spanning the nineteenth century, or as in Thomas Mallon’s Henry and Clara. Or Brian Hall wrote a fine novel about Lewis and Clark. History has become the—

SV: It makes sense because it’s just so dramatic and there are such good stories. I know there are people who are against the fictionalization, but I am not one of those people. I was on some panel at the Sydney [Australia] Writers Festival a couple years ago about historical novels. I don’t know why I was on it. But I remember there was this proper historian and then it was all historical novelists. I remember her waving her finger at people saying, "We must avoid easy entertainments." I didn’t say this at the time because she was elderly, and I am afraid of—and I am very respectful of—the elderly, [but] it made me so mad because I was thinking, "Entertainment is hard." If you can entertain someone . . . It’s really hard, first of all. And why shouldn’t we entertain? And if they are really great stories, why shouldn’t they be told? There are good historical novels and bad historical novels. But there are things that you can learn to get an idea about—

RB: When I talked to Edward P. Jones, a woman historian from Texas was bothered by the fact that he announced that he did very little (if any) research. He intended to look at the books on a list he had made up, but he never did. And that woman was saying that his story had to be based on facts and researched. I thought, "Why? It’s a novel." There are perhaps odd expectations of what the truth is supposed to be.

SV: Right. That’s why Thomas Mallon is so good. He does put in the shoe leather and really tries to get it right as much as possible.

RB: Have you read Band Box?

SV: I haven’t read that yet. It’s the magazine one, right?

RB: Very funny.

SV: Uh, what was I going to say? On the other . . . We don’t have to talk about this anymore.

RB: We don’t?

SV: Not necessarily.

RB: Can we say that writing on Lincoln and the various offshoots was relatively easy, but Garfield was hard?

SV: Yeah. Pretty much every time Lincoln used a hanky there is a plaque for it. But Garfield, because he was assassinated—he was only president a few weeks. So he didn’t really get to do that much. That’s one reason. And there were problems and dramas. And it was a relatively undramatic period. Which is another reason we don’t learn much about it.

RB: The 1880s were undramatic?

SV: Well, compared to the 1860s. Or the 1930s.

RB: Indian wars? Robber Barons?

SV: Yeah. There are Indian wars and robber barons. I’m not saying I don’t find drama; it’s just fairly forgotten. And then with him [Garfield], like when I do my Garfield tour of Washington, I call it an "unwalking" tour because just walking around, things I looked up—where things happened—you wouldn’t know from standing there. Just like where Lincoln was assassinated: the Ford Theater is a whole national memorial/historical site. A living theater as a memorial.

RB: It’s not the same theater? Didn’t the original fall down or something like that?

SV: It’s the same location and the exterior is the same. It is recreated. But even for McKinley there is a plaque on the site where he was assassinated in a Buffalo [NY] neighborhood. But for Garfield there is just no plaque. We have plaques for so many things. My favorite plaque in New York is the "Peter Styuvesant’s pear tree was here" plaque. That’s nice. I love that plaque. It was, "He bought a tree, planted it and then it died."

RB: The tree lived a couple of hundred years.

SV: Yeah, it did. But the train station where Garfield was assassinated was torn down and now it’s the National Gallery of Art. They could put a plaque up.

RB: Wasn’t there a dollhouse built out of railroad ties in Longbranch, New Jersey?

SV: That was a private citizen who did that. That was nice.

RB: Was Garfield the president you were researching when you found the website

SV: Garfield’s in that. They all are in it. I’ve known about it for a long time; [from] whenever it first came about. People would send me that. It’s just one of those things I get sent because of my predilections. It’s really handy.

RB: Is it more than gravesites?

SV: It’s where remains are located. So that’s not always a grave. Like with Lincoln they have Springfield, where his tomb is, and then they also list the National Museum of Health and Medicine, where pieces of his skull are. His brain got buried.

RB: I don’t want to quibble with you, but you confused me in the beginning section on McKinley. Also, I take exception to your interpretation of the drawing that North America is going to stomp on Cuba. That doesn’t look like a stomp to me. I guess that’s a matter of interpretation. But the other thing is that you went from looking for Hayes’s grave to looking for Mark Hanna’s grave?

If the point of it is to inspire old-fashioned patriotism, then you wouldn’t want to make the people seem like people. You want to make them seem like statutes.

SV: They are both buried in that cemetery.

RB: [finding and returning to the illustration in question] Is that "stomping" to you?

SV: It’s poised to stomp—not actually stomping. John Hay, McKinley’s Secretary of State, and Mark Hanna, and McKinley’s best friend slash/Karl Rove are buried in the same cemetery. Hays married a wealthy Cleveland girl and Hanna was a wealthy Clevelander, so they were part of the same millionaire’s row or circle. And all those people were buried in the same really nice cemetery.

RB: I always think of John Hay as being played by John Huston as in the film The Wind and the Lion.

SV: I think of John Hay as being a little more effeminate than that.

RB: He may be, but I seem to recall that Huston played him in The Wind and the Lion

SV: —That’s the Theodore Roosevelt—

RB: —Teddy coins the slogan [Mohammed], "Mrs. Pedecaris alive or el-Raisuli dead!"

SV: Huston is a little hardboiled for Hay. For what he did, [Hay] is sort of a dreamer poet. He’s like this young kid, and Lincoln hires him as his secretary, and then he joins the diplomatic corps—that’s what it was called back then. Eventually [he] becomes Ambassador to Great Britain. He is really the reason why . . . he is the first one to reconcile us with Great Britain, to really get cracking on forging this very historic friendship. We were at war at one point, and that kind of carried through for a while. And Hay was an Anglophile. He wrote a novel and he was a kind of—not effeminate—but definitely a very cultured mucky muck.

RB: There is a lot of information about him—he was very prominent.

SV: Guys like him are one reason I wanted also to just focus on Lincoln to McKinley because it’s thirty-six years and they are all three Republicans and the same guys show up the whole time.

RB: Kind of like our time [laughs].

SV: Yeah, isn’t it. They do hang on.

RB: Speaking of guys showing up—where did you find that immensely informative speech by John Ashcroft, which you quoted?

SV: I got that from Fairness and Accuracy in Media, the watchdog group, through Nexus.

RB: The speech was a bit scary.

SV: It was Ashcroft praising this Southern partisan magazine for its advocacy of Confederate heritage. Yeah.

RB: You go on to point out that Maryland state song is still an unrepentant—

SV: It’s still a call to assassinate Lincoln. It didn’t become a state song until the ’30s, "Maryland, My Maryland." That’s an incredibly horrifying state song.

RB:Percival Everett wrote a brilliant story about the song "Dixie" in his collection Damned If I Do.

RB: If I remember correctly from a half hour ago, the impetus for this book was just to assemble pieces that you are always doing and it became this other subject, and then you narrowed it down to three assassinations—am I recapping it correctly?

SV: I think so.

RB: Where do you go from here, after writing this book?

SV: I really don’t know. I don’t know yet. This actually took a lot out of me. I think the book, I hope, is sort of breezy, but it was hard sometimes. Sometimes I would get very close—like the president’s wives especially, and what they went through. And Mrs. Garfield and Mrs. McKinley and even Mrs. Lincoln, whom I am not the hugest fan of—

RB: Who is? She seems to be universally despised if not sympathized with.

SV: That’s a good question. Yeah, I have a lot of sympathy for her. I don’t think anyone gets over thedeath of a child, and she had to get over the death of three children and watch her husband be shot in front of her. So I think it’s insane to think that would not make a person crazy. So anyway [laughs], it takes me awhile to think of ideas now. I have this fantasy about writing a really upbeat book about cheerful people doing very likable things. But I don’t seem to get those ideas very often. I am capable of joy [laughs].

RB: May be if you spent more time out in daylight—perhaps in the sunshine. Put some sunscreen on and a baseball cap

SV: You don’t think I’ll burst into flames?

RB: I don’t know—is that a fear of yours? I won’t caution you anymore about the lack of contact with daylight.

SV: I don’t know if anyone should be encouraging writers to spend more time outside.

RB: Okay.

SV: I mean, it’s a pretty indoorsy job.

RB: Well, the advent of portability in technology. Besides, we always had the portable technology with pens and pads and notebooks.

SV: Who are the outdoors writers? That’s a good question.

RB: Gary Snyder.

SV: That makes sense [laughs].

RB: Barry Lopez. William Faulkner probably wrote in his backyard.

SV: I always like that thing that someone told Norman McLean, "You write books with trees in them." Yeah. I wish I could be one of those people. I wish I wasn’t interested in that stuff.

RB: You don’t need to be one of those people. You did preface this notion of writing an upbeat book as a fantasy.

SV: I do spend a lot of time outdoors working on these books, going to these places. As in taking walks—

RB: —sailing.

SV: That’s right.

RB: Braving the ocean.

SV: Getting out of the car to look at Booth’s death spot. Traipsing around the cemetery with my nephew.

RB: Sitting around Gramercy Park with your English friend.

SV: That’s right. Pretty cool.

RB: Watching your sister get into a dispute with a woman in a parking lot in Cleveland—which you included in the book—which was very sweet.

SV: Well—

RB: She threatened the woman whom she was having the dispute with, "My sister is writing a book and she’s going to put you in it." And you did.

SV: That’s right. No one messes with my sister on my watch.

RB: [laughs]

SV: Without retribution.

RB: You said this took a lot out of you because—

SV: —dealing with murder every day. And Booth—dealing with his racism. The McKinley assassin’s just sad, sad, sad life. And the deaths of these presidents and the way they were mourned. Certain objects had so much resonance with me. Seeing Garfield’s death mask. Those are the kinds of things that you can’t exactly always get out of a book. You can only learn from a thing. His actual death mask and how bony and skeletal it is, because he just wasted away for weeks before he died. You can see—it’s around the corner from a bunch of photos of the robust and rotund Garfield—and seeing his death mask you see what his wife watched. She had to watch him melt away, basically. And then seeing Mrs. McKinley’s sewing bag. After her husband died she just mourned her life away—sitting in a rocking chair crocheting thousands of bedroom slippers. How sad is that? It gets sadder because she sews her dead husband’s photo inside her crochet bag, so every time she reaches for new yarn she sees his face. It just gets [pause] very emotional—making them people again; you have to know them and even [in] some ways like them; then I have to mourn with them too, a little bit. I don’t like everything about McKinley or anything about Mark Hanna, his henchman; but when McKinley, [Hanna’s] best friend, is dying, even money-grubbing power broker Mark Hanna—as anyone who’s best friend is dying—is pleading, "William, William, speak to me." It’s hard not to feel for that.

RB: What was that quote you presented in the Garfield section, "It’s not the bullet that will kill you, it’s the hole"?

SV: Yeah. That’s Laurie Anderson.

RB: The infection that killed Garfield.

SV: Yeah. It wasn’t even removing the bullet. It was on the site, at the train station; the doctors were poking their grimy fingers in the wound, which caused a pretty bad infection. And that’s what the assassin says at his trial, "I didn’t kill the President. I just shot him. The doctors, they’re the ones who killed him."

RB: If it hadn’t been for Garfield, would Guiteau have ended up getting a post in the diplomatic service?

SV: No, he was crazy. One of the asides you learn about him is that at his trial a doctor said years earlier the assassin Guiteau had come after his sister with an ax and they had taken him to a doctor and the doctor recommended he be institutionalized. But the family didn’t have the money for that. So he just walked the streets. So if he had been put in a nice safe hospital to live out his days with doctors and drugs, then Garfield would have lived.

RB: Maybe.

SV: Maybe.

RB: This grouping of stories would make a nice PBS series. Any talk of that?

SV: Uh-uh. I am going to try to take that as a compliment.

RB: [laughs]


RB: Well, to begin with, it’s not something we are likely to see on commercial TV.

SV: No, right.

RB: Are you suggesting that a lot of programming on PBS is effete or stuffy; uninteresting?

SV: There are certain things on PBS I like. I like American Experience and things like that. So, yeah, it would totally lend itself to that.

RB: I see it in the context of Andrei Codrescu‘s Road Scholar.

SV: Hmm. One thing I like about writing things: I actually like describing things, and you don’t get to do that when those pictures are showing people what something looks like without telling people what to think about it. I really like the control of being a writer.

RB: Do you entertain any thoughts about writing fiction?

SV: [sharply] No.

RB: Because?

SV: I am not one of those writers—I never wanted to be a writer. When I was growing up I wasn’t one of those people who hid in their bedroom with a flashlight scribbling out stories. I came to writing by studying art history and writing essay exams. So I don’t know how to make stories up. I know how to lie. One reason I like writing nonfiction is [that] it’s all about the implausible. It’s all about Lincoln’s kid being there for the first three assassinations. Or Lincoln’s son’s life being saved by John Wilkes Booth’s brother on the train tracks. All these weird coincidences. And bizarre occurrences. With nonfiction it’s like, "Holy cow, I can’t believe this thing happened!" Whereas fiction seems to me, for it to work, it actually has to seem kind of plausible. Which I would find incredibly difficult.

RB: So you have written four books and you are still doing the radio—This American Life—and you have branched off into voice work.

SV: I did one movie, uh-huh.

RB: You know how it goes, you do one and then people will be knocking your door down.

SV: We’ll see.

RB: Was doing The Incredibles fun?

SV: Yeah, I mean I loved working with the people at Pixar. That’s what it was really about for me, specifically working with them. And I loved the story of the movie, and I loved my character. The teenaged girl. I really liked all the mid-life crises stuff. For what some people thought of as a kid’s movie there was some pretty existential stuff on getting older and trying to have a family when you have a calling. That experience was pretty much perfect. So if I ever did something like that again, it would have to be pretty great for me to want do it.

RB: Apparently you weren’t looking for more work—

SV: That’s pretty much how I do it.

RB: I remember very clearly from our last talk, your strong statement that you would only want to work with certain people.

SV: I have been lucky that way. At this point so I really only want work with people I want to work with. It’s not like I fell in love with being a voice in a cartoon—anymore than I fell in love with holding a really long microphone in people’s faces to do radio documentaries. It was more like I like working with Pixar and I liked working on This American Life. It’s more situational to me.

RB: That’s pretty unorthodox. People aren’t taught to aspire to that.

SV: This is like my art history background. The thing I liked when I studied art history . . . I liked studying Dada, De Steiejl, and Fluxism, and all the groups where it was all these very singular individuals, and [they do] their own little projects, but occasionally they would be hanging out in a café or staging events and evenings. Like the Dadaists in Zurich with their Cabaret Voltaire: it was always like a place where each of these people were individuals, various singular individuals, they were still a gang. I like being a part of a gang. I have been lucky to stumble into a few good ones. I feel like I’m better as part of a gang. I am kind of—I’m not for everyone. Some of my concerns and obsessions are a little narrow sometimes. So I don’t need to stand alone all the time.

RB: It’s hard to stand alone.

SV: [chuckles] One thing I like about This American Life is being with all the other people. Like, McSweeney’s has been such a great experience. Everyone working on their own little things, and on occasion we’ll have some big event where it’s just all camaraderie. It’s important to me—camaraderie.

RB: Sure. Is it too soon to talk about what’s next?

SV: Yeah, more of the same. I really want to just maintain. I guess. I don’t have any big dreams.

RB: Yet.

SV: [laughs] Things have gone much better than I could have ever hoped.

RB: I was struck by your observation about your nephew. You took for granted that you would love him, but you were surprised that you ended up liking him.

SV: I was surprised by how much I like him. Love and like are two different things. I am not one of those people who likes all children. I am not mean to children or anything. I see each child as a person, and I don’t like all people. And I go on a case-by-case basis. My sister and I are twins, so I knew even before he was born that I had this kind of physical reaction toward him; I knew I was going to be on his side. But then it takes awhile to actually meet them. They have a personality more or less right away, but after he started talking . . . one thing that my nephew and I are very much alike: we both get these obsessions. And like, he’ll just really get into knights or be really into dragons. Now he is into the Great Wall of China. He just goes through these phases of subject-matter interests. I really like that about him, and he is really funny and very quotable. All of his malapropisms are somehow accurate.

RB: What makes a malapropism accurate?

SV: Calling cemeteries Halloween parks—that’s not really what they are. He was so good for this book, going on trips. One of his obsessions is Scooby-Doo, and I would take him places that he knew from Scooby-Doo, [such as] cemeteries; or like going to the Oneida Mansion House—that was straight out of the Haunted House in Scooby-Doo. He’s just really funny too.

RB: Does that incline you to have children?

SV: Kind of the opposite [both laugh enthusiastically]. I really like him and really love him, but one of the things I like about him is [that] he is just on all the time. He’s really loud and he’s instantly famous wherever he goes. There is no quiet, no contemplation.

RB: How old?

SV: He’s almost five. When he’s around he’s the whole show. I love being around him and love him, but I really also love quiet and solitude.

RB: I see. Well, thanks very much.

SV: You’re welcome.

RB: Who knows what the next time will be about.

SV: Yeah.

© 2005 Robert Birnbaum
Images by Red Diaz/Duende Publishing

Posted in Author Interviews and tagged Assassination Vacation, NPR, Robert Birnbaum, Sarah Vowell. Bookmark the permalink. Trackbacks are closed, but you can post a comment.