writer Christopher Bernard today
about his literary fiction, Voyage to a
writer, poet, editor and journalist living in San Francisco. His books include
the novel A Spy in the Ruins; two
books of stories, In the American Night
and Dangerous Stories for Boys; and The Rose Shipwreck: Poems and Photographs.
His work has appeared in many publications, including cultural and arts
journalism in the New York Times, San
Francisco Chronicle, Chicago Tribune, San Francisco Bay Guardian, Philadelphia
Inquirer and elsewhere, and poetry and fiction in literary reviews in the
U.S. and U.K. He has also written plays and an opera (libretto and score) that
have been produced and radio broadcast in the San Francisco Bay Area. His
poetry films have been screened in San Francisco and his poetry and fiction
have been nominated for Puschcart Prizes. He is co-editor of Caveat Lector (www.caveat-lector.org)
and a regular contributor to Synchronized
Chaos magazine (www.synchchaos.com).
His new collection of poems, Chien
Lunatique, will be released later this year.
to a Phantom City tells the story of the life, from early childhood to old age—from the 1980s
until the middle of the 21st century—of an intelligent, sensitive and
profoundly conflicted one-time left-wing political activist (and poet) named
with Ariel on a small island off the coast of Maine of which he is the
caretaker. Through a series of dreams, remembered images and scenes, he takes
us through key periods of his tumultuous life; growing up in the Midwest,
finding and then tragically losing the love of his life whom he meets in the
Grand Tetons, studying in New York during 9/11, working for Blackwater in Iraq
and most significantly, guiding a tragic and haunting expedition in the Sahara.
The novel is a kind of philosophical parable about
America and its loss of its moral moorings in a chaotic time.
serve as central episodes in the story.
to a Phantom City:
passes in from the sea.
breeze and hear the sound of surf against the rocks. The kitchen backdoor
pauses and swings, in a little dance, awkward as a child; you must have
forgotten to latch it. It finally makes up its mind and stops, stuck on the
threshold like a half-open book, and you turn back to the broken hurricane lamp
and the unopened letter lying near it.
handed the dirty envelope to you, and you had tucked it into your pocket before
walking up the path with the week’s supplies, past the rusting piles of old
cars and pickup trucks, vans, the ancient SUV, that gagged the driveways of the
vacated island compound.
penmanship you didn’t recognize. The letter leans, half-crushed, against the old
notebook you’d been reading earlier, as you work on a chore you’ve been putting
off for a week.
chilly air creeps up your arm. The wall calendar shifts on its hook, on its
face a photograph of a pale young woman, a dark red rose perched above her ear,
who reminds you of someone you knew many years ago . . . Then something gives
way, and the wick slips up through the brass slit.
to the scuffed floor.
news in recent years. You can’t face any more right now.
a children’s story – my first – which I hope will become part of a series.
– it’s such a vague designation. I’m suspicious of defining myself in any way –
my name and my actions I feel should be enough. What matters to me is not what
I am, but what I do. I enjoy certain forms of writing – though not all; certain
of them are tedious at best; but I do enjoy using language (and have since I
was a child) to invent in such a way as will give pleasure to my ideal reader –
that curious figure who hovers over my shoulder following the words I scribble
and scrawl in my hopeless penmanship or slipshod typing. In fact, if I had to
define myself at all, I might call myself a watcher, a reader and a word
whisperer, or would do so if that phrase did not carry other associations. I
began publishing journalism regularly in my early twenties, so I guess I can
say I have considered myself a professional writer since that time.
like? If not, what do you do other than write and how do you find time to
editor and editorial consultant, so I rarely have the luxury of writing
fulltime. When I have a writing project, I try to put in one or two hours a day
until it is complete, usually in the early morning, just after getting up, when
I am still in a kind of dream space and my internal editor is asleep, or at
surprised by what I write, since it can seem very different from me. My writing
is not so much an act of self-expression (though it can’t avoid being that) as
it is a series of thought experiments where I put together words in order to
visit places and personalities that are sometimes very different from what I
have direct experience of (for example, I have never been to the Sahara; I
based my descriptions of it from a combination of my experiences of other desert-like
landscapes and much research, in books, photographs and films). I write not only
about what I know (which would seem to me too limiting) but also about what I
can imagine or conceive, and I try to make whatever it is I find there, littered
about in the back alleys of my brain, as vivid as I am able to. I see myself as
exploring the human condition in the richest and profoundest way I can. And
this can take me to some very odd places.
sure I ever grew up!
readers. When we both see, and rejoice in, the spark that made me produce that
peculiar design of words that stands there shimmering between us, I know I have
done something worthwhile. I often feel that I am writing, not for everyone,
but for one person alone. I just don’t know who that person is.