Interview by Andrea Caswell
A Conversation with Sven Birkerts, author of The Miró Worm and the Mysteries of Writing (Arrowsmith Press)

“Nothing defines a writer so much as what they pay attention to.”

In his newest book, The Miró Worm and the Mysteries of Writing, Sven Birkerts explores central and urgent questions about writing and literature. What does it mean to be a writer in today’s world? How might writers make genuine connections with readers, especially in an age of machine-generated text? Birkerts, one of America’s most respected essayists, examines the importance of attention and authenticity for readers and writers seeking meaning in our digitized culture. Here, he discusses issues raised in his book with Cleaver Workshop Faculty and editor Andrea Caswell.

“Writing is not just an activity unto itself, but has everything to do with how we think, how we live our subjective lives, and how we find significance and meaning.”

Andrea Caswell: Your new book explores what it means to write and create in a technology-drenched world. You begin by asking a seemingly innocent question, “And What Is Writing?” But it’s a central question, one we must consider very purposefully now, as machine “writing” spills into our daily lives. In your definition (abbreviated slightly here), you assert that writing is the fulfillment of an action, a dynamic, that begins in observation or thought. Is this the quality that will continue to, or that must, distinguish our writing from AI-generated text?

Sven Birkerts: So, we begin right at the crux—the crossroads. The whole digital business, especially as it pertains to writing, is deeply unsettling. But it does put the question of what it is we do right on the table, and on so many levels. What do we want from writing, what do we want from reading, and what changes when programs fed into machines can generate expressions that many believe come from people.

‘What’s the difference?’ or ‘Who cares?’ reminds me of that question about how much something costs, the answer to which is: ‘If you have to ask, you can’t afford it.’

Literature originates in experience filtered by an ‘I,’ an imponderable bundle of impulses and sensations governed by a self-reflexive entity—or whatever—something an AI program can never be, because, among other things, it can’t have experiences.

To read is to be addressed, as an I by an I. Alas, we are so adept at projection, that we can easily deceive ourselves by attribution, by assuming that any text that makes sense issues from a sense-maker. True sense is generated from inside, from within; AI has no within, no I…

Andrea: In the introduction, you consider the effects of AI on how we interpret and connect with a text, and, more essentially, connect with another human mind. In crucial ways, reading and literature form a bridge to our shared humanity. With the proliferation of AI into our language spheres, how might we as writers create and nurture authentic connections with readers?

Sven: How? Our only chance is by creating work that is unique and unrepeatable, rich with expressive nuance. And to trust as we do that, there remain readers who need that expression. Paraphrasing William Carlos Williams about poetry…“many men die for want of what is found there.” Is found there. What is that what? Evidence of the soul’s life I would say, using a word that has long needed resurrecting.  

Andrea: A recurrent theme in the book is the imperative for writers to pay attention—to the world around them, to their thoughts and impressions—because it is attention that leads to reflection and insight. You share the experience of seeing a shape on the ground, what at first looked like a piece of string, but on closer inspection was a nightcrawler, its trail “a striking free-form Miró sketch.” How did this encounter lead to the title of the book?

Sven: It happened while I was on vacation by a lake in Vermont. It was early morning and I was walking barefoot on a narrow wooden boardwalk that ran between the house and one of the guest cabins. I was stopped in my tracks by the sight of a sublime loopy tangle, and for a few seconds had no idea what I was looking at. But then it twitched and I realized it was an outsized glistening earthworm the likes of which I had never seen. I can’t fully account for it, but for those few seconds I was in a state of suspension, in the midst of the act of turning an abstraction into a living thing. The experience did not translate directly into writing or thoughts about writing—those came later—but at that moment it was an instance of fresh seeing—seeing on the other side of expectation. It is what I long to achieve in a piece of writing, as Nabokov did, as Woolf did…Though I was barefoot on a damp walkway looking down at the peristaltic inching of this annelid, I was having a writing epiphany.

Attention, in a sense, defines us. Personality-wise, we are what we attend to. Nothing defines a writer so much as what they pay attention to. Jane Austen, D.H. Lawrence, James Baldwin, etc… The worm, that I christen the Miró Worm, plays with attention in a different way. Seeing the worm was an instance of an estrangement of the senses, which gets at the matter obliquely.

Andrea: The book’s cover is also a nod to the Spanish painter and sculptor Jean Miró. Please tell us more about the cover art.

Sven: The idea for the cover came about as part of an associative train—and, like the title essay itself, was the result of one of those moments of estranged perception, which I have more often now that I’m always taking photos with my iPhone.

I’d seen an eye-catching shape on the floor by my desk, and for the briefest interval, as with the worm, I saw it as a shape unto itself. I quickly realized, of course, that it was the cord to my laptop. The shape appealed and I took a photo, and some many months later, when I was casting around for a title for my essays on writing, I realized that the cord was also my Miró Worm. When I pitched it as a cover idea to Ezra Fox at Arrowsmith, he created the type and the positioning of the wire. I liked what he’d done and sent the image to my sister, who is a designer. She said right away, “If you want Miró, add a red dot.” That was it.

Andrea: You cite Walter Benjamin’s 1935 essay, “The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction,” in several places as you consider the slippery screens of the Digital Age. His emphasis on artistic authenticity feels more relevant than ever. Which points or lessons seem most important for today’s readers and writers?

Sven: The Benjamin essay, so rich, woke me to an early understanding that has been with me ever since. I suppose it connects to all my thinking about attention and, really, about the aim of art. Aura is the singular presence of a thing—its absolute uniqueness—which we try to capture, but which is so elusive, and which accepts no approximations.

The aura is, in effect, the being of a thing and the nimbus around it. We live with blinders on—there’s no choice. Things are apprehended and dealt with in their generality. We look at a tree and see it as a generic tree, as one of a number. But it is, of course, a thing-in-itself, unique in every particular, and it requires a great inner stride to see it as such. This is, I suppose, a one-sentence summation of phenomenology. The tree can stand for most everything. We can’t live without generalizing, but the best writing reminds us of that singularity—in places, relationships, situations…

“I realized I was free to determine for myself what was interesting, memorable, and worthy, not just in memoir, but in my other writing as well. Simply: trust my perceptions, trust my memories.” 

Andrea: In an essay on structure, you mention “the writer mind,” and say that it’s “of course not the same as the regular mind.” I think you’re referencing, in part, the mysteries of writing there. Throughout the book, I was struck by your tremendous trust in the writing process, and your willingness to allow for uncertainty. Could you share some tips on how we might build trust in our own writing or process, which may sometimes feel a bit haphazard and confusing?

Sven: I can’t say I have any tips—as in ‘do this’— but I can speak for myself of a recognition that came some years ago, one of those eye-openers. For me, it was all to do with scale. I was reading Nabokov’s Speak, Memory, and wondering, page to page, why it was so thrilling. Right book, right time. Then I realized what it was. Nabokov was following no accepted rules about what was worthy, or how he should go about narrating his recollections of childhood. He was following the line of his perceptions and subjective inclinations, fixing on the details that had stuck for him. For the purpose of his memoir, it didn’t matter that he scarcely mentioned the war but lingered, say, on the bright buttons of his tutor’s jacket. That is the truth of childhood.

Exaggerated as this could sometimes feel, it was a liberation. It rearranged my thinking and fortified me. I realized I was free to determine for myself what was interesting, memorable, and worthy, not just in memoir, but in my other writing as well. Simply: trust my perceptions, trust my memories—

Andrea: To ask a nuts-and-bolts question, how did you select which pieces would appear in the book? These collected essays span a period of two decades. What criteria helped you decide which ones belonged?

Sven: Before I did anything, I made a list of all my essays, never mind the topic. I’ve been writing forever and there were a lot, and it became a matter of assembled darlings. But that was never going to work. I had to decide which ones were kindred, which ones felt freshest, which ones were closest to the preoccupations that define my reading and writing life. Most were essays I had written for AGNI—where twice a year I would write a reflection related to reading, writing, or the literary culture. There were forty such, so I had to think hard and be selective. It gradually became clear that my ongoing preoccupation was not with things written, but with writing, specifically how writing was not just an activity unto itself, but had everything to do with how we think, how we live our subjective lives, how we find significance and meaning. Once I had identified that aspect, I very quickly saw the essays I wanted to include, and only had to nudge them into order.

Andrea: Revision is a bugaboo for many writers. How did you approach revising essays you’d written some years ago? Were there instances where you had to “let it stand”?

Sven: Here I need to take off my hat and bow low before my AGNI co-editor Bill Pierce, who edited most every piece, combining a close-reading perfectionism with a kind of second sight. Bill could intuit what an essay wanted to be, and was willing to stay with it through however many iterations were needed. So yes, when the time came to go through each selection, it was in most cases a matter of ‘let it stand.’  Tweaks, sure, but not changing much in the main body of an essay.

“One thing is to learn to see what you’ve actually put on the page—it’s the seeing that precedes revision.”

Andrea: Given that so much about the writing process is mysterious, which aspects of it do you feel can be taught? Several essays, such as on the role of details or the problem of structure, offer hopeful beginnings for writers looking to improve their craft.

Sven: One thing is to learn to see what you’ve actually put on the page—it’s the seeing that precedes revision. I learned a great deal about my writing from working with editors. There were so many times when I was reviewing when the editor would call (back when editors called) and say, “They gave us our layout—I’m sorry, but you need to cut this by 200 words.” There was always a count to meet, and it was hugely instructive to go through my own prose with an eye toward tightening. Could I say this same thing more sharply, did I need this bit, these adjectives. The point is that I was looking at what I wrote from the outside, and in the process identifying so many of my moves, my feints.

When trying to get something started, I’ve found myself turning to Hemingway’s advice in A Moveable Feast, the simple directive: “Write the truest thing you know.” As an opening move. Saying it outright usually identifies the emotion and the stance, and for me things have often followed.

But there’s always the underlying question: can writing be taught? Not as such. There is no good writing that does not issue from a sensibility, and no instruction in craft can help past a point where there is not that thing. That inwardly active ‘I.’ But where there is that itch, that drive to put words together, there is a writerly sensibility. A precious word, I agree, but it means something more than personality. It is a stance toward the world.

Sven Birkerts is the author of eleven books of essay and memoir, including The Gutenberg Elegies and Changing the Subject: Art and Attention in the Internet Age. He is the former director of the Bennington Writing Seminars and co-founder of the journal AGNI. He lives in Amherst with his wife Lynn. His latest book, The Miró Worm and the Mysteries of Writing, can be ordered from Arrowsmith Press and bookshop.org.

Andrea Caswell holds an MFA in fiction and nonfiction from the Bennington Writing Seminars. She serves as Senior Fiction Editor at Cleaver Magazine and is on the faculty of the Cleaver Workshops. Her work appears or is forthcoming in Tampa Review, The Coachella Review, River Teeth, Atticus Review, The Normal School, Columbia Journal, and others. She’s an alum of the Sewanee Writers’ Conference and has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize.