12 Questions for Jordan Castro

The writer of 'The Novelist' and the forthcoming book 'Muscle Man' on hot spring monkeys, Descartes, old tweets, polyamorous communists, religious faith, pain, repression, and more.

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‘People are demented’ 

The writers we read, those who captivate our attention, will often intrude on our perspectives in a slightly annoying way. You begin to think like them, if not at least consider how they might perceive just about everything you encounter. Literature, more than imagery, has a sneaky way of seeping into your unconscious. 

During a recent hot yoga class, the instructor couldn’t stop uttering the colloquial adjective ‘Juicy' — this will be a juicy lunge, that will be a juicy breath, there’s a juicy feeling, what a juicy squat, etc. Right before savasana, the final resting posture, the studio’s Norwegian manager strolled into the room to hand everyone an ice-cold towel and in the process of doing so, exclaimed brightly, ‘I bet you all just had a juicy class, dint’cha?’ And lying there, soaked in my own sweat, existing in the piss-like smell of the twenty or so other attendees, I couldn’t help but think: this is something Jordan Castro would notice. Two days later, at Grand St. Pizza, I saw a guy take a dirty napkin and press it upon the heavy coating of oil on top of his slice of pepperoni, before folding it up and shoving it down his gullet. We’ve all seen people wipe oil off of pizza, but this instance, with the already dirty napkin, was particularly gnarly. And oh, I thought, Jordan Castro would definitely notice. I imagined the faces he might make as well as the sentences he might write. Last week, during a birthday dinner at a friend’s apartment, I saw a man’s dandruff fall into his soup. I don’t know whether or not he realized. What I do know is that he continued consuming the soup with delight, dandruff and all. Yes, Jordan Castro would have noticed, probably cocking his head a little to take it all in, before politely continuing whatever conversation he might be having. And then yesterday, on Delancey, I saw a cyclist in full gear stop, get off his bike, slide his hand down the back of his shorts, scratch his ass, and lift the same hand back up toward his face to pick his nose, before proceeding to rub his eyes, get back on the bike, continue his day; Jordan Castro would… 

It’s true that every writer in some sense attempts to master the astute observation with nuanced opinion, that’s only just the basis of good literature, social realism. It’s not a superpower to consider all these aforementioned little atrocities. Yet Castro, in his scrupulously detailed, tremendously funny, slightly deranged but brutally clear prose, notices, and frankly does it better than almost anyone else around. In the intervals of life between reading Jordan Castro, you’ll unavoidably begin looking at the world through his eyes, begin registering all sorts of things you might’ve otherwise ignored, and you’ll probably be annoyed at not being able to look away once you’ve been made aware; juicy writing, sure is. He’s a great observer, and arguably, an even stronger moral theoretician. 

Consider, here, Castro’s amendment to the Cartesian maxim: I think therefore I am in danger. In his answer to the first question of our interview, Castro attaches in danger, because, he writes, ‘thinking isn’t always good. A lot of the most exciting thinking is born out of self-justification whereas the truth is often painfully simple.’ Castro explains the way in which he learned how to think properly, or not self-servingly, by reading and trying to understand writers with reverence. ‘Reverence is a prerequisite for great thinking,’ Castro juicily remarks. This perspective is refreshing, absolutely, considering the volatility of contemporary discourse. In order to understand someone, you must witness them in all their humanity and hear what they have to say; in order to earn the right to disrespect someone, you must first respect them. Castro’s prose is filled with such insight (in addition to the variety of meticulous observations).

When I was younger, more cynical, and a little more into Houellebecq and Cioran, I had my own amendment to cogito ergo sum: 'I hate you, therefore I am,’ a way of describing an individual’s strong sense of identity within petty tribalism, a slogan of self-definition in relation to opposing sects of people. Another way of saying it: If I am not you, therefore I exist. Revisiting it now, after conducting this interview and rereading much Castro, I’ve discovered a salient issue with that idiotic maxim of my youth: despite Castro’s consistently critical, oft-humorous observations, there exists a life affirming, unifying quality at its foundation — a certain oneness — something that makes me feel more tied to humanity despite everyone’s conspicuous differences. Reading Castro, I begin to see myself in the elements of others that have previously repelled me. I’m the ass-scratching eye-rubbing cyclist, the dandruff-soup slurping dinner guest, the intolerable Scandinavian yoga instructor. We all have our faults, it’s only human. I’m forced to think of a Cartesian adage more reflective of this unifying oneness, something like: If I am not not Jordan Castro, therefore I am Gordon. I’ll go back to the drawing board.

‘Self Love is Hell; love of God and one’s neighbor is Heaven’

I’m tempted yet hesitant to call Castro a moralist, given the label’s pejorative undertone. I decide to send him an email: 

Hey Jordan, I'm in the middle of writing your intro and had a quick question: 

Would you consider yourself a moralist? What is a literary moralist anyway? I'm asking, and trying to define this, because, when describing some great ideas you have, and some great life lessons that can be learned from your literature, I was tempted to call you a moralist. But I find moralist a word that's often abused when it comes to describing writers, or it's often used too loosely. So, before I passively deem you a moralist, I was wondering what you think it means in the literary context? 

I'm sorry in advance if you find the question offensive ! 

And he responds: 

Laughing — thanks for asking. To be honest, I'm not sure. The word has such a bad wrap that I want to say I'm not a moralist, but on the other hand I almost certainly am...... I've seen Houellebecq described as a moralist too; not sure how he feels about it.... 

I think sometimes people equate "moralist" in literature as meaning something like: "compromises literary value in favor of moral instruction," which I hope I don't do, but who knows.

This is all to say I definitely won't take offense at the title

Jordan Castro (JC… Jesu… wait a second!) is one of the great literary moralists of our time. Literary value is, of course, something subjective with no clear definition. Some would argue that including anything instructive within prose, one’s arbitrary sense of good and bad, right and wrong, is to compromise aesthetic value. Yet, I’d reply, it’s only a compromise if the prose comes out boring or repetitive. Simple as that. A writer can tell me I’m going to hell, be self-important, pedantic, annoying, self-righteous. I can absolutely disagree with their perspective and find them to be a bit of a nauseating cunt. But if their work is compulsively readable, and it’s simultaneously entertaining, interesting, and amusing, I’ll keep reading, I’ll buy their books, and I’ll do whatever I can to interview them so as long as they're alive. (I’ve been trying, through a mystic I met at Clandestino, to interview the dead ones as well.) 

There’s a question I’ve asked many writers I’ve so far interviewed: Do you think it's the writer's place to tell their readers how to live? And they’ve all responded with a resounding No, trying to distance themselves from being perceived as a moralist of any kind. And the truth is, though I admire all those authors, and I understand it makes sense that no one wants to be seen as a didactic pedant, I’ve been disappointed by the answers. What I wished for, with that leading question, was for my subject to delve into the ambiguous relationship between writer and reader, how every good writer has a conception of good and bad, how it inevitably seeps into the work’s aesthetic and then, whether conscious or unconscious, has an influence on the reader. I’ve been, in some regard, swayed by all my favorite writers. Everyone from Annie Ernaux to Paul Auster has had some way of framing how I think, which, albeit subtly, has influenced my own moral perspective. It’s the writer’s place to be interesting, and by being interesting they will be influential. Tell me how to live, I’m delighted to listen if you’re exciting to read, just leave it up to me to decide what to do next. Castro’s perspectives on rationalism, faith, love, marriage, sexuality, and contemporary discourse are dealt to his readers with sincerity and wit. As is evident throughout the interview, his takes are active, not reactive. He’s not interested in shaming people who disagree with him, just in putting forth his positions on the best way to live. To be a literary moralist is not to condescend, but to trust the reader to make up their own mind. 

I’d like to, at a later date, if I can ever find the time, write a longer piece on the unique way Castro writes about his faith without coming off as obnoxious; few writers are capable of this feat. I’d like to write about his outlook on envy and jealousy (he doesn’t like it). I’d like to write about how I am envious that Castro is able to create art while maintaining a long-term relationship, as well as my envy of all the artists who are able to do so, and then somehow, at the end of the essay, come through redeemed. I’d like to counterpose my Jewish faith with Castro’s sense of Christianity. I’d like to read the whole thing live on the Red Scare podcast and begin crying hysterically, falling into the loving arms of both Anna and Dasha, them stroking the back of my head while saying, ‘it’s OK, you are not not Jordan Castro, therefore you are Gordon,’ over, and over, and over again, a moment millions around the world would never forget. That’ll come. For now, though, I’ve done, written, and said more than enough. In fact I’ve written too much, to the point of sheer indulgence, and I bet Jordan Castro has noticed. 

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GG: What does it mean to think deeply about something? 

JC: I wish I knew. Sometimes I want to amend Descartes: “I think, therefore I am in danger,” because thinking isn’t always good. A lot of the most exciting thinking is born out of self-justification, whereas the truth is often painfully simple. But I’ve learned how to think, to the degree that I’ve learned how to think, by reading great thinkers with reverence, and trying to understand them. Reverence is a prerequisite for good thinking. So is humility and courage.

It’s also important to think with one’s whole self. A person is more than just his brain. He is also his chest, and his gut. Attempts to be hyper-rational often lead to the most irrational places. Splitting the atom led to the creation of a potentially world-destroying bomb. And now there are a lot of bombs, and it’s all perfectly rational. I’m a sucker for ambitious thinkers though. There is something to be said for semi-retardedly following some weird intuition all the way to its end. That’s what Freud did. That’s what Girard did. 

I also think silence is also important for thinking. Our culture suffers from a plague of talkativeness; everyone is always chattering, and not cultivating sufficient inwardness, which is required to think. The constant chattering leads to a pervasive, snide envy. Envy is the state that makes it impossible to think. Talkativeness keeps you intoxicated with it.

There’s an interesting passage in The Novelist about Max Scheler’s philosophical transition from ‘love thy neighbor’ to ‘love mankind.’  Do you think the emphasis and promotion of love for entire populations as opposed to our family and immediate community has had an effect on our culture/society? How so? 

In The Brothers Karamazov, Ivan Karamazov says, “The more I love humanity in general the less I love man in particular. In my dreams, I often make plans for the service of humanity, and perhaps I might actually face crucifixion if it were suddenly necessary. Yet I am incapable of living in the same room with anyone for two days together.” This is how a lot of us are. 

In what way do you believe pain makes life tangible? Moreover, how does pain give people a conception of what is and isn’t animate, sentient, alive? What part of our general perspective on pain do you think needs to change? 

Many great saints have written about the value of pain, about how it can purify the soul and burn away those parts of us which cut us off from God. There’s a perverted way of talking about pain—as something inherently good, or as something to love for its own sake—but there is nothing about suffering as such which is uniquely good or human. Even animals feel pain. I recently hurt my back squatting and couldn’t walk or sit up for two days. It was a dumb pain, it sucked … but even still there was something in it. When I am feeling thinly good, I mistake the world for a comfortable place. I’m blind to suffering; blind to my own faults. And so pain can reveal layers of reality that I normally choose to ignore. When we flee pain we often fling ourselves into deluded modes which trap us and create even more pain later on. Suffering without distracting oneself from it can be a transcendent experience. So long as one doesn’t fall in love with his suffering or identify too closely with it. Without God—specifically a God who’s with us in suffering—suffering is worse than meaningless.

What’s the difference between the self and the higher self? How are they in conflict with one another? 

I don’t like the language of “higher self.” It has a whole theology and worldview associated with it which I find deluded, incoherent and repugnant. We live in an age that totally worships the self—self-care, self-love, self self self—whereas I tend to think people are generally at their best when they get outside of themselves, and stop thinking of only their own needs and desires. There’s a Jewish parable I like, about heaven and hell, which basically describes hell as a place where everyone is sitting at a table trying to eat, but the spoons are too long and unwieldy, so they can’t get the food into their own mouths, and they starve. Heaven, on the other hand, is the same scenario, but instead of trying to feed themselves, each uses their spoon to feed the other. 

The language of “self” blah blah has never been more popular — and by every metric people are just getting increasingly depressed, anxious, suicidal, and so on. 

Self-love is Hell; love of God and one’s neighbor is Heaven.

How has your religious faith had an effect on your writing process? How has your faith made life richer? Has it made it worse in any way? Can faith be a burden?    

A life of faith, like a good novel, I think, is not so concerned with pre-planned outcomes, but rather moves forward step by step, and trusts that the result will be better than what one might have planned ahead of time. When writers plan everything first, you can feel it. There’s a stiltedness, a lack of freedom. There’s no surprise. There’s nothing living. They get in their own way. It’s the same when people try too hard to control outcomes in their life. It’s inhuman. You become like a bug, just performing a pre-set task—blindly carrying your crumb to the anthill.

Faith has made my life richer in too many ways to list. But in another sense faith hasn’t made my life richer at all — it’s not “faith” which “makes” life anything. Faith is inherent to the structure of life. No one lives without it. People base their actions, worldviews, personalities, and so on, on first principles which are always essentially articles of faith, and which they didn’t “reason their way” to. Even action is a kind of faith. It’s what you put your faith in that matters, because what you have faith in stretches out into the future; it reaches back into your life and constructs it as you live. 

I’ve put my faith in Jesus Christ. And that kind of faith can be a burden. Jesus tells his disciples to “pick up their cross” and follow him. And a cross, definitionally, is a burden. Many Christians seem to have forgotten what the cross means. They’ve forgotten that a cross is a cross.

What’s a nothing-lord? How have they, these nothing-lords, influenced the world? How do you think nothing-lords were able/allowed to have an influence in the first place? How can one avoid becoming a nothing-lord? And lastly, what’s the opposite of a nothing-lord? 

That is a lot of questions! I thought we were only doing twelve.

What do you find oppressive, what do you find repressive, what do you find depressive? And how about happiness, what’s that to you? 

I oppress myself. What people generally mean now by “repression”—something like, “trying not to give into base urges constantly”—is, I think, good. People are demented — it’s good to keep that stuff in check… We need more repression! Then maybe we can sublimate some of that stuff into making better art. The state of the literary arts and academia in the U.S. depresses me. Happiness is a mirage; it promises itself, using an object as its mediator, and it never arrives. The world is full of pain, suffering, malevolence—“happiness” is inappropriate. Purpose, or joy, on the other hand, is worth aiming for. 

What would you say qualifies as art? What doesn’t? 

These questions are big… I could write a whole book… as many people who are way smarter than me have. As far as I can tell, there’s still no perfect definition of art. Asking for a definition of art is like asking for the definition of a baby. I looked it up: “a very young child, especially one which is newly or recently born.” But that doesn’t explain why one should protect it, or love it, or why some species of babies are more important than others. It really doesn’t explain anything important about babies at all. We often think we want definitions and categories when in reality we just want something living. 

However, I admit the possibility that this is just an insufficiency in my thinking. How’s this? Art is that which I like, and not that which I don’t like. Or: Art is that which emerges mysteriously, is expressed semiconsciously, transmits feelings/ideas/consciousness/form, while reaching toward something beyond itself, using various aesthetic methods, which are inseparable from the content of what is expressed.

No, hm. That sucks. See? What am I doing here? Here’s a nice painting, Goya’s The Dog:

What do you now enjoy that you never have before? What do you no longer enjoy? Is there anything you’d like to enjoy, take pleasure in, that you’re simply not able to? 

I like going to church. I went for years, almost every Sunday, hating it every time. But now I look forward to it. And probably as a result of whatever change happened in me that made me start enjoying church, I can’t really listen to certain music anymore. It’s impossible for me to compartmentalize what they’re actually saying, the emotions that the music is meant to incite, it’s almost awkward. There’s this Instagram video where it’s some lady in her car with the caption, “What rap music sounds like after you become religious” and the lyrics go: “I just had unprotected sex with a gun / I just went to the gun store and bought all the guns / I just smoked crack out of a gun.” 

I was listening to this podcast about iPhones being pickpocketed. One of the people who had her phone stolen lost all her data off of iCloud, including her photos, and said that, by taking her phone and deleting her data, the perpetrator had “stolen her entire 20s.” Why do you think someone would say something so extreme? 

Dean Kissick told me that the hot spring monkeys in Japan—an animal I’ve greatly admired since high school—are notorious for stealing peoples’ iPhones. My first thought was that maybe one of the monkeys could steal my phone and tweet for me. I’ve lost my old Twitter account (which I had for nearly a decade), old phones and laptops, even the bulk of a short story manuscript, and what surprised me most was how little it actually felt like I lost something. I just forgot about them and went about my life and haven’t missed them at all.

I was G-chatting with Tao Lin yesterday, and he said that people seem to forget about deleted tweets. I said that people forget about the un-deleted tweets too. 

How would you define romantic love? Can someone exist without it? 

Romantic love is an outward-pointing feeling of desire for a specific person. People live without it all the time. Especially now, in our sort of pornographic age, people don’t really fall in love—they fuck. Sex is different from romantic love because whereas love has to do with a particular person, sex is basically an urge, a desire for the thing-in-itself—sex—and once it’s finished the desire generally goes away. When one primarily wants sex or pleasure, the particular personhood of the partner is a secondary concern. But with romantic love it’s different. In romantic love, we love another person because they are who they are. It’s particular and embodied. This can paradoxically gratify our own desire, but only as the result of an outward motion.

Where/how, in the USA, can someone find dignity?

One can find dignity by doing what he does not want to do, but should do for the sake of others, with grace and without grumbling.

To what degree has self-consciousness and self-awareness ruined us? To what degree has it made life better? I’m wondering, as I write this: what’s the difference between self-consciousness and self-awareness? 

My novel, The Novelist, is sort of about this. Interested readers should buy a copy here! 

What’s the relationship between polyamory and capitalism? What would polyamory look like within communism?  

Polyamory is market logic extending all the way into the most fundamental and mysterious of all human relationships: love. Although communism has more of a reputation for it now, it’s really capitalism which is all about equality: it’s about the equality of desire in the market. Marx himself was suspicious of equality. But please don’t make me imagine a bunch of polyamorous communists….. 

I had a long tweet about polyamory which gets into it. I don’t think I’d be able to say anything more illuminating here. — Jordan Castro polyamory tweet

I think marriage and its point, or pointlessness, is on the mind of every young couple. Why do you believe two people in love should bother getting married? 

Marriage, like life, is something that can only be understood through the act. Before I got married, I could understand all of the potential downsides, but I couldn’t actually understand any of the good things, because the good things are latent within the experience itself. Many people now have been brought up with the lie that you can “figure everything out beforehand” and get everything right. You can’t. What you can do, however, is flounder in a soup of lazy sentiment until you’re middle-aged and miserable — miserable not because no one loves you, but because you have no one to love. 

Love, in its ultimacy, can’t be conditional — and it especially can’t be based on the conditions so many find the most important: salary, goals, sexual compatibility, etc, all of which can change in an instant. Two people in love should get married because the commitment actually changes your love: it makes it real, and takes it out of the realm of pure sentiment. Marriage saves love from the petty tyranny of feeling. 

Here is a long tweet I did about marriage: Jordan Castro Marriage Tweet

When you write, who are you talking to? Moreover, why do you write? Do you think this is something a writer should know about themselves?

I actually just yesterday started writing an essay titled WHY I WRITE (I’m coming back to this now, and have since abandoned the essay). In Joy Williams’ essay with the same title, she begins, “It’s become fashionable these days to say that the writer writes because he is not whole: he has a wound, he writes to heal it. But who cares if the writer is not whole?” When I was younger, I wrote out of some compulsion, some pseudo-therapeutic need to “express” what I thought were the contents of the self. I was painfully myopic and self-centered. Now, I write because, to put it simply, I love it — and I believe it’s my vocation. If I felt interested in doing something else, I’d do something else. But nothing else actually excites me. And so I write.

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