Stefan Beuse served as the ICGS Writer in Residence from February through March 2005.  While at Cornell, he gave a public reading from his literary work, led a graduate seminar on questions of contemporary literature, contributed to the language program, and worked with the local community of writers. Stefan Beuse is an accomplished and award-winning author. Since 1997 he has published several books, including: Wir schießen Gummibänder zu den Sternen [Shooting Rubberbands at the Stars] (1997), Kometen [Comets] (2000), Die Nacht der Könige [Night of the Wolves] (2002), Meeres Stille [The Silence of the Sea] (2003). Last year he coauthored screenplays for films based on his novels, Kometen and Meeres Stille.

These are exerpts from an interview conducted by Jens Schellhammer, a graduate student in the German Studies Department.

Jens Schellhammer: When did you start to write novels and stories, and why? Was there an initial explosion of creativity?

Beuse: The initial motivation for every writer is . . . without a doubt the fact that he or she is already a reader. I started to write stories as soon as I could hold a pen. At that time it was a kind of defense mechanism against the demands of the world and of my environment, a space that belonged only to me, a parallel universe that not only offered a refuge but also served as a weapon.

J.S.: Do you wait until you’ve finished writing something before you show it to other people, or do you sometimes solicit other peoples’ opinions while you’re still in the process of writing?

Beuse: I’ve experimented a lot in this regard, given away manuscripts, sometimes just sketches of ideas, much too early, out of vanity, uncertainty, impatience, or a mixture of all of these; I’ve talked about it too early, shown it to too many people, been unsettled, reassured, or confused, but not really benefited from it. It’s difficult to find the right balance  . . . in terms of how much input helps and how much is too much. What I’ve learned, though, is never to talk about an idea until the novel is almost finished, because a perhaps very promising and complex idea that could expand into (unanticipated) dimensions during the writing process can, if one talks about it, come to seem so banal and uninspiring that one abandons it, kills it.

J.S.: How important is it for you to engage in exchanges with other writers?

Beuse: Writers never talk to each other about their work, much less about the secrets of their trade. Writers are the most boring people one can imagine. They whine all day, talk about how badly things are going for them, neglect the people they care about; they are taciturn, egocentric, vain, moody, and self-righteous: absolutely unbearable. No, I would really prefer to have nothing to do with writers . . .

J.S.: Gore Vidal once said that if a book was good or bad could be determined by whether its author felt embarrassed when re-reading it. How do you feel when you read your early texts?

Beuse: Gore Vidal is a very clever man, and, on the basis of my own experience, I agree with him wholeheartedly: The feeling of embarrassment is an excellent indicator. Furthermore, this is how I proceed in the final stages of the revision process: I imagine that this text is being read by a person I respect and who I hope will continue to talk to me in the future. Or I imagine that I am reading the text aloud in front of a large audience. I discard the words, syllables, or sentences that make my stomach turn. Immediately, and without thinking a lot about it.

J.S.: How important is mastery of craftsmanship—of “technique”—when writing literature? Is it a positive development that the teaching of “Creative Writing” is gradually becoming common in Germany as well as in the United States?

Beuse: John Irving likes to say that he is “a bad writer, but a good re-writer.” The same is true for me. Craftsmanship, technique, amount to ninety-five percent of the work, and one can learn this technique. Unfortunately, the remainder (soul, inspiration) can’t be taught. Creative writing seminars are an effective way of making good authors into very good authors. But they can’t make text-technicians into writers.

J.S.: Is it absolutely necessary for a writer to have deep insight into other people?

Beuse: I think it’s enough to have deep insight into oneself. That’s difficult enough. And there one finds everything one wants: from a murderer to the savior of the world.

J.S.: Is it possible to substitute research for inspiration?

Beuse: Research usually has the disadvantage of taking place shortly before one writes, and time is the decisive filter for memories, at least in terms of what one can use literarily. When research is indispensable, it is a major artistic challenge to integrate the results organically into the plot and not to insert them in an “undigested” manner. This is an art that almost no one has perfectly mastered.

J.S.: When writing, do you ever find yourself in a situation in which you notice: I have written this scene before (to write it again would be too simple now), or: I have had a different character say this sentence before (I can’t use it again).

Beuse: Certainly. All the time. Basically, I repeat myself constantly, just as do all the authors I like: They constantly restage what they have to say, disguise it in new stories, characters, constellations. For the most part without even noticing it . . . For my part, I often notice it for the first time after several years have passed. And I always only notice the things that I don’t do consciously. There seem to be certain images, symbols in my writing (archaic, almost Biblical symbols) that constantly reappear without my being aware of them. Other people point them out to me. Sometimes even reviewers. It’s exciting to decipher these images. It’s almost like interpreting dreams. Naturally I don’t succeed at it. Thank God. Otherwise I would have to stop writing.

J.S.: Many discussions of your last two books (Meeres Stille and Nacht der Könige) emphasized their “filmic” aesthetic. Did you think in these terms while writing, and do these analogies even make sense to you? Do you as a novelist have the feeling that you need to compete with other media, for instance with television?

Beuse: Ideally, all media (film, books, theater, Internet . . .) should open up aesthetic dimensions to each other, and one should understand this and use it as an opportunity instead of condemning it and viewing it as competition. Die Nacht der Könige turned into a very “visual,” “filmic” book, but rather unconsciously, simply because it suited the material. The form always depends on the material. And when I have a story that takes place in the present, it’s alright by me if a television appears in it.

J.S.: When you have finished a novel, do you always already have another book project that was on the back burner and that now becomes your top priority, or do you make such decisions spontaneously?

Beuse: An idea for a new book always occurs to me almost miraculously just before I complete the current one. This is probably a type of self-protection, because if I had finished a novel and were suddenly without it, without the language, without characters, without a story, I would feel pretty useless. I would start to eat and drink too much. I would become insufferable, both to others and to myself. The world-spirit seems to be so afraid of what would happen under these circumstances that it always provides me with new ideas in a timely manner. I am very grateful for this.