Lars Iyer: "How refreshing it is to be insulted"

An interview with the cult author about Exodus, the final novel in his trilogy about philosophy and writing.

W. reads me a passage from one of Guy Debord’s films:

It must be admitted that none of this is very clear. It is a completely typical drunken monologue, with its incomprehensible allusions and tiresome delivery. With its vain phrases that do not await response and its overbearing explanations. And its silences.

‘That’s how you should preface everything you write’, W. says.

(Lars Iyer, Exodus, 2013)


Exodus is the final novel in the trilogy by philosophy lecturer Lars Iyer, which began with the Not the Booker Prize-shortlisted Spurious (2011) and continued with Dogma, published last year by Melville House. All three follow two academics and would-be authors – one called Lars Iyer, the other W. – as they attempt to cope with the closure of university philosophy departments and what they perceive as the wider, terminal decline of European culture, bound by their inability to overcome their own creative and political impotence.

The trilogy has attracted a cult following amongst readers who empathise with the characters’ conviction that no future philosophy could be as influential as that of Kierkegaard, Nietzsche or Weil; no literature as resonant as that of Kafka, Beckett or Thomas Bernhard; no filmmaking as visceral as that of Werner Herzog or Béla Tarr. The other reason for their success is Iyer’s skill in distilling this despair: where others may have produced long, hand-wringing tomes as they tried to diagnose the reasons for literature’s diminished status, Iyer boils the situation down to two frustrated friends bickering – the main use for W’s understanding of Western philosophy and culture is to insult narrator Lars in a series of harsh, hilarious ways.

Juliet Jacques: What made you choose yourself and W. as the central characters in this trilogy? Did you feel that their (your) impotence was emblematic of the position of the would-be writer-philosopher under late capitalism?

Lars Iyer: The books started as a blog which I wrote to amuse myself and my friends, especially in difficult times – not on a personal level but more broadly. I wanted to present the characters and their friendship – or frenmity  – within a political and intellectual context. My characters, W. and Lars, are friends because they share an intuition that there's something wrong with the world, and, however foolishly, they aim to address that wrong, if only within the space of their friendship.

Are they doomed from the start?

I don't think so. The novels never show them falling out; their friendship is the thread that runs through the trilogy. This friendship is anything but doomed; it is based, it is true, on an awareness of a certain failure – of both characters having failed in some way – but that awareness is also its source of life. W. and Lars joke and laugh about their failure. And since, in their eyes, they’re continually failing, there is always more to joke about. To that extent, their friendship is full of hope – endless hope. Failure never has the last word.

And the hope is not insulted by W's insistence of putting the entire Western canon at the service of belittling Lars ...

Lars narrates the novel. That very act of narration shows, I think, the enjoyment that he has in being insulted in such a virtuosic manner. W.'s insults are magnificent – they’re so inventive, so alive! Lars, as narrator, feels that vivacity. How refreshing it is to be insulted in a time when we’re all supposed to be so cloyingly nice to one another! And how wonderful to be paid the compliment of a finely-crafted personal insult!

My favourite is the placing of Lars below Diogenes [the Greek philosopher whose name became associated with self-neglect and hoarding] in Dogma.

Diogenes is a very noble figure – a man who lives firmly according to his principles. For W., Lars is someone who lives according to no principles and is almost entirely unwitting. But, for W., Lars has an importance in our age equivalent to that which Diogenes had in his. Lars registers the horror of our age in his guts, as W. puts it. W.’s task is to understand this horror, to render it explicit, to understand the ‘message’ that Lars is, and to pass this message on.

Is writing futile? If so, why do it?

I don't think writing is futile. There's something immensely important about the sheer act of communication. Your question puts me in mind of what one critic said about Beckett: that, in his work, everything is subjected to critique except for the desire to communicate. That’s the one thing that is unquestioned in Beckett, and still holds over his most abject characters: the urge to express, the urge to have your say.

Why is this unquestioned?

Because Beckett’s work, and literature in general, depends on the desire to communicate, which is to say, on a kind of hope.

What would happen to literature if we questioned that desire itself?

Even if white space – silence – is incorporated into a literary work, it is still part of a more general attempt to communicate, in which there is a sender, a message, and an addressee. Any ostensible break in communication is also part of communication.

That recalls Stewart Home's Art Strike – suggesting that the most radical (or career-furthering) thing that an artist can do is refuse to create.

Even when John Cage incorporates silence into his work – or rather, moments, such as in 4’33”, when ambient sound is allowed to speak – this takes place within a context of an act of communication. Even noise, in which nothing is being communicated, can be part of a message.

Your manifesto, published at The White Review, traces a line from the medieval period, when writers were almost entirely aloof from their societies, to the present, where social media and other technological advances make it almost impossible for writers to maintain any detachment. Is this level of integration a barrier to literary production?

For me, it was very difficult to enter the world of social media. I had a blog, but it was anonymous and one of the great advantages of blogging was that the assessment of what you wrote did not depend on some preconception about your identity, on the part of the reader. However, when it comes to writing fiction for an independent publisher, you are, I think, obligated to enter into modern techniques of publicity, which involve social media. In so doing, I asked myself how I could maintain, across a number of media platforms, a persona that was consistent with what I wrote. Maurice Blanchot, the French novelist and critic, achieved that consistency by refusing to submit photos to his publisher’s files, and granting only one interview in his life. I admire that achievement; but, of course, my writing is of a very different kind. Still, the question is a troubling one for me: how do you deal with social media, if you are not going to withdraw from it altogether?

I shared this position entirely when I started using Twitter, especially as I wrote this Guardian column in which the assertion of differing facets of my personality was a tactical attempt at rendering stereotypes of transsexual women as Stepford wives untenable. As I got drawn in, I found it impossible to maintain a consistent persona, and then I quite enjoyed its resignation, and the space to be flippant, or to talk about the unexpected.

It was a stroke of good luck that my characters can be trivial and foolish, so being consistent with what I write is, to that extent, no problem! But the challenge when it came to my public persona was to marry the "low" cultural concerns of my characters, their bickerings and foolishnesses, with an appropriate seriousness.

I'd just like to haul you up on “appropriate seriousness”, especially given how comic these novels are …

In various ways, I’ve sought, in the novels, to register the miseries of those who suffer, or who have suffered, as a result of capitalism. I’ve tried to puncture the surface of the trilogy with quite straight accounts of the conditions of cotton-mill workers in nineteenth-century Manchester, or of precarious workers, failed asylum seekers and slum-dwellers in today’s neoliberal world. I’ve even tried to anticipate the suffering to come – the horrors that will be unleashed because of climate change. This suffering and misery demands seriousness, and a fervent desire for political change.

I'm glad you've said that – I grew up in the Nineties, after the fall of the USSR, post-Thatcher and Reagan, when there was a sense that we had survived the worst excesses of ideological politics, and in which irony and flippancy became very strong cultural currents – after 9/11 and the global financial crisis, this no longer felt appropriate. Does a similar sense permeate your work?

There was that dreadful idea in the Nineties that history had ended – that we'd reached an ideal form of societal organisation, and that everything was fundamentally okay. It was the "Sunday of Life"; time for irony and flippancy. History began again after 9/11; the party was over; time to put irony, flippancy and other toys away… But that’s how it seemed only to those who weren’t paying attention. Things were always serious! Things are serious. I do my best to show this in my novels.

Has the insistence of liberal democracies on ignoring rather than censoring literature effectively deprived literature of its power? If so, do you think this was intentional?

Certainly, if we look at the experiences of countries of the former Eastern bloc, literature had enormous value under periods of direct censorship. This value seemed to disappear almost as soon as capitalism was allowed free reign in these countries. Capitalism can destroy all seriousness. Literary and artistic dissent are very easily accommodated (you only have to read Sinéad Murphy’s The Art Kettle for a sense of this).

Across the trilogy, you seem to suggest that the greatest barrier to a meaningful, relevant literature of the present is the literature of the past, which had a very different relationship with politics and wider culture.

In some sense. For me, what writers up until the period of late modernism could rely upon was the prestige implicit in the idea of literature. What contemporary writers, in my view, need to contend with, is the marginality of literature within our culture. Kafka did not believe in religion but he could still believe in art. That same belief in art today, if not grotesque, is based upon a great capacity for denial.

Have the new forms of the 20th century – from cinema to video games – taken potential writers and audiences away from literature? How can literature in the Modernist tradition claim to be the harbinger of new ideas when there are so many newer forms?

High Modernist literature employs some techniques found in cinema – montage for example. One task might be to incorporate some of the techniques implicit in blogging into literary practice, not simply to enrich literature but to bring it down a peg or two. For me, that’s what I would seek in a contemporary work of fiction – methods of communication which are similar to what I find in the new media.

One problem with that, I've found, is that this media can move so quickly as to pre-empt literary production, which is traditionally a slow practice. To give an example: in summer 2011, I started to plan a novel which would be written as a cacophony of blogs, some for the mainstream media, some independent, in dialogue with each other, about how the mainstream media used the concept of free speech to preserve its own power. Before I even got as far as devising the plot from this, the Guardian published on the hacking of Milly Dowler's phone and we got this rapid discourse that led us to the Leveson Inquiry, and I soon abandoned the novel because it could never match the swiftly unfolding reality.

I see that, but new media are not only about speed. One thing that blogging has facilitated is people, who had no other access to channels of communication, writing whatever they wanted and finding an audience for it. For me, new media provide a way of discovering and legitimating your own strangeness, of pursuing your interests and desires in public…

So maybe, we can say that blogging does interesting things to the ‘time’ of writing, of literary production. For me, what made the form of a rolling blog so exciting thing was that even I didn't know where it would go. That gives it something in common with the 19th century serialised novels – the reader couldn’t skip ahead to see where the text would go, and perhaps the writer didn’t know either.

That's very interesting. For me, certainly, composing fiction using a blog allows me to gauge reader responses on a daily basis: I can see what they ‘favourite’ or quote elsewhere. I enjoy the sense of being part of something, with my readers, even if I have never allowed comments on my blog. I’m sure that the sense of writing for a community – a community that I have constituted through my blog – must have a significant effect on the direction of that writing.

So what might come to epitomise contemporary literary fiction, or change it, is this dialectic between writers and their readers?

Perhaps what blogging encourages is a kind of autofiction, a variation on autobiography or memoir, where the author becomes a character him- or herself, a performer in some sense. In this way, you can foreground a kind of imposture in the very act of being an author. You can undercut your own status as a would-be auteur with all the high seriousness this can entail. This is part of attesting to the marginality of literature in contemporary culture, and the inappropriateness of older senses of "being an author".

Are there any contemporary authors you particularly admire?

Art Spiegelman's In the Shadow of No Towers, published in response to 9/11, was a magnificent work – very telling in its use of a kind of black humour. I also wonder how another post-9/11 artwork, Scott Walker's The Drift, might inspire writers – in its fragmentary lyrics, in its rapid shifts in tone from horror to humour, from obscure historical references to direct cries and whispers.

After modernism and post-modernism, can you see any way forward for literature? Or was post-modernism's self-consciousness and self-referentialism a dead end?

A quick answer, and perhaps a silly one: perhaps post-modernism is premised upon the support of the university – upon academia and institutional validation, and upon the prestige of the idea of "literature". This may be naive, but I dream of a ‘literature’ arising from people’s discovery of strange things about themselves before an audience. I still find a kind of literary height in Hélène Cixous’ work, for example, which holds itself above the ordinary world – or perhaps my ordinary, British world. I have always found her painful to read because of this – because I would like such a height to be possible, because I want literature to be exalted, but feel such height to be impossible, and for literature to be exhausted. I want to believe, but I can’t believe...

The work of Art Spiegelman, whom Iyer admires. Photo: Getty

Juliet Jacques is a freelance journalist and writer who covers gender, sexuality, literature, film, art and football. Her writing can be found on her blog at and she can be contacted on Twitter @julietjacques.

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Shell-shock symphony: Berg’s Wozzeck – opera’s take on post-traumatic stress disorder

Begun in 1914 and premiered in 1925, Wozzeck has class struggle, poverty and mental health problems as its principal subjects.

When I was 12 years old, I made a devastating discovery. The arias from my favourite operas – Rigoletto, Turandot, The Barber of Seville – which I played over and over again, winding and rewinding the cassettes ­until they ceased to work, did not ­necessarily have words that matched the beauty of the music. Intense study of a book I had received for Christmas called Stories from Opera taught me that although some of the soaring melodies I adored carried words about love, death, horror and tragedy, other lyrics, in translation, proved to be people agreeing where to meet later, or misremembering each other’s names.

This crushing disappointment came to mind again recently while I was listening to an edition of Radio 3’s Building a Library, a segment of its regular Saturday-morning CD review, in which new releases are compared and contrasted with archive recordings to find the best listening experience. The reviewer Gillian Moore was surveying the available recordings of Alban Berg’s Wozzeck. She gave credit to several English-language recordings for the clarity they offer newcomers to this work, but eventually concluded that she must recommend a version using the original German, because there were crucial aural elements that could not be reproduced without it.

Moore, now director of music at the Southbank Centre, chose to kick off a series of semi-staged concert performances of operas with Wozzeck. Although undoubtedly an opera, it was a far cry from the fairy stories and doomed romances that filled my pre-teen ears, but it worked surprisingly well stripped of scenery, costumes and other theatrical accoutrements.

Zurich Opera’s presentation placed importance on the orchestral score above all else, allowing its jagged and insistent lines to remind us that this is music born of the dark years between the world wars. Begun in 1914, but delayed while Berg served in the Austro-Hungarian army (it premiered in 1925), it has class struggle, poverty and mental health problems as its principal subjects. The score owes much to Berg’s fellow Viennese composers Gustav Mahler and Arnold Schoenberg (Mahler’s widow put up the money for the initial publication of the score). At times in this production, the orchestra was so utterly central that it felt like a symphony with singing, rather than vocal melodies with accompaniment.

The Wozzeck of the title is a poor soldier, flawed and dogged by madness and visions we would probably now see as signs of post-traumatic stress disorder. He scrapes a living for his girlfriend, Marie, and their son by humiliating himself before his military and class superiors (the Captain, the Doctor, the Drum Major) and by participating in degrading medical “experiments”. The star of the show, the German baritone Christian Gerhaher, had to withdraw at the last minute for health reasons, so the British singer Leigh Melrose stepped in to reprise his Wozzeck from the widely acclaimed 2013 ENO production. Despite performing from behind a music stand, Melrose acquitted himself well, handling the transitions between Berg’s three singing styles: “half-singing”, Sprechgesang (or “spoken singing”) and full vocalisation to great effect.

Gun-Brit Barkmin, with a severe Twenties bob and a flowing scarlet dress, was a superb Marie – alternately harsh and soft as the music demanded it, flirting destructively with the Drum Major while conveying how little choice she had in the matter. Of the ensemble, Lars Woldt’s Doctor particularly stood out, using the German libretto to drag every ounce of black comedy out of his character’s fascination with Wozzeck’s bodily functions. The high vocal standard proved Moore’s point about the necessity of the original German libretto – it is a difficult language to sing, because of all the harsh consonants and modified vowels, but when used expertly can be unendingly expressive. We hear this in the way the double “zz” of the title character’s name becomes a derisory bitten-off “tz” in the mouth of the Captain; and Wozzeck’s exclamation in Act I that “Du, der Platz ist verflucht!” sounds so much more accursed and deranged with all those consonants in such close proximity.

The German sociologist Theodor Adorno once called Berg “the foreign minister of the land of his dreams”, much to the composer’s amusement; but, hearing the score for Wozzeck laid so bare, you understand what Adorno meant. The incredible double crescendo on a single B from the orchestra after Wozzeck murders Marie – raised by the conductor Fabio Luisi in this performance to an unbearable volume before being allowed to die away – feels like music from an other-worldly nightmare. Yet, for the war-battered men who inspired Wozzeck, his tragic half-life was all too real.

Caroline Crampton is web editor of the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 08 October 2015 issue of the New Statesman, Putin vs Isis