Jamaica Kincaid
Kincaid simply projects a natural authority that attracts attention, and that spills over into her writing. Over the course of only four books — the novels “Annie John” (1985) and “Lucy” (1990), the short story collection “At the Bottom of the River” (1984), and her nonfiction book about her native Antigua titled “A Small Place” (1988) — Kincaid has carved out a unique place in the American literary landscape. Writing in spare, deceptively simple prose, her fiction vividly and often harrowingly describes the difficult coming-of-age of strong-minded girls who, very much like herself, were born into tropical poverty.
You left Antigua to come to the United States when you were seventeen. Did you have any idea, in the back of your head, that you might someday be a writer?
None. Absolutely none. I came here to be an au pair in New York — although servant is the word I prefer. I came to work as a servant, in somebody’s house, as one of those many ladies you see with little blonde children. And when I first arrived I was incredibly depressed and lonely. I didn’t know there was such a world as the literary world. I didn’t know anything, except maybe how to put one foot in front of the other.
Yes — and it was William Shawn who published it. And I thought: Oh, this is my writing. I’d written little things for the Village Voice, some television criticism. But it was William Shawn who showed me what my voice was. I began to write the stories that became “At the Bottom of the River,” my first book, and he published them. He made me feel that what I thought, my inner life, my thoughts as I organized them, were important. That they made literature. That they made sense. There was a world for them. Not only for mine — but many people’s. But I am Exhibit A. Because I am not a man, I am not white, I didn’t go to Harvard. The generation of writers from The New Yorker that I was a part of were white men who went to Harvard or Yale. And I was none of those things.
You didn’t get that under Tina Brown?
No, I didn’t. It’s hard to find an article in The New Yorker now that’s not about some one — a celebrity of some kind. It’s a version of People magazine. I’m saddened. The coarseness of it, the vulgarity. But who wants to be in the position of arguing for good taste. Certainly not me! [Laughs.] I like bad taste, but there is a level that even I can’t abide. I don’t know one person who was there when The New Yorker was actually The New Yorker who hasn’t been destroyed by it. But people have their families. I’ve never felt more sympathetic to people who sell out. People who stay on and try to have some health insurance.
Why exactly did you leave the magazine?
I was horrified, when I learned of it this fall, that my editor thought Roseanne was a source of intellectual interest. A marvelous monster, I think my editor called her. And I thought: Oh dear — this is unfortunate. The thing I know most about Roseanne is that she fires her writers. And I am a writer. You know, when I crossed the ocean I aspired to be with something grand and really great and better than me. Not in New York with people who only care about other vulgar people of the moment.
It was a deliberate choice. It is somewhat explained in the book — that the main character is a fertile woman who decides not to be. And that is drawn from an observation I’ve made about my own mother: That all her children are quite happy to have been born, but all of us are quite sure she should never have been a mother. I feel comfortable saying that publicly, I think
Has your mother read your books?
I don’t think so, no. But if I were dying she would. She loves us when we are dying. She is very much there for my sick brother. I worry about her when he dies. What will she do?
But a woman’s sexuality — a woman’s body — is also a weapon against her. This thing that is most natural for you is this incredible source of shame. All the things about men seem to be a source of inspiration and pride, but a woman is constantly hearing the opposite.
I really do believe that whatever is a source of shame — if you are not responsible for it, such as the color of your skin or your sexuality — you should just wear it as a badge.
Everyone we knew had to make incredible compromises to live in New York, insisting that New York was wonderful — when it’s not at all, with children, unless you have vast sums of money
This is a copy of someone else's work, kept as a source. Original: Jamaica Kincaid