A Conversation with Douglas Kennedy, Author of The Pursuit of Happiness

Q: Your prose is clear and precise, lyrical at necessary moments, and blunt with philosophical vigor. Who are the literary heroes you admire and what influence have these writers had on your particular style.

A: Graham Greene taught me how to write accessible novels that wrestle with life’s larger moral conundrums. Trollope taught me how to look at a historical moment of time with a novelistic sensibility—and to get all the material details absolutely right. And Flaubert taught me that quotidian life is the essential subject all writers must confront in fiction . . . because, after all, we all live (in one way or another) quotidian life.

Q: In the late seventies, you returned to Dublin to form a cooperative theater. This led you to run the Abbey Theatre’s second house, the Peacock. Some years later, you resigned yourself to write full time. With an already established career, what made you decide to focus solely on writing? What were the risks you were taking in this decision?

A: The decision to write full time was made when I was twenty-eight years old and had just had two small plays accepted for BBC Radio. I knew I wanted to be a writer. I also knew I was still a single man with few commitments. I lived cheaply in a small studio apartment in Dublin. I continued to write plays. I wrote a ferocious amount of journalism. And little by little, I began to think that my talents lay outside writing for actors—that, verily, my future was between hard covers. But it took five years for my first book to appear. After that I moved to London and my career really began to kick-start.

Q: In April 2007, you were awarded the distinction Chevalier de l’Ordre des Arts et des Lettres, an order dedicated to the recognition of significant contributions to the arts and literature. Other notable figures who have been awarded this distinction are Jude Law, Julian Barnes, Ernesto Neto, Philip Glass, and George Clooney. How does it feel to be part of such a distinguished group?

A: I was awarded the Chevalier at a reception at the French Ambassador’s residence in London. It was so grand a setting it was a bit like being knighted at the Palace of Versailles. Of course I was flattered and honored to be made a member of such an elite club. And it’s a reminder— not that one is really necessary—that the French take writers very seriously . . . which is no bad thing!

Q: You reside part time now in Maine, but you have lived in several countries. Sara Smythe’s cottage in Maine provides solace at two crucial moments in her life, her nervous breakdown after Jack’s disappearance and after the death of her brother. What experiences at Bowdoin College and after led to your lifelong connection to the State of Maine? Does it provide you the same solace as it does for Sara?

A: I left the United States for thirty years, as my career was largely based in Europe. Of course I never stopped being American—and visited regularly. But in my imaginative mind, Maine was always omnipresent, not simply because I spent several interesting years there as a student at Bowdoin but also because I always loved its emptiness, its independent esprit, its isolation, its refusal to follow trends, and (of course) its ravishing scenic beauty—especially along its epic coastline. So, for Sara, Maine too becomes a place of refuge and consolation. If life teaches you anything, it’s that you never can run away from your problems. But, at least, in Maine you can contemplate and wrestle with them in a place of great silent grandeur.

Q: In The Pursuit of Happiness, the story is told in a confessional style, with Sara relating her life experience to Kate Malone. I was particularly reminded of Margaret Atwood’s The Handmaid’s Tale and The Diary of Anaïs Nin in the way the characters confess the story of their lives to the reader. What made you decide to use this literary technique?

A: Confessions are always so fascinating—especially if the narrator has (like Sara) a certain self-awareness and an ability to see, retrospectively, the errors that she made which, in turn, helped form the trajectory of her life. One of my favorite philosophical aphorisms comes from Kierkegaard : “Life can only be understood backwards, but it must be lived forwards.” That statement underscores all literary confessions—or, at least, the ones I write.

Q: The female characters bond as they trudge through one maddening and disappointing experience after another, and this bonding comes from telling each other stories of their lives. In what ways, would you say, is this particular style of bonding uniquely feminine? How are you able to write from the feminine perspective so well?

A: I’m always asked that question! Perhaps the answer is that I never think “as a woman”—rather as my narrator. And I see the world completely from her perspective. Perhaps a good novelist is like a good actor—someone who can slip into a role (without having to dress up!) and create an entirely convincing worldview that is so divorced from his own sensibility. Then again, all my narrators have many aspects of their creator in their complex personalities.

Q: Sara explains: “Once you grasp the flawed nature of everything— you can move forward without disappointment.” Is this a philosophy you subscribe to? That “there is a thing called tragedy, and it shadows us all”?

A: Tragedy is one of the larger prices we pay for being alive. No one ever sidesteps tragedy. It is always there, shadowing us. We don’t like admitting this, but it is a key component of human existence: the fact that life has the potential for things both wondrous and horrific.

Q: The destructive power of the House Un-American Activities Committee comes into play during the post-WWII segments in this novel. The HUAC destroys lives, displaces people, and scatters artists across the globe. What was your inspiration for writing about one of the more shameful abuses of power this country has seen?

A: McCarthyism is a dirty stain on the American body politic—and one which we sidestep at our peril, as within its vindictive machinations are all the darker aspects of our collective psyche: our willingness to point fingers, to be in thrall to the messianic ravings of an evil opportunist, to swallow all the usual tired patriotic bromides, to distrust intellectualism, to embrace conspiracy theories. Arthur Miller got it right in The Crucible when he saw the origins of these witch-hunt tendencies dating back to our theocratic, puritanical roots—and that there has always been an ongoing struggle between progressive thought and righteous doctrine throughout our history.

Q: Your novels reflect a very distinct and insightful look into American life. How has your experience living outside of the country informed your writing about the experience of living within the country?

A: Intriguingly American history was my area of specialty at college— and I briefly toyed with the idea of getting a doctorate in history. But the need to be out in the larger world sent me in a different direction. Given that, all my novels are deeply American—even if my Americanness has been shaded by a childhood in Manhattan (which the rest of the country doesn’t totally consider American!), and by thirty years in such disparate places as Dublin, London, Paris, and Berlin. But all my years abroad (and now I live part of the year in Maine) have intriguingly deepened my sense of what it is to be an American— and has given me an intriguing perspective of being the insider/ outsider.

Q: Legacy is an important theme in The Pursuit of Happiness. The legacy of one’s parents’ failures, the legacy of a heart broken by betrayal, the legacy of the death of a loved one. Kate Malone, at the end of the novel, has an almost prophetic vision of her son growing up. Kate wants to explain it all to her son, but knows she can’t, but will try. “Trying is the way we get through the day.” How close is Kate’s philosophy to your own? What legacy, as a father, do you want to leave to your children?

A: Besides curiosity—which I think an essential component of an interesting life—I would hope to pass on the idea that (as I tell my two children frequently) life is so much about persevering. You can get easily overwhelmed or defeated by life’s shortcomings or the way others let us down . . . and, more tellingly, the way we lets ourselves down. If there is an abiding theme in The Pursuit of Happiness it is the idea that you come into the world already shaped by other people’s past histories. How you then grapple with everything life throws in your path—and how your own sense of ethics dictates so much about your dealings with life’s larger questions—determines so much. “Character is destiny” is a statement (from the German poet Novalis) that so underlines my world view—both as a writer and simply a sentient person, trying to make the best of his time here.