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Interview with Samantha Bruce-Benjamin
Interview with Samantha Bruce-Benjamin
Interview with Samantha Bruce-Benjamin
Do you agree that all writers are the sum of the parts of their predecessors?
Without a shadow of a doubt, although, for me, the recognition of how heavily I had been influenced by certain books did not emerge until long after the manuscript had finally been edited, passed off to production, and the finished ‘book’ had arrived. I think that, only then, once the work was completed, could I begin to acknowledge how I had come to write The Art of Devotion in the first place. Prior to that, the panic, the nerves, the constant thinking about how to hone the novel to be the best it could be, sidelined any analysis of influences. Yet, it’s all there now that I look: every book I ever read during the summers of my teenage years on an island in the Mediterranean Sea, every book I loved deeply, for I was incredibly fortunate to have at my disposal the greatest, in my opinion, works of literature of all time. I have loved reading subsequently, but nothing approached the sheer bliss of discovery against that exquisite backdrop. I’ll never forget finishing Death in Venice and looking out over the balcony to the sea beyond and the bright, blithe beauty of that particular day and knowing how lucky I was to be there; it has never left me – in fact, I have come to accept that I am always there mentally whenever I write. Then, again against that backdrop, there was Tender is the Night, The House of the Spirits, Madame Bovary, Les Liaisons Dangereuses, The Desert of Love. As soon as I start to consider any of these novels, I can find a strain, almost a link, to a certain part of the book and find that author’s influence. It’s like a treasure hunt. It’s a wonderful debt to owe.
Having worked as a literary editor and for the BBC, what practical experience did you bring to the table in writing your novel?
An acute understanding of how difficult the process of writing, finding an agent and subsequently a publisher, can be, although, I couldn’t allow that to dissuade me. Also, a determination to try and be as easy as possible to work with…! Joking aside, I don’t mean that disrespectfully at all to any of my former authors with whom I loved working, but I did recognize in myself, based on what I witnessed them endure, – and I do mean endure: being published and edited is an arduous process and I so admire them for their courage! – the agonies I hoped to spare myself. I think that what I was lucky enough to understand was really what to expect. You see, I know how many books normally sell on a debut; what publicity plans habitually focus on, based on print runs; what book outlets normally stock a debut, as opposed to an established author’s work. Also, I hope that I learned how to play nicely with others who are trying to help you and to avoid, at all costs, authorial preciousness and to allow an editor to perform their role – which is to realize a novel to its maximum potential based on their insight and experience – without kicking and screaming and threatening to throw oneself off tall buildings… I’ll be honest, I have not succeeded in this endeavor – I don’t think anyone creative does— but I’ve tried to throw all fits away from the publishing professionals and saved them only for my family, who are more forgiving…. Finally, however, I must confess that I entered this arena with low expectations, knowing precisely what to be grateful for and to accept that I was lucky simply to be published, so all of the magnificent things that have happened – and luckily are continuing to happen – I truly understand the importance of; it’s dream come true time and, for me, that has such a significance and is all the more special having worked in publishing because I know how wonderful it truly is based on my experience, which is why I never stop thanking my editor and publishers!
What is it about the 1930s that you find so compelling, so much so that you have set in a book in that era?
The inherent poignancy of the decade: I don’t think, as evidenced by the films and images of that period, that there was ever a more striking age in the last century in terms of elegance and refinement. The silhouette of women’s clothing – languid, refined, mannequin-like – has always reminded me, for some reason, of the ancient Greeks and I certainly think there is an undercurrent of “those whom the Gods love,” coursing throughout the novel. I imagined these characters as gilded idols, before the fall – a world of grace and privilege and traditions that no longer exists, that is entirely extinct, so that a reader could genuinely feel as if he or she were escaping into another world. The decision to focus the action in 1938 was entirely deliberate: I wanted just enough proximity to World War II that a contemporary reader would acknowledge its ominous shadow and just enough distance so that the characters could rest relatively easily in their paradise so that the full force of the tragedy would, hopefully, be keenly felt – both in terms of how the novel plays out for the characters and from a historical vantage point in recognizing that such a way of life was about to die forever, regardless.
What is the symbolism of the dogs Adora and Sebastian rescue?
Lost and discarded souls, outcasts, almost like Adora and Sebastian themselves; animals who, by the very nature of their existence, are dependent upon another person’s kindness to survive and who will die without it; who, hideously, are so often cruelly and disgustingly abused unless someone rescues them. I conceived of the olive grove where the dogs live as a limbo of sorts: in my imagination the house represented purgatory where Adora would atone for her perceived sins, the olive grove her limbo where she and her dogs were kept safe, and the sea is intended to represent paradise. Within the context of the novel, Linford, Adora’s favorite dog and the guardian of the olive grove, figures as the personification of perfect grace. I don’t think there is a more beautiful dog than a greyhound. So, like Sebastian in his fragility and exquisite beauty, it was my idea that whenever Adora was in Linford’s gentle, knowing presence, she felt not only entirely understood, but forgiven, in that he accepts her companionship and asks absolutely nothing of her. He functions not only as her sole friend, but also figures as the most perfect and poignant example of devotion the novel possesses and, to that end, for me, provides its most haunting and enduring metaphor.
Finally, having narrated the novel from the perspective of four different women, which one is your favorite?
I judge them as a reader would. I thought it so important to distance myself from them emotionally otherwise I would never have been able to be as ruthless with their respective destinies as I have. That said my opinion of them alters from time to time as things happen and I gain a new understanding of people and their motivations in general. So, on occasion, I could literally throttle Gigi for everything she fails to understand and then, sometimes, I find her ‘end’ so haunting that I forgive her practically everything – not quite everything – but almost. I forgive her her youth, in essence, when I’m feeling benevolent. Sophie, I wrestle with. I understand her because I’ve met countless women like her, and I acknowledge her passion and abiding love for her son while completely failing to understand her choices. Miranda – well, Miranda is, at the very least, honest. She makes no secret, ultimately, of who she is and why she is what she is. That’s as much as I think I can say about her, as I don’t feel it’s my place to judge any of these characters. Yet, Adora…Adora is everything and I love her the most. I don’t know where she came from: I can find no link beyond her surface beauty to anyone I have ever known, but in all that she reveals of herself, and in her incomparable devotion to the memory of those she loved, she will never leave me. I almost wish I could know her.
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Without a shadow of a doubt, although, for me, the recognition of how heavily I had been influenced by certain books did not emerge until long after the manuscript had finally been edited, passed off to production, and the finished ‘book’ had arrived. I think that, only then, once the work was completed, could I begin to acknowledge how I had come to write The Art of Devotion in the first place. Prior to that, the panic, the nerves, the constant thinking about how to hone the novel to be the best it could be, sidelined any analysis of influences. Yet, it’s all there now that I look: every book I ever read during the summers of my teenage years on an island in the Mediterranean Sea, every book I loved deeply, for I was incredibly fortunate to have at my disposal the greatest, in my opinion, works of literature of all time. I have loved reading subsequently, but nothing approached the sheer bliss of discovery against that exquisite backdrop. I’ll never forget finishing Death in Venice and looking out over the balcony to the sea beyond and the bright, blithe beauty of that particular day and knowing how lucky I was to be there; it has never left me – in fact, I have come to accept that I am always there mentally whenever I write. Then, again against that backdrop, there was Tender is the Night, The House of the Spirits, Madame Bovary, Les Liaisons Dangereuses, The Desert of Love. As soon as I start to consider any of these novels, I can find a strain, almost a link, to a certain part of the book and find that author’s influence. It’s like a treasure hunt. It’s a wonderful debt to owe.
Having worked as a literary editor and for the BBC, what practical experience did you bring to the table in writing your novel?
An acute understanding of how difficult the process of writing, finding an agent and subsequently a publisher, can be, although, I couldn’t allow that to dissuade me. Also, a determination to try and be as easy as possible to work with…! Joking aside, I don’t mean that disrespectfully at all to any of my former authors with whom I loved working, but I did recognize in myself, based on what I witnessed them endure, – and I do mean endure: being published and edited is an arduous process and I so admire them for their courage! – the agonies I hoped to spare myself. I think that what I was lucky enough to understand was really what to expect. You see, I know how many books normally sell on a debut; what publicity plans habitually focus on, based on print runs; what book outlets normally stock a debut, as opposed to an established author’s work. Also, I hope that I learned how to play nicely with others who are trying to help you and to avoid, at all costs, authorial preciousness and to allow an editor to perform their role – which is to realize a novel to its maximum potential based on their insight and experience – without kicking and screaming and threatening to throw oneself off tall buildings… I’ll be honest, I have not succeeded in this endeavor – I don’t think anyone creative does— but I’ve tried to throw all fits away from the publishing professionals and saved them only for my family, who are more forgiving…. Finally, however, I must confess that I entered this arena with low expectations, knowing precisely what to be grateful for and to accept that I was lucky simply to be published, so all of the magnificent things that have happened – and luckily are continuing to happen – I truly understand the importance of; it’s dream come true time and, for me, that has such a significance and is all the more special having worked in publishing because I know how wonderful it truly is based on my experience, which is why I never stop thanking my editor and publishers!
What is it about the 1930s that you find so compelling, so much so that you have set in a book in that era?
The inherent poignancy of the decade: I don’t think, as evidenced by the films and images of that period, that there was ever a more striking age in the last century in terms of elegance and refinement. The silhouette of women’s clothing – languid, refined, mannequin-like – has always reminded me, for some reason, of the ancient Greeks and I certainly think there is an undercurrent of “those whom the Gods love,” coursing throughout the novel. I imagined these characters as gilded idols, before the fall – a world of grace and privilege and traditions that no longer exists, that is entirely extinct, so that a reader could genuinely feel as if he or she were escaping into another world. The decision to focus the action in 1938 was entirely deliberate: I wanted just enough proximity to World War II that a contemporary reader would acknowledge its ominous shadow and just enough distance so that the characters could rest relatively easily in their paradise so that the full force of the tragedy would, hopefully, be keenly felt – both in terms of how the novel plays out for the characters and from a historical vantage point in recognizing that such a way of life was about to die forever, regardless.
What is the symbolism of the dogs Adora and Sebastian rescue?
Lost and discarded souls, outcasts, almost like Adora and Sebastian themselves; animals who, by the very nature of their existence, are dependent upon another person’s kindness to survive and who will die without it; who, hideously, are so often cruelly and disgustingly abused unless someone rescues them. I conceived of the olive grove where the dogs live as a limbo of sorts: in my imagination the house represented purgatory where Adora would atone for her perceived sins, the olive grove her limbo where she and her dogs were kept safe, and the sea is intended to represent paradise. Within the context of the novel, Linford, Adora’s favorite dog and the guardian of the olive grove, figures as the personification of perfect grace. I don’t think there is a more beautiful dog than a greyhound. So, like Sebastian in his fragility and exquisite beauty, it was my idea that whenever Adora was in Linford’s gentle, knowing presence, she felt not only entirely understood, but forgiven, in that he accepts her companionship and asks absolutely nothing of her. He functions not only as her sole friend, but also figures as the most perfect and poignant example of devotion the novel possesses and, to that end, for me, provides its most haunting and enduring metaphor.
Finally, having narrated the novel from the perspective of four different women, which one is your favorite?
I judge them as a reader would. I thought it so important to distance myself from them emotionally otherwise I would never have been able to be as ruthless with their respective destinies as I have. That said my opinion of them alters from time to time as things happen and I gain a new understanding of people and their motivations in general. So, on occasion, I could literally throttle Gigi for everything she fails to understand and then, sometimes, I find her ‘end’ so haunting that I forgive her practically everything – not quite everything – but almost. I forgive her her youth, in essence, when I’m feeling benevolent. Sophie, I wrestle with. I understand her because I’ve met countless women like her, and I acknowledge her passion and abiding love for her son while completely failing to understand her choices. Miranda – well, Miranda is, at the very least, honest. She makes no secret, ultimately, of who she is and why she is what she is. That’s as much as I think I can say about her, as I don’t feel it’s my place to judge any of these characters. Yet, Adora…Adora is everything and I love her the most. I don’t know where she came from: I can find no link beyond her surface beauty to anyone I have ever known, but in all that she reveals of herself, and in her incomparable devotion to the memory of those she loved, she will never leave me. I almost wish I could know her.
