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- Interview: David Sedaris discusses his writings and latest book, "Dress Your Family in Corduroy and Denim"
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- DATE June 15, 2004 ACCOUNT NUMBER N/A TIME 12:00 Noon-1:00 PM AUDIENCE N/A NETWORK NPR PROGRAM Fresh Air Interview: David Sedaris discusses his writings and latest book, "Dress Your Family in Corduroy and Denim" TERRY GROSS, host: This is FRESH AIR. I'm Terry Gross. Count me among David Sedaris' millions of fans. Like many of his fans, I first fell in love with his writing when he read his story "Santaland Diaries" on NPR's "Morning Edition." That now-famous piece told about his experiences working as an elf in Macy's Santa Land. Ira Glass produced Sedaris for "Morning Edition," and when Glass started his own show, "This American Life," Sedaris became a regular. Now Sedaris is a literary phenomenon. He's written several best-sellers collecting his humorous personal essays and stories. He reads to sold-out theaters around the country. His bookstore appearances often have lines around the block. When he got famous in America, he moved to Paris, where he could barely speak the language. Now he also has a place in London where it's a lot easier for him to understand what people are saying. Sedaris has a new best-selling book of stories called "Dress Your Family in Corduroy and Denim." Before we talk, here he is reading one of his stories in the new book. It's called "Hejira" after the title of a Joni Mitchell album. Mr. DAVID SEDARIS (Author, "Dress Your Family in Corduroy and Denim"): (Reading) It wasn't anything I had planned on. But at the age of 22, after dropping out of my second college and traveling across the country a few times, I found myself back in Raleigh living in my parents' basement. After six months spent waking at noon, getting high and listening to the same Joni Mitchell record over and over again, I was called by my father into his den and told to get out. He was sitting very formally in a big, comfortable chair behind his desk, and I felt as though he was firing me from the job of being his son. I'd been expecting this to happen, and it honestly didn't bother me all that much. The way I saw it, being kicked out of the house was just what I needed if I was ever going to get back on my feet. `Fine,' I said. `I'll go. But one day you'll be sorry.' I had no idea what I meant by this. It just seemed like the sort of thing a person should say when he was being told to leave. My sister, Lisa, had an apartment over by the university and said I could come stay with her as long as I didn't bring my Joni Mitchell record. My mother offered to drive me over, and after a few bong hits, I took her up on it. It was a 15-minute trip across town, and on the way we listened to the rebroadcast of a radio call-in show in which people phoned the host to describe the various birds gathered around their backyard feeders. Normally the show came on in the morning, and it seemed strange to listen to it at night. The birds in question had gone to bed hours ago and probably had no idea they were still being talked about. I chewed this over and wondered if anyone back at the house was talking about me. To the best of my knowledge, no one had ever tried to imitate my voice or describe the shape of my head. And it was depressing that I went unnoticed while a great many people seemed willing to drop everything for a cardinal. My mother pulled up in front of my sister's apartment building, and when I opened the car door, she started to cry, which worried me as she normally didn't do things like that. It wasn't one of those `I'm going to miss you' things but something sadder and more desperate than that. I wouldn't know it until months later, but my father had kicked me out of the house not because I was a bum but because I was gay. Our little talk was supposed to be one of those defining moments that shape a person's adult life, but he'd been so uncomfortable with the most important word that he'd left it out completely saying only, `I think we both know why I'm doing this.' I guess I could have pinned him down; I just hadn't seen the point. `Is it because I'm a failure, a drug addict, a sponge? Come on, Dad, just give me one good reason.' Who wants to say that? My mother assumed that I knew the truth, and it tore her apart. Here was yet another defining moment, and again I missed it entirely. She cried until it sounded as if she were choking. `I'm sorry,' she said. `I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry.' I figured that within a few weeks I'd have a job and some crummy little apartment. It didn't seem unsurmountable, but my mother's tears made me worry that finding these things might be a little harder than I thought. Did she honestly think I was that much of a loser? `Really,' I said, `I'll be fine.' The car light was on, and I wondered what the passing drivers thought as they watched my mother sob. What kind of people did they think we were? Did they think she was one of those crybaby moms who fell apart every time someone chipped a coffee cup? Did they assume I'd said something to hurt her? Did they see us as just another crying mother and her stoned, gay son sitting in a station wagon and listening to a call-in show about birds? Or did they imagine for just one moment that we might be special? GROSS: Jeez, David, thanks for reading that. It's a great story. My guest is David Sedaris, and he just read the story "Hejira" from his new collection, "Dress Your Family in Corduroy and Denim." When this actually happened to you and your mother explained to you why you were really thrown out of the house, did you think about the possibility that your parents had just had this big fight about you and about how to handle you? Mr. SEDARIS: I did. And I suppose I was surprised that I was so unaware of it happening. But I was just in the rocking chair in the basement listening to that Joni Mitchell album, so all kinds of things could have been going on, and I wouldn't have been aware of them. But I never felt that panic; that, `Oh, my God, they're throwing me out of the house, and they're never going to talk to me again,' because my father's a kind of guy who--you could have an argument with him, and he can even throw you out of the house, but a couple hours later he's forgotten about it. I mean, he doesn't have Alzheimer's or anything, but he has a really--just this wonderful ability to put things behind him. And I've always been very impressed by that. So my dad got upset that I was gay, and he threw me out of the house. But I was back a few days later. GROSS: So how did he react to you being gay after that first reaction of throwing you out? Mr. SEDARIS: Well, I was never like a slut. You know what I mean? GROSS: (Laughs) Mr. SEDARIS: I was never like the kind of guy who dragged people home or wore T-shirts--I was never that kind of a homosexual. And my dad--I thought that he was used to the idea, but--I have a dear friend named Evelyn who lives in Chicago, and, gee, I've known her for 20 years. She's 10 years older than me, and when I got out of college, I lived in her house for a while. And five years ago I was talking about Evelyn, and my dad said, `She's a great gal. Why don't you marry her?' GROSS: (Laughs) Mr. SEDARIS: Well, A, I'm gay, and, B, she lives in--I mean, there were like 18 reasons why I wouldn't marry her, one of which is I've been with Hugh for 13 years. But he's making an effort. When my dad calls, he'll say, `Put Hugh on the phone.' And then Dad didn't quite know what to say to Hugh, but, you know, it's a nice gesture. But my dad was never--if my dad was super-Greek, it would really be a problem. He's Greek, but he's not a super-Greek. So I think that, hopefully, sometime before he dies he'll think--he won't be one of those people that wears a T-shirt that says, `I'm so happy that my son likes other guys'--he won't go that far... GROSS: (Laughs) Mr. SEDARIS: ...but he comes to accept it. GROSS: You know in the story you just read when--you know, after your father tells you you have to leave the house and you don't know why he's telling you that, you don't realize it's because you're gay, you say you're thinking, `Someday you're going to be sorry,' did you ever have the desire of throwing that back in his face or saying, `Well, Dad, this is how unenlightened you are,' or, `This is how mean you can be'?--you know, at an opportune time when you needed to get even with him about something? Mr. SEDARIS: I did, but I always it was third rate. I always felt when I yelled at my father or if I said--I remember once I said, `You're going to die alone.' GROSS: (Laughs) Oh, very nice. Mr. SEDARIS: And I felt like I was being so prophetic at the time. And now I think back on it, and I think, `God, parents just must--it must be so heart-breaking to be parent and hear your kid say something like that, something so unoriginal.' I mean, if they said something original or something thought-provoking or funny, it might be OK. But you just want to say, `Oh, God, I said that same thing to my parents,' you know. And, you know, surprise, you're going to die alone, too. GROSS: You know, at the end of that story you're with your mother in the car, and you're wondering how do you look to other people. `Do people have any sense of what is transpiring here?' And this is especially interesting because of, you know, the call-in show about birds that you've been listening to, where everybody's observing and describing the birds. But, anyways, I'm wondering if there's always a part of you that is wondering, `What are people thinking? How do I look to them now?' Mr. SEDARIS: I think that I've remained fairly--I don't think I'm so self-conscious that it's a drag to spend time with me. But I often do wonder what people might think. I recently developed a boil, and it's right on my tailbone. And I went to a doctor in London because I had to take a 23-hour flight to Australia, and the doctor said, `Well, it's too early to lance it,' all right? So two hours after leaving London my boil popped, and I said to Hugh, `You've got to go with me into the bathroom and squeeze the puss out of this boil.' And he didn't want to be seen--two guys walking into the bathroom. And in my mind I was thinking, `Well, they'll know it's a medical matter. Why else would'--you know, because we're too old to be going into the bathroom for any other reason. GROSS: (Laughs) Mr. SEDARIS: And our seats are next to each other, and so they'll know that we know each other. It's not tawdry. But then I thought about it from his point of view, and I thought, `Well, I guess it would look pretty strange.' But I guess I do that... GROSS: I hate to tell you that for anybody really paying attention, you've just made it look really suspicious, you know? (Soundbite of laughter) Mr. SEDARIS: But I guess, I mean, just the same way as, let's say, if your car broke down and you were walking along the side of the road in the middle of the night, you would think, `Oh, gee, do people think that I'm a prostitute, like that woman in "Monster," or do they think, "That poor woman's car broke down"?' So I don't know that I think about it any more than other people, but I think at the time, as a character in that story being stoned, it's the kind of thing you would think about if you were stoned. GROSS: My guest is David Sedaris. His new collection of stories is called "Dress Your Family in Corduroy and Denim." We'll talk more after a break. This is FRESH AIR. (Soundbite of music) GROSS: My guest is David Sedaris. His new book is called "Dress Your Family in Corduroy and Denim." He's a frequent contributor to the public radio program "This American Life" hosted by Ira Glass. David, a lot of the stories in this book are set in your children or in your teen years. And I'm wondering if it was like a conscious choice to spend some time writing about that part of your life or whether this is more coincidental. Mr. SEDARIS: I think it's more coincidental. I'd been writing a lot for Ira's show, "This American Life." And he throws out a theme for every show. And so sometimes the themes just, if I looked over the scope of my life, they happened to work best in childhood. And then, for example, The New Yorker asked me to write something about winter, and I was going to write about a winter in Chicago in the 1980s, and then I found out that George Saunders was writing about winter in Chicago. So I remembered this time that we had a freakish snowstorm in Raleigh, North Carolina, and I remember my mom standing up to her midcalf in the snow. And my mom never owned a pair of pants, and it just looked so weird to see her bare-legged in the snow like that. And so that was a story that took place in childhood. So a lot of times it's just an assignment and then trying to find an edge that fits that assignment. But I didn't consciously--I think if I was conscious about it, I would try to get away from that. I think there are so many traps to fall into when you write about childhood if you don't... GROSS: What are the traps? Mr. SEDARIS: Well, I think there's a tendency to make yourself seem more clever than you were. And I was not a clever child at all. I was not a well-read child. I think I was just a--I was the kind of a child that I think you'd think, `Damn it, that's my son?' GROSS: (Laughs) Mr. SEDARIS: `That has to be my son?' You know like sometimes you see someone with an ugly baby and you think, `They must look at that baby sometimes and think, "Damn it, I wish I'd slept with somebody else."' GROSS: (Laughs) Mr. SEDARIS: And I always felt like that--you know, like an ugly boy who's not necessarily clever and not athletic in any way and just a general, all-around--you'd just think, `Oh, maybe he'll grow up and move away from home.' That would be the most that you could hope for. GROSS: You know, you're talking about how "This American Life" is always asking you to write on a theme, and sometimes magazines will suggest a theme. That seems to me like it must be really useful. I don't know about you, but I think for some people it's hard to just sit down and figure out what to write about. So if somebody gives you a theme, does that focus you in a way that you might not otherwise be focused? Mr. SEDARIS: Well, I think if you can write about everything in the world, everything in the world is too much. So any process of elimination that comes my way, I'm more than welcome to accept. So it does help me. I finished the book, and then I was thinking, `OK, now what do I do?' And I had agreed to contribute a story to an anthology called "Committed" that was about being in a relationship. And so that made it much easier; then I could write about Hugh rather than just sitting there for weeks trying things that wouldn't work out. GROSS: As somebody who is already self-conscious, does it make you self-conscious to call attention in your writing to exactly the things that you don't want people to know in real life? Like, in real life you don't want people to know you have that boil; that's why you're sneaking into the bathroom to take care of it. But in your writing, you're going to write all about it, and you know--or at least I hope you know--that people are going to identify with you because everybody has had their equivalent--maybe it's a pimple and not a boil, but everybody has had that thing on their body that was not wanted and that eventually did something very obnoxious, in the way bodies sometimes are prone to be. Mr. SEDARIS: (Laughs) GROSS: Do you know what I mean? Mr. SEDARIS: I think that those are sort of the best things to write about, though, because people can relate to them. Because I go on these lecture tours, I read out loud a lot. And I find just from being as a stage consideration or a show business consideration, which I guess is the laziest form of show business there is--but, still, because they put me in a dressing room, I'm entitled to use that word. GROSS: (Laughs) Mr. SEDARIS: And those kinds of stories work the best; that said, there are limits, like I can't write about sex because I don't want people to imagine me having sex. I mean, if you are on stage and you read about having a boil, people will imagine that boil on your tailbone, and I can live with that. But I don't want them--it would be unpleasant for them to imagine me doing certain things in bed, you know? I mean, with somebody else it would be--oh, like with that guy who wrote "The Perfect Storm." You know, it would be fun to imagine him naked and doing things, but not me. So I don't ever write about sex. GROSS: If you're just joining us, my guest is David Sedaris. And he has a new collection of stories called "Dress Your Family in Corduroy and Denim." There was an article or--I forget if it was article or review--in Entertainment Weekly a few months ago. I presume that you saw this. And it was a terrific photograph of you. And I know that you hate being photographed--it makes you very self-conscious--but this was a really such a great photograph. I mean, you kind of looked like a movie star in it. Do you know the photograph I mean? Mr. SEDARIS: I never look at pictures of myself. I remember I went to have my picture taken, and my sister Amy tried to trick me because she put something over that photograph. And it was something like a book on skin disease, I think it said. GROSS: (Laughs) Mr. SEDARIS: `You know, look at that book there. It's great.' And I picked it up, and (gasps). You know, for a split second, I saw the picture of myself underneath it. But I've never seen the photograph, I mean, except for that split second. But I haven't looked at it. GROSS: Well, the photograph in your book jacket was taken by Hugh, your boyfriend. Is it easier to get photographed by him than by a kind of professional photographer who is a stranger to you? Mr. SEDARIS: Yeah, I think it's always easier, like, with Hugh because he knows me better. You know what I think the embarrassing thing about having your picture taken is that the photographer would think, `Oh, my God, he thinks he looks good'... GROSS: (Laughs) Mr. SEDARIS: ...you know, or they could see you, like, maybe sucking your cheeks or doing any of the tricks that must be so common that people do to make themselves look better. I think as a writer I never signed up for a visual representation of myself. I'm just so uncomfortable with--like, if I could just be hair, I'd be fine with that. I really would. If they said, `OK, from now on it's just your hair; that's all of you that's going to exist, but, I mean, the rest of you would be invisible,' I wouldn't mourn at all. I mean, I would wear clothes, and people could see, `Oh, he's lifting his arm now.' And they could see... GROSS: (Laughs) Mr. SEDARIS: But they would miss nothing by not seeing my face. I mean, it would actually make me happy. I mean, there are tons of people out there would think--that would be their worst nightmare because people wouldn't be able to look at them and admire them and think about how handsome or beautiful they are. And, to me, it would just be such a blessing, you know. So I represent myself through words, and that's absolutely fine with me. And I go on those lecture tours, but I don't think that really counts as--you're on stage, and people are far away. And maybe they come and have a book signed, but I think that's different than, you know, being photographed or being on television all the time... GROSS: Right. Mr. SEDARIS: ...or being in a movie. And I think Ira had pointed that out one time, that there is no profession at all anymore that doesn't involve having your picture taken. And it seems to unfair to me. I'm so uncomfortable when--I hate nothing more than having my picture taken. I hate it. GROSS: David Sedaris has a new collection of stories called "Dress Your Family in Corduroy and Denim." He'll be back in the second half of the show. I'm Terry Gross, and this is FRESH AIR. Here's Joni Mitchell singing "Hejira," which is also the title of the story David read. (Soundbite of "Hejira") Ms. JONI MITCHELL: (Singing) I'm traveling in some vehicle. I'm sitting in some cafe, a defector from the petty wars that shell shock love away. There's comfort in melancholy when there's no need to explain. It's just as natural as the weather is in this moody sky today. In our possessive coupling so much could not be... (Announcements) (Soundbite of music) GROSS: Coming up, David Sedaris' new obsession: spiders. (Soundbite of music) GROSS: This is FRESH AIR. I'm Terry Gross back with David Sedaris. He's the author of several best-selling books collecting his humorous personal essays and stories. He often reads his work on public radio program "This American Life." Sedaris' new book, "Dress Your Family in Corduroy and Denim," will be number one next week on The New York Times Best-Seller List. You've said that when you were young, you didn't read a lot. Did you write? Mr. SEDARIS: No. In high school I had to write papers, and it was just, like, horrible for me. And I was like most people, and I put it off until the night before the paper was due, and there was no sense of style to it whatsoever. It was--I pitied the teachers that had to read it. And I wanted to be a visual artist, but I don't have any talent for that, but I was still giving it a try. And then I was 20 years old one day, and I just started writing. Like, I didn't know the day before that I would do it. I just started writing one day. And at around that same time, I started reading everything that I could get my hands on. So I wasn't one of those people that--I wasn't a child who thought, `I'm going to grow up, and I'm going to be a writer.' It came as a complete surprise to me. Maybe that's sort of heartening, because that can happen to anybody, you know? Anybody can maybe tomorrow--like, a couple years ago, Hugh and I spent the summer in Normandy, and I discovered--I say discovered, but they already existed--spiders. And I am so incredibly interested in spiders now. And at this moment at our house in Normandy, there's probably 800 spiders in the house, and there's one huge--it's a kind of spider that's a shape the size of an unshelled peanut with legs on it... GROSS: (Laughs) Mr. SEDARIS: ...the Tegenaria gigantea. In feeding these spiders and recording their habits and studying them under a microscope, it's changed my life. But I didn't know the day before--the day before I saw a fly fly into a web and be eaten by a spider, I didn't know that this would be a huge passion in my life. And I just think that's so exciting, that we have that ability to embrace things that we don't even see coming. I mean, it really sounds kind of corny, but it's a reason to live. And who knows what it might be next? I mean, I'd be surprised if all of a sudden I got into that foot boxing, you know. Like, that would be a real surprise to me. But who knows? There could be something tomorrow or--well, actually, I have my hands full with the spiders right now, but something could happen 10, 15 years from now that might cause me to look at the world in a completely different way. GROSS: Oh, I know what you mean, and that's wonderful to see it that way. What is it about spiders? Mr. SEDARIS: I think that I--we have these webs hanging almost like a campaign bunting... GROSS: (Laughs) Mr. SEDARIS: ...throughout the house, and it's a three-story house. And you never really saw the spiders because they're back in their little--they live in a little cavity at the back of the web. But then I saw a fly, and then I saw this spider come out and grab it, and it was fascinating. And then I just started catching flies to feed to the spiders. And at first I caught them with my fingers. The best place to get a fly is against a windowpane. They get confused there, and so you can grab them. So for a while I was catching them with my fingers, but it was more practical--I started catching them in a jar. And then I'd shake the jar up like it's a cocktail, and I'd pour the fly into the web. And the fly lands, and he's sort of punch-drunk for a moment; hes like, `What happened? Where am I?' And then the second he starts to move, the spider comes out. And I'm just--you know, it's like rooting for the Nazi in a Holocaust movie. It really is. (Soundbite of laughter) Mr. SEDARIS: It makes me feel bad sometimes. But, you know, these are flies, so I'm not going to--you know, they go out in the yard, and they walk through feces, and then they come in and dance on the furniture. I mean, if anyone has it coming, it's flies. And I think more than the spiders, it was catching the flies. It just fit into this obsessive--it was like an obsession that has been waiting for me all my life. I mean, it fulfills me completely. I will spend six hours at a stretch catching flies, and When we run out of flies in our own house, I go to the neighbors' and ask if I can borrow some of theirs. So even more than the spiders, it's catching the flies. And the spiders in our house are full, you know? (Soundbite of laughter) Mr. SEDARIS: You know, they're like, `Oh, not again.' There's only so much that they can eat. But I love catching flies. Love it, and I'm good at it. And that's another thing; I'm good at it. There aren't that many things that I'm good at. But if you took, like, five guys--and they could be athletes--and you said, `First one to catch a fly wins,' I would win. GROSS: (Laughs) So has this kind of extended over into, like, reading about spiders and reading about flies and going to, like... Mr. SEDARIS: Yes. GROSS: ...science museums that have big insect collections? Mr. SEDARIS: Yes, it has. And where we are in Normandy, there aren't that many bookstores. So I got books that were in French about spiders, and then I got some books in England. And now I want to join the Tegenaria society in England. And that has got to be the most--to the common person, that's probably the most boring group of people that there are. But, you know, you go out into the country, and you look under logs and you, you know, go into abandoned houses. And, you know, you don't kill the spiders. You just kind of look at them. But you're with other people who feel the same way you do, and it sounds great to me. I will have--because Hugh and I, we sort of moved to London, and I don't have any friends. But this way, I don't know, seems as good a way as any to meet people. You wouldn't want to have them over for dinner with other people, you know. (Soundbite of laughter) Mr. SEDARIS: It's like you wouldn't want to have, like, four of the spider guys and then, you know, a fun person who you met, you know, somewhere else at dinner. I don't know that they'd mix that well, but I'm excited about joining. GROSS: My guest is David Sedaris. He has a new collection of stories called "Dress Your Family in Corduroy and Denim." We'll talk more after a break. This is FRESH AIR. (Soundbite of music) GROSS: My guest is David Sedaris. He has a new collection of stories called "Dress Your Family in Corduroy and Denim." When we left off, we were talking about his new interest: spiders. Well, I know you see this new interest in spiders and flies as being, you know, an obsession. And you have described yourself in your writing as being obsessive-compulsive. And in one of the stories in your new book, you say something really funny about that. You say, `The good part about being an obsessive-compulsive is that you're always on time for work. The bad part is that you're on time for everything: rinsing your cup of coffee, taking a bath, walking your clothes to the Laundromat. There's no mystery to your comings and goings, no room for spontaneity.' Did people try to break you of your compulsions when you were young and see it as, like, just a real problem? Mr. SEDARIS: Well, they sort of changed. As a young person, they were more physical compulsions, more in terms of touching and making certain sounds and arranging things. And then as I got older, when I was in my 20s, it was all about time and doing things at the exact same time. And there was--a panic would sort of set in if I thought, `Oh, my God, I'm not going to be at the IHOP by 7:00. I'm going to be five minutes late to the IHOP. Now no one was waiting for me at the IHOP. I would go to the IHOP every night. See, in Raleigh, for a while, I lived next door to the IHOP and that was easy. And then I moved to the other side of town, and I would ride my bike to the IHOP every night and I would just sit in the exact same booth facing the exact same direction and read library books but for exactly an hour and then I would be home by a certain time, but I could not walk to my door any earlier or any later than the prescribed time. Then I moved to Chicago and I located the IHOP and then I found an apartment within walking distance. And it wasn't just going to the IHOP. It was, you know, doing laundry at exactly the same time and taking a bath at exactly the same time and making my bed at exactly the same--everything was done by the clock. And I think what broke me of that was moving to New York, and they don't have an IHOP here. They have a Howard Johnson's, but it wasn't the same, and I didn't quite know what to do with myself when I moved here. I thought, `Well, if I can't go to the IHOP'--So I tried sitting--'cause if you go to a restaurant, it's not the same because then you have to shake the waitress down for another cup of coffee, and at the IHOP, they just gave you a whole pot of it and left you alone. And if you have to signal for a different cup, then you're always anxious, like, is the waitress going to see you or, you know, I can't drink this fast because she might not come around for a while, but it was not having the IHOP in New York that slowly broke me of that. And then it's just been a process over the years, and now I just do the laundry whenever I feel like it, and I get out of bed whenever I feel like it, and I take a bath whenever I feel like it. And it's--really, I never thought I could do this. GROSS: Now here's something that amazes me. If you are so involved with routine and the kind of predictability of routine or the reliability of routine, how have you managed to move to foreign countries? You know, you moved to Paris. Now you also have a place in London, and in addition to that, you tour a lot. You go on book tours and you do maybe a city a day for a month or two, and, I mean, that is really serious change where, like, all the cards in your hand are, like, thrown up in the air, and who knows where they're going to land? How do you deal with that? Mr. SEDARIS: Well, let's say, if my plane leaves at 7--Right?--then they're going to come and take me to the airport at 5:30. Now I used to get up at 4 and I write. And as long as I can write every day, then that's something I can do every day. I can take the other bits of it, right? So if I don't get to take a bath tomorrow or if my suitcase is lost and I don't get to iron a shirt, I can deal with it, because there's one thing that I can still do every day. I sort of like those tours. I mean, people always say you get off the plane and then someone says, `Oh, you must be exhausted,' and you think, `Oh, I am.' Then you think, `Wait a minute. I haven't done anything. You know, I just took a half-hour plane ride. How exhausting is that in the scheme of things?' So I like those tours because they feel like a business trip to me. They make me feel like--I never had a real job, so it never occurred to me that I would get to do that, and I just put it in my head that I'm a businessman and I'm a businessman and I'm on a trip for a month. And that helps me get through a lot. GROSS: Your previous book, David, "Me Talk Pretty One Day," several of the essays in there have to do with moving to Paris and trying to learn a new language and what it was like for you as a person and as a writer to be in this culture where you had a lot of trouble with the language. Well, now you've gotten a place in London and you're spending a lot of time in London where you're still a foreigner but you're a foreigner who speaks the language. Why did you move from Paris to London? Mr. SEDARIS: Well, I was doing some work for the BBC and I would go to London from time to time, and the more I went, the more I liked it, but I think one of the reasons I really like it is that they speak English there. I've been in Paris for--What?--six years, and subtlety is lost on me there. Like, when I'm in Paris, I think anyone who speaks French is French, and a French friend will say to me, `That's Yugoslavian. Can't you hear that accent?' you know, or, `She's Mexican. You want to hear mine?' And subtlety is lost on me. I can quote people but then you have to translate the quote and you just lose so much in that translation. And in England, things are still lost on me. Like, I often can't tell if people are being nice or not. Like I don't know if--I can't tell when they're being sincere, but I can quote them and I can use exactly the words that they used, and there are 10 daily papers in London, and I can read the paper without a dictionary and I can watch television without getting a headache. So that was a big part of it. For me, a big part of it was the language, and for Hugh, he speaks fluent French, so language was never a problem for him, but he just loves it there and there's a lot to be said for the person that you're with, a lot to be said for seeing them that happy. GROSS: I don't know if I ever shared this theory with you, but I've often wondered if your move to Paris--well, let me put it this way: I know when you were young, you always wanted--I think I knew this anyways--that when you were young, you wanted to be well-known, you know, as a writer. The idea of being, you know, celebrated was something that you wanted, but as soon as you kind of got it, you left town. You left the country and went to a place where people didn't know who you were and you didn't even speak the language, and it always seemed to me almost as a way of, intentionally or unintentionally, protecting yourself from being too well-known, protecting yourself against celebrity. Mr. SEDARIS: Well, I think--but that's something you can't really write about. You know, like, if you write about somebody giving you--you know, recognizing your name on your credit card and so giving you a free meal in a restaurant. You can't write about that, because other people can't really relate; it didn't happen to them, and you can't complain about it because people think, `What the hell is he complaining about? You know, I had to pay and leave a tip.' So--and I think I tend to write better from the viewpoint of somebody who's having to struggle for something, and so, therefore, moving to France, it was just sort of starting over and having to--you know, asking for even the smallest thing, and now, having been there for six years, it's so hard for me to open my mouth. I mean, with our friends, I can, but, you know, in a store, to ask where something is, in the post office--and I know how to say everything I need to, but especially if there are other people around, then I think of them listening to me and thinking about the mistakes that I'm making, and I just become completely drenched as if I had just been pushed into a swimming pool, sweat just pouring off my face. And then I moved to England and I realized, `Oh, it's not about language.' And the same thing happens to me in London. American English feels like such a foreign language to me there. I didn't know what Americans sounded like until I moved there, because we always think we don't have an accent, but when you're surrounded, when you're listening to the BBC and you're watching English television and then they have, like, American guests on, you think, `Oh, my God, that's what we sound like?' So I feel very foreign there, as foreign as I feel in France. And part of it, too, is, I think, you know, you grow up and you think, `God, I would give anything if someone came up to me and said that they'd read something that I had written and that they liked it.' And then when they do, you just want it to be over with. You know, you know they mean well, but, you know, I just sort of dig the nails of my hand into my palm to make anything hurt more... GROSS: Why? Mr. SEDARIS: ...than this. It's just--I mean, you want people to read what you've written, and you want them to enjoy it and you want them to tell you about it. Actually, you want them to tell you about it. I think that you want them to tell your younger self how much they liked it. Like the 20-year-old me would appreciate it and the 47-year-old me is just sort of embarrassed by it. I mean, I know--I met somebody last night. I met--there's a writer named Akhil Sharma who wrote a book called "An Obedient Father," and it was the best novel that I'd read that year. Boy, it was just a magnificent book, and he came to my reading. And I know that I embarrassed him because basically I should have just gotten down and knelt from the ground before him. That's basically what I did but with words. And I think that I embarrassed him, but at the same time, I needed to say that. I needed to say that I think that he is probably the most inventive writer that lives in American right now and that one of the reasons that I do not kill myself is the possibility that he'll write another book. And so maybe when people say nice things to me, I understand that they need to say it and then you need to be gracious and you need--I guess it's just being embarrassed, I suppose... GROSS: How... Mr. SEDARIS: ...but still you want--I guess the best thing is for them to write it down. GROSS: So that you're not facing them? Mr. SEDARIS: Yeah. GROSS: My guest is David Sedaris. He has a new best seller called "Dress Your Family in Corduroy and Denim." We'll talk more after a break. This is FRESH AIR. (Soundbite of music) GROSS: My guest is David Sedaris. His new collection of stories is called "Dress Your Family in Corduroy and Denim." He's been living in France for the past few years, but now he also has a place in London where he spends a lot of time. How are you spending your days now? Mr. SEDARIS: It takes seven to nine years to get a visa for France--I mean, seven to nine months, because everything has to be translated into French and you need 14 copies, and if you only have 13, they won't let you use their Xerox machine, and it's all done by hand and it's exhausting. And I got an English visa in an hour. I got a writer's visa and then they gave Hugh a visa as my boyfriend, and then I renewed my visa so I can apply for a passport in 2006. But I don't have a work visa. So I got a volunteer job and I think it's bad to talk about volunteer work if you do it from the kindness of your heart, but that was never my motivation. I just wanted to be tired at the end of the day and I wanted people to be waiting for me because if you write, you're just at home all day and no one ever looks at their watch and says, `Where the hell is he?' But with a job, then it was the first time in years that I had people waiting for me, and I took the subway and I looked around me and thought, `Look at us. We're all going to work.' And at the end of the day, I could say, `Boy, aren't we tired after our long day of work,' and it didn't matter what that work is. I just wanted to feel that there was a place for me. So it's been wonderful. I got a little job, and I just get up early in the morning and I write and then I go to my job, which is sort of all over the place. You know, like, one day I go and I help, like, an 80-year-old woman move jars from one shelf to the other. GROSS: This is working for the Red Cross? Mr. SEDARIS: No, it's called Age Concern, and it's a charity in England, just for concerns of older people. Then I do some painting and I do--you know, when there's a drop-in center for people, and just little tasks, you know, going around with a guy in a van and picking up things that people donated, and that's just because I wanted to see people's apartments, you know, to get across the threshold in a different apartment. So, again, it's not that I'm thinking, `Oh, I want to enrich the lives of blah, blah, blah.' No, I just want to set foot in people's apartments basically. And, plus, it gives me a chance to talk to people, and again, I don't have any friends there. I haven't made any friends, but if you can just talk to people, then you can live without the friends. You know, you move your jaws during the day and then you go home and you give them a rest, and that's enough for me. Even if you're telling people, `Take a left here,' or, `Don't forget to return your tray to the counter,' that's not friendship, but--I don't know--at least it's exercise for your jaw, and then you can go home at night and you don't feel so--you don't realize that you haven't talked to anyone in days. I mean, I talk to Hugh when he's there, but sometimes he's not there, and I'm there for weeks at a time by myself, and, you know, I see people at an outdoor restaurant and I think, `Well, what would happen if I just joined them and said, "I'm so sorry I'm late"?' GROSS: So... Mr. SEDARIS: When I applied for my job, the receptionist wrote down my name as Sid Harris. She thought it was two words. GROSS: Oh, right. Mr. SEDARIS: So then that's like my little alter ego there is Sid Harris. And so then when I would see people outdoors having fun, I thought that I could introduce myself and say that my name was Sid Harris and that we had met and that maybe I could trick them into it and form little friendships that way. It's so pathetic to tell people you're lonely. You know, so... GROSS: But you're lonely by choice in a way. I mean... Mr. SEDARIS: I don't know. I don't remember how to make friends. GROSS: But you've intentionally moved far away from your friends. You have intentionally uprooted yourself to a place where you know nobody. So... Mr. SEDARIS: You're right. GROSS: ...you've actually designed this for yourself. Mr. SEDARIS: I designed it, and now I'm complaining about it, yeah. GROSS: But that's part of why you designed it, so you'd have something to brush up against. That's what you just said, right? Mr. SEDARIS: Yeah. Yeah. Pretty much. GROSS: Yeah. So it seems to be what you require. Mr. SEDARIS: Well, plus--and I just like the act of moving. I really--if someone said to me tomorrow, `OK, you have to move to Poland,' I'd say, `OK,' and I would be absolutely fine with that. I really would. Now if they said you had to move to Bangkok, I'd put up a fuss, just because it's too hot for me there. GROSS: I mean, the funny thing is, while you're, you know, quote, "lonely" and in London or Paris, there are so many of your readers who would just kill to have a meal with you or sit down and talk with you over a cup of coffee. Mr. SEDARIS: It's a little bit different when you meet someone and it's not even, right? Like, if they... GROSS: You mean 'cause they feel they know you and you haven't read their work or you don't know who they are, so... Mr. SEDARIS: Right. Right. That's different than just--then I get anxious or embarrassed or whatever, you know, that I don't have anything, that when they say, `Oh, I've read your book,' and I can't say to them, `You know, I saw that dance program you did in the eighth grade,' or, `I loved that housecoat you made for your mother 17 years ago.' I don't--I can't... GROSS: You can't reciprocate. Mr. SEDARIS: ...reciprocate. GROSS: David, it's just been great to talk with you. Thank you so much. Mr. SEDARIS: Oh, thank you, Terry. GROSS: David Sedaris' new book is called "Dress Your Family in Corduroy and Denim." Next week it will be number one on The New York Times Best-Seller List. (Credits) GROSS: I'm Terry Gross.
- Description
- HALF: David Sedaris TEN: continued
- Description
- Fresh Air with Terry Gross, the Peabody Award-winning weekday magazine of contemporary arts and issues, is one of public radio's most popular programs. Each week, nearly 4.5 million people listen to the show's intimate conversations broadcast on more than 450 National Public Radio (NPR) stations across the country, as well as in Europe on the World Radio Network. Though Fresh Air has been categorized as a "talk show," it hardly fits the mold. Its 1994 Peabody Award citation credits Fresh Air with "probing questions, revelatory interviews and unusual insights." And a variety of top publications count Gross among the country's leading interviewers. The show gives interviews as much time as needed, and complements them with comments from well-known critics and commentators. Fresh Air is produced at WHYY-FM in Philadelphia and broadcast nationally by NPR.
- Description
- (1.) Humorist and NPR commentator DAVID SEDARIS. Hes the author of the bestselling collections Barrel Fever, Naked, and Me Talk Pretty One Day. His new collection is Dress Your Family in Corduroy and Denim (Little, Brown). SEDARIS essays appear regularly in Esquire, GQ and The New Yorker. His radio pieces can be heard on This American Life. In 2001 he became the third recipient of the Thurber Prize for American Humor.
- Media type
- Sound
- Duration
- 00:59:30
- Credits
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: David Sedaris
Distributor: NPR
Producing Organization: WHYY Public Media
- AAPB Contributor Holdings
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Identifier: 2004 0615 David Sedaris.wav (File Name)
Format: audio/vnd.wave
Duration: 00:59:30
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WHYY
Identifier: FA20040615_GCD (WHYY)
Format: audio/vnd.wave
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- Citations
- Chicago: “Fresh Air,” WHYY, American Archive of Public Broadcasting (GBH and the Library of Congress), Boston, MA and Washington, DC, accessed May 14, 2025, http://americanarchive.org/catalog/cpb-aacip-215-91fj71zc.
- MLA: “Fresh Air.” WHYY, American Archive of Public Broadcasting (GBH and the Library of Congress), Boston, MA and Washington, DC. Web. May 14, 2025. <http://americanarchive.org/catalog/cpb-aacip-215-91fj71zc>.
- APA: Fresh Air. Boston, MA: WHYY, American Archive of Public Broadcasting (GBH and the Library of Congress), Boston, MA and Washington, DC. Retrieved from http://americanarchive.org/catalog/cpb-aacip-215-91fj71zc