"You do not need to leave your room. Remain sitting at your table and listen. Do not even listen, simply wait, be quiet, still and solitary. The world will freely offer itself to you to be unmasked; it has no choice, it will roll in ecstasy at your feet."
— Franz Kafka
D. O. Dodd, considered by the UK's Jewish Telegraph Canada's "mysterious" and "reclusive" author who "won't reveal his/her gender," puts little stock in the myth writers need to bend over backwards to sell their books. Books ought to sell themselves. The creator of Whispers the Missing Child, The Hostage Taker and the just-published JEW, an astonishing work marked by its stark and stripped stylistic attack representing a departure of sorts (or, perhaps, a destination), does stand apart, at least, in terms of its strategies. Few manage to make volumes where structure and content echo each other exponentially, shaping a third work of sorts, the one hanging around the corners of the brain long after the narrative concludes.
When I asked Dodd about a brief interview (after reading JEW) as well as an excerpt from the latest, Dodd graciously agreed; additionally, when I wondered if I ought to top this piece with the striking cover of the book (again), Dodd sent along a dazzling trio of drawings created by Claire Weissman Wilks specifically for the book.
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In the following excerpt, JEW's unnamed main character wakes to discover himself in a mass grave:
. . . As he struggled, twisting and pushing, straining his muscles, he felt hard edges intrude upon his body, attempting to tangle with him as they shifted woodenly to become displaced.
The light closed over in one space and opened in bits in another. The drone of buzzing became louder.
He felt what must be a foot with his foot. Sole to sole. Frigid.
The muscles in his neck went taut as he turned his head to see a stopped living thing unto itself, an orb, trained on him with vacuous intent.
Then — as though bared by a shadowed hint of dawn — a face became apparent.
A woman with her breathless mouth open. Stalled.
It was then that he found the strength.
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J. F.: Biography may enhance a given artistic work's extrinsic value, understanding of a work's genesis, creation, etc.; however, when it all comes down to dust-ups? Biography's incidental to the work itself; the work ought to stand on its own two feet without extrinsic biographical triviata and tediosities. What do you think, though?
D. O. D.: The genesis of any work is a blot. Something trampled on or broken open. Something crashing down from the sky.
The biography of an individual writer means nothing. If not one person, seeing the moment and expressing it in a particular way, or with a particular sleight of hand, then another doing so at a later date. We are all made of the same joy and sadness.
There is nothing individual in fiction. Fiction is simply a cleverly constructed lie penned by the best trained monkey. One in short pants, one in a suit, one in a dress, one in cute bloomers . . .
You guard your personal life to an exacting degree. Does this sometimes turn burdensome for you? The endless question/s, the speculations, etc. Or, does amusement foot the bill better? You put your work out there on your terms; you consider this essential, IMO; and, the question: What attracts you to this position?
I am no more burdened by the perjury of my existence than the next person. As for amusement, I find comfort in laughing at the preposterous fluke of who I am.
