Matthew Binder: On Profane Morals, Appropriate Burdens, and His Novel, ‘Pure Cosmos Club’
Remember those No Fear shirts from the 90s? Matthew Binder’s Pure Cosmos Club is like one of those splattered in cocaine, blood, and paint. Come for the anthropomorphic dog and stay for the cult leader. People are calling novels “romps” an awful lot these days, but this romp doesn’t shy away from spelunking in the caverns of philosophy and religion too. I “sat down” with the author inside a Google doc and asked a few questions.
Claire Hopple: Your ekphrastic lines really enliven the story. Like how in one painting Gwenyth Paltrow “sprouted bat wings and horns, holding all of mankind in a saucer of anti-aging cream.” How did you go about adding these?
Matthew Binder: In the case of Gwenyth Paltrow, she really is quite menacing, isn’t she? At least I find her to be so. She’s a singular force greater than Satan and more powerful than God. My description simply tried to capture that sentiment
What I tried to evoke in my main character Paul’s art is an inscrutability that makes forming critical consensus about it impossible. The work is either brilliant or terrible, depending on who’s looking.
CH: Can you explain what you mean by art’s relationship to supernatural forces?
MB: The act of creation always feels like a gift from God. When I read over my work, I don’t feel like the author of it. It’s something beyond the narrow limits of my talent. In most things, I’m not so smart, yet I managed to write Pure Cosmos Club. There’s no explanation other than divine intervention.
CH: “It’s the pleasures that have been stolen from us that are most difficult to forget.” What do you think this does to us? And how do we recover?
MB: I’m not sure one ever does recover. At least for me, there are many lost pleasures that I will miss for the rest of my life. We simply learn to live with the loss, but I don’t believe we can fill the hole in our being.
CH: There’s a scene where the main character ends up vomiting on the bus, and it’s a great depiction of what I like to call the “catatonic empath” at work. And by “what I like to call,” I mean I literally just made that up but have been experiencing it all my life. What do you do when you hold such strong feelings of empathy that you can’t move?
MB: My beloved mom died two weeks ago after a short sickness. Witnessing her suffering was just awful, and I felt powerless. But I did what I could to bring her comfort. I wrote her letters and talked to her at long length, always expressing how loved she is. And in the end, she wasn’t scared. She felt like her energy was transforming into something new and beautiful. She faced death with more courage than any battle-hardened soldier. It was quite inspiring, actually.
CH: Oh no. I’m so sorry about your mother! When you have a good mom, I imagine her death is worse than your own.
“Everyone eventually betrays everyone else, even themselves.” Do you think art—both your book itself and the works described within it—is the human response to this betrayal? If not, what kind of response is it?
MB: Certainly, Paul’s art is an attempt to make amends for a betrayal he committed against his childhood best friend, which in a roundabout way led to the friend’s death. This betrayal haunts Paul always and drives him toward his aims.
But I don’t think of my art as a response to betrayal. I think my art is an attempt at seeking immortality. There are only three ways available for normal people to achieve immortality: having children, making lots of money, and creating art. I don’t have the sufficient interest in money required to do all the work necessary to make a lot of it. I’ve never felt the impulse to father a child, though that may change. That leaves me with art as my sole way of making a mark on the world.
CH: Care to elaborate on the main character’s penchant for bubble gum?
MB: Some people drink, others do drugs. Savvy people exercise. We all have our coping mechanisms for dealing with stress. Paul chews gum late at night to help him sleep. At times, up to fifteen pieces. It’s an odd quirk, but probably not one of his most peculiar idiosyncrasies. This is a man, after all, whose sole companion is a quiche-obsessed, disabled terrier-mix dog called Blanche.
CH: I used to write a column that paired books with movies, and I guess the urge is still alive. Your novel somehow vibes with both Party Girl (1995) and The Ninth Configuration (1980). It even has the charm of Parker Posey and the frenzied depth of Stacy Keach. What would you pair it with?
MB: That’s an interesting question. I’ve never considered that my book might be paired with a film, or that it shares specific qualities with a particular film. But, of course, it must. While I believe my work is original, it can’t possibly be wholly original. There must be other art with similar aesthetics. Honestly, though, I’ve probably seen fewer movies than anyone I know, so I’m the wrong person to answer your question. That said, I’m very glad you answered it yourself. Tonight, I’ll watch one of the movies you referenced. My narcissistic curiosity longs to know how my work is perceived.
CH: How did you develop such momentum with your pacing?
MB: Every few years, I quit whatever job I’m doing so I can write a novel. Actually, in the case of Pure Cosmos Club, I was fired. Regardless, I need to drop all other responsibilities to write a book. I’m not a good multi-tasker. I can’t serve two masters at the same time. There’s always a need for money, however, so I can’t take off too much time from work. This pressure forces me to write quickly. I believe writing quickly helps to provide both consistency and momentum. Besides, the idea of tinkering with the same book for many years makes me queasy. The worst quality any piece of art can possess is having been labored over for too long. It makes the work stale and reek of effort.
Once I’ve completed a first draft, the book’s raison d'être reveals itself, and the fun begins. Pure Cosmos Club’s successful execution depended upon the creation of a novel set of criteria for aesthetic coherence. Despite the seeming chaos of Paul’s mind, his behavior adheres to definitive patterns. Any of the book’s passages that strayed from this internal logic were immediately stricken. And as the book progresses, the intensity of Paul’s behavior heightens, giving the work the momentum you noticed.
CH: Your book shows a man’s regression as a progression. What prompted you to build this structure?
MB: My interest was to create a character who operates within the strictures of a radically different ethical framework than everyone else, and then to see what happens when he attempts to navigate the normal world of profane morals. Of course, Paul suffers a complete psychic breakdown and is then forced to find a new way by which to make sense of his existence.
CH: There’s a line Janie says that I can’t get out of my head: “Even a chance at happiness requires us to give up all desire.” Do you think anticipation is better than fulfillment?
MB: It’s so much more exciting to want something than to attain it. There’s no more empty feeling than to fulfill one’s desires.
CH: Are you shackled to an “appropriate burden” at the moment?
MB: An “appropriate burden” is anything a person commits themselves to that gives their life purpose, and it always requires a degree of sacrifice. Writing Pure Cosmos Club was an appropriate burden. Right now, I’m between books, in my season of making money. This will set me up so I can take time to find a new appropriate burden.
I’m hoping to one day find an appropriate burden that isn’t as self-serving as writing books. In this way, I envy activists, even though I generally despise them. Activism, at least as I’ve always witnessed it, stands in tension with honest inquiry. One needs to blind themselves to inconvenient truths to be a successful activist. Yet I believe it would be a wonderfully delicious feeling to find something to give myself over to.
CH: Where did this idea of existence as evasion come from?
MB: It’s my experience that many people believe they’ve made a series of awful mistakes, and that they’re now living in exile from the life they were meant to live. I made a pact with myself long ago only to live with regrets of which I can be proud. And while I find people who are dogmatic about their principles to be worse than dreadful, I try to adhere to this policy. Yet it's becoming more difficult now that I’m growing older and starting to suffer from the trappings of adulthood. These days, I’m less likely to take daring risks, because I’ve settled into a degree of comfort. Returning to a previous question, perhaps my future art will be about my current self-betrayal.
*
Matthew Binder is the author of the novels Pure Cosmos Club, The Absolved, and High in the Streets. He is also a primary member of the recording project Bang Bang Jet Away.
