Arguably, The New Orphic Review is one of the most important literary journals in Canada, and its influence is certainly felt in small but profound pockets of the avant-garde in the states. Please give a detailed account of how The New Orphic Review came about.
The New Orphic Review grew out of New Orphic Publishers. By the early 1990s I had become disenchanted with mainstream publishing in Canada and the United States. My experiences with Stoddart Publishing and Thistledown Press had left a sour taste in my mouth. In addition to that, I realized that the type of literature I was interested in producing wasn’t going to allow me to survive financially; that is, if I was fortunate enough to find a publisher. By then, I had had contracts with three different trade houses and had many dozens of stories and poems published in literary magazines. However, I didn’t like second-guessing whether a manuscript would meet with the approval of a publishing house. That sort of thing tends to dampen my creativity, I find. So, I decided to become my own publisher. That meant soiling the ‘good name’ I had established for myself in the literary environs of Canada. It also meant having to take a financial risk—to put my money where my mouth was, to use a vernacular phrase.
I’m a writer who enjoys employing a wide range of approaches and voices. Writing two books in the same manner has a deadly effect on my creativity. In creative writing programs, students are taught to find a voice. Usually, that means finding a voice deemed publishable by trade publishers. Once a writer has a book published by a commercial house, he is expected to churn out books in the same manner. Employing one voice is too restrictive for someone like me. There are a myriad of voices clamoring for recognition in my head. By becoming my own publisher, I was able to give voice to the clamoring multitudes, if you will.
You’ve no doubt noticed that The New Orphic Review doesn’t cater to any particular approach, style or voice. That’s because it is the idiosyncratic product of an editor who likes to entertain many types of writing—from surrealism to naturalism to meta-fiction. Nowadays, most literary magazines are connected to university writing programs. Writing programs turn out students with voices very similar to their instructors. For a while, certain voices become fashionable in fiction and poetry. I find literary journals often suffer from a deadly sameness. My hope is that The New Orphic Review doesn’t suffer from that.
In brief, The New Orphic Review reflects the editor-in-chief’s quirky, obstinate, eclectic disposition. However, in the best Orphic tradition, I prefer literature that gets to the essence of existence. That’s a rather broad mandate.
One of my favorite New Orphic publications is The Flat Earth Excavation Company, a collection of contemporary Surrealist writing. In the collection, you write a detailed account of the original Surrealist movement as it began in France: this poses the question, is Surrealism still truly alive after the original movement began? How do practitioners of modern Surrealism differ from the original movement, how might they be the same?
Back in the early 20th century Guillaume Apollinaire, the poet and critic, coined two terms that he applied to artists and writers: Orphist and surrealist. The first term didn’t have a lot of longevity, but the second one did. André Breton picked up the surrealist banner and ran with it. However, after publishing the Surrealist Manifesto, Breton become something of a tyrant, one who enjoyed excommunicating fellow surrealists. Apparently, he was of the opinion that the unconscious, which is responsible for producing ‘thought’s dictation’, was in need of an iron-fisted ruler. When I created my publishing house I wanted to give a nod of recognition in the direction of Apollinaire more than Breton.
Writers who are disenchanted with mainstream literature, for personal if not social reasons, often write out of defiance. There’s something in them that they feel is worth preserving, but which society doesn’t deem all that necessary to its survival. That’s the case with me; I write out of defiance. I suspect today’s practitioners of surrealism operate out of a similar modus operandi. Many of the current practitioners of surrealism might not be aware of its historic underpinnings; my guess is that they feel instructed by the unconscious to follow a very personal agenda—an agenda they might only be dimly aware of—but nonetheless that would meet the original surrealist mandate.
By the way, it’s interesting to note that Hans Arp and Carl Jung moved in circles that generously overlapped. Inventions having to do with psychoanalysis roughly paralleled the inventions having to do with surrealism. Take a look at Jung’s Seven Sermons to the Dead; it reads like a surreal text. As long as there is an unconscious, I suspect there will be surrealist writers and artists. They will share similarities to the original surrealists, but they will be products of the times in which they live.
Personally, after writing a historical novel like Good Ol’ Boy: Willis V. McCall, I find it refreshing to write a surreal novella like The Shipwrecked Heart, in which a mammoth, beating heart ends up being stranded on a rocky beach. The shipwrecked heart arrives with an implied question: why has it become stranded on the beach? My unconscious mind ultimately had to provide the answer. Although Good Ol’ Boy and The Shipwrecked Heart are extremely different in style and approach, they nonetheless have many themes in common.
Similarly, The Flat Earth Excavation Company enfolds a question: how deeply can one dig before breaking through to the other side? As long as we ask ourselves such questions, and allow the imagination lots of range when it comes to providing an answer, surrealism will survive.
Existentialism, as a literary movement, seems quite dead in contemporary literature. It even seems difficult to find echoes of it at all in today’s writers. You’ll never find anyone these days calling themselves an existential writer, or poet for that matter, but quite a few are quick to call themselves Surrealists. How to explain this? How is it that Surrealism has seemingly outlived Existentialism, which for quite some time seemed much more potent and everlasting than Surrealism?
The answer to this question is implied in my answer to the above question. Surrealism is the product of the unconscious and existentialism is the product of the will—of someone who is engage. I have written in both the surreal and the existential tradition; for instance, Medieval Hour in the Author’s Mind is an example of the former and Man’s Sadness is an example of the latter. Existentialism thrived because of the strong personalities of Jean-Paul Sartre, Simone de Beauvoir and Albert Camus, and because of its historic underpinnings in the French Resistance during the Second World War.
To live a life that is engage requires moral if not historic commitment and that can often result in a writer making an easy target of himself. Nowadays, writers aren’t keen on making targets of themselves—by standing up in defiance of America’s invasion of Iraq, for instance. They fear being ostracized; they fear being investigated by Homeland Security. To tell you the truth, I have discovered that most writers are pretty weak-kneed. Gestures of defiance, even in the name of freedom, don’t interest them all that much; they are a lot more concerned with establishing careers for themselves.
Being a surrealist is a more passive position to take than being an Existentialist. Psychologically, one can be in opposition to this, that or the other thing, but one doesn’t have to stand up in opposition to anything in particular. General, ill-defined discontent is what motivates many surrealists. It’s easier to express one’s discontent than it is to act in defiance of the prevailing social order.
Another thing that might have contributed to surrealism’s longevity is the fact that it doesn’t depend on strong personalities who are prepared to take stands on political issues—not nowadays, anyway. Many of the original surrealists were political, but that has since gone by the wayside, for the most part. Another reason why surrealism continues to thrive might have to do with the fact that it is a lot more playful than existentialism could possibly be; it is a repository for unconscious play. When I say this I’m reminded of the paintings of Paul Klee. But, let’s not forget, Paul Klee, who wasn’t a particularly political fellow, found himself designated a ‘degenerated artist’ during Hitler’s nightmarish reign of power.
Also, it mustn’t be overlooked that the term ‘surreal’ has become part of today’s lexicon. It is employed by people who know absolutely nothing about surrealism’s historic underpinnings. Surrealism has been taken out of the hands of surrealists and put in the hands of the unknowing public, which has contributed to its survival. That wasn’t the case with existentialism.
You’re on record for saying that Canadian publishing has become incestuous, and I’ve noticed that many Canadian literary journals will not accept submissions from outside Canada, why is this the case? Almost no journal in the states excludes submissions from Canada or any other country for that matter.
Most Canadian literary magazines are funded by the Canada Council, as well as provincial funding bodies. Magazines that receive Canada Council funds are expected to tip the scale heavily in favor of Canadian writers. A mediocre Canadian writer will get the nod before a good American writer, because the magazine’s financial survival depends on it.
As you have probably noticed, The New Orphic Review isn’t funded by Canadian taxpayers. It is a totally independent publication. I publish what appeals to me, without deference to the Canada Council or other funding bodies. Most of the writers you see in the pages of The New Orphic Review happen to be Americans; indeed, my associate editor, Margrith Schraner, has jokingly suggested that I call it The Expatriate Review. In Canada, I’m still viewed as an interloper, as an outsider, but that’s just fine with me.
As editor of The New Orphic Review, do you detect any changes in contemporary writing since the inception of your journal over ten years ago? Is there anyway you can comment on the direction you think literature is going in the 21st century?
Right now, from my limited vantage point as editor-in-chief of The New Orphic Review, literature seems to be heading in every direction simultaneously. However, that impression might be due to the sort of writing the NOR is in the habit of attracting. My big regret is that I can’t afford to publish a lot more of the manuscripts that arrive in the mail. I’d be a pauper if I did that.
I don’t have my finger on the pulse of mainstream literature. Because I write and publish out of defiance, I tend not to care what is happening in the mainstream.
Please give a detailed account of how The New Orphic Review is published. How do you select material for publication? How do you print it and distribute it, etc?
The New Orphic Review is published twice a year, in the spring and in the fall. I select what appeals to me, but I always make room for first-time writers who show promise. Because I like a range of approaches, styles and content, the NOR reflects my personal biases. I used to take the prototype of the magazine to a printer here in Nelson. The pages and covers came back to me in a pile, and I would then bind them so they assumed the disguise of a book. However, that approach has since become too expensive as well as too time-consuming, so now I put the text into PageMaker and the cover into PhotoShop and send each issue to Blitzprint in Calgary, Alberta.
As far as distribution goes, libraries are the most consistent among my subscribers. Harvard, Wisconsin-Madison and York are a few of the subscribing universities. Individual subscribers vary in number. Many of them are also writers. Many have stuck with me from the beginning, but an equal number have since fallen to the wayside. For the most part, publishing a literary magazine is a thankless task. To be quite frank, the NOR is a money drain to the parent company, New Orphic Publishers. I publish it out of defiance, and because it offers me a small window onto the literary landscape. Certainly, it doesn’t make sound financial sense to be publishing The New Orphic Review.
For many of us, the small press is the last hope for saving authentic literature from disappearing forever into the jaws of commercial publishing. Certainly journals like The New Orphic Review are a sanctuary for true literature. Please comment on why you think The New Orphic Review is important for the preservation of authentic writing.
Your question flatters me. I’m not sure The New Orphic Review is ‘important to the preservation of authentic writing’. I have made a habit of doing what I like to do most—despite the odds! I like ‘discovering’ talented writers more than I like ‘preserving authentic writing’. Because, by nature, I am defiant, quirky and an iconoclast, I tend to attract writers of a similar nature to the magazine. We should all write as those we don’t care about acquiring an audience. We should publish in the same spirit—out of defiance, because, after all, the solar system is sooner or later going to collapse, and everything we are familiar with is going to perish, now isn’t it?
What do you believe the future of literature to be in the 21st century?
I haven’t the vaguest notion. There may not even be any paper to print our missives on in the future.
Are you at liberty to describe your escape from the U.S. military during the Vietnam War? How has your own writing been affected by living in exile in British Columbia?
I have discussed my reasons for leaving the U.S. in many articles, books, and TV interviews. Anyone who wants to become familiar with my past should read Margrith Schraner’s book, The Reluctant Author: The Life and Literature of Ernest Hekkanen. But, in short, I was a member of the Students for a Democratic Society during the 1960s. My anti-Vietnam War activities brought me to the attention of the FBI, which found it necessary to monitor my movements. By my third draft notice in 1969, I decided it was wise to move to Canada. My father, who worked for the U.S. Corps of Army Engineers, lost his job because of my political involvements. In its efforts to monitor my whereabouts, the FBI interviewed neighbors, instructors, employers and friends; the idea was to poison the environment in which I lived, which is a favorite tactic of the FBI. Even now, I’m on the FBI watch list, and because of that I no longer set foot in the U.S.
I have lived in Canada for 38 years. I continue to feel like someone who straddles a fence. In Canada, I’m too American for the likes of my colleagues in the literary community. In America, I’m a literary nonentity. Last year, I participated in the first Our Way Home Peace Event and Reunion—indeed, I was the main financial backer of the event. I was fortunate not to lose my shirt, as well as a considerable layer of skin. The Our Way Home Reunion is a political event where draft dodgers and deserters mix with anti-war veterans and political activists—in defiance of America’s foreign policy!
Because my resistance to the Vietnam War was a pivotal event in my life, it often surfaces in my writing. The Vietnam War, and now the Iraq War, have a lot to say about America’s looming shadow. As you may or may not know, America killed something like 3.5 million Vietnamese civilians. America has never admitted to that fact, let alone dealt with it. The atrocities committed by America have been conveniently deleted from its history books.
You also teach writing from time to time; do you think writing can be taught, do you think writing should be taught?
Teaching creative writing, especially at universities, has become an industry. One can facilitate a writer’s progress, but one can’t teach an individual to become a writer. Writing programs exist in order to provide destitute writers with a steady income.
Your question also begs a further question: What sort of writers are being produced by writing programs? Do they write text for TV Today or do they write significant literature? To tell you the truth, a writer determined to write significant literature must, out of necessity, have a pretty tough hide. It also helps to be a bit obsessed.
I feel a sign should be posted above every creative writing department in the country: Enter at Your Own Risk. For most of us, writing isn’t a wise career move. Only since the year 2000 have I been able to write fulltime, and even now the rewards aren’t great. But as I have already said, I write out of defiance.
Any last comments on the small press in the 21st century?
Be prepared to be ignored, and thrive despite it.
I noticed you don’t correspond by email. Do you have a particular aversion to technology? Are you of the opinion that a writer’s work is somehow weakened or played false by too much contact with technology?
I use email to correspond with a select number of individuals. I have nothing against technology. Indeed, I wouldn’t be able to perform my job as a writer, editor and publisher without taking advantage of today’s technology. However, I do need to protect my time; I do that by not making myself too available to the public.
Do you have any advice for would be editors who want to start-up their own literary journals in this day and age?
Do it because you love literature, not because you expect applause or acclaim. Expect most people to be indifferent to your magazine. Do it out of defiance, because you value what is immutable in human experience.
Ernest Hekkanen’s intimidating
versatility and productivity have increasingly defied easy categorization and
marketing. Although Hekkanen is clearly one of British Columbia’s most
remarkable writers, his work is seldom recognized in mainstream publications
and Canada’s literary festivals have consistently overlooked him. Library
systems and bookstores depend on established conduits for ordering books,
leaving staunchly independent producers such as Hekkanen out in the cold. His
work frequently points to dark but universal recesses of the mind. As a
sophisticated do-it-yourselfer, Hekkanen has gradually outpaced Adolf Hungry
Wolf as British Columbia’s most prolific and serious self-publisher. He and
partner Margrith Schrander also operate the New Orphic Gallery and New
Orphic Review from their home.
Louis Bourgeois is the Executive Director of the Mississippi non-profit arts coalition, VOX PRESS, and is the Director of the Mississippi Prison Writes Institute, a literacy agency that serves incarcerated writers and artists. He is primarily a poet, but he has published translations, fiction, memoirs, poetry, and interviews in over 300 magazines and journals and is the author of the National Book Award nominated, The Gar Diaries, and the award-winning collection of poems, OLGA. He graduated from Louisiana State University with a BA in English and was the first graduate of The University of Mississippi’s MFA program in Creative Writing..
