SOURCE: Wiesel, Elie, Robert Franciosi, and Brian Shaffer. “An Interview with Elie Wiesel.” Contemporary Literature 28, no. 3 (fall 1987): 281-300.

[In the following interview, Wiesel discusses his literary philosophy, the role of history in his work, and the impact of Holocaust literature.]

The public and private worlds of Elie Wiesel seemed to come together as we talked in his Manhattan office. From the tenth floor we could hear sounds of heavy construction, of automobiles, of the noises that Wiesel says “characterize our generation.” In the midst of this Wiesel himself was a figure of calm with a voice that barely rose above the din.

It is a refreshing and unusual experience to speak with a writer of truly international fame extending well beyond the literary sphere, who nevertheless possesses an inherent reticence of manner and speech. Elie Wiesel is not a broker of the casual word in an era in which literary success sometimes seems to depend more on glib public relations than on a bond between author and reader. Wiesel remains committed to the sanctity and mystery of language—even when called upon to enter the public realm. One senses his discomfort in this public role, be it before the President of the United States or at a reception sponsored by a local Hillel House. Such discomfort, however, has not prevented him from speaking eloquently and compellingly for justice, communication, and remembrance.

Since the publication of Night in 1958, he has written nearly thirty books, but conversation with Elie Wiesel soon reveals that he has little interest in commenting on the work of other writers or on “the current scene in fiction.” He will discuss his own works as well as his thoughts on the nature of literature, history, or memory, for example, but even so, one still senses in the man a restraint. As he said during a November 1985 lecture in Iowa City, “literature is the antithesis of indifference,” yet each word, whether spoken or written, must also be an act of responsibility. It is finally the private exchange between author and reader, between reader and word, that is most important and most fascinating to Wiesel. He has been called a “messenger to all humanity.” Elie Wiesel is a messenger in pursuit of silence, one who writes toward the moment when testimony is finally given, words are finally understood, and the silent mystery that lies between the words speaks at last.

Nine months after our conversation, Elie Wiesel was awarded the 1986 Nobel Peace Prize.

[Franciosi and Shaffer]: You have said that one purpose of literature is “to correct injustices.” By what means does literature affect the world for the better?

[Wiesel]: Literature did affect the world in the past. Whether it can affect it now, I am not sure. In the past, after all, the great changes occurred thanks to words: the great books, the great religions, the great cultures, the great traditions; whether they were written in hieroglyphs, or on papyri, or on stone, still they are words. And for me the words of the Law, the story of the Law, or the story of the people who benefited from the Law, all of them are part of the same category—the category of literature. In that case you may say that surely all of these words came to improve the human condition. Now … who knows? Now I think we live in a dehumanized era; words have lost their innocence and their power. They may have destructive power; whether they have redemptive power as they used to, I am not so sure. Except for individuals. Today what is important is to help one person, another person, for one minute, another minute.

So you think literature can still have a significant effect on individuals but that its effect on society as a whole is diminished?

Diminished, yes. In the past, in the eighteenth, nineteenth centuries, toward the beginning of the twentieth century, it affected society. Today literature must be either protest or consolation.

Would you characterize your own work as predominantly protest or consolation?

Mainly protest, but here and there … I am a student of the ancient prophetic texts; every prophet usually had to be both a seer of pain and a consoler. I wish I had the power to console. I try, meaning I desperately seek hope. The emphasis is on desperate.

That prophetic image you just used makes me think of someone like Jeremiah who protested but paid a great personal cost.

Again, I identify not with Jeremiah but with the students of Jeremiah. I am surely not a prophet, but I am a student of Jeremiah and I love Jeremiah. I am glad you mentioned him, because of all the prophets he is the one whose writings I am closest to. He is the one who foresaw tragedy, lived tragedy, and remembered tragedy to write about it. But Ezekiel too and Isaiah too, they all had words of pain, which were followed by words of consolation.

You have consistently described yourself as a teller of stories. Today much literature emphasizes aesthetic design and verbal play over storytelling as such. Do you feel these realms are mutually exclusive?

Between the experimental novel and the experiential novel there is conflict. I do not say that one is better than the other, but simply that for my temperament, for my approach, my vision, my inner dreams, one is more apt than the other. I am not for the experimental novel, although I try experiments in every novel. Why? Simply because I believe that the subjects I try to deal with, at least in some of my books, are beyond language, so I have to find a new language. The story defies imagination, so I have to invent a kind of new imagination. Therefore, the structure is always different and the very setting invites change. But it is still a classical story; I need a story. While Proust's description of one chair or one breakfast lasts twenty pages, I am much more influenced by the Talmudic concept, which is condensation—one sentence occasionally describing four centuries, four generations of scholars—and the writings in the ghettos, with their crisp, tense, short sentences.

Such as the Chronicle of the Lodz Ghetto?

The chronicles, all the chronicles from all the ghettos had to be short—and I understand why—because any sentence could have been the last sentence, the last word, the last period. They never knew when the police would come, when the Gestapo would knock at the door; therefore, every line had to be part of testimony and testament. And subconsciously, at least in my early works, I had the same obsession, the same attitude as these chroniclers.

So you feel a sense of urgency perhaps behind telling the story which might be lessened if too much attention is given to verbal play?

Absolutely. I did not want the verbal play, it's usually adding words. My work is just the opposite: removing, eliminating words, to say less and less and less, always less.

Is it possible that part of the diminishment of literature's effect on society can be attributed to the fascination with surface verbal texture in serious literature?

It is possible, but it happens not only in literature; it occurs everywhere. Our society talks too much. Never has society heard more noise than now.

While watching the newscasts yesterday about the space shuttle disaster, I switched from one channel to the next and heard an incredible number of voices.¹

Turn on the set any day, open the channels and you will hear chit chat. Add to it the telephones and the radio stations, and the satellites, the communications satellites. We are in a hurry to bring more words to one another. Once upon a time you sent a letter by ship, it took weeks. Now it's instant delivery! We are buried under an avalanche of words. Sounds. Voices. Noises. I think this is what characterizes our generation, the obsession to avoid silence. People are afraid of silence. As for myself, I believe in silence. I try to introduce silence into my writings. If any book of mine does not have the weight of silence, it is a bad book, I would not publish it.

You have said that in literature “the weight of silence determines the weight of art.”

Absolutely, it does. The mystery lies in silence, not in words. And what art is there without mystery?

Many of the experimental novelists and short story writers would feel that they put much emphasis on the word, but I sense that your view of the word and theirs is quite different.

Maybe it is due to my upbringing. I come from a religious family. At a very young age I began studying the Bible, Talmud, and some mystical books. As you know, mysticism emphasizes what lies between words rather than what is in words. This silence that separates the words is what excites and fascinates me.

I recall a previous interview in which you talk about the burden of copying a religious text and making sure that each word is exact.²

Correct. Furthermore, we are told of a master speaking to his disciple, who is a scribe. “Should you omit or add one letter,” said the Master, “the whole world will be destroyed.” Some arrogance, but also some responsibility. I am surprised that his disciple could be a scribe afterwards. If somebody were to tell me that as a writer one word of mine would have such an impact, I would not write. I would be afraid to write.

That is quite a burden.

It is not only a burden, it is also a metaphor for a responsible conscience.

Let me shift direction. I read that you were recently in Germany and that one of the issues you specifically addressed was President Reagan's visit to the military cemetery at Bitburg last May. You were quoted as saying to a group of Germans and Americans, “Had we met before Bitburg, we would have avoided Bitburg, much misunderstanding and injustice would have been avoided.” This seems to echo your idea that literature can correct injustices.

I did not seek that debate. I closed it the moment the President went there. I did not want to reopen it; it would have been useless and senseless. But one must emphasize again the need for exchange, for words, the use of words, in spite of my reluctance with regard to language. Still, there's nothing else available to us. From psychology we know that violence is simply another form of language. When the ordinary language has no more role to play, then people resort to violence. As long as we can talk we don't hit each other. So on a deeper level, words can still be used and injustices can be corrected.

Were there any lessons that you derived from that series of events—and I am referring to you as a writer—on the effect a writer can or cannot have on society?

Oh, I am modest. I am very modest about this. I have published now some twenty-six books and three volumes of short essays, and yet I would not say that I have changed things. What I tried to do in the beginning was to move the survivors to open up, to bear witness, to wager on memory, to wager on renewed ties. Then it was for the children of the survivors to do the same. I always believed in being inclusive rather than exclusive. In other words: every person must see himself or herself as witness. I wanted the witnesses to give testimony. I tried. Maybe the book that did the most good for the Russian Jews was The Jews of Silence. Twenty-one years ago it created some awareness. As for the other causes, for Biafra, for the Ethiopian children, for helpless people everywhere whom I tried to help, or as far as the nuclear threat is concerned … No … I don't believe that society has changed. Maybe certain segments of society—here, there. But then one person, that's enough for me.

There's a book of essays being prepared by Geoffrey Hartman of Yale …

Yes, he is bringing out a book on Bitburg.³ He asked me to write a foreword, but I do not want to capitalize on Bitburg. I did what I had to do. I tried even then, when I got all the exposure which I didn't look for, never to mention any of my books, because I don't want to sell books through Bitburg or through anything else. My publishers are always telling me of their frustration because I don't make use of my exposure. I have never done it. I will not do anything to sell books, it's ridiculous.

Is it surprising that such a book is being edited by a literary critic and theorist? One would expect, of course, political analysis of that incident and historical analysis.

Yes, but why not, after all. I am sure that it's not only about Bitburg, but something more general about the whole issue. I am sure it's going to be a valuable effort.

“The opposite of history,” you have said, “is not myth but forgetfulness.” This idea seems to be at the heart of the Bitburg incident. We appear to be in a very crucial period for historical memory, because we forget things so quickly. That's the lesson that I derive from Bitburg, that we have a very short historical memory today.

Because we know too much. Too much is published. And therefore the danger today is still forgetfulness, but this time through trivialization. People see a television series on a given subject and they think, “Now we know.” All they know is what they have seen on television, and even then they forget part or they remember only the love story or this or that silly, nonsensical event. They read a cheap novel and they think “Now we know,” and so forth. For a civilization, that's dangerous. That's forgetfulness, and in that case probably, as you say, our historical memory, our ability to remember what the past has been, what the past has left us, has weakened.

Is it just because of an excess of information that it has weakened?

Yes, that's an element in the equation. Also, I think that there is something in human beings that rejects the idea of so much evil. We don't want to know that people can wield such power, and that so many can be bystanders, or that the leaders of so many people can be so indifferent. Guilt is something people reject. Therefore people naturally reject this period. In addition, if you add the fact that communication today has such potential and that so much is being written, so much is being shown. … The whole Event becomes entertainment. It's all entertainment. After all, think about it: Auschwitz as entertainment, a docudrama. There's something wrong with that. The media give people what they can take and what makes it palatable.

In Imagining Hitler Alvin Rosenfeld discusses the trivializing of these events as a common phenomenon of popular culture.

Absolutely, that's a very good, a very powerful analysis, one of the best, and he is right.

The writer William Styron has said that “when a novelist is dealing with history, he has to be able to say that such and such a fact is totally irrelevant, that certain facts can be dispensed with out of hand, because to yield to them would be to yield, or to compromise, the novelist's own aesthetic honesty.” How much does a writer of fiction owe to the facts of history?

Not much, if in his view history is unconnected to the era. If he were to write about the Pharaohs in Egypt or about Louis XIV, that's one thing. But to write about history while those who were its protagonists, or those who lived through it, are still alive—I think that I would expect a writer to have more honesty, more intellectual honesty, and above all more sensitivity. Simply because he has to think of the people who are still here. And that adds another measure of responsibility on his or her shoulders. That's why I don't agree with that position. A “distanciation” in this respect makes the writer unworthy of his vocation.

So there's an obligation to the reader as well?

It's a matter of commitment to humanity, to truth, to sensitivity. What is writing if not sensitivity? And not to be sensitive to people who are alive, in addition to the dead who are still present to those who are alive and who remember them—there's something terribly wrong with that.

How do you respond to some of the theories that history itself is another form of fabulation, that it's a text like any other text?

It depends again on what history you talk about. Today we have access to many sources. What's happening today after all is part of modern technology. The Second World War is the best documented war in history. We know it from all sides. From the perpetrators, from the aggressors, and from the aggressed, from the killers and the victims, including bystanders. They all kept records. Of course, not every single person kept records, but few events were not recorded in some way by more than one person. So we have, naturally, a good deal of it at our disposal. Therefore, it's not simply fabulation. That would mean that, let's say, hundreds of people would fabulate the same thing. It's a bit too much, to think that hundreds of people who have seen the same thing, would write the same accounts, would come to the same conclusions, if what they say were not true.

Is there a certain abrogation of responsibility when someone takes this point of view, that history is just another text?

No, I understand, I understand the temptation. Again, I do not criticize, I do not judge. They are right, why shouldn't they be? After all, history is part of culture and culture must be a debate. We must hear more than one view. It would be terrible if only my view were correct; not at all, we must listen to more than one and therefore their view is theirs and my view is mine.

When you were in Germany you recalled the Holocaust and said that “only those who were there will know what it meant. The paradox is we cannot tell the story, and yet it must be told.” You have said this in many of your books. I am reminded of a statement made by a literary critic. He is writing about James Joyce, yet it seems appropriate to this situation. He describes “an art of surround and periphery, implying and evoking, but never naming, the center.” Must all the literature of the Holocaust, out of necessity, avoid naming that center?

No, I think that this event is special, it is unique, and so I cannot compare it to any other; consequently, even the attitudes toward it are not the same.

Many literary theorists would say that language is inadequate to express any of that: even a mundane event, let alone one of such magnitude. Is there an implied despair in such a view of language?

Naturally, naturally, there is despair, but what else is there except language? It is the only tool given to us—communication. There is a better one, of course: two persons meet, they don't have to talk. But it's only two persons. We would limit our universe. It would make it easier, but it's limited. Language is as old as human beings. Nevertheless it is inadequate, and nevertheless we must do something with it; hence the despair and hence the existential dilemma. I believe, of course, we must face despair and go beyond it. We cannot speak of hope without despair. And at the same time we cannot speak of despair without hope. It all depends on what comes first. I would like hope to be an outgrowth of despair, without ignoring it or denying it.

In a recent doctoral thesis James E. Young views Holocaust literature and its criticism as virtually an extended single text. He says that the task of the criticism is to understand how preexisting cultural, religious, and mystical traditions shaped and are enacted in the literature. By means of such understanding one might then further the aims of that literature.

There may be something to that. Because, after all, I think of my case—and of course I am the result of what I learned—and realize that without my learning the religious texts and the Talmudic tradition I would not write the way I do. Yes, the equipment was given to me, it's deep within me, and I just used it. I received it from those who lived before me. But again, there is a conviction within me that we must find something new. We must find something new because whatever happened was new, and yet we cannot find anything. So we use the old texture, hoping that somehow something new will be revealed in addition to old possibilities.

It seems that the Holocaust is a compelling subject for many serious American writers. You've been in this country now for many years and have at least noticed the appearance of some of these efforts. Have any of them been successful; can they ever be successful?

I don't know. I follow the literary output, I think I have read all of the volumes that have been published. I do not want to criticize one or the other, to say this one is wrong and not the other. I am sure that the intent was honest: they wanted to come to grips with the Event. Some succeeded, others did not. The most famous ones did not, I don't think so, but again, that does not mean that they should not have tried. I respect them for their ambition, for their undertaking.

As a reader, and one not talking about specific texts, what do you expect or require of that kind of second-hand work?

Sensitivity. Take John Hersey, for instance. He's probably the first, with his novel The Wall. He wasn't there, but it is nevertheless one of the best books on the subject. Occasionally, when I teach a course on Holocaust literature I include The Wall. André Schwarz-Bart's The Last of the Just is another example. It is possible, even for those who were not there, to write something as “authentic” as the writers who were there. I don't favor one category over the other. What you ask for is sensitivity, and not all have it.

As I recall Hersey's book, he depended to a great extent on the use of diaries.

The diary of Ringelblum; but he adapted and recreated the source in what he wrote, and it's a great achievement.

There have been a number of attempts by writers to use courtroom testimony and documents as the sole source of the text rather than bringing their own experiences to it. Probably the most notorious is Peter Weiss's The Investigation, but there have also been others; for example, the American poet Charles Reznikoff's Holocaust.

The best I have seen is a movie called The Eighty-First Blow. It's an Israeli movie, three hours long, using only the voices of the witnesses at the Eichmann trial. I think that the least successful was Peter Weiss's The Investigation, which I did not like at all. But then, I am subjective.

Is there a certain sense that by at least sticking to the documents one somehow avoids the pitfalls of trying to address this problem?

No, it's simply a response to the age. When we have exhausted the documents, then we can use imagination. But we have not even begun. I myself have written much, and yet I really have not begun. One day I will. It has all been a preparation for that moment.

Are you familiar with Cynthia Ozick's story, or perhaps novella, “Rosa”? In it she writes of the survivor's plight, of the anguish that comes from trying to communicate the experience to an often uninterested world. Should contemporary writers focus more on the lives of the people after rather than during the Event?

I don't want to give advice to writers. They are as solid in their judgments and decisions as I am.

In your most recent book. The Fifth Son, you are certainly dealing with that same issue.

I deal with it in all my books, the incommunicability of the experience. I do not believe that there is only one proper solution, so I describe the impossibility of communication.

You present the impossibility of communication as what separates the father and the son, and it is the burden that the son is facing.

Because in this case I turn my attention to the children of the survivors, and I am involved with their pride, their struggles, their marvelous, awesome spirit.

Let me ask some specific questions about The Fifth Son While reading of your recent visit to Germany, I was reminded of the son's trip to that country, particularly his encounter on the train with the character Theresa. At one point in their conversation she says of the Holocaust, “It has nothing to do with me, I was born later.” Did you hear similar comments from young Germans?

Yes, I met young people, students, who said that. Others, of course, said the opposite, but I also met people who said, “It has nothing to do with me. For me, that means nothing special.” Others said, “It does!” But I have learned never to generalize.

I was especially impressed with your use of the dead son Ariel, which in many ways reminds me of the situation in Ozick's story, “Rosa,” where the main character writes letters to her dead daughter, Magda. Was the name Ariel a Shakespearean reference?

No, all of my characters have the word “El” in them. It is a link I use in every novel; it means God.

For the son, his dead brother Ariel seems the symbol of the Event itself. One of the more interesting moments in the book is when you suddenly shift from the father writing letters to his dead son, to the living son writing letters to his dead brother.

Naturally, the whole book is so structured. You know I come from a French background, and what we learn in France is structure. The main thing in dealing with a subject is that everything must be tight. Here the whole book is based on letters. It begins with letters and ends with letters; it's a shift of letters. A movement. A concentric circle of letters.

Yes, and in the course of one letter, if you're not careful, you lose track of who is writing. It is the friend, Simha, who speaks with the son of his father. Except for when he finally broke down and wept, the father, Reuven Tamiroff, never really communicated anything to his son.

Because he spoke to his dead son. That is the problem of survivors' children.

Did you find any problem with trying to write the book from the perspective of a young American? I am thinking particularly of the voice of the main character and wondering about questions of capturing the speech, though I know it was translated from the French.

No, not at all. As a writer you must transcend the universe of time and age. After all, you live in a country, you hear its language.

Was there any particular reason why you set the book in the late 1960s, during campus unrest?

First of all, I needed the chronology. Because of the narrator's age it had to happen in the sixties; I could not avoid the sixties. Also because of their upheavals. The sixties opened up many doors. People talked. All that ever really happened in the sixties was to make people talk; with religious leaders, their parents, presidents, and so forth. There was big talking then; people talked and talked. And at the sit-ins, and the teach-ins, all talked. People opened up. Freed themselves. So it was good for me to place my novel in the late sixties.

The late sixties and early seventies was also a period of renewed Jewish consciousness, particularly for young people; but the character of the father in the book seems distant from these events.

Naturally, because he is old and he lives in his own world, with Paritus and his writings. He sought a shelter and he found one. He did not want anything to do with the outside world.

The book does not end on a very hopeful note.

I do not like to offer false hope. Why do it? It would be condescending. But there's still a question mark: it ends on a question mark.

Do you plan on writing more books that will deal with American situations?

I always write fiction and nonfiction at the same time. The current fiction is taking place in America, in a mental institution in America. The nonfiction is a book on Talmudic texts.

You are not quite sixty years old, but you are approaching that age. Do you have any long range goals for your work? Is there perhaps one big book that you've been thinking about writing?

All my books are connected in some way. It so happens that they are all part of one big book; it is finally one big book.

What would you title this book?

In Pursuit of Silence.

Notes

1. This interview with Wiesel occurred the day after the explosion of the space shuttle Challenger on 28 January 1986.

2. “A Conversation with Elie Wiesel,” by Lily Edelman. In Responses to Elie Wiesel, ed. Harry James Cargas (New York: Persea Books, 1978) 14.

3. Bitburg in Moral and Political Perspective (Bloomington: Indiana UP, 1986).