What is the biggest problem?
Insufficient love in the world. A failing sense of justice. Certain individuals think they can impose their will on people. They think reality can be manipulated. But reality can’t be manipulated. Whatever we do to the world, the world does to us. This is as true of climate change as how we treat people. The most intelligent and economical solution is love. It saves time and energy; and it achieves the most important things. Without it, we will never create policies that bring about the true renewal the world desperately needs.
If you could spend a day in one city or place at one moment in history, what would that be?
The consecration of the great pyramid in Giza over 5,000 years ago. What did it look like then? What did it mean to the people of the Nile? How did it alter their relationship with the sky?
Which of your ancestors or relatives are you most proud of?
My mum because of her quiet wisdom that still guides me through life. And my dad because he represents for me the triumph of the spirit over difficult conditions in the world. He gave me the gift of an independent spirit. Independence works best with cooperation and community.
What have you changed your mind about?
When I was younger, I wrote at night. This became unsustainable, and I had to train myself to write in the mornings. I still miss the abundant inspiration of the night.
What is the last piece of music, play, novel or film that brought you to tears?
The moment in A Complete Unknown when the young Bob Dylan plays his “Song to Woody” to the ailing Woody Guthrie.
Fans of TS Eliot will notice the allusion to The Waste Land in the title of your new book, Madame Sosostris & the Festival for the Broken-Hearted—not to mention the further allusions in its pages. What is it about that poem?
The poem inscribes itself on you. It is both simple and complex. It refuses to reveal what it is about. This makes it mysterious. And it works the multiplied power of allusion. Those buried texts pull into the work whole worlds of implication and set a music going beneath the surface, creating subterranean moods and themes, complicating meaning.
The title also mentions a Festival for the Broken-Hearted. Is there a reason why you’re putting this event on, so to speak, now?
A work of art comes out of an enigmatic impulse. All I did was follow the characters and the story. I allowed whatever needed to emerge from my soul to come through, and trusted that it will be in touch with the base note of the times. It’s been a time of heartbreak. People have been broken-hearted about Brexit, about the gradual collapse of the democratic ideal in different parts of the world. People are mourning wars and the devastation of homesteads. All manner of things are breaking. Each day we read of new outrages to sanity and decency. Heartbreak and the need for healing are dominant notes of our times.
You’ve emphasised that this is a democratic book, open to all readers, despite the depth and range of its literary references. Is this how you think all art should function?
Art speaks to the simplest people and the most complicated. Its moods and stories and truths mirror our secret condition. Art unites us in the stream of being. It speaks to places in us deeper than our intellect. That is where we are most human. We are simple and complex.
What would people be surprised to know about you?
That I am also an artist. I gave up painting for literature. About 10 years ago, I quietly returned to it. My last exhibition was a collaboration with the Scottish artist Rosemary Clunie.
What do you most regret?
I don’t believe in regret. Mistakes have schooled me. Regret ought to fuel transformation, ought to make us capacious in spirit. We should have a good laugh at our follies.
“Madame Sosostris & the Festival for the Broken-Hearted” (Bloomsbury, £14.99) is out in hardback
