“Summer” by Audra Kerr Brown
Welcome to The Burning Hearth!
On February 24 of this year, I read an article online at NPR that activated my Poirotian (Is that a word?) little gray cells. The article’s header read, “A sci-fi magazine has cut off submissions after a flood of AI-generated stories.” The article was about the magazine Clarksworld, which, after receiving 1200 submissions, had 700 legitimate stories and 500 AI-generated stories. Neil Clarke, the EIC of Clarksworld, claimed that while he wouldn’t reveal it, they had a method of identifying an AI generated submission.
After reading this article, I took a walk and started thinking about an idea I had posed to the podcast host of Between the Covers and writer, David Naimon, in Part I of my interview with him in August of 2022. It was this:
Sometimes when I bat around the question of what makes a writer a writer, as opposed to someone who is good at writing, I often find myself thinking that one of the qualities a writer possesses is the ability to connect seemingly unrelated events from their life that happen, sometimes years apart, in a meaningful, almost fated, way.
Ideas about how AI makes connections compared to how a human makes connections began to consume my thoughts, along with what might happen to humans when music, art, story, and who knows, possibly one day even choreography, all become devoid of a human creator.
So many things go into a piece of writing: lived experiences, the writer’s temperament, the day of the week they happen to be sitting down to write, their social class, their relationships, their religion, or lack thereof, and on and on it goes, as did my thoughts.
I stopped by the river and watched water bubbling up through thawing ice as it relentlessly forged its path downstream. Standing there, I thought there is no way AI could create something like David Naimon’s “May Your Memory Be a Blessing.” (Click here to read in EcoTheo Review.) The connections he draws are both personal and universal, as well as historical and current. They are selected for their relevancy to the point(s) David knows he is trying to make. What point would an automaton try, or desire, to make, I wondered.
I returned home very curious as to what David’s thoughts on AI and writing might be, if he had any at all. “May Your Memory Be a Blessing” is a piece I had originally planned to focus on during our interview, but the interview organically went elsewhere, and I thought perhaps he would be willing to do a brief interview (really, more of a discussion), about that piece alongside discussing AI. I further thought, perhaps he would be willing to have a discussion on various other topics once a season, as I have a very large tank for discussion. I ran the idea past him, and much to my surprise and delight, he said yes. (I’m certain it’s because his tank is just as large, if not larger.) Thus, for the summer rotation of ‘Circling Saturn with David Naimon,” we discuss his piece, “May Your Memory Be a Blessing,” connections, and AI.
Circling Saturn with David Naimon
Constance: Borrowing from R.E.M, let’s “Begin the Begin.” The first two lines of your piece wake me up right away.
“Remember
the before?”
Reading this seemingly simple question, I immediately think of the Zen koan that asks, show me your original face before you were born.
I’m flooded with the many befores in my life that left me forever changed the moment they became the before; and, how some of those memories are not blessings, but perhaps, in the larger scheme of things, they are.
Hopscotching over the whole piece to the end for a moment, your ending line turns your opening question into a statement that I hear as a commandment. Which, if it were, and we could do it, would quite possibly be the only one we would need.
“Re-mem-ber the before.”
Everything in between the opening question and the closing statement/commandment is a study in the connective tissue of writing, and a discussion of historical befores that connect us all. It’s amazing how simply writing “Re-mem-ber” in this manner connects the entire piece. It is brilliant what you do with this one word. Feel free to talk about that at length in your response.
Backing up, into the womb/tomb of the piece, I did a full stop when I read the following line.
“What if we have been looking at the wrong water with the wrong face?”
If, indeed, we have been, and continue to do so, I can’t help but think we will remember the befores as we always have and, as a result, create the same afters we always have. This, as it should, terrifies me. Especially, after having read what comes before it.
But then you offer, with passion and hope, a powerful “what if.”
“What if we allowed our faces to be plural, blessed both by the waters above and the waters below, if we saw ourselves in the faces of others, in the Uighurs forced to make our masechas, the Gazans denied vaccines or potable water in their open-air prison, the refugees fallen face down in a river of water that is a border? What if we remembered the escape goat and its song, our sins on its head, the home we denied it? What if we remembered when our lungs filled fully with the waters of another, our mother, when we lived in the womb, the tomb, the well, the ark, the garden, the darkness, the heavens?”
What would someone even enter into the AI to generate such a piece? What was in you that generated this piece? How would one get the AI from the escape goat to the scapegoat to the hatred and slaughter of Jews to ward off further spread of the plague to doing the same with cats? How would AI write a piece so dependent upon the movement of water, lay out the prose in the manner you did, causing the words to move downwards like a waterfall, leaving the reader floating in the fall’s lower waters feeling both masked and unmasked, nullified and reborn; and finally, quieted, floating on their back looking upwards toward the radiant sun, hopefully seeing new water with a new face?
The ineffable aspect of the human soul and consciousness is what, I would hope, will always make a piece written by a human more compelling to another human than a piece written by a robot. However, if we continue to lose our humanity at the current pace we’re on, perhaps, a robot will one day appear more alive, more vital, than our species is. Because, perhaps, the robot’s inability to remember, without emotion, the injustices, inequities, and brutalities humans have perpetrated upon themselves (if the robot remembers them at all), the stories it will then tell, will allow humanity to enter into a collective, numbed delusion. Sadly, I think some would choose this.
I can’t help but to think of the beloved android, Data, from Star Trek, who stated there were accumulated experiences stored in his positronic matrix, which were unique to him. Before his emotion chip, however, these experiences were not experienced or remember with any emotional shading.
All forms of art are a path to discovering the essence of what makes us human. So, what happens when there is no human bringing human experiences, human failings, longings, successes, and losses to the art being created? What will be lost? Scarier yet, what happens when we can’t recognize whether the writer is human or AI? Harkening back to R.E.M, has the insurgency begun and we’re missing it? Perhaps, whatever the editors at Clarksworld have discovered to differentiate the human from the AI generated submissions, can save us.
I’ll end by asking you a question you asked your reader in “May Your Memory Be a Blessing.”
“In what form does the devil appear?”
David: Thanks Constance, for your devilishly labyrinthine unanswerable questions!
As you know, one thread of “May Your Memory Be a Blessing” starts with the horns that Michelangelo gives Moses in his famous statue, as well as the horns of the ‘escape goat’ in the ancient Yom Kippur ritual, and looks at the ways Jews in Europe were othered and scapegoated as satanic—as both subhuman and pestilent, and, at the same time, demonically superhuman, the evil puppeteers behind so many things (e.g. the plague, lost children, grand political conspiracies). But taking the true meaning of the Hebrew word keren, of Moses’ face being “horned” after his encounter with God, that his face was actually glorified with rays of light, part of what the piece is aspiring to do is to question, more generally, who we other, and then to ask (using the presence of masks and masking in both the Bible and in the pandemic) whether we can be beholden to an “other” that isn’t one of us. In that sense you could say the piece is an advocate for the devil.
I love Rabih Alameddine’s view of Satan, as the patron saint of the outsiders and the othered, as the first revolutionary, and most importantly someone willing to say “no” into the face of immense unremitting power. It harkens, at least for me, to the less dramatically polarized version of Satan in Judaism. A word in Hebrew that simply means adversary or opponent. Likewise, to “sin” and sinfulness is neither an existential state of being nor a portal to eternal damnation, but simply ‘to miss the mark.’ And the word Torah comes from an archery term, “to aim.” You can miss the mark and aim again.
The last time I talked with Sheila Heti I left a funny part in at the end (with her approval) that actually happened after the interview was over, where we, two Jews, loosen up and sort of give our uncensored opinions about Jewish vs. Christian storytelling. From a storytelling perspective, I’m much more compelled by an earthly mix of good and evil in the same person (Moses and David, the two most exalted of heroes in the Hebrew Bible, who are brave and visionary, are also weak, jealous, petty, and killers; likewise the notion of the messiah in Judaism is a fellow human, a remarkable one, sure, but not a god). I’m more compelled by this than the idea that God’s son is pure love (but ironically only if you love him, otherwise watch out!) and that Satan is pure evil, and where the consequences, if you choose wrong, are both dire and eternal. One of my favorite conceptions of Jews, in the spirit of Jacob wrestling the angel, is as the God wrestlers, a people who do not submit to God but are constantly arguing with and questioning “Him.” This extends to the Talmud and its dialectic, polyvocal approach to analysis that welcomes and makes space for both debate and contradiction. Of course, this foregrounds Jewishness in its best and most aspirational light but Jewish tradition has also long othered people as well. And “May Your Memory Be a Blessing” raises questions of gender and the status of women within the Hebrew bible as well as the ongoing Jewish dispossession of Palestinians.
It is fitting, I think, that for a series you are calling “Circling Saturn” you start with a question about the devil. When you first told me the title you were going to use for this series and that you had found that Saturn symbolizes the human struggle towards consciousness, I was surprised to see Saturn framed this way given the way most people frame him. In alchemy it is the planet associated with lead (the ‘lowest’ and heaviest of the metals, the farthest from gold), with Chronos or Father Time, with mortality, with death, which all gets terrifyingly swirled together in Goya’s famous painting of Saturn devouring his own children. But in a way you are doing for Saturn what I’m doing with Satan. And I love the idea of a series circling Saturn, circling time, mortality, death, our limits as humans, and the mysteries beyond them, as I do think circling mortality is related to the development of, if not consciousness, a conscience.
Before I answer your questions about A.I, I have to confess I was a little horrified that you wanted to frame our discussion around this topic. Perhaps “horrified” is too strong. It is too strong, too dramatic. More of a response like “ew” or “really Constance, why?” It feels super far from my focus and interests. Even your tweet five days before the launch of this exchange, where you welcome people to come hear me talk about A.I., made me shudder at the thought that people might think I’m going to intelligently weigh in on whether computers can or could think, or whether they will take over the world. And I shared my misgivings with you. But the more I sat with it the more I realized that I’m not blasé about this topic. I’m not simply indifferent. Rather, I make a concerted effort not to foreground and engage with it. It is a willed looking elsewhere, and it seemed worthy to unpack why. For sure, in the abstract, the fourteen-year old boy in me, the SFF reader in me, the person who marvels at all a human mind can do in me, finds these questions interesting. But I do think part of the problem, especially given that we are facing down an existential catastrophe for us and the biosphere, comes from thinking about things abstracted from context, thinking about them as if we don’t have to also weigh them against what we won’t be thinking about if we think about this. I agree with both Naomi Klein and Ted Chiang’s latest articles on A.I., that this is just another way to escape accountability, a method for further wealth consolidation, and an acceleration of extractive capitalism (and I love Ted Chiang’s defense of Luddites and how and why they really weren’t anti-technology at all).
So, getting my misgivings out of the way, I am grateful to be pushed to think through my feelings around this a bit more. I really loved and was moved by Will Alexander’s words* in your introduction about creating new constellations of meaning from disparate things. In the spirit of those words, of living up to them, I’m going to attempt a journey from the devil to artificial intelligence and back to the devil again, braiding them together. And, to be clear, not by saying that A.I. is the devil, for I do think virtuality is something very deeply connected to what it means to be human, and the human condition. Even going back to the myth of the Garden of Eden and the two trees. The Tree of Life and the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil. The second tree I think could be seen as the tree of virtuality, as it contains the knowledge of the conceptual, of the not embodied and lived, but the abstract. Ideas and ideals. It is the realm of thinking abstractly about things that are not happening right now. And eating from it defines us but also causes our downfall, our exile from the garden.
Many things about us are virtual. Language itself might be, but certainly written language is, and books are vehicles for virtual realities. Our desire for artmaking in general, to represent the world, and to engage with that representation as something now real within it. But I also wonder if the virtual is also represented in our actual bodies too, in our anatomy. The last time I talked with Rae Armantrout I proposed something regarding this. I know it might be a stretch, but I’m enamored with the idea, at least until someone disabuses me of it. Maybe twenty years ago when I hosted a health show, I interviewed Harvard anthropologist Richard Wrangham about his book Catching Fire: How Cooking Made Us Human. Which argues that it wasn’t meat eating or early tool making that ultimately most defined us as a species but our utilization of fire. That our fates are uniquely tied up with that of fire. He looked at raw food communities in Germany (communities that would have many marked advantages over a raw food community in pre-modern times: access to abundant refined oils, nuts and nut butters and other calorie-dense foods year-round) and found that 50% of women, even with these modern advantages, couldn’t maintain a body weight sufficient enough to continue to menstruate. That clearly our bodies, our species couldn’t, in contrast to all of our primate cousins, survive and endure on a 100% raw diet. That we made a trade-off, becoming dependent upon fire to make our nutrients much more available to us in order to grow our forebrains (and our ability for abstract thought). That essentially we as a species became processors, not just with cooking via fire, but also via grinding grains, and via fermentation, as part of this bargain. And yet, we have taken this quality too far, where now we are suffering from all sorts of diseases related to maximally processing our food. So much so that stepping back, even just a little bit, 75-100 years, to a diet of less processed foods and adding some raw foods back in, would likely help with a wide variety of health problems.
But what has stuck with me about this notion of us and fire is around the question of virtuality. These are my idle ponderings now, not Wrangham’s, but if we have made this pact with fire, as he suggests, really we’ve outsourced our digestion to a virtual digestion outside of our bodies. Non-human primates spend an incredible amount of time chewing, and have much much longer digestive tracts because their own bodies need to do what we now do outside of our bodies, the cooking pot now our virtual stomachs. Similarly, if this theory is true, perhaps, because of fire, clothes are our virtual body hair. And I also wonder, given how capable many primate infants are, super coordinated and oriented and aware from day one, able to puzzle out breastfeeding, and sometimes even assist in their own births (sticking their arms outside the canal and helping with their own emergence), if the growing of our brains via fire has also resulted in us extending “gestation” outside of the mother, especially considering for how remarkably long human babies are relatively helpless and vulnerable post-birth. All this to say, whether Wrangham is right or wrong, I do feel like there is something particularly human about virtuality that is reflected even in our physical make-up.
But to return to the devil for a minute, similar to what we’ve done with food processing, we’ve taken virtuality past a breaking point, to the point where we’ve become our own greatest adversary. We’ve lost by winning. I think often of this passage from Rikki Ducornet’s The Deep Zoo
“Imagine with me an Absolute Book of Unnatural Nature, fully immersive, polysensory, eloquent, in which everything is reactive, self-replicating; a mutable, complex and functioning system with which the reader—who is now far more than reader—may interact as she does with the real. Will such an artifice allow us to be more fully alive? More fully human? Will we be less fearful of the palpable dissimulations of our own imagination than we are of the real itself? When we dissolve into and interact with fully embodied avatars, will we cease to fear our own bodies and bodies other than our own? When the things of the world are all of our own invention, will we finally allow ourselves to cherish them? Will our worlds be sparked with the Breath of Eros, or will Eros vanish? When our tigers are striped to fit our fancy, and the ruined ocean is replaced by an apparition in which phantom orcas call out to one another in Klingon—will the world finally take on real significance?”
When you quote the line “Remember the before?” from my essay-poem and place it in relation to A.I. it makes me think of the Ursula K.Le Guin essay A Non-Euclidean View of California as a Cold Place to Be where she talks about the Swampy Cree people and their view of the porcupine as a creature that goes backwards while looking forward. That the porcupine goes backwards to speculate on the future from a safe place. And Le Guin says the opening for a Cree story is “an invitation to listen, followed by the phrase ‘I go backward, look forward, as the porcupine does.’” This feels connected to the title of indigenous writer and scholar Nick Estes’ book Our History is the Future and also to when Jorie Graham talks about engaging with Deep Time, how the future and the past mirror each other when you do. It feels like we need to walk ourselves back into relation with others, with nonhuman beings. But to do so means to walk back into a sense of being more contained and constrained, because those other beings have needs and desires in order to flourish on their own terms, all at various countervailing angles to our own. But walking backwards into that narrow space, that rock crevice from which to survey the future seems like the only way to have one to me. That following the yellow brick road of A.I., skipping naively forward, enticed by the false promises of the fake wizard is a lot like buying into the colonization of Mars. Even our great Mars storyteller Kim Stanley Robinson says that to propose Mars colonization as a possible solution or escape valve around climate change is pure fantasy and a dangerous denialism. And his stories have changed radically since his Mars trilogy from following the science around this. Same with Richard Powers who now more and more is centering nonhuman intelligence. Forgive me for sharing yet another quote but here is Thalia Field from an interview with the Dalkey Archive Press:
I guess what I call human-centered poetics is where the scale is human, the time is human (i.e., weeks, days, months, years) the landscape is human, the psychology is human, the crises are human. It’s become equivalent to the cinematic in that what we consider “human” is eminently filmable, or able to be conceived in terms of edited, visual screens. Cinematic prose contains consistent scale, in space and time, and the human figure, whether in close-up or establishing shot, predominates. This aesthetic holds because ultimately we don’t spend a lot of time in the awareness of our world without ourselves as tragic heroes of it. Larger timeframes or scales rarely occur to us. Participation in the chorus of other creatures seems impossible, and it’s scarcely imaginable to write ourselves out of the picture altogether. So if this is an ethical stance in some sense, it becomes an aesthetics as the narratives and imagery, the events and the dispersal of “selves” across a wide climate of consciousness, all participate in a chaotic nonhierarchical system of interdependence. Of course this is artificial in that it’s taking place in human language. But you’d be surprised how enraged people become at the idea of displacing conventional characters. Revising our obsession with domestic psychosymbolic tragedies (set on the literary equivalent of Hollywood “soundstages”) could shake the narrow focus and force us to listen differently.
The questions she raises, about the potentials of a different kind of storytelling, are endlessly interesting to me and feel like a key to understanding something about why the porcupine is evoked before each Swampy Cree story.
“What if we have been looking at the wrong water with the wrong face?” you quote me as saying in “May Your Memory Be a Blessing” (May your Memory Be a Blessing is a play on the saying Jews speak to a person who has lost a loved one). And I think to look toward A.I. (for answers, for profit, because it is the next frontier, because we can) in many ways is to walk toward our annihilation, not because they will become self-aware and control us, but because we would be finalizing Ducornet’s Absolute Book of Unnatural Nature, where everything is us and we could simply marvel at ourselves, where we have (like we do already) Scientific American articles that ask with a straight face “Can Artificial Trees Help Pull CO2 from the Air?” To circle Saturn, to circle death, is to circle our own limitations, to walk back into our bodies and into relation. I’m totally paraphrasing from memory but Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o said in a talk that if you cut off my arm I am still alive. But if you cut off the air from me I will die. Which is more me, my arm or the air?
I really love the notion the Oulipian writers have that it is through constraint that one is liberated. That following one’s impulses is a form of servitude and by beginning with a constraint one walks the path to freedom in one’s writing. In my own writing, I’m trying more and more to find ways to engage with the narrative questions that Thalia Field raises but I also realize that we have an endless appetite to marvel at our own ingenuity, that we love to watch Matt Damon try to MacGyver himself out of impossible situations in The Martian or to ponder inventing an artificial tree that could do something approximating what the trees all around us already do. But if we started with constraint rather than impulse I think we could both walk ourselves back into community with other creatures and marvel at ourselves at the same time. Consider, as an example, if we started with this constraint: “I want to build a city where I can walk down to the river that runs through it, and be able to drink straight from its waters, to be able to look up to the sky from its streets and see the milky way, that I want to build the roads and highways that lead to and from it in a way that allow the migration of mammals to occur over or under them.” If we started with this constraint, this challenge, all of our smartest people could then use the full range of their human faculties, all of our abstract and virtual tools to great and ingenious effect. We could marvel at who solves and how they solve these puzzles.
It’s interesting, now that I think of it (thanks to you Constance and the way you’ve made me into a porcupine and scrunched me into the rocky crevice that is this A.I. conversation), that one aspect of “May Your Memory Be a Blessing” is a meditation on narrow places—the narrow place that is Egypt in the Passover story, the womb before the people are born; the narrow place that is the Hebrew letter mem, itself a confined space with a narrow entrance/exit; the narrow space of the ritual purification by water, the mikveh, that is both a womb and a tomb, both life and death, inseparable opposites like the figures in the Hebrew bible.
Walking ourselves back into our bodies, bringing judgement and consequence back from an immaterial afterlife of either hell or heaven and into the now, accepting that the earth is the place of everything and everyone’s imminent death, might just be the beginning.
Constance: One of the things I enjoy about your Between the Covers interviews is that you bring in other people to ask a question of your guest. Following suit, I have asked someone I’ve come to admire and respect, whom I know admires and respects you, and whom I am connected to because of you, if she would like to pose a question to you regarding “May Your Memory Be a Blessing.” Without hesitation, Kylie Mirmohamadi, said yes, and sent me the following.
Kylie: David, this is such a rich and beautiful and redolent piece of writing, so full of symbol and symbolic power. It is memory, language, number, pattern: the water, the mask, the womb and the tomb, the before and the after. The wound, the scar, the violence of history, of where we are, where we have come back to and are always returning to. It is immense and yet so intimate. In this way it is an ocean. Like the womb, the pulling tides, mikveh.
The mystery of the tarot is here too. It draws me. The hanging man, ‘like the immersed breathless person in a mikveh, who in that brief moment when not touching any of its sides or the bottom, suspended, in a womb, in a tomb, says a prayer to each of the four directions’. My question, drawn from many, is about the tarot. As a symbolic language, a path of storytelling, how does it connect (or does it connect?) to the mystical traditions of Judaism for you?
David: Kylie it is such an honor that Constance has invited you into this exchange. Your presence on twitter is one of the reasons to be there. I am always so buoyed by the walks you take while listening to various podcasts, coupling your meditations on twitter with really beautiful photos of what you’ve seen out in the world. And the Persian cooking!— the pictures of fenugreek onions, curried yogurt, potato tahdig. Incredible. Thank you.
Yes, I connect the Tarot to Jewish mystical practice insofar as the twenty-two cards of the major arcana correspond to the twenty-two letters of the Hebrew alphabet (and the fifty-six minor arcana cards relate to various aspects of the Kabbalistic Tree of Life). Looking at a given card, through what is known of its corresponding Hebrew letter, really enriches the understanding of it. But perhaps more meaningful to me is what Tarot might bring to the Hebrew. There are many ways you can engage with the divine feminine and feminism in Judaism. Some people have foregrounded the many dynamic women in the Hebrew bible from the Egyptian midwives and Pharoah’s daughter who go against Pharaoh’s decree and save and raise the infant Moses as one of them, to Ruth the Moabite (the most hated of peoples by the Israelites because they refused the Israelites food when wandering in the wilderness) who ultimately forms the matrilineal line that leads to King David, to the prophet Miriam and her magic traveling well that I engage with in “May Your Memory Be a Blessing.” And the notion of the in-dwelling divine feminine, the Shechinah, that hovered over the Ark of the Covenant and which then dwelled in the Holy of Holies when the Temple of Jerusalem was built as its home, an innermost room within the temple that was only entered by humans (by one single human, the high priest) on one sole day of the year each year, Yom Kippur (which interestingly is the same holiday with the escape goat as well)…according to one drash, at one point in time the divine feminine and masculine were equal, the sun and moon equal in the sky, but when the temple was destroyed the divine feminine went into exile. And part of the purpose of the weekly Sabbath is to recreate the lost harmony, to have a taste of messianic time, to invite back the Shechinah (which is partly why having sex on the Sabbath is considered a mitzvah). All of this story-making I love. But I also think you can sense, despite all of this, and despite all of the reclamation of women-centric inspirations, an insufficiency, nonetheless. A lot of the idol smashing (and civilization smashing) back in the day was of matriarchal societies. The Tarot in a small witchy way, brings something back to the letters, something unfairly kept out and away.
Remember the before.
*William Alexander‘s quote from my August interview with David, and the announcement for this series.
“David Naimon is one of our best living readers. He elevates homework to high art, drawing connections between far-flung poems, essays, and half-forgotten short stories in order to create whole new constellations of meaning. Someday the distant echoes of his interviews will convince alien civilizations that Earth is worth a visit.”
David Naimon hosts the radio broadcast and podcast Between the Covers and is coauthor of Ursula K. Le Guin: Conversations on Writing (Tin House Books, 2018). His writing has been published in Tin House, AGNI, Boulevard, Virginia Quarterly Review, and elsewhere, was reprinted in the 2019 Pushcart Prize anthology and the Best Small Fictions 2015, and was cited in Best American Essays and Best American Travel Writing.
I hope you’ve enjoyed this conversation. I’m so grateful David has agreed to circle Saturn with me, and I am looking forward to our Fall rotation.
Thanks to Kylie Mirmohamadi (an Aussie academic and author, whom you can learn more about in my “Echoes of Le Guin series) for participating in our summer rotation. She is a worthy traveling mate!
Also, huge thanks to Audra Kerr Brown for her stellar photo art. She has supplied me with a Saturn for all seasons!
Be sure to stop by in June for my 3rd issue of “Echoes of Le Guin.” June’s featured author is Isaac Yuen.
In July, I will be interviewing Myna Chang and discussing her book The Potential of Radio and Rain. We will also chat about Electric Sheep.
Thanks for stopping by. Well wishes to you all!
Constance Malloy 