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An Interview with Eugene Marten

Brigitte Félix et Stéphane Vanderhaeghe

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Eugene Marten – An Introduction

1By Stéphane Vanderhaeghe

  • 1 In the Blind, Turtle Point Press, 2003. Waste, Ellipsis Press, 2008. Firework, Tyrant Books, 2010 ( (...)

2Eugene Marten is the author of five novels: In the Blind (2003), Waste (2008), Firework (2010), Layman’s Report (2013), and Pure Life (2022)1.

3Of Marten, besides that, we don’t know much. He won’t be found on social media, he doesn’t have a website nor does he blog his opinions on this or that topic. He seems to be the type of writer who would do anything to fly below the radars, especially the scholarly ones: he doesn’t appear to spend much time on campuses—he doesn’t teach, doesn’t lecture, and claims, almost apologetically, that his is pretty much an “unliterary” life.

4Even if Eugene Marten’s work has elicited a few comparisons—with Chuck Palahniuk, or Bret Easton Ellis for instance—it is quite unique in today’s contemporary American litscape and could be defined by its sheer simplicity and honesty, its intrinsic violence, its burning topicality, its narrative force, and its formal intransigence.

5Writers like Blake Butler, Brian Evenson, Dawn Raffel, Sam Lipsyte, Noy Holland, among others, have all vouched for Marten’s writing. Gordon Lish2 himself endorsed Marten’s work, making him the equal of both Cormac McCarthy and Don DeLillo…

6And no wonder Lish speaks so highly of Eugene Marten’s work. A novel like Waste, a mere hundred pages long, manages to speak volumes about corporate America and the inhuman cost of the so-called American dream. Waste—like all of Eugene’s novels—is a portrait of an outsider, someone who won’t belong, who lives on the edge, among the dregs of contemporary America. “A language unto himself.” (Waste, 23) Sloper, the novel’s protagonist, is a character no one sees, no one speaks to, who rents his mother’s basement, spies on his neighbors, scavenges for leftover food; his only interactions, if we can call them that, are with unresponsive bodies—a corpse, a tetraplegic woman who can only speak in binary beeps. One for yes, two for no. At some point in Sloper’s routine, he overhears a desperate lawyer talking to himself on a Dictaphone: another sign that communication and interactions have broken down. If Waste is about anything, it may be this: this short-circuitry of language, a violent absence of communication.

  • 3 Holocaust denier Ernst Zündel. Leuchter’s story is recounted in Errol Morris’s movie Mr. Death: The (...)

7In In the Blind, Marten’s first published novel, the narrator has just been released from prison, but can only find a place to live among cockroaches and rats, in a city he fails to recognize, abandoned to violence and rust, a stranger among strangers. In Firework, Jelonnek is a man on the run, yet what is he running from? It’s hard to say. His inactive life, perhaps, spent in a warehouse among piles and stacks of official forms, fantasizing about other women than “the woman he lives with”—a woman who’ll never even get a name in his own consciousness, which we inhabit for the time of our reading; all the while Jelonnek hopes of completing a movie script about a Survivor fighting a Hunter, perhaps his own version or vision of the American dream. That, and the admiration of, not to say identification with, “Number Nineteen,” a football player whose career is losing momentum, and whose fall and own descent into hell will eventually be recounted in Pure Life, Marten’s latest novel to date. As for Layman’s Report, it tells the story of Fred, a character based on Fred Leuchter, a self-taught engineer who decides to look for more humane ways of executing people on death row. His so-called expertise in death engineering draws the attention of a bunch of lawyers defending a Holocaust denier3; they fly Fred over to Europe in the hope that his dubious expertise can prove that the gas chambers could not have possibly served for execution purposes. Fred conducts his own secret experiments and gains the conviction that the Holocaust is a fabrication.

8All of Eugene’s novels thus function as vibrant, if unsettling portraits of their protagonists—the unnamed narrator of In the Blind, Sloper in Waste, Jelonnek in Firework, or Fred in Layman’s Report, are all socially awkward, erring figures evolving in violent contexts of exclusion and repression. If at first sight the main character of Pure Life, Number 19—who enjoyed fame and brief success as a football player—may appear as an exception, his subsequent fall into oblivion turns him into another American dream dropout. There isn’t much that, at first sight, can redeem all those protagonists. The victims of chance, at the wrong place at the wrong time, marked by hubris, monstrous appetites, destructive addictions, scarred by unforgiving circumstances and a history of violence, they cannot but often appear as repulsive characters, ones that as readers we cannot and will not identify with.

9For that matter—and with the notable exceptions of In the Blind and the final section of Layman’s Report—Marten’s predilection for third-person narratives could serve as a buffer of sorts, a safe distance between the character and the reader. Yet this distance is frequently, abruptly broken by the regular shift from third to second person. As explained by Brian Evenson, in his preface to the French translation of Waste: “Marten offers a third person account in which the spare, even sparse language is subtly shot through with the narrator’s own way of considering the world. Disconcertingly but fluidly, the text appeals again and again to a ‘you’ in a way that places the reader within the confines of Sloper’s life.” What is true with Sloper proves true with Jelonnek too in Firework, when the reader is suddenly projected into the character’s sordid consciousness, all distance abolished by the irruption of this “you”:

The other one was dressed for the occasion and called him by the color of his eyes. She called herself a name that sounded fake, like a porn star, and except for the bulge that birth imparts to the belly, she almost looked like one. Close enough, anyway, to let you forget certain things, like that bulge, and the people waiting for you somewhere, the music over, the long tables cleared, streamers hanging slack and windless. Close enough to let you put your hand on the door latch and pull, and silence your better judgement, and wasn’t that what you wanted in the first place? (FW, 124)

10Examples like this one abound throughout Marten’s work—maximal proximity, forced identification. Hence the unease one may feel when reading; and the fascination, too.

11This narrative strategy finds its counterpart in the minimalistic, elliptical nature of Marten’s writing. Despite the precision and thoroughness of their descriptions, often verging on the technical—the locksmithing lexicon of In the Blind, for instance, medical technicalities, whether in Waste or the end of Firework, the page-long enumeration of government forms in Firework (43)…—Marten’s novels are also marked by avoidance or reluctance to name things or characters, often leaving it up to the reader to fill in the gaps: pronouns float on the page without immediate referents:

Looking back he realized there’d been certain signs, strange questions he’d been asked from which he was apparently expected to infer the unspoken, but the roommate did not act or sound like one of them. (FW 230)

12Here, “them” has no explicit referent in the text, and it takes some maths to understand that “them” refers to gay people, Jelonnek’s prejudice against homosexuality translated by its erasure from the text, the same way AIDS, a few lines down, is never made explicit, but simply referred to as “it.”

13“To infer the unspoken,” then: such indeed appears to be the task that Eugene Marten assigns his readers too; a more than uncomfortable one when the unspoken also turns out to be the unspeakable, as in Waste, for instance, in which Sloper’s doings, if unambiguous, are often described perfunctorily and require readerly participation… As shown by Sylvie Bauer in her essay on Waste, Sloper acts indeed as a ghost of sorts who haunts both the building he works in and the text in which he acquires an evanescent presence produced by the alternating third and second persons. Bauer traces Sloper’s American lineage in texts that favor the unsaid the better to flirt with poetic possibilities.

14In the end, there is no such thing as safe distance when it comes to reading Marten’s work—a work that inflexibly and at times forcefully includes its readers, that does away with all narrative safeguards, and takes them places where the reader would rather not go. But empathy, what Eugene Marten may eventually be after as a writer, is at this cost.

15Do we as readers like it? I’m not sure, but the experience in itself is definitely worth the trip, and testifies to the vitality of the written word.

Eugene Marten – An interview

16By Brigitte Félix and Stéphane Vanderhaeghe

BF and SV: Novels like Waste, Firework or Layman’s Report, could somehow be read as portraits of their protagonists: white, low-skilled, mostly asocial males, characters we could refer to as losers maybe, or social outcasts who keep to themselves and have trouble belonging and communicating with others… What are characters to you and how important a component of your fiction are they?

EM: (Not sure I entirely agree with those descriptions but I see your point.) Such a reasonable question, but why so difficult to answer? Every response would seem to me self-evident. Here goes: I find no one component of writing more important than another; I’m not even sure I think in terms of components, but manifestations of a common source (as in a certain school of physics, say, where matter and energy are considered different states of the same thing). Everything serves everything else. I generally start a book with a situation, context, setting, and, importantly, a vocation, or avocation (or lack of either, equally significant). The characters, in a sense, appear of necessity, are generated by tension, circumstance, tone, and in turn generate events, point of view, language (not just dialogue) in a sort of feedback loop, and in this way get the ball of the story rolling. (The protagonist of Waste was pretty much “given” to me in the form of a real person I met for less than a day, and required little writerly intervention on my part. But it seems strange to designate Sloper something as official as a “protagonist.” He seems not an anti-hero, but almost an anti-character.) My books tend to be sparsely populated, and I would never present a character forced into existence by some plot contrivance. I tend to write in the close third person, meaning I “see” the story over a character’s shoulder, if not through his eyes, and it’s generally the same shoulder throughout. If a novel seems to be a portrait of a character, it is mainly because the requirements of the whole were that he/she occupy more narrative space, not necessarily that I’m concerned with creating a portrait as such. That space/requirement is subject to change; characters can become purely emblematic, or something like vectors of language purposed to move one event to the next. They are for me composed mainly of dialogue and action, but there is also the mode of internalization, the so-called “free indirect style,” i.e., being privy to a character’s thoughts, feelings, etc. but without use of attributes, tags, or quotes, not so much for purposes of exposition, or to take the reader into a confidence, but so that a character’s inner language/voice blends with narration and/or dialogue and, for that moment, all the “components” of a fiction are literally one, the raw material from which they emerged.

I suppose any examination of my writing would find exceptions, even contradictions, to the above. This is to be expected. The impossibility of a comprehensive answer to the question is what keeps the process alive.

BF and SV: Whether Sloper in Waste, Jelonnek in Firework, or Fred in Layman’s Report, all may provoke strong, virulent reactions from the reader, who often cringes at their addictions, vices, or errors of judgment. What attracts you to such characters? What sort of interaction, through them, are you trying to build with the reader?

EM: I’m not interested in characters who are “relatable” or “sympathetic” in the usual senses of those words; in what Frank Lentricchia, discussing the work of Don DeLillo, calls “the soft underbelly of American humanism.” I think I seek to trigger a certain shock of recognition. Sloper lives almost entirely by his appetites and is seemingly incapable of making a real choice, a “flaw” which ultimately destroys him. Most readers would recoil from these cravings, and would find his “choice” (between a dead woman and one somewhat less so) absurd and probably immoral, to say the least. Yet the above description of him could hold true for a huge portion of us; our own appetites may be deemed more “acceptable” but are no less mindless and probably more destructive (Sloper, in his fashion, does recycle), and our capacity to handle real choice no less self-defeating—if some of the decisions made in the voting booth, especially since the turn of this century, or as to the matter of life-saving vaccinations, are any indication. So I ask that the reader open themselves to this recognition, a purer and unsentimental kind of sympathy, at least enough to stay for the duration of the ride. You don’t have to like Sloper, or pity him; Sloper doesn’t care anyway. (I’m reminded of a rejection I received for In the Blind in which the editors said they admired the book but “didn’t fall in love with it.” I wonder if they meant the book didn’t fall in love with them. Readers seek reassurance.) But I think this “identification” is facilitated largely in the way a book is written. Would we stick with the Bovarys, or Richard III, if not for the language of which they’re composed? The conventional approach is often for a character to perform some redemptive act, arrive at an epiphanic moment, to “change” in some affirmative way that wins our approval, no matter how grudgingly (we don’t want to make things too easy). For me this is often a fatal moment, the point where the novel perfects its fictive self-containment and seals itself off from the reader. In Firework, Jelonnek takes an ostensible step toward salvation when he decides to “rescue” the brutalized prostitute, Littlebit, but in a way this act of mercy seems as arbitrary as Meursault’s act of murder on the beach. For me, content cannot redeem itself—i.e., by imposing satisfactory resolutions on events—it is redeemed by form, and admittedly I’m still in the process of discovering exactly how this is accomplished. There is a customer review of Firework on Goodreads that begins “I think the book was like ‘fuck you, don’t like me. I don’t want you to like me.’” In the end the reader gave it four stars. Maybe we should ask her.

BF and SV: You’ve just pointed to “the language of which [characters] are composed,” with the idea that some characters, however one defines them, stick with the reader for reasons that have little to do with who they are and how they act on the page; you even reject the notion of a character who would be “forced into existence for some plot contrivance.” Would you be willing to go as far as William Gass when he suggests that characters in fiction are “mostly empty canvases” and the “mere noise of their names”—quite a radical view that aims to foreground the materiality of the work?

EM: William Gass’s novella The Pedersen Kid is one of my favorite works, and one I return to from time to time by way of consultation, though maybe I just find comfort in its pages when I’m having trouble with my own. There is not a single character one would consider conventionally likable, etc. nor does the reader ever seem to notice. This is not an easy trick to pull off, but I don’t think it’s due to their being “mostly empty canvases” and I think Gass may have been somewhat playfully exaggerating when he made that statement. I think it may hold true more for human beings in general; we show each other only the tips of our icebergs, knowingly or not, and are generally capable of anything at any time. (When I hear of some mild-mannered everyman who one day sledgehammers their spouse at breakfast then shoots up their workplace with an assault rifle, my reaction is not so much “Who knew he was capable?” as it is “Of course he did!”) I prefer to think he meant that he fills his canvases just enough without resorting to faux “well-rounded, three-dimensional characters” with “psychological depth,” etc. that certain readers embrace the way a child clings to a teddy bear. This is not to say that characters aren’t capable of generating great emotional responses, I just don’t find them to be analogues of real people, but analogues of certain behaviors at best. And this is not at all as limiting as it may sound.

BF and SV: If identification is obviously not something you might be after, could a notion like empathy replace reader identification in your view and be something, in terms of affect, that you think your fiction might be trying to implement?

EM: This may not be the best admission for a writer to make, but words like “sympathy,” “empathy,” and “identification” tend to blur together for me. I’ve repeatedly looked up their definitions, apprehended the differences, and by the time they’re relevant to anything I’m doing, they seem to amount to the same thing. So all I ask is that the reader read these characters with the same suspension of judgement I try to apply when I write them. I will soon be (re)publishing a book whose protagonist becomes a de facto Holocaust denier (a description he refuses, I guess making him a denial denier). This in itself is reprehensible, but at times I find him admirable and likable, and it would not make the reader a bad (or judgmental) person to do the same. People are compartmentalized. They often don’t resolve their contradictions. This was a fact hammered painfully home during the 2016 US elections.

BF and SV: You are referring to Layman’s Report, a novel that can be read as a historical one, since Fred, the Holocaust denier at the heart of the text, is based on Fred A. Leuchter. Could you tell us what drew you to him in the first place, and how (if at all) the process of writing Layman’s Report may have been different from writing your other novels, not only given its grounding in reality, but also since Leuchter’s story had already been told in Errol Morris’s documentary film, Mr. Death: The Rise and Fall of Fred A. Leuchter, Jr. in 1999? How does your novel interact with the movie?

EM: I saw the film kind of by accident in Toronto years ago, and was immediately overwhelmed by the story—I felt something like resentment that history/reality had stolen a march on me by telling a story I should have come up with, and I became obsessed with the notion of stealing it back, recovering it, though my initial idea was that it would be a work of nonfiction. Anyway, for me “reality” is just raw material, a narrative convenience. To write about the past is to preempt, maybe even transcend, it. What I think of as literature, if I think of it at all, has its own chronology, its own order of cause and effect.

I don’t recall the process of writing it being much different than anything else I’ve written—it has in common the theme of vocation, and, in a sense, that of necrophilia—nor does it feel any more or less grounded in “reality.” I will say I was unable to get started until I had a proper sense of place as to Fred’s origins. Fred Leuchter comes from Boston, a place I’ve visited but have no feel for. It wasn’t until I realized that such a character was just as likely, perhaps even more so, to be a product of the industrial American Midwest, where I had grown up, that the book got rolling under its own power.

But it’s not an attempt to tell Fred A. Leuchter’s story; it just sort of coexists alongside. Where the events of the novel and those of his life coincide just seemed the correct aesthetic choices to make. The idea was to make that which was “made up” and that which wasn’t indistinguishable from one another. That is my idea of a “true story.” Nor does it attempt to comment on or compete with the documentary, though a film made about Fred occupies a significant portion of the book. The main purpose, of Morris’s film, in the words of its maker, is “to prove Fred wrong” in a factual, forensic sense, which it accomplishes. There were other possibilities in the material that I thought worth exploiting, and that’s what I set out to do.

BF and SV: In the Blind, your first published novel, is told in the first person, which—apart momentarily towards the end of Layman’s Report—you never returned to. What may make you choose the third person over the first one?

EM: I spent part of my formative years reading hard-boiled noir fiction (Chandler, Cain, MacDonald), most of it written in the first person. From there it was on to, among others, Hemingway (The Sun Also Rises, where it all begins for me, but also To Have and Have Not), so it was just a matter of time before I tried what was somewhat inculcated in my DNA. But I wasn’t just assimilating (or exorcising) an influence; in a sense I may also have been trying to subvert it. The hard-boiled first-person voice is traditionally masculine and implicitly heterosexual, but the narrator’s sexuality is sometimes ambiguous, and the lock-and-key metaphor is for me also a play on male/female principles. That aside, there’s the simple matter of finding a voice appropriate to the story and subject. The protagonist of Waste is a rather narrow character mentally and emotionally, so to have him narrate his story in his own voice would be a pretty monotonous, limiting experience. The narrator of In the Blind, on the other hand, is somewhat more self-aware, enabling a bit more flexibility in diction and scope while retaining the first-person voice conducive to the noirish atmosphere of the situation. So, in part, it just comes down to a kind of common sense, as well as using whatever POV will generate the best sentences.

BF and SV: Your handling of the first person in In the Blind somehow achieves similar results as the third person in Waste for instance, since the narrator of In the Blind is quite reluctant to narrate his own past; the supposed proximity instantiated through the first person is often undermined, and the character remains very hard to pierce through. In that respect, you often play with abrupt shifts in perspective when the “I” suddenly gives way to a “you” as soon as things threaten to become too intimate. Similarly in Waste, the third person often yields to a “you,” somehow forcing the reader into Sloper’s shoes so to speak, thus creating an extreme, though paradoxical close-up. How would you account for that? Would you say that the second person is somehow more malleable, as it might envelop and reconciliate different, sometimes contradictory modalities (a sense of generality vs. intimate proximity vs. self-address and self-enclosure)?

EM: I don’t feel the character is “reluctant” to share details about his past. He certainly gives us enough, as the book continues, to tell the story but, to me, intimacy with a character’s biography (not to say their inner life) isn’t the point of using the first person. (The reasons for its use in In the Blind are given above.) The narrator has reduced his life to the simplest terms possible—including what he tells us of himself—and lives very much “in the moment.” Third person would undermine this effect. (I suppose I should confess that withholding certain facts can also be a way of keeping the reader interested, e.g. mentioning the narrator’s ear had been sewed back on but not immediately explaining how that happened.) I chose second person (often used conversationally in English) for greater immediacy and reader identification during certain actions and experiences (think of a character in a film turning to the camera and addressing the audience directly), whether it be cleaning a toilet, picking a lock, or being raped in prison. It’s almost like a set of instructions. The prose shifts from “telling” to “showing.”

The idea that the second person achieves opposite effects in the two books is interesting, but it wasn’t intentional so I can’t account for it any more than a reader can. This is not to say it’s an invalid perception; as is stated somewhere in the Report, the author is sometimes last to know.

BF and SV: Maybe to wrap things up, In the Blind provides a sort of universal metaphor, that of the lock and key, which, if it perfectly embodies the narrator’s quest for identity and redemption, may also provide a “key” (so to speak) to read the novel—the reader often feels that, like the narrator, they’re reading “in the blind” in search of “keys” that might give way to whatever the text seems unwilling to unpack; the locksmithing language prominent in the novel, which acts as a sort of refuge for the narrator (cf. “It was usually a relief to retreat into that language”), poetically opacifies the surface of the text, inviting readers to crack it somehow, much in the same way as a locksmith “reads” a lock to “decode” it. In that regard, much of your fiction seems to rest on a similar reluctance to spell things out. Would you consider this sort of opacity or obfuscation as a specific narrative mode or engine to your writing?

EM: I tend to write the way I like to read, which is to not have my intelligence insulted by the belaboring of the obvious. You might compare it (there’s that second person again!) to the use of negative space in art; I will, when it seems appropriate, write “around” a thing rather than referring specifically to the thing itself, leaving a sort of vacuum in which the reader can participate. If it’s done right, the effect can be powerful, enabling one to, as they say in grade school, “use their imagination,” though I’m not sure how often readers (or grade schoolteachers) understand what that really means. It’s not simply a matter of discretion. In addition to withholding certain key words, it also means recognizing sound, rhythm, silence, etc. not as stylistic ornaments, but as attempting a kind of synthesis with the content (content comes first, form comes first afterwards); it means attempting to convey the experience of a subject, and not simply name it; to convey, say, the experience of love without ever using the word (good luck!); to render what lies behind a glass case at Auschwitz without using the word hair. Too often the use of a noun, concrete or abstract, doesn’t render an object but kills it by replacing it with a dead sound (though dead sounds can serve a purpose as well). If someone finds my writing too opaque at times, that may be because, in pursuit of the ideal, I’ve erred on the side of the obscure. Admittedly, there have been occasions when I’ve reread a published passage after a stretch of time has elapsed and thought, Well that could have been a little clearer. (With In the Blind, though, I wasn’t always trying for literal clarity, rather I was trying to shape something ineffable, an encounter with elemental forces.) So trying to find a proper balance is still a work in progress, maybe an impossible one.

Eugene Marten reading from Layman’s Report

17Layman’s Report is Eugene Marten’s third novel. Initially published in 2013 with Dzanc Books, Layman’s Report will be reissued next August by Strange Light in revised form4. The story is based on a fictionalization of Fred A. Leuchter, a self-taught engineer who ended up on the defense team of neo-Nazi Ernst Zündel when the latter underwent his second criminal trial in Ontario in 1988 for publishing and distributing Holocaust denial material such as the neo-Nazi pamphlet Did Six Million Really Die? The Truth at Last. Leuchter was a manufacturer of execution equipment (electric chairs and lethal injection systems), and a self-appointed expert. He was commissioned by Zündel to write a report—known as the Leuchter Report—a pseudoscientific document gathering highly controversial “evidence” against the mass gassings in the Nazi extermination camps, and he accepted to serve as expert witness during the trial.

18As often in Marten’s work, the novel’s protagonist, a fictional rendition of Leuchter, is a shady character caught in a relentless flow of events. After witnessing the brutal assassination of his father, a prison warden, and the ensuing botched execution of his assassin, Fred grows more and more fascinated with death and its implementation. Starting a career as a repairman, Fred progressively earns a reputation that will turn him into an execution expert. His so-called expertise will eventually draw the attention of a Canadian legal team hired to defend a German-born holocaust denier (based on Zündel). What they want is for Fred to fly to Auschwitz and give his honest opinion as to whether or not the concentration camps could have technically been the theater of so many deaths. Fred thus flies to Europe and manages to carry out his amateurish experiments, “proving” that it was impossible to kill that many people and that, therefore, the holocaust, as such, is a fabrication.

19Leuchter’s story is also told in Errol Morris’ film Mr. Death: The Rise and Fall of Fred A. Leuchter, Jr., which triggered Marten’s take on the delusions of a self-taught man carried away by his aspiration to belong. In what follows, the author reads the passage in which Fred is approached by Zündel’s legal team (to be found pp. 116-122 in the original 2013 Dzanc edition). Accompanying the reading is a montage of archival footage of Fred Leuchter, media coverage of the Zündel case, and excerpts from a propaganda film by Zündel himself, all taken from

Eugene Marten, reading from Layman’s Report

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1 In the Blind, Turtle Point Press, 2003. Waste, Ellipsis Press, 2008. Firework, Tyrant Books, 2010 (2nd edition 2017). Layman’s Report, Dzanc Books, 2013 (2nd edition with Strange Light, 2024). Pure Life, Strange Light, 2022


3 Holocaust denier Ernst Zündel. Leuchter’s story is recounted in Errol Morris’s movie Mr. Death: The Rise and Fall of Fred A. Leuchter Jr., released in 1999.


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Brigitte Félix et Stéphane Vanderhaeghe, « An Interview with Eugene Marten »Transatlantica [En ligne], 1 | 2024, mis en ligne le 01 juin 2024, consulté le 12 juillet 2024. URL : ; DOI :

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Brigitte Félix

Université Paris 8

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Stéphane Vanderhaeghe

Université Paris 8

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