David Hirshberg
David Hirshberg specializes in writing literary fiction concerning the American Jewish experience. His first novel—My Mother’s Son—was published in 2018 and won nine awards. His second novel—Jacobo’s Rainbow—will be published in May 2021. Reviewers have compared Hirshberg’s writing to Michael Chabon’s and Saul Bellow’s, among others. Hirshberg received an undergraduate degree from Dartmouth College and a graduate degree from the University of Pennsylvania.
Twitter: @David_Hirshberg
Are there particular films that have influenced your writing?
I admire films with exquisite dialogue, such as On the Waterfront, written by Budd Schulberg and Elia Kazan, whose famous line uttered by Marlon Brando, “I couda been somebody, instead of a bum, which is what I am, let’s face it.” captures Marlon Brando’s (as Terry) pathos and humanity in just 16 words. Paddy Chayefsky (especially Network), Woody Allen (especially Annie Hall), and Graham Greene (especially The Third Man), were unusually good with screenplays. They were able to write in a way that people actually talk, which isn’t as easy as it seems. When I write, I read and re-read again and again (sometimes aloud), imagining a third party on film or the stage saying what I’ve written, and unless it sounds natural, I scrub it and start again. This is especially true when it comes to writing for characters whose native language isn’t English or who speak in a way that reflects how or where they were brought up.
What period of history do you wish you knew more about?
From 1607 (the founding of Jamestown) until the Revolutionary War (beginning in 1776). What we were taught in school in the 1950s and 60s was a sanitized version of American events from this era that seems to unravel as modern scholars dig deeper into original documents. I’ve got an abiding interest in American history—perhaps that’s why I write historical fiction. But I’ve concentrated on the 20th century and would like to understand more about the origins of slavery, the immigrant experiences of those who weren’t Christian, interactions between Native Americans and European settlers, how women were marginalized, and, generally, how myths were spawned that then ended up as part of the historical record.
Not all books are for all readers… when you start a book and you just don’t like it, how long do you read until you bail?
It depends on whether the book was written by a friend (I read it in its entirety), is on the agenda of a book club or group (I skim it until I have enough to be able to discuss it intelligently), or is one that I bought on my own (I read through the first chapter or section as the case may be). It’s always difficult to stop reading because of the fear that the book may pick up in terms of momentum, may have some twists that would’ve made it all worthwhile, or is building to a point that isn’t obvious. But the decision to stop is one of triage, as I have only so much time to devote to pleasure reading, with all of my other activities soaking up so much oxygen.
Is there a work of art that you love. Why? Have you ever visited it in person?
The Starry Night, painted by Vincent Van Gogh in 1889, a year before his death, is a work of art that I adore. I’ve seen it many times at the Museum of Modern Art in New York City. It’s not easy to pick this one as opposed to his self-portraits, Sunflowers, Toil Today Dream Tonight, and Irises, among others. The Starry Night is hallucinatory, yet playful (take a close look at the moon), while the stalk of wheat and the outline of the houses locates the wild night sky above a traditional rural French town. The combination of these elements contribute to its genius and pleasure.
What piece of clothing tells the most interesting story about your life?
A gabardine coat. Really. Here’s the story. When I was a young boy, I discovered an old gray coat hanging on a hook behind the rung in a closet where my parents kept their winter coats. It was for a man—long and heavy, although I’d never seen my father wearing it. I dragged a hassock from the living room into the closet so I could reach high enough to pull it off the hook. I almost fell getting it down. I dragged it up the stairs to my room. Lying down on the floor, I put my arms into the coat and pretended to make a snow angel, despite the fact that it was summertime. That afternoon, it flowed behind me as I pretended to be a soldier shivering in the freezing mountains of Korea, and then a Boston Blackie detective corralling bad guys. I remember curling up in it to take a nap, Muggsie—our cocker spaniel—nestled beside me. My mother woke us up and when she realized what we were using as a blanket, told us (yes, I knew Muggsie really couldn’t understand) the story behind the coat.
It had been the coat that my paternal grandfather had worn when he got on the boat at Riga, Latvia, that took him to Liverpool. She told me it was his only prized possession, and that it kept him warm when he took a steamship to America in 1905. He’d given it to my father for safekeeping, and when he came to visit on Sunday afternoons, he’d always spend a few seconds in the closet, touching it and saying a few words in Yiddish, as if the coat could comprehend. My mother took the coat downstairs to put it back in the closet, but made a point to let me know that not only wasn’t she upset that I’d taken it down, that I could bring it back to my room any time I wanted it, except for Sundays.
When I was older, I attended boarding school and received permission to take the coat with me. I wore it throughout the harsh New England winters. One of my nicknames was “Gab,” not because of anything I said; rather, it was related to the fabric. Over the years, the coat began to fray. Once a year I visit it in the attic, always putting it on and telling it a story of what had happened to me in the intervening 52 weeks. In English. (I assumed it was multi-lingual.) A few years ago, when speaking to my English cousin (the granddaughter of my grandfather’s brother who remained in the UK, not wanting to take the second leg of that trip to the US in 1905), I told her the story of the coat. Oh, my God, she said. Are you kidding? I have the same coat! Indeed, when we got on a Zoom call early last year, we showed each other the tattered coats that our grandfathers had worn more than a hundred years ago.
I have three sons. My biggest decision vis-à-vis the will is going to be who gets the coat.
