In Conversation with Kim Dana Kupperman

In your essay, "Lilacs at Auschwitz," you contrast the horrors of Kristallnacht with the beauty of lilacs blooming in Vienna and pose this question: " ... which is deeper, or more firmly rooted in our human culture: beauty or the abominable?" How would you answer that?

The abominable and beauty, like fear and love, have existed side by side since the beginning of humanity. I am not sure that we, as a species, can shake the abominable. And if we did, would beauty fade for not existing in relief, or in spite of what is inherently not beautiful? The question then becomes: can we tame those urges toward the abominable? I think that for as long as we live in a power-over kind of culture, we will have to contend with the abominable. But if we could shift the paradigm and develop a more lateral, shared-power model (dubbed “gylany” by the cultural historian Riane Eisler), perhaps beauty would thrive and the abominable would be greatly lessened.

As the author of several books and founder of Welcome Table Press, what advice would you give to folks who are thinking about pursuing a career in writing and/or publishing?

Read constantly. Write about things that matter. Don’t take yourself too seriously and make sure your skin is tough. Give to the writerly community; it will give back to you. And, finally, these words, attributed to Colette: “Sit down and put down everything that comes into your head, and you’re a writer. But an author is one who can judge his own stuff’s worth, without pity, and destroy most of it."

Welcome Table Press publishes a periodic digital chapbook called (un)common sense, which features short essays—words, images, videos—about times that try our souls. During a year when our souls have been sorely tried, what have you been writing?

The “Lilacs at Auschwitz” essay is part of a larger nonfiction work, a sequel-prequel to my historical novel, set during WW II and published in 2018. The book tells the story of several families who survived World War I, the 1918-1920 influenza, and the Holocaust, three events that unfolded across two generations. Because this book—both the research and the writing—requires immersion in some of humanity’s most gruesome moments, I ground myself by writing haiku. And in this pandemic time, I set a goal of writing one haiku each day. This permits me to observe the natural world, its cycles, beauty, and even its disturbing qualities. It also keeps me focused—the brevity of haiku is a blessing in a world saturated with complications, opinions, and information.