On Writing SAILING TO SARANTIUM

At the end of every novel I write, a journey begins with no known destination. I never know what my next book will be. In order to find out, for each of my past four novels, I read history. Random periods, varying styles of scholarship and narrative, books I've meant to read for a while, books just published, books encountered in reviews or by simply browsing the stacks of bookshops. And from this eclectic process, so far, an idea, a concept, a framework has always emerged.
For Sailing to Sarantium the process was slightly less random and I suppose this can be acknowledged as a case of reviewers and readers impacting on an author's progress. For years, it seems, one of the most common adjectives attached to my fiction has been 'Byzantine'. I treat it as a compliment, since my own taste as a reader tends very much towards books with complex plots and equally complex characters. It occurred to me, after reading yet another such assessment of my most recent book, that I might as well do some exploring in the real thing—and find out something about the Byzantines.
I was hooked, like a fish. The vibrant, dangerous gorgeous city that the Emperor Constantine named for himself and made his capital in the fourth century AD offered the promise of a setting, plot twists, characters, themes and motifs... all the elements that spur and motivate my use of fantasy to examine our own histories.
That last might need explaining. For me, fantasy has never been in its essence about constructing elaborate magical systems for duelling sorcerers or contriving new versions of an enchanted ring or further variations on the use of hyphens and apostrophes in invented names. Fantasy is -- at its best -- the purest access to storytelling that we have. It universalizes a tale, it evokes wonder and timeless narrative power, it touches upon inner journeys, it illuminates our collective and individual pasts, throws a focusing beam on the present day, and presages the dangers and promises of the future. It is—or so I have argued for years -- a genre, a mode of telling, that offers so much more than it is usually permitted to reveal.
In Byzantium—which became my own alchemized Sarantium—I found magic and mysteries, sexuality, dazzling art, chariot racing in the magnificent Hippodrome (with partisan brawling in the streets before and after), warfare, political intrigue, and the ageless clashes between east and west, secular and pious, artist and soldier, walled city and open countryside. I found, in short, and in the glorious words of Yeats who gave me both my title and my access to the supernatural in this dazzlingly rich setting, 'whatever is begotten, born and dies.'
What more, really, could a writer desire? Well, one thing more I suppose: that his own art be worthy of the inspiration. And that, for all my books including Sailing to Sarantium and its sequel to come, will be for the reader to judge—which is as it should be.

© 2000 by Guy Gavriel Kay

TIGANA: 10th Anniversary Afterword

Tigana is in good part a novel about memory: the necessity of it, in cultural terms, and the dangers that come when it is too intense. Scelto's decision at the end of the novel is a reflection of that, and so is the George Seferis passage that served as one of my epigraphs. The world today offers more than enough examples of both pitfalls: ignorance of history and its lessons, and the refusal to let the past be past.
So, accepting that this is precarious terrain—an author's memories of a book about remembering—what does that imply, more than a decade after the writing?
Well, one might consider caution as a byword. 
I doubt there's any other novel I've written for which I'd even attempt a reconstruction of the earliest seeds of the book. But Tigana happens to have had a number of quite specific and very powerful elements in its origin, and some of these I can (or I have persuaded myself that I can) reconstruct.
Some time in the latter part of the 1980's I began seeing in my mind a hunting cabin in the woods, in some Medieval or Renaissance setting. There was someone unexpected (from the point of view of those inside) sitting in the window. I had not the least idea who that was or what else happened, in those early days, but I knew that a book would unfold from whatever took place in and around that cabin.
There exists a photo—I think I saw it first in 'LIFE' magazine—from Czechoslovakia, in 1968, the time of the 'Prague Spring' when a brief, euphoric flicker of freedom animated that Iron Curtain country before the Soviet tanks rolled in and crushed it brutally. There are actually two photographs. The first shows a number of Communist Party functionaries in a room, wearing nondescript suits, looking properly sombre. The second is the same photo. Almost. There is one functionary missing now, and something I recall to be a large plant inserted where he was. The missing figure—part of the crushed uprising—is not only dead, he has been erased from the record. A trivial technical accomplishment today, when the capacity we have for altering images and sound is so extreme, but back then the two photographs registered powerfully for me, and lingered for twenty years: not only killed, but made to never have been.
Another starting point: there's a play called 'Translations', by Brian Friel. It is basically an extended, passionate debate between a village priest in Ireland and the leader of an English survey team that has been traversing the countryside, mapping it carefully and—more importantly—changing the names of places, from Gaelic to English. Both men are aware of what is at stake: when you want to subjugate a people—to erase their sense of themselves as separate and distinctive—one place to start (and it is sometimes enough) is with their language and names. Names link to history, and we need a sense of our history to define ourselves. When Maoist China decreed that history began with their own Long March and introduced an education system to back that up, thereby eradicating thousands of years of the past (or trying to), they knew exactly what they were doing. It is hardly an accident that separatist movements so often involve attempts to reclaim a lost language. In Provence highway signs give place names in both French and the almost-lost Provençal tongue. The independence movement in Wales has incorporated attempts to reclaim their language as one of public discourse (a reaction to the English refusal to allow it to be used in schools or even schoolyards once upon a not-so-long-ago time). In Quebec, the often bitter struggle between Separatists and those who wish to remain a province of Canada finds a battleground in language all the time. Tigana was an attempt to use magic to explore these themes: erasing a people from the record of history by stripping them of their name.
A story like this needs a setting. Another strand to mine, even before it was a story, came from reading early Italian Renaissance history. The record of that brilliant and brutal time brought home to me how long-delayed Italian coherence and identity was because of the savage feuding among the city-states. Internal warfare made them not only incapable of repelling the ambitions of France and Spain but led the Italian cities to take turns inviting them in—so long as the outside army did a proper job of raping and pillaging hated Milan or Venice or Florence or Pisa on behalf of whichever city had extended them an invitation. The boot of Italy became my Peninsula of the Palm, with the ambience of olive groves and vineyards I wanted, and my model for Brandin of Ygrath became that of a Borgia or Medici prince, arrogant, cultured, far too proud. Alberico, opposing him, was a crude, efficient Politburo survivor.
The novelist Milan Kundera fed my emerging theme of oppression and survival with his musings about the relationship between conquered peoples and an unstable sexuality: what I called 'the insurrections of night.' The underlying ideas, for me, had to do with how people rebel when they can't rebel, how we behave when the world has lost its bearings, how shattered self-respect can ripple through to the most intimate levels of our lives. I wanted to start a book about subterfuge and deception with an outright lie—and the first sentence of chapter one does that. I wanted to work with music, the mobility of musicians in a relatively immobile society, and to re-examine the mage-source bond from Fionavar, showing a darker side to such a link: and that wish found an outlet in Alessan's binding of Erlein. I hoped to explore, as part of the revolt the book would chronicle, the idea of the evils done by good men, to stretch the reader with ambiguities and divided loyalties in a genre that tended (and still tends) not to work that way.
The debate between Alessan and Erlein is intended as a real one, not a plot device. The assertion made by the bound wizard that the roads of the eastern Palm are safer under Alberico than they were under Sandre d'Astibar is meant to raise a question about the legitimacy of pursuing one's quarrels—even one's quest for a people's obliterated identity and past—by using others as unwilling instruments. By the same token, the same is true of the rage Alessan's mother feels, seeing her son coolly attempting to shape a subtle, balanced political resolution for the entire peninsula, where she sees only a matter of hatred and blood and Tigana's lost name.
These are ambitious elements for what was always meant to be a romantic adventure. They intimidated me as they began to emerge, even recording them now I find myself shaking my head. But beneath them all lies the idea of using the fantasy genre in just this way: letting the universality of fantasy—of once upon a time—allow escapist fiction to be more than just that, to also bring us home. I tried to imagine myself with a stiletto not a bludgeon, slipping the themes of the story in quietly while keeping a reader turning pages well past bedtime.
It is a matter of gratitude and pleasure for me to have a sense, on this tenth anniversary of a generously received book, that it might have happened that way: those first ideas and images and wishes becoming the foundation pieces of the novel, the themes sliding in, people awake into the night. This is how I like to remember it, at any rate. 

Guy Gavriel Kay, Toronto, 1999.

GUY GAVRIEL KAY

Guy Gavriel Kay was born in Weyburn, Saskatchewan, on 7 November 1954 to Samuel Kay, a surgeon, and Sybil (Birstein) Kay. He has two brothers Jeffrey and Rex, who are, respectively, a lawyer and a psychiatrist. Kay himself trained to be a lawyer, earning his LL.B. from the University of Toronto after his B.A. in philosophy from Manitoba. However, he now earns his living as a novelist. Kay currently lives in Toronto with his wife Laura and their two sons.
Kay's love of literature came early since his parents, both readers, read to their son regularly. Kay's introduction to fantasy came through reading Greek myths, fairy tales, and later, authors such as J.R.R. Tolkien, E.R. Eddison, Lord Dunsany, and Fritz Leiber. As an adult, he is an omnivorous reader, consuming large amounts of non-fiction as well as fiction. A few of the fiction writers Kay particularly respects are Gabriel García Márquez, Milan Kundera, Thomas Flanagan, Shirley Hazzard, Cormac McCarthy, as well as the earlier works of Dorothy Dunnett, Updike's "Rabbit" novels, and George Garrett's Elizabethan historical fiction. 
Despite this literary childhood, as a teenager Kay had at least three quite distinct career aspirations: to play right wing for the Toronto Maple Leafs hockey team; to become a lawyer; and to become an author. A critical development in Kay's career as a writer came from his acquaintance with Christopher Tolkien, J.R.R. Tolkien's son, when Kay was a student of philosophy at the University of Manitoba. When Christopher Tolkien was named literary executor after his father died, he invited Kay to Oxford to assist him in editing Tolkien's fragmentary and uncompleted The Silmarillion. Kay accepted; as he comments, "Who in their right mind would NOT have been interested in the project?" Kay worked on The Silmarillion for a year, from 1974-1975. 
The year that Kay spent working on the Tolkien project reinforced his interest in writing, but at the same time he became aware that it was not a profession to be relied on, especially for someone young and inexperienced. Not expecting to be able to make money as a writer, he returned to Canada and earned a law degree at the University of Toronto, graduating in 1978. His interest in writing did not disappear, however: after finishing his degree, he went abroad to write his first, unpublished, novel. 
Kay received his call to the Bar of Ontario in 1982, but never actually practised. He turned immediately to writing, this time in a different medium. He had become friends with criminal lawyer Edward Greenspan, who was developing (with writer/producer George Jonas) a Canadian Broadcasting Corporation radio series, The Scales of Justice, which was to dramatize real Canadian legal cases. Kay became Principal Writer and Associate Producer for the program and continued to work for the series until 1989. The series was highly successful, including an award in 1985 for best media treatment of a legal issue from the Supreme Court of Canada and the Canadian Law Reform Commission. Kay still writes for television or film at times, between novels. 
1984 marked two important events in Kay's life: his marriage on July 15th to Laura Beth Cohen, a marketing consultant, and the publication of The Summer Tree, the first volume of the trilogy The Fionavar Tapestry. Kay produced the two following volumes in fairly rapid succession over the span of two years. In The Fionavar Tapestry, Kay started his career as a writer and as a fantasist by consciously working within the traditional boundaries, both in content and technique, of the branch of fantasy literature that Tolkien founded. In part, he was paying homage to Tolkien, whose writing had inspired him personally, and in part he was working to revitalize the genre. Kay comments that in The Fionavar Tapestry, he consciously chose "to work squarely in the Tolkien tradition while trying to allow room for character development and plausibility that I tended to find missing in most post-JRRT high fantasy. In a way it was a challenge to the debasing of the genre". 
The first of Kay's standalone novels is Tigana (1990). The detailed, authentic feel of the world is due in part at least to the fact that it was written in Tuscany, following what was by this point Kay's typical practice of writing his books while abroad. The novel shows careful research; some of the influences that Kay acknowledges in the final product are Carlo Ginzburg's Night Battles and the work of Milan Kundera, Gene Brucker, Lauro Martines, Jacob Burckhardt, Iris Origo, and Joseph Huizinga. While the setting is modeled on 15th century Italian geography, politics, and culture, the themes that Kay works with are clearly 20th century. One of these is the nature and importance of cultural identity, and the effects of the cultural obliteration often practiced by conquerors in our own world, as in the old Soviet Union, Ireland, China, and in Native American reservations in the United States. Another major theme of Tigana is how oppression is not merely political, but affects all aspects of personal interactions, including sexual relationships. The working out of this particular idea in the novel was inspired by Kay's reading of Milan Kundera's Laughable Loves. 
In 1990 Kay lost his beloved father. The birth of Kay's first son later that same year brought a different emotional effect, and while his next novel, 1992's A Song for Arbonne, is tinged with sadness, it is predominantly hopeful. Written during two visits to Provence, the novel is set in a world that clearly reflects medieval France. Kay credits sources of inspiration in the French historians Georges Duby, Phillippe Aries, and Emmanuel Le Roy Ladurie; the work of Urban Tigner Holmes, Frances and Joseph Gies, and Friedrich Heer; and, for his knowledge of the history and the work of the troubadours, Frederick Golden, Paul Blackburn, Alan Press, and Meg Bogin. 
The Lions of Al-Rassan (1995), which is based on the story of the Cid, continues the trend toward the use of real historical events. Kay knew little of the history of medieval Iberia before starting work on the novel. While this meant that the project required a great deal of research, it was also an indication that the story would be a fresh one for many of Kay's readers. He was able to take advantage of this by following his historical and legendary sources more closely than in previous novels. For the background information and inspiration for The Lions of Al-Rassan, Kay particularly notes the work of Richard Fletcher, David Wasserstein, T.F. Glick, Nancy G. Siraisi, S.D. Goitein, Bernard Reilly, Pierre Riché, Rheinhart Dozy, and the writings of Manfred Ullman on medicine. The novel itself was inspired by a piece of art appearing in a book about medieval medicine: it showed a female physician holding a urine flask, urine samples being a typical method of diagnosis at the time. This image eventually became the character of Jehane. 
Kay's newest project is his two-volume Sarantine Mosaic, consisting of 1999's Sailing to Sarantium and 2000's Lord of Emperors, set in a fantasy world modeled on ancient Byzantium. 

© 2000 by Holly Ordway

Compiled by Ted, for #bookz (and especially for vadi, with my thanks for all that he does for us, bookz-lovers)