I suppose you get writers trying to depict our present moment, with up to the minute cultural analyses of the latest technology and so on, but like Faulkner said, “the past isn’t dead, it’s not even past.” I just like to throw this in reverse, this fetish for the contemporary, and show how it is completely infused with all of these frames or ghost, if you like, of its own past. And the future itself is a kind of fiction produced of that odd couple. These time twists, and…flexes…it’s something that Joyce understands so well. I think literature at its best as a privileged access to this omnipresence of pasts, presents, and futures that are all up in the air. Nothing is less contemporary than contemporary art or fiction. Than art that has something to say about the now. I think the whole point of the now is that it’s precisely what we can’t articulate.