George Saunders, born in Amarillo, Texas, in 1958, no longer lives in isolation within the Santa Cruz Buddhist community where, through meditation and writing, he claims to have steadied his inner restlessness. He stands, without argument, as the finest American short story writer, and the output of his books remains as scarce as it is treasured. A decade ago he published the perfect collection Diez de diciembre, and between that and his current work, El día de la liberación (Seix Barral/1984), his only novel Lincoln in the Bardo, which won the Booker Prize. From Santa Monica, California, where he settled after the pandemic because he needed more human contact, he discusses this collection of stories, a playful autopsy, to borrow a paradox, of how citizens have allowed themselves to be controlled by a hypertechnologized power.
Leaving each day to walk his dog and engage more with people, has his writing style changed?
The writing, for him, is like a vast cruise ship; it takes years to change direction. What he feels now is that he has renewed energy and inspiration. He interacts with many creative people, which enriches him. On the downside, he admits he is gaining weight, which isn’t ideal.
How does it feel to bear the title of master of the short story? What can the short story do that the novel cannot?
For him, the short story carries urgency. It can be like a joke: a setup is stated and the surprising result is revealed in a concise way. He enjoys having eight pages to explore the essence of life. It’s a fantastic challenge. He also notes that his fast-paced cadence and somewhat obsessive mind fit the medium perfectly.
What would you call his quirks?
He jokes about a fast metabolism and a mind that resembles a monkey at times. He envies Chekhov, his favorite author, whose world view is delicate, subtle, and perceptive, while Saunders feels his own approach is more comic-book hero-like, able to see dramatic possibilities in plots but not always their fine details. He has trained to be more calm and nuanced, yet has learned to tailor his craft to his own natural temperament. If one taps into their natural self, readers will understand better.
Humor may not be counted among those quirks, but his literature cannot be understood without that mischievous sparkle in his eye.
In public talks, the audience often laughs, and he enjoys it. A friend once reproached him for hiding behind that humorous glance, and he did not dispute the point; it made sense. He has done it since childhood. When his family feels a bit odd or intimidated, they joke about it. It’s a shield. But once you recognize that being funny is what you love to do, you must consider whether a joke is cheap at someone’s expense or a genuine joke that includes all of us.
That leads to another of his defining traits: compassion for his characters. How, then, does one balance satire with compassion?
Compassion does not mean merely saying kind things. If a child reaches for a plug, you don’t explain how electricity works; you instinctively intervene. Saunders believes compassion means total honesty. Tom Wolfe, for example, can seem a bit cynical, but his intention is loving, and that is his aspiration as well.
When did he first become aware of injustice and exploitation of people?
In his youth he worked on an offshore platform in Asia. He grew up Catholic in a working-class family, and one night on a construction site he saw 300 Malay women cleaning stones by hand, without tools. In that moment he sensed the existence of hidden powers controlling much of the world.
Did that steer him toward Buddhism?
Not directly, but it began a journey that continues. Catholicism and Christianity in general can turn believers into the center of the show, which undermines the perception of others. He recently turned 65 and sees Buddhism as drawing out the trust in one’s loving nature. It is easy to understand, but living it out is another matter. Even if he lives to be 90, he believes the practice will be achieved gradually.
He is not a science fiction writer, yet many of his stories dwell in dystopian spaces. Is dystopia the best tool to comment on the present?
For him, dystopia is a bit selfish: it lets him imagine impossible scenarios, like a world where everyone has three heads, which prevents him from writing as Hemingway would. The aim is to do something intelligent with science fiction that probes deeper into human nature.
The political backdrop often bleeds into his stories, but in El día de la liberación politics takes center stage.
Indeed, it is his most political book, perhaps shaped by the moment of its writing, with Trump in office, elections, and the pandemic. In Diez de diciembre there was more trust in a future where we could still save ourselves. This book says it is possible, but not always achievable. Political systems can be so powerful that they crush people. Still, he never starts a book with a fixed intention.
Didn’t he ever see it as a warning? In the story Letter of Love, a president is described as a clown who destroys civil rights. Is that drawn from his experience as a political reporter during Trump’s campaign to the White House?
That experience was very strange. He never believed Trump would become president and only saw him as a funny figure. Some of his supporters were pleasant, but they were trapped in information bubbles. We all share that problem, yet they found sources that seemed absolutely true to them. That trend now affects all of us.
That is one key angle of the book: how power can erase memory and implant false recollections.
Yes. In the story, it is the citizens themselves who volunteer to be manipulated; no one forces them. That is exactly what happens with social media today. A friend tells him that when fascists return, they will be charming to everyone.
In other words, we are the gatekeepers who open that door.
I will tell a Buddhist parable. The enemy poisons the water of a kingdom, driving the people mad. In the end, all lose their minds except the king who has a different well. Yet he still drinks the poisoned water rather than feel lonely. We are all poisoned by social media; the poison tastes good and we savor it.
Is artificial intelligence a danger to literature?
He can’t speak for everyone, but he and a group of writers have filed a lawsuit against ChatGPT for training the machine on their books without permission. If someone wants to use a novel or a short story to make a film, they must pay rights; nothing of the sort has occurred here.
Do you feel fear or think it could be a useful tool?
Both. But if he wants to read a book by Alice Munro, he wants to read the mind of Alice Munro looking at the world and trying to understand it. By definition, you cannot write literature without being human. It is possible to imitate a writer to a degree, but not much more. The danger is readers losing the ability to tell good writing from not-so-good writing. He hopes that will not happen.
Does he see himself covering Trump’s next campaign?
He has had enough of Trump already. He is a creature that feeds on attention, and writing about him would validate that. He has better uses of his energy and time.
What has literature given him? Clarity of ideas, the opening of questions, or letters of affection?
Literature is a bit like meditation to him. After finishing a piece, he feels steadier and calmer. Even if no one read it, he would still write. For him, it is a spiritual practice that helps him stay connected to the world every day.