"A spark so divine is not easily extinguished"
A Q&A with Nancy Lemann
Nancy Lemann’s writing is brash and candid, capturing her hedonistic, chaotic hometown of New Orleans — America’s most interesting city — as a society in spirited decline. Though Lemann’s work has long enjoyed cult appeal, she now swaggers back into the literary spotlight 24 years after her last published novel, Malaise. Alongside a new work, The Oyster Diaries (New York Review Books), and the reissue of her celebrated debut, The Lives of the Saints, Lemann’s sole work of nonfiction, The Ritz of the Bayou, returns to bookstores in a fortieth anniversary edition on April 7. It was my 2024 Mention in The Drift on The Ritz of the Bayou, which has long been out of print, that caught the eye of Hub City Press publisher Meg Reid and prompted the publisher to revive the book for the first time since its original hardcover edition. I caught up with Lemann to talk about memory, the scars of history, and, of course, New Orleans.
— Lauren LeBlanc
New Orleans is a place where the truth is often more absurd than fiction. How do you distill the stories you want to tell into fiction? How do you play with nonfiction to tell a story that feels most true?
With nonfiction you’re just chronicling what you see. It’s straightforward. What I see is going to be the humanity (or lack thereof), the personalities, the mannerisms, the characters, the atmosphere, the sense of place, etc.
Though you no longer live there, you’ll forever be a New Orleanian. While the city is, at its best, wildly original, achingly beautiful and utterly joyful, at its worst it has intersected with some of our country’s most brutal legacies. So often it takes leaving a city you love to fully appreciate it. When did you first recognize how distinctive the city was? What does New Orleans mean to you?
I definitely did not recognize how distinctive it was until I left for college in the North. Then I realized it was the ace in my back pocket precisely because it is so distinctive. What it means to me is a place that is truly original, its isolation having fostered its individuality. A spark so divine is not easily extinguished.
Is it easier to write about New Orleans and the stories you want to tell from memory? Is distance essential to writing?
The opposite — memory doesn’t cut it half as well as being there because I’m a reporter at heart. Easier to just chronicle what you see.
Your novels tend not to adhere to a traditional plot structure, but instead follow the voice of your characters and the cadence of the city they inhabit. Could you talk about how you came to find and trust your voice as a writer?
Plot is not my strong suit, and I consider that a deficiency. But you have to go with your strengths. I recognized that style (or voice) was my strong suit, so I ran with the ball. You have to identify your strengths and weaknesses, lead with your strengths, and try to cultivate (improve) your weaknesses. How did I discover my voice? I’m a compulsive journal-keeper and I discovered it in my journals because there it was unselfconscious and came straight from the heart.
The Ritz of the Bayou grew out of a piece that was commissioned by Vanity Fair. At the time, you had published your debut novel, but you hadn’t worked as a journalist. What made you want to take on the assignment, and how did it evolve?
It was a lucky break, it was a joy, it was a thrill, it was the perfect assignment for me. I only wish I had had more assignments like that. So much easier to be assigned a task or topic than to dream it up out of your head.
In Ritz of the Bayou, you write: “A flawed thing may be more full of life than a perfect thing.” How do you capture the essence of a flawed but beloved place or person? Has your perception of this changed over time?
Well, as in your earlier question mentioning the scars of history, almost every place is scarred by history, isn’t it? New Orleans is scarred by racism; Buenos Aires, where I just went, is scarred by the dictatorships of the 1970s. There is something noble or inspiring in a place (or person) scarred by history or trauma but which persists through adversity. Like New Orleans — hurricanes, etc. A spark so divine is not easily extinguished! (I’m saying it again in case I forgot to say it in the book.)
