“The Opposite of a Person” is the story of Ida, a Dutch climatologist who falls in love with Robin, an academic, before accepting an internship at a climate research institute in the Italian Alps. As the institute prepares to “safely” demolish a decommissioned hydropower dam, Ida grapples with love, loneliness, and her place in a society unwilling to confront global warming. Ida’s witty first person narrative is frequently disrupted by essays, poems, and citations: the author’s own reflections on solipsism, human relationships, and climate change. Mimicking persistent climate anxiety, Marsman’s interventions serve as a reminder that even a gorgeous queer love story cannot wholly distract us from the underlying threat of a climate emergency.
Marsman’s immense capacity for confronting actuality became even more apparent when, at twenty-seven, she was diagnosed with Chondrosarcoma, a rare form of bone cancer. Determined not to let her response to the disease “fossilise into yet another silence,” she read Audre Lorde’s The Cancer Journals and Sontag’s Illness as Metaphor, then gathered her thoughts on paper. In 2018, Uitgeverij Pluim published De volgende scan duurt vijf minuten, Marsman’s searingly clever meditations on her illness and the politics that surround it. An English edition of the book, The Following Scan Will Last Five Minutes, was translated by Sophie Collins and published the following year by Pavilion Poetry. Alongside the poems and personal essay that appear in the Dutch version, the English translation contains a series of letters from Collins to Marsman. Collins is not Marsman’s only translator—Daniel Cunin’s French translation of "The Opposite of a Person" was published last year, and Marsman’s poetry has been translated into multiple other languages—but her letters reveal the deep sense of mutual empathy and honesty that informs their work together.
In April, when Daunt Books announced it would be publishing Collins’s English translation of “The Opposite of a Person,” I was keen to learn more from Marsman. What had inspired the novel? Would Collins be adding to the original Dutch text? Was there a new book on the horizon? And finally, how did a writer as gutsy as Marsman face a year like 2020? Unable to meet in person, I interviewed Marsman via email throughout the month of September, an exchange of ideas I found equally thrilling to translate.
—Sarah Timmer Harvey
We are nearing the end of 2020, an unbelievably turbulent year for so many people around the world. What has been most challenging for you?
Obviously, there has been the pandemic. I don’t think I can say anything about 2020 without mentioning it, even if it has brought very little change to my own life. For me, the “global lockdown” coincided with the beginning of a new cycle of cancer treatment, and ultimately, this outweighed everything else I’ve experienced this year. It was a strange time, almost as though all my most childish, solipsistic notions had finally been realized: my life had been completely upended, and now the whole world was in it with me! Because of this, at the beginning at the pandemic, I felt very connected to everything and everyone, and sometimes, it even felt as though I had a little bit of an advantage, at least mentally, because I’d been sick for two and a half years and already knew the lay of the land. But the longer it goes on, the more I notice that I’m withdrawing, which, incidentally, I’m experiencing as a very welcome rest.
I’m so sorry to hear that you are undergoing treatment for cancer again and happy to hear that you are taking some much-needed rest. Does this also mean you have taken a break from writing?
For me, withdrawal often goes hand-in-hand with writing poetry, which is also the case right now. I’m working on a new collection that will hopefully be published very soon. I would also really like to write about the current state of the world, there is so much happening and so many things that need interpreting, but I don’t have the energy at the moment. Or rather, I do have the energy but not the attention span. Being sick attacks your ability to concentrate, and you can feel the effects of this for a very long time. I’m afraid we’ll be seeing more of this in the coming years because of Covid-19; people who have been physically recovered for months, yet still aren’t able to finish reading a newspaper article. Thankfully, my file full of essay ideas is growing, and I’m looking forward to the moment I’m able to work on them.
You mentioned in your email that you tend not to read much while you are writing, but what was the last book that you read?
Right now, I’m reading I Must Be Living Twice: New and Selected Poems 1975–2014 by Eileen Myles. I’ve only just started, and so I can’t say too much about it yet, but today I read “Exploding the Spring Mystique.” I haven't laughed so hard because of a poem in ages, and I’ve been sending it to all my poet friends. Eileen Myles is definitely a writer I admire very much.
“The Opposite of a Person” is a stunning portrayal of queer love in the age of climate crisis. Before I read the book in 2017, I’d been thinking how strange it was that no one seemed to be writing any fiction in which the climate crisis was even briefly mentioned—let alone explored in any meaningful sense, the way it has been in poetry and nonfiction. Some recently published English-language works of fiction, like Jenny Offill’s Weather and The Inland Sea by Madeleine Watts, acknowledge the overwhelming sense of dread and examine the effects of the climate crisis on individuals and relationships, but these novels seem to be exceptions, rather than the rule. I’m beginning to wonder how novelists can write anything about contemporary life and love without mentioning climate change. Do you think it’s willful ignorance or is the avoidance of the topic down to something else?
I think it’s a lot of things. On the one hand, it’s like I describe in the book, climate change feels far away and abstract. Over the past few decades, the narrative around climate change has also been wrong. To begin with the term itself: climate change. When I hear those words, I still picture the graphs and charts in my geography textbooks, and these aren’t something you could write a novel about. At the same time, people tend to write about what feels urgent to them. For example, since my diagnosis, I haven’t written a word about climate change. Is that willful ignorance? It’s more likely people’s inability to look beyond today’s problems. And that’s the tragedy of climate change: it’s something that will only play out the day after tomorrow. At least, that’s how it feels. And yet, the impact on the day after tomorrow can already be felt today. I do think that in the coming years we’ll see a lot more fiction exploring the effects of climate change. Books about forest fires, failed crops, apocalyptic summers, or things written from the perspective of endangered species. These aspects of the climate crisis do have that sense of urgency.
And before writing “The Opposite of a Person,” had you come across any fiction that was exploring these kinds of themes and ideas?
No! Which is something I found quite strange and, at the same time, obviously gave me even more motivation to write the book.
That said, “The Opposite of a Person” is far from a traditional novel. Instead, the narrative unfolds through a compelling mix of prose, poetry, and essay. Was it always your intention to write it this way? Or was the hybrid form something that evolved as you were working on the manuscript?
Definitely something that evolved while working! It took me a long time to find that right form. My initial intention was to write a “normal” book, with a plot, a beginning, and an end, because this is what I’ve always known. But it didn’t work; the prose was lousy and infantile. I had to include the essays because they allowed me to share the things that I couldn’t have my main protagonist communicate through dialogue. And if I had let her “think” those things, then it still felt strange to have her reference the books that inspired me. Eventually, I thought: this is my book. I’m going to do exactly what I feel like. And if I’m in the mood to explore a particular section through poetry, I’ll write a poem. If there’s a quote from someone else who has already said it better than I can, then I’ll include a quote. A short reflective passage? Also possible. I’ve noticed that young people, in particular, have absolutely no trouble relating to this kind of writing. I’m afraid that social media and telephones have messed us up!
Do you mean this in a negative sense? The fact that your writing resonates so much with younger readers is probably an indication that writing is evolving in this direction. Do you believe this is due to our new relationship with the internet, social media, and telephones? And is their influence always something to be feared?
We don’t need to be afraid of it, but I don’t necessarily find it a positive development. It’s twofold: I belong to the first generation that truly grew up with the internet. From the time I was ten years old, we had reasonably fast internet at home, and it has brought me a lot of good things. First and foremost, it gave me friends with whom I could talk about music and poetry. I didn’t have a whole lot of them in “real” life. On the flip side, I’ve realized that I’m completely addicted to social media, and not only that, I’ve been addicted to it since I was twelve. I’ve been an addict for eighteen years! But if I compare my use of social media to the younger generations’, then I’m really only quite moderately addicted. Obviously, this is how it goes, living through a telephone, day in day out, eventually has an influence on the way your brain processes information.
There is a quote in “The Opposite of a Person” which reads: “Feelings are formless, so you can’t expect to define them with language.” I find this an interesting idea for a writer to express because it seems to be the very thing that many readers expect writers to be able to do with absolute precision. Do you feel this kind of pressure?
If it were possible, readers would always understand exactly what writers are trying to say. But there is a lot of room for interpretation, which is precisely what makes literature so interesting. Yet, it is also proof of the fact that no definition is absolute. Articulating feelings in exactly the right way is something I primarily attempt to do in my poetry, and on rare occasions, I’m able to do it. Then it feels as though I’ve produced the ultimate characterization of something and that there’ll never be another way to write a feeling or experience. But then, along comes a reader who manages to turn it into something different after all. Or there is a new day, and with it, a new manifestation of the same feeling.
On that note, I’d like to ask about your work with Sophie Collins, who has translated much of your writing, including your collection of poetry, The Following Scan Will Last Five Minutes. I love that Sophie’s translator’s note is very much a part of the book, appearing as a series of letters addressed to you. The letters intimately discuss Sophie’s process and feelings about her relationship to you, your writing, and the subject matter. Can you share a little about your working relationship, and what led to the decision to include Sophie’s letters in this way?
The longer I worked with Sophie, the more I found that I could fully trust her with my work. I admire her both as a writer and person, and for this reason, I’m able to give her a lot of freedom when it comes to translating, and it only makes the work better. This is also how the idea of including the letters came about, and I think it’s wonderful that the English version of the book has this extra dimension. It definitely enriched the collection. Sophie was already working on translating some of my other poems when I suddenly became sick and wrote The Following Scan Will Last Five Minutes in no time. It was her idea to give the new collection priority, because of the urgent nature of the content. Obviously, it was also an adjustment for her, and I think it’s very interesting to read about the process from the perspective of the translator.
One of the elements explored in Sophie’s letters is the criticism you have both faced about the translations and the “freedom” given to Sophie as translator and co-writer of your work in English, particularly from “men who felt—no feel—that they somehow own the language.” Is this something that has happened more frequently in your career, and how have you experienced this?
Haha, so, so often! Men that explain my own poems to me or come up to me after a reading to offer their “tips,” or tell me that they don’t think much of my writing, then afterward hand me copies of their work. I began writing and giving readings when I was very young. I gave my first “serious” readings at seventeen, and my first book was published when I was twenty. At the time, I had the idea that I owed them something. They had, after all, taken the time to read my work and share their opinion. Now, with people like Sophie, I’m able to laugh about it.
Will there be any significant changes or additions to the English translation of “The Opposite of a Person”? And will your collaboration with Sophie be as visible as it is in The Following Scan Will Last Five Minutes?
I don’t think so. “The Opposite of a Person” was written several years ago, and in that respect, it’s really “done.” It isn’t a text that’s still in development, which The Following Scan was at the time.
In an interview with the Poetry Book Society, you mentioned that you’d had “bad experiences with translators in the past.” In your opinion, what should translators do to ensure that the writer they are translating feels seen, heard, and well represented? And what should they avoid?
I’m not sure about this one. Most of the languages I’ve been translated into are languages I don’t speak, in which case it’s all just up to the translators, and I find it quite easy to trust them. In fact, I find it quite easy to trust translators in general and I’m really not that difficult to work with, though it may seem so!
Absolutely not! I think you have an admirably clear vision of what you want your work to be and how you like to collaborate. It’s fascinating to think about this in terms of what we were just discussing as I don’t recall any of the male writers and translators I’ve interviewed ever wanting to emphasize that they weren’t difficult to work with. In fact, it’s sometimes quite the opposite! Do you often reflect on your reputation as a writer and how you would like to be perceived?
I’d like to be perceived as someone who has an admirably clear vision of what she wants her work to be and how she likes to collaborate, haha! I’ve always known that I wanted to write and what my work should look like, but I found it difficult to enter the poetry landscape as an eighteen-year-old. I was very conscious of my age; it was always emphasized whenever I was introduced or written about, and because of this, I sometimes felt self-conscious in front of my colleagues. Now I don’t spend a lot of time thinking about how I am perceived, which has undoubtedly been beneficial for my reputation.
The Following Scan Will Last Five Minutes was written after you were diagnosed with Chondrosarcoma, a rare form of bone cancer. In the essay at the heart of the book, you write: “I need the illusion that I can influence my illness and recovery process, and so I tell myself that this is a fight.” Do you consider writing about cancer a way of influencing the illness and how you (and others) respond to it?
No, I don’t think writing about it is influencing my illness. But it might influence the response to it. Sometimes, I feel the need to use my writing to tell the people around me what’s happening in my life. Some aspects of it; how it feels, bad news I’ve received, and the constant tension are all things I’m only able to express clearly through writing. This is one of the things I explore in my new poetry collection.
A lot of the writing in The Following Scan is political, including your analysis of the Dutch national budget and the ongoing debate around social security. I’m very grateful these details made it into the English translation because when it comes to poetry and fiction, a lot of translators and editors either veer away from including too many specific references to local and national politics or they tie themselves in knots trying to give them a broader context. But these sections offer readers who don’t speak Dutch an essential counter-narrative, or at least a glimpse of what is truly going on “within” the language. With this in mind, are there other contemporary Dutch writers that you feel accurately portray the current social and political landscape in the Netherlands?
I really admire Roxane van Iperen’s writing about politics. I thought her novel, 't Hooge Nest (The Sisters of Auschwitz ), was wonderful. Admittedly, it’s about the Second World War, but this is a topic that will always feel current.
And are there aspects of Dutch culture(s) that you feel ought to be written about, but are generally overlooked?
A lot has been written about the Dutch countryside, specifically the religious culture in these regions, and much has been written about life in the major cities, particularly Amsterdam. But what I consider a typically Dutch atmosphere is the outer suburbs of mid-sized provincial cities—Dutch suburbia—where I grew up. Very little has been written about this part of the Netherlands. The only book which comes to mind is Vinexvrouwen (Suburban Women) by Naima El Bezaz. I recently read Convenience Store Woman by Sayaka Murata, a fantastic novel about a woman who lives only for her job at the local convenience store. In many ways, the narrative voice invokes this feeling of constriction, which I guess makes me feel that she’s quite typically Japanese. I’d really like to see the Dutch equivalent of this! But instead of a local store, it would be set in a community center or a nursing home. A place with suspended ceilings, cup-a-soup vending machines, and a whole bunch of middle-managers with vague job descriptions.
What makes you happy?
Right now there are two things: my dog and tennis. I’ve been learning to play tennis with my left arm. I used to play a lot as a kid and it always brings me back to a happy place in my childhood. And my dog is my angel. I’d never had a pet before, but she has changed me forever and absolutely helped me keep my head above water over the past few years.
And in terms of your writing, what has helped you over the years?
Recently, I’ve been thinking a lot about what my first editor said to me during our very first meeting, which was: “Lieke, as a poet you must primarily do a whole lot of nothing.” At the time, I felt a little indignant, because I was eighteen, and naturally, I wanted to do a whole lot of everything! But it has turned out to be very valuable advice, and it’s something I’d like to pass on to all aspiring poets. Poetry is the only ambition that can be realized by doing nothing.
