This inhibits his writing, and in an effort to figure out young people and how they work, he recently fostered an 11 year-old Iraqi orphan named Naseefa for three months. Franzen insisted that Naseefa keep a journal, and what follows are excerpts from that journal.
Day 15:
It is morning and I had just woken from another nightmare full of the bombs and the screaming of the torn and dead. As I open my eyes I see Master Franzen staring down intently upon me. He has been watching me in my terror, he says. “Naseefa, what were you thinking as you slept?! Tell me!!” I say to him that I do not know how to put my thoughts into english words and Master grows frustrated. He hits at things in his apartment, saying bad words, and then he runs off and begins to type.
Day 18:
Today Master took me to Fantasy Forest amusement park. “Go,” he said, “act naturally.” Master then bought a hotdog, arguing briefly with the vendor about technology, and then sat on a bench with his notebook. I went on the Merry-Go-Round and as it was just starting up Master ran to me, “Little boy,” he yelled, “why did you choose this horse? It’s missing a hoof, does it remind you of the carnage of war? Does it summon memories of a family member having an amputation? Why not the lion, does it frighten you because it summons images of your abusive uncle having sex with your mother while your father worked?!”
I did not know what to say so I began to cry. Master Franzen scribbled in his notebook and then started to argue with the hotdog vendor about technology again.
Day 19:
Master seemed depressed today, spending hours in front of the mirror rearranging his hair.
Day 24:
Today Master forced me to open a Twitter account. He wanted to observe as I interacted with the outside world through the use of technology. However he keeps interfering, insisting that every hour I Tweet something about his new book Purity. Without saying a word, he hands me a little piece of paper with the words I must Tweet.
“Franzen is a giant who looms over the American landscape.”
“Purity is a complex and beautiful meditation on what it means to be alive.”
“We are blessed that not only is Franzen the greatest living writer in America, but that his best novels promise to be before him.”
“Just saw an interview with Jonathan Franzen! Not only is he brilliant, but sexy, too!”
Day 38:
Lasagna for dinner again. Master said that his fans worship him and make food for him all the time, and then he laughed a dry, mean laugh.
I am frightened in America.
Day 43:
Master returned to the apartment in a bad mood today, as his tennis lessons did not go well. “The backhand bedevils me!” he exclaimed, before throwing his racket at his transistor radio.
He stared at the broken pieces on the floor for a long time and then suddenly he spun around and shouted at me, “What are you thinking?!”
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What follows is a partial transcript of our final interview:
Pointy Headed man wearing a bowtie: Cressida, that’s a beautiful blouse you’re wearing!
Pale woman with small teeth: I love it, too! It brings out that beautiful auburn in your hair, Cressie!
Cressida: Oh, thank you both, that’s so sweet, but I have to say I can’t take any credit for it. It was a gift from Roger Federer for that feature I wrote on him that won the National Magazine Award!
Me: I didn’t know that Roger Federer shopped at Winners.
Cressida: I think you have a toothpaste stain on your shirt, Michael, and your right shoe.
Pointy Headed man wearing a bowtie: So, Cressida, let’s start with you. Although I think we all have a pretty good idea, would you tell us what would you bring to the position of Fiction Editor of the New Yorker?
Cressida: Blahblahblahblahblahblah.
Pointy Headed men wearing a bowtie: Wow. Just wow.
Man wearing a cape: I have to say Michael, that’s a tough act to follow. What about you, how would you respond to the question?
Me: I feel like I’m on the Apprentice.
Pale woman with small teeth: You mean the novel by Ferenc Herczeg? Interesting, please elaborate.
Me: May I excuse myself to get a drink of water please?
Cressida: I think he meant the TV show with Donald Trump and not the great work of Ferenc Herczeg, whom I met and edited in Hungry.
Me: Slut.
Woman who was going for a sexy librarian look but failed big time: Mister Murray?
Me: Please, call me Michael, I’m not all stuck up and pretentious like some people here that might be named Cressida.
Cressida: Excuse me, but I do not take kindly to being called a slut. Even though we’re competing for the same job, it doesn’t mean we can’t be civil. And I was only slutty for that first year at Oxford.
(Much laughter amongst stupid inquisition clique and slut Cressida, followed by long, exclusionary digression about all the universities they attended and all of the common people and dogs that they know.)
