His most recent novel, Jeff in Venice, Death in Varanasi, is a sort of diptych, half of it set at an art show in Venice and the other set amongst the burning funeral pyres in Varanasi.   His nonfiction includes a critical look at the First World War and memory, a book about failing to write a critical study of D.H. Lawrence (Out of Sheer Rage), a book about photography (The Ongoing Moment), a book about jazz (But Beautiful), a book about his travels in the East and elsewhere (Yoga for People Who Can’t Be Bothered to Do It) and, most recently a book about Andrei Tarkovsky’s film, Stalker (Zona: a book about a film about a journey to a room).  His narrative persona ranges from critical, to meditative, to whiny, to wise, to contradictory, to slapstick.  Never in his presence did I feel far from it.  We laughed a lot. Other times, neither of us got the joke. 

Geoff Dyer: I believe absolutely, that the biggest failure of my life is not living in California.

Matthew Clark, Wag’s Revue: There’s this great line in Jeff in Venice, Death in Varanasi, about being “a hundred percent sincere and a hundred percent ironic at the same time.” Are you being sincere and ironic?

GD: Weirdly, I’m being one hundred percent sincere with zero irony.  California would be good for me as a whole human being and me as a writer.  The sound of street English in England is so ugly and brutal and coarse. 

MC: I love it.

GD: You’re American. I love street talk in America and I really really like all the spiritual bollocks and personal growth stuff in San Francisco. 

MC: I see the Esquire Sex Issue on the floor.

GD: To which I contributed. 

MC: “The Rise of Cunnilingus.”