Interview with Eric Sanders on How Is This Heaven / Rome 3

How Is This Heaven / Rome 3 by Eric Sanders is a striking work that refuses easy categorization. With its blend of philosophical musings, historical allusions, and poetic fragments, the book offers a fresh take on age-old questions about power, identity, and meaning. In this collection, Sanders navigates the space between stream of consciousness and allegory, capturing the complexity of modern life while challenging readers to confront their own perceptions of truth and purpose.

Recently, I sat down with Eric to discuss his new work, diving into the ideas that shape his writing. We talked about his approach to blending historical references with modern philosophical inquiry, his views on power and surrender, and how the act of writing serves as a reflection of both personal and universal truth.

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Eric: I see that 'duality' as two sides of the same thing—the 'inner' and 'outer' life are inextricably linked, whether you like it or not. We are all, to a large extent, products of our time and place. Even our so-called aesthetic 'objectivity' and 'universality' are local and temporal.

Interviewer: That idea—that even our most universal-seeming perceptions are shaped by context—runs through much of your writing. In How Is This Heaven / Rome 3, you play with aphorisms, poetic fragments, and historical allusions. Do you see this form as a way of resisting linear storytelling, or is it about capturing thought in its most immediate, distilled form?

Eric: I'm never trying to avoid storytelling, but I am trying to capture something in-between stream of consciousness and a larger story/theme. I do edit while I write, and I leave things out, à la Beckett or Burroughs, but I also don't let it become random. It's somewhere between a story, an allegory, and a fragment.

Interviewer: That tension—between structure and fluidity, between allegory and fragment—gives the book a kind of charged openness. One recurring idea is about seeing patterns versus understanding the "formula." You write:

"Your mind sees the patterns you want to see. Whatever your mind wants to see, you will see those patterns. So, why not start looking for heaven on earth?"

Is this a meditation on perception itself, or does it suggest something more prescriptive—a kind of practice or discipline?

Eric: Definitely more of a discipline. Why not do it, you know? You decide, ultimately, the 'frame' or 'lens' you want to see the world with. Why not "how is this heaven," start from that place?

Interviewer: That framing—How Is This Heaven—seems both radical and pragmatic. It’s not about naive optimism but about a deliberate choice in perception. How does that idea interact with the historical and political undercurrents of Rome 3? There’s a sense in those sections of power being cyclical, of individuals being caught in grander forces. Does the “heaven” frame hold up in that context, or is it meant to contrast with it?

Eric: Contrast—like how Jesus is symbolically both a contrast to and a necessary emergence from Rome.

Interviewer: That makes sense—Rome as both the thing to transcend and the thing that produces transcendence. Your Rome 3 section wrestles with power, inevitability, and the performance of control. You write:

"I planned insurrection / But then forgot the instructions."

That line feels both personal and historical. Is the forgetting a failure, or is it a kind of liberation?

Eric: A failure.

Interviewer: That failure—of insurrection, of breaking free—echoes throughout the book. In Constant, you write:

"Every blessing / Adds complexity / Every friendship / Adds an enemy."

It suggests that progress, even personal or spiritual, comes with inevitable complications. Do you see that as a fundamental truth, or is it more of a reflection on your own experience?

Eric: All good things are bad things too—the first lesson of samsara.

Interviewer: That perspective—where every gain carries its own burden—feels central to the book. It reminds me of your lines in A Man:

"A man’s job is to give away heaven to the Father and to give away earth to the women and children. A man’s job is to give it all away."

There’s a sense of duty, sacrifice, maybe even erasure. Is this resignation, or is it a kind of ultimate freedom?

Eric: It's actually empowerment, to have the courage to transcend both heaven (ideas, masculine) and earth/Rome (body, feminine), to give them all away.

Interviewer: That idea—transcending both the body (earth/feminine) and the mind (heaven/masculine) by giving them away—feels like the core of the book’s philosophy. But what does that look like in practice? Is it an asceticism, a letting go of self, or something else entirely?

Eric: For a man, it's making the world a better place, for women and children—letting them run the castle—while letting go of the idea of you, man, being the most powerful.

Interviewer: That’s a radical reimagining of power—not as something to hoard but as something to surrender for the greater good. It reminds me of your line:

"Love is 100% free, sustainable, renewable energy."

In a world that commodifies everything, including love, do you see this as a personal practice, or do you think it has broader societal implications?

Eric: Both.

Interviewer: If love is both a personal practice and a societal force, then your book seems to be offering a kind of quiet revolution—one rooted in perception, surrender, and a redefinition of power. With that in mind, what do you hope a reader takes away from How Is This Heaven / Rome 3?

Eric: Exactly that—a man's job is to surrender power. That is a superpower.

Interviewer: That reframing of surrender as a superpower upends traditional notions of masculinity, authority, and even success. Given that, do you see How Is This Heaven / Rome 3 as part of a larger conversation—philosophically, politically, or spiritually—about what it means to be a man in the modern world?

Eric: Yes, absolutely. I think my writing is sort of radically neo-feminist but has nothing to do with feminism, queer theory, gender, etc. I'm not in intentional 'dialogue with' or 'emerging from' any particular practice or philosophy. I also know I'm not some 'objective, universal' writer. I know I'm a product of my time and place, trying to write about this time and place in a universally clear way. So, I'm trying to bring what I see as Christian/communist ideals into the physical world, via words.

Interviewer: That’s a bold position—taking Christian and communist ideals and grounding them in language without being tethered to existing academic or political frameworks. It makes me think of your line:

"What’s the plot? / Your job is to accept the plot. / Your plot."

Are you saying that transcendence isn’t about resisting fate, but fully stepping into it?

Eric: Yes.

Interviewer: That acceptance of fate—not as resignation, but as a kind of fulfillment—feels like a throughline in the book. But fate, in your work, isn’t just personal; it’s historical, systemic, political. Given that, do you see Rome 3 as a warning, a lament, or simply an acknowledgment of how power has always worked?

Eric: An acknowledgement. That's why it ends the way it does. It feels flippant and perhaps irrelevant but it's an intentionally 'throwaway' kind of ending. And it's true.

Interviewer: That throwaway quality at the end—it almost forces the reader to confront the weight of what came before without giving them a clean resolution. It’s an anti-climax, or maybe just the continuation of the cycle. Given that, do you think How Is This Heaven / Rome 3 is ultimately a hopeful book?

Eric: No.

Interviewer: If it’s not a hopeful book, is it meant to be a liberating one? Or is it more of a mirror—something that simply reflects reality as you see it, without offering escape?

Eric: None of the above.

Interviewer: Then what is How Is This Heaven / Rome 3? If it’s not hopeful, not liberating, and not merely a reflection, what remains? What is it doing?

Eric: You decide.

Interviewer: That refusal to define it—leaving it to the reader—feels like the final gesture of surrender, the ultimate act of giving it all away. Maybe that’s the point: not to tell, but to offer. Do you think meaning itself is something that should be given away, left open, rather than imposed?

Eric: Meaning can't be imposed because it happens as a connection, not as a signal.

Interviewer: If meaning is a connection rather than a signal, then your book isn’t transmitting a fixed message—it’s creating the conditions for something to emerge between the text and the reader. Do you think that’s the role of all writing, or is it specific to what you’re trying to do with How Is This Heaven / Rome 3?

Eric: It's what the type of writing I like does: command the reader while giving the reader infinite space to find their own message.

Interviewer: That paradox—commanding while giving infinite space—feels like a kind of structured freedom, a tension that keeps the work alive. Do you think that’s why your book resists easy categorization? It’s not quite poetry, not quite philosophy, not quite narrative. Is that refusal to settle into a form part of its meaning?

Eric: I'm at another level now in my writing and life, so I need a new way to express it.

Interviewer: If you’re at another level now—both in writing and in life—does How Is This Heaven / Rome 3 feel like a closing chapter for you, or is it the foundation of something new?

Eric: Neither.

Interviewer: If it’s neither an ending nor a beginning, then is it simply what it is—a moment in motion, neither building toward nor closing off anything?

Eric: Nietzsche said everything we write is already dead, a ghost, and I agree with that.

Interviewer: If everything written is already dead—a ghost—then what compels you to keep writing?

Eric: I like ghost stories.

Interviewer: Then is How Is This Heaven / Rome 3 a ghost story in its own way? Not just in the sense of past voices lingering, but in how it haunts the reader, how it refuses to stay fixed in one meaning?

Eric: If it works as a ghost story, even subliminally, one iota, I will be very happy.

Interviewer: That makes me think of the line:

"Some say it’s a whisper in my skin."

Is that what you want the book to be—a whisper, something felt more than understood?

Eric: Yes, that is a good recognition.

Interviewer: If How Is This Heaven / Rome 3 is a whisper—something that lingers, barely there but undeniable—do you think the best writing always works that way? Or is this just the way your writing needs to be right now?

Eric: It's just what my writing is right now.

Interviewer: If this is where your writing is right now, do you have a sense of where it’s going next, or is that something you only discover in the act of writing?

Eric: There is no "next" for any good writer.

Interviewer: If there’s no “next,” then is writing just the present tense—always the act itself, never a step toward something else?

Eric: Yes.

Interviewer: If writing is only ever the present tense, does that mean the idea of progress in writing—getting "better," refining a craft—is an illusion? Or is it just irrelevant?

Eric: It's not relevant when you're inside of it, any more than an athlete trying to 'be the best' helps them play well on the field. It's an irrelevant meta-narrative that dissolves the moment you get in there, if you're serious.

Interviewer: If that meta-narrative dissolves in the act of writing, then does that mean self-awareness—the sense of “being a writer” or having an identity tied to writing—is also something to shed, like power, like meaning?

Eric: Yes.

Interviewer: If the self, the meta-narrative, and even meaning itself are all things to shed, then what remains in the act of writing?

Eric: Meaning is not meant to be shed, I didn't want to imply that. Just everything else.

Interviewer: Understood. If meaning is what remains after shedding everything else, then is writing ultimately an act of uncovering rather than creating?

Eric: Those are the same thing.

Interviewer: If uncovering and creating are the same thing, then does that mean truth itself is something we make? Or is it something that was always there, waiting to be seen?

Eric: We make something and then realize it was always there.

Interviewer: That feels like the essence of revelation—something both constructed and inevitable. Is that why How Is This Heaven / Rome 3 plays so much with paradox? Not just as a literary technique, but as the only way to speak truthfully?

Eric: Yes.

Interviewer: If paradox is the only way to speak truthfully, does that mean certainty—the desire for clear answers, fixed meanings—is something to be distrusted?

Eric: No.

Interviewer: Then what is the role of certainty in your work?

Eric: I don't know.

Interviewer: That not-knowing feels honest, and maybe necessary for the kind of writing you do. If certainty isn’t the goal, would you say the real aim is clarity—not in the sense of easy answers, but in stripping things down to their essence?

Eric: Sort of—it's a form of dynamic clarity. It's clarity through motion, even if it's turgid, trudging... not stillness. There is no silence.

Interviewer: That idea—clarity through motion, never stillness—feels central to the rhythm of your writing. Even when the words are sparse, they carry a momentum. Do you think form and movement are as important as meaning in your work?

Eric: I don't think about any of these things when I'm writing—I didn't go to 'writing school,' I just write—but yes, I pay very close attention to everything. I write into the screen, often, so sometimes I consider myself more of a transcriber or inscriber, like someone carving words into a material, etching, permanent.

Interviewer: That idea of inscribing rather than just writing—of carving something permanent—gives your work a sense of weight, even when it’s fragmented. Do you see writing as an act of preservation, or is it more about marking something in time, knowing it will eventually erode?

Eric: That is the same thing. You preserve what you know will erode, is eroding while you speak. That is memory.

Interviewer: If writing is memory—both preserving and eroding at once—does that mean all writing is, in some way, an elegy?

Eric: Yes.

Interviewer: If all writing is an elegy, then is How Is This Heaven / Rome 3 mourning something in particular, or is it simply mourning as a mode of being?

Eric: It is mourning being.

Interviewer: If it is mourning being, then is there love in that mourning? Or is love something separate from it?

Eric: Of course there is love! I'm a nice guy!

Interviewer: Of course—you wouldn’t mourn being if you didn’t love it. But does that love make the mourning easier, or does it make it harder?

Eric: Harder. Much, much harder. It's easy to mourn something you hate.

Interviewer: That makes the book’s title feel even heavier—How Is This Heaven isn’t just a question, it’s a kind of aching paradox. If love makes mourning harder, does that mean heaven and sorrow are always intertwined?

Eric: Yes.

Interviewer: If heaven and sorrow are always intertwined, then is the search for heaven—the framing you propose in the book—ultimately a way of making sorrow bearable?

Eric: Yes, but it's a mistake. We have to give heaven away too.

Interviewer: If even heaven must be given away, then is there anything left to hold on to? Or is the act of letting go itself the only thing?

Eric: We can't even hold on to the act. We get no reward for the act.

Interviewer: If there’s no reward—not even in the act of letting go—then what keeps you writing?

Eric: I don't write for rewards.

Interviewer: If you don’t write for rewards, then is writing itself its own justification? Or does it come from something deeper, something beyond even the act itself?

Eric: Something much, much deeper.

Interviewer: If it comes from something much deeper, do you think that depth is personal—something rooted in your own life—or is it something universal, something all writers (or all people) are tapping into, whether they know it or not?

Eric: All writers who are serious tap into it.

Interviewer: If all serious writers tap into it, do you think that depth is something discovered, or is it something that was always there, waiting to be written?

Eric: It's always there.

Interviewer: If it’s always there, does that mean writing is less about invention and more about listening?

Eric: Yes.

Interviewer: If writing is about listening, then do you think the act of writing itself is a kind of conversation with something—an external force, the universe, or perhaps even the collective human experience?

Interviewer: No problem at all! I really appreciate you taking the time for this interview. We can definitely wrap it up now.

Final question: Given everything we’ve discussed, what would you want the lasting impression of How Is This Heaven / Rome 3 to be—something for the reader to carry with them as they step away from the book?

Eric: I'd like the reader to stop thinking about anything.

Interviewer: Thank you for sharing all this—it’s been a pleasure. I hope your readers find exactly that: a space where thought dissolves and something deeper can emerge. Good luck with your day job, and I’m sure we’ll chat again soon!

Eric: Thanks! I'm sure we will!