The Tree of Codes cover.

There’s something about Jonathan Safran Foer that drives a certain breed of dyspeptic New York writer/blogger to drink—more so than usual, anyway. They chafe at the six-figure advances, the visiting professor gigs at Yale and NYU, the majestic Park Slope brownstone. There’s even a catchphrase for it—Schadenfoer!

However, those hoping for a colossal career misstep might want to pour another highball, because his latest book, Tree of Codes, is a quietly stunning work of art. The first major title bynew London-based publisher Visual Editions, Tree of Codes was created by slicing out chunks of text from Foer’s favorite novel, The Street of Crocodiles by Polish author Bruno Schulz. The result is a spare, haunting story that appears to hang in negative space on the page. Pretentious? Possibly. But it is also very, very cool. VF Daily spoke with Safran Foer about his delightfully tactile new book.Heather Wagner: Tell me about Tree of Codes: how did the idea of cutting out words from an existing novel come to you?

Jonathan Safran Foer: A couple of things: One is the book The Street of Crocodiles by Bruno Schulz. It’s a book I’ve always loved. Some things you love passively, some you love actively. In this case, I felt the compulsion to do something with it. Then I started thinking about what books look like, what they will look like, how the form of the book is changing very quickly. If we don’t give it a lot of thought, it won’t be for the better. There is an alternative to e-books. And I just love the physicality of books. I love breaking the spine, smelling the pages, taking it into the bath. . .

What inspired the design?

I thought: What if you pushed it to the extreme, and created something not old-fashioned or nostalgic but just beautiful? It helps you remember that life can surprise you.

Yes, I read the review copy on the subway. It caused quite a stir.

People’s face when they see the physicality is pleasing and unexpected. They smile. It has a quality of extreme satisfaction. It’s not the way a book is supposed to be. Yet it is as it should be.

What is it about the die-cutting method that appealed to you?

That’s like saying to somebody, “What about the way that you just kissed me was good?” If you have to explain, it wasn’t good. It’s beautiful as a page. It gives the pages depth, and the books take on a sculptural quality. It changes.

How many printers did you go through until you found someone willing to do this?

Several. The hardest part was the binding. They had to do it as a paperback. If it were a hardback it would collapse in on itself.

Tell us about The Street of Crocodiles.

Bruno Schulz is regarded as one of the greatest artistic minds of the 20th century. He was killed by a Nazi officer during the war. I don’t know of a book that has a following that’s as passionate as [that of] this book.... It’s such an unusual book. There’s a quality of the writing that makes an all-or-nothing wager. Like religion. God doesn’t “kind of” exist - he either does or doesn’t. This book is either genius or nothing. I find that wager really attractive. All really great artists, Jackson Pollack, John Cage, Beckett or Joyce—you are never indifferent to them.

Whose book is this? Is it your book? Or is it Bruno Schulz’s book? You are using his words.

This book is mine. His book is a masterpiece, this was my experiment. My story has nothing to do with his story. There’s the sense that every book every written is like this, if you use the dictionary as a starting point. This is a more limited palette, but it’s the same idea.

In cutting away you are creating something. Do you see parallels to this in your fiction writing?

I don’t think so. Look at is this way: There are two kinds of sculptures. There’s the kind that subtracts: Michelangelo starts with a block of marble and chips away. And then there is the kind that adds, building with clay, piling it on. The way I write novels is to keep piling on and piling on and piling on.

You have used visual devices such as illustration, hand-written type, and even flip books in your fiction work (Which have provoked cries of “twee!”). What compels you to tell stories in this way?

I’m not interested in experimentation for its own sake. But I’m interested in works of art that transport a reader. That send you to a different place—pure magic. We’ve gotten used to the notion that art, if it entertains or says something interesting about our time, that’s enough. But there’s something else it can do that nothing else can do. To be genuinely transported, to have your nerves touched, make your hair stand on end, that’s what I think art can do well—or only art can do.

In this increasingly digital age, do you see a project like this—book-as-sculptural objec—as one way to preserve the printed page?

Not really. These decisions are going to be democratic. This book is simply not going to find a big audience. It’s naïve to think it would. I’m not really interested in resisting what’s going on, even though I have strong ideas about what a good book is. It’s possible to make things that aren’t just money-makers. Something wonderful for its own sake.

I don’t think this book would translate well to an iPad. Do you have an iPad?

No. I have nothing against it. I love the notion that “this is a book that remembers it has a body.” When a book remembers, we remember. It reminds you that you have a body. So many of the things we may think of as burdensome are actually the things that make us more human.