THE DICE MAN is a novel that in most all possible universes would never have been finished and never published. But Chance, ever busy, created a series of accidents in 1969-70 in Deia, Mallorca, that allowed a 222 page manuscript written over four years by an un-ambitious, unpublished 37-year-old college professor to be discovered and finished.

In the early nineties I discovered a book that changed my life and it wasn’t Little Women. There was nothing demure, ladylike or well-behaved about The Dice Man and that is exactly why I loved it. It was anarchy and it was chaos. It was life on the edge. I read it the same way that I devoured pizza at 3am with a head full of vodka: quickly and with considerable mess. When I finished it I vowed to one day meet the author and buy him a beverage* of his choosing, and, through a series of odd little circumstances, here we are today.

Please enjoy, without further ado, a conversation with George and Zoƫ.

*No beverages were harmed in the making of this interview.

I was 21 when I first got my hands on a book called The Dice Man by virtue of a gift from a friend. It was a book that caught me from the first page, introduced me to the idea of deciding one’s fate by the roll of a die, and was indirectly responsible for a friend’s unsuspecting mother encountering a certain memorable phrase involving a wet sack.