From John Marks of Purple State of Mind:

This week, all over the world, Jews and Christians gather to celebrate. Prayers will be said, Bibles and Haggadahs opened, and then, you can bet, over tables groaning with food and wine, conversations will begin. Some of them will get heated. Before that happens, you might want to consult Daniel Menaker.
An acclaimed fiction writer and former publishing executive, Menaker has just published a funny, provocative, and useful book on the fine art of linguistic intercourse (not so very different from the sexual kind, it turns out, and often every bit as erotic). It’s a timely piece of writing.
In A Good Talk: The Story and Skill of Conversation, Menaker addresses the challenges and pitfalls of talk, taking on everything from how to manage religious and political controversy to how to deftly change the subject. In the meantime, he also deals with the larger philosophical questions about why conversation matters and how it evolved.
A critic in The New York Times Book Review recently had this to say about the book: “It takes nerve to write a book about conversation, given the well-conceived examples already on the market—Cicero, anyone? In this breezy primer, Menaker, a former executive at Random House, adds an urbane, contemporary cast to the discussion of what makes for good talk and why, drawing on everything from the dating scene to New York publishing gossip to studies on the hormone oxytocin to (how could he not?) Barack Obama.”
For Menaker, conversation isn’t just idle chat. It’s the indispensable essence of the common human bond. That doesn’t mean it always comes easy.
On dealing with an insult, Menaker writes: “By all means, be insulted by insults. Get angry, look indignant, bridle away. But listen to them, too. Even though their behavior may be rude, people who cross the conversational line this way often convey some truth about you that you’d rather not deal with. Sometimes they’re the only people who will tell you things that you don’t want to hear but should.”
There’s a lot more where that came from, so check out the book and have a look at his blog Good Talking To You, but in the meantime join us as we talk with Menaker about, well, talk.

Q: Can you give an example of a recent conversation that you either overheard or participated in and that stands out in your mind as exemplary along the terms laid out in your book? That was, in effect, “a good talk”? What was it about the exchange that worked so well?
A: On a long airplane flight just the other day, the man sitting next to me, a business traveler who turned out to be a human resources consultant, noticed that the flight attendant, an older man, was wearing a small armed-services pin on his lapel—a Navy insignia. He mentioned that he and his father had both served in the Navy (his father in combat in the Pacific in the Second World War), and that his son had just returned from Iraq. After this brief exchange, I asked about his son’s service and how he seemed now that he was home. I felt that my fellow passenger and I had silently agreed to have a brief conversation and then leave each other alone. I can’t explain where this tacit understanding came from, but it was there.
In any case, the other guy told me that his son, not yet 25, had changed in ways that he couldn’t quite define—that he seemed older than his years and less concerned about routine frustrations and disappointments, surely because he had seen such serious events in the service. He said that his son was thinking about his future, back home, in his old room, but it was as if he had outgrown, in good ways and sad ways, his own youth. I replied that I had gone to college with some considerably older Korean War veterans and how different they seemed from the rest of us, and by no means solely because of their age.
We conversed some more about our kids and jobs and movies, but underneath the pleasant exchanges there was now an implicit and deeper connection about the human condition—our seeming inevitable propensity for warfare—and an agreement that though those who serve in the military are in some ways automatically to be respected and thanked, we wished that no one ever had to go to war.

Q: How did you gain your conversational chops? Did you have role models who gave you a sense of the possibilities? Parents? Friends? Colleagues? Does any one person stand out?
A: I was raised in a talkative family, went to a talkative elementary school, was in the honors program in college—seminars: talk, talk, talk—and went into the wordy business of editing and writing and meeting after meeting. After my brother’s death, at 29, from a hospital infection, I went into analysis, and that experience taught me to listen closely to myself and then eventually to turn outward and listen to others, and to respond to my own conscious and unconscious patterns and concerns and those of others. The knowledge that we are all essentially in the same boat of conflicts and pleasures vastly increased my curiosity about and interest in other people.
One person who stands out is the late Brendan Gill, theater critic of The New Yorker, who was intensely “present” in every conversation he had. You could feel his attention to what you said, and he took great delight in pursuing a subject until its essence was discovered. Urbane and highly sophisticated, he was nevertheless also without condescension.

Q: You quote the philosopher David Hume approvingly: “Nothing carries a man through the world like a true genuine natural impudence.” Later on, you define impudence as having a sense of nerve. So how exactly does nerve work in a conversation? Some people might consider impudence a synonym for effrontery, but do you consider a little effrontery indispensable?
A: I consider a small portion of gentle teasing one of the most important qualities of a good talk. It is essential in courtship, but plays a large role in ordinary conversation too. If you convey to others in a humorous way that they don’t always have to take themselves completely seriously, you are also telling them that you don’t always take yourself completely seriously. Without this mutual recognition of imperfection, conversation will remain stiff and conventional.

Q: For you, the “aimlessness” of a conversation isn’t just a virtue. It’s definitive. You go so far as to suggest that a conversation that isn’t aimless isn’t really a conversation at all. But when does aimlessness become pointlessness? Obviously, the two words are not synonymous, but they sort of echo each other in interesting ways. One can imagine a wonderfully aimless conversation, for instance, but a pointless one just sounds bad. What are some of the pitfalls and opportunities implied by that term “aimless”?
A: Well, I lied. All good conversations have a point, or purpose, ultimately, even those that have no overt goals, like a business deal or college interview or a sales call. The point of all conversations is to weave the necessary fabric of community and fellowship among human beings. Passing the time of day evolved from primate grooming rituals, it appears, and so our talking to each other similarly creates social binds, allegiances, shared values. There are conversations that are indeed pointless—we’ve all had vapid exchanges that leave us feeling empty. But good talks fulfill a human necessity for companionship and emotional connections—the need to feel less alone.

Q: Thanks, in part, to the back and forth on 24-hour cable news stations, a lot of people tend to think that a conversation is a kind of debate with winners and losers, and the object is to win. But can anyone “win or lose” a conversation?
A: No. There are only winners in a good talk. Argument is indeed part of many good conversations, but if it is the central ingredient, then it is not conversation. It’s an argument.

Q: Is it your sense that Americans, by and large, are bad at good talk? You talk about our affinity for strong, silent types and our predilection for getting down to business. Given that, as a culture, are we doomed to an eternity of second-rate chat?
A: Americans in general have such a strong work ethic, especially in these hard times, that it does sometimes seem as though we have foregone the benefits of warm conversation. But like all generalizations except this one, that one doesn’t really hold. We may have a national inclination toward practical action, but of course we still have good talks—in restaurants, at parties, on planes, in dorms, on terraces, on park benches. Conversation may be a slightly endangered species, but it is by no means near extinction.

Q: You transcribe, more or less, several long conversations between you and a friend, and the first one begins with a fact that is really the setting rather than the content of the talk. It’s a sushi restaurant in Brooklyn. Sometimes, though not always, the success or failure of an encounter can depend a lot on location, location, location, to borrow a line from real estate agents. How important in your view is where a conversation happens? Why did you choose that particular restaurant, for instance?
A: My friend chose it, primarily because she likes their sushi so much, but also because it’s the kind of place where lingering is not frowned upon. And we did indeed linger.

Q: Let’s talk name-dropping for a second. If mismanaged, it’s arguably one of the two or three mortal sins in the art of conversation, but you make the case that it can be done well and without generating ill will. Enlighten us.
A: It’s pretty simple—if the mention of a well-known person’s name is essential to the point of what you’re saying and not just self-important embroidery, just say the name and have it done with. It’s the transparent intention of being impressive that makes name-dropping so unpleasant, not the actual use of the name. A smart listener will always know the difference between bragging and simple information.

Q: At Purple State of Mind, we write a lot about the importance of having conversations with people who don’t share our worldviews, and you echo the sentiment. “It’s a true loss to fly only and always with your own flock,” you write. “You can miss out on the company of really fine people, and you can fall into a tedious kind of spiritual and intellectual lockstep if you never step out of line.” Can you talk about how you came to this conclusion? A specific example of someone who thinks very differently from you, but whose conversation you nevertheless highly value and seek out? I’m not asking for names here, more a sense of the person and their beliefs and their conversational appeal for you.
A: I have spoken to a number of anti-abortionists—whose basic views I do not share—who have shown me that their opinions have significant moral value. They have not changed my mind, but they have made me see the issue at the very least as one of extremely painful choices, whereas some years ago I would have put it as simple good values vs. bad ones.

Q: That principle of openness to people who think differently would seem to go hand in hand with another of your indispensable virtues: Curiosity. The truly curious person will presumably get bored hearing too many people utter opinions that he or she shares and will strike out for new territory at every opportunity. Is part of building a good conversational culture a matter of cultivating curiosity? How do we do that?
A: Well, if you are incurably self-centered, as some are, there is no way out of your jail, and it is a sad sight to see someone who is thus locked up. I think curiosity may be inborn—I don’t know if it can be cultivated. I think parenting is probably the key variable here. If your parents encouraged inquiry, investigation, pursuit of answers, you are likely to carry that kind of inquisitiveness into adulthood. “Look it up” my mother and father would always say, to my annoyance then but gratitude now.
Also, I think that therapy—analysis, psychological investigations of any kind, in a effort to understand and improve oneself—often leads to, and should lead to, a more active and sympathetic interest in others and in what makes things tick in general. The way out of oneself is often to start with the way in.

Q: Listening is obviously critical, but you suggest that there are particular ways to do it. “Listen very closely not only to the loud notes,” you write, “but to the quiet ones and grace ones as well—to what sounds as though it’s being downplayed or skipped over. Such attention is, for one thing, flattering, but it also yields insights that the people we’re talking to sometimes don’t even know they have.” A natural conversationalist may understand instinctively what you mean, but can you give an example of quiet or grace notes that might be easily missed?
A: Say someone makes comparisons between real-life situations of a specific kind—let’s say, arguments between husband and wife—and movies a few times in the course of a conversation. It’s obvious that that person may have concerns about spousal relationships, but what is below the surface, even if just barely, is an interest in movies, and beneath that an interest in analogies of all kinds, perhaps. So as the listener, you may find yourself wanting to remark on how interesting it is that we have to resort to comparisons to understand the central topic we’re discussing.
I guess I would say, be alert to patterns of references or habits of thought, in yourself and others, and your conversations will go deeper.

Q: Finally, as you’re a fan of country music (an appreciation we share), I have to ask. What can the greatest Merle Haggard songs teach us about how to have better conversations with each other? Or, if you like, Tanya Tucker, Miranda Lambert, or Waylon Jennings? It seems to me that one of the glories of country is its ability, for instance, to tell stories, surely a hallmark of a good talker.
A: I don’t know who it was, but someone once said of good country music, “It’s three chords and the truth.” Merle Haggard’s “Momma Tried,” about a young man whose mother tried to steer him right but who went wrong anyway (”I’ve been 20 years in prison, doing life without parole”), captures an essential truth about some unchangeable aspects of human nature. “If We’re Not Back in Love by Monday” is a sad song about a relationship that is almost surely over, and that the lovers are trying to hang on to. I’m one of the few people I know who love Toby Keith songs because they do tell such good stories, especially “How Do You Like Me Now”—a perfect example of the condensed narrative you’re asking about.
So are “Strawberry Wine” and “He’s in the Jailhouse Now” and “The Sweetest Gift” and “Wildwood Flower” and Taylor Swift’s “You Belong with Me” and so many, many others. Don’t get me started.
Storytelling is in my opinion an almost biological necessity for our species. Good country music, as you suggest, offers insight and consolation, often in the form of brief, distilled narratives, just as a good storyteller does in conversation.