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Three days with The Dice Man: I never wrote for money or fame’

His 1971 novel was a countercultural sensation, selling 2m copies. But the author has surrounded himself in mystery. Why?

When I read The Dice Man 15 years ago, I wanted to know who had written it, and why. It read more like an act of survival than a novel, but whether it was the authors survival or mine, I wasnt sure. I had stopped drinking alcohol and I was looking, simply, for another drug. The book made me high; it offered multiple universes, all of them safer than vodka.

The Dice Man is seemingly an autobiography, narrated by a bored, clever New York psychiatrist, Luke Rhinehart. He is a nerd run mad. He decides that, in pursuit of ultimate freedom or nihilism he will make decisions using dice. He offers the dice options, and they choose for him. The dice tell him to rape his neighbour, but he fails because she wants him. The dice make him tell his patients what he thinks of them (my favourite dice decision). It was a perfect novel: a fantasy of escape and, for me, a search for an absent and charismatic father.

The book was published in 1971, an era devoted to psychoanalysis (not the mocking of it), and it was not an instant success. But over the course of 45 years, it has become a famous book, with devoted fans. The Dice Man has sold more than 2m copies in multiple languages and is still in print.

Dicing became a minor craze. Richard Branson said The Dice Man had inspired him, although he used the dice for only 24 hours because it was too dangerous to carry on longer. The entrepreneur Jeremy King opened a series of London restaurants due to a dice decision. In 1999, a Loaded magazine writer, who described Rhinehart as the novelist of the century, took heroin after a dice decision, while his girlfriend performed in a strip club. In 2005, comedian Danny Wallace published a memoir, Yes Man, in which he travelled the world saying yes to everything, again loosely inspired by Rhinehart.

As his notoriety grew, journalists came to interview the Dice Man. But Luke Rhinehart does not exist: he is the pseudonym of a man called George Powers Cockcroft, who shielded his real identity from his readers for many years. There was no Dice Man in these interviews, but there was no one else, either. Cockcroft played his part as an avuncular blank who liked dicing and drinking, a sort of Robert Mitchum pastiche; and of Cockcroft, whom I increasingly found more interesting than Rhinehart, there was almost nothing.

Why write a perfect novel, give all the credit to a ghost, then never write its equal again? I have been emailing Cockcroft since 2002, when, in a frenzy of half-hearted self-destruction, I attempted to dice my way through a Conservative party conference in Brighton. It was for an article, and I sought his advice, which was friendly and encouraging. The choices I gave myself were timid would I order a hamburger or a steak? though I do remember pretending to be Jesus Christ in the restaurant of the Grand hotel. The article was not a success, and was never published. The appeal of the dice is: how much power will you give them? I gave them nothing, and they gave nothing in return.

I have tried to interview Cockcroft before. I even met him once, in a hotel bar in London 10 years ago. He looked large and alien amid the pale chintz of Kensington, wearing a stetson that almost reached the chandelier. Last year, around the publication of his most recent novel, Invasion, which is about a friendly and intelligent alien who comes to Earth and is bewildered by our stupidity, we had a telephone interview in which he claimed, at 84, to be multiple selves, describing himself as we. We he and I were on a conference call with his publicist, and I asked him where The Dice Man had come from. You must realise, he told me softly, his voice a little hoarse, I have always conceived of myself as being multiple having, you know, a dozen different selves, if not a thousand different selves, at any given moment. He sounded croaky and crotchety, and I didnt push him. Instead, I asked if I could come and stay with him in upstate New York.

***

George Cockcroft, I say for the tape recorder. Yes, he says. Here I am.

We are in a large white house in Canaan. The houses are widely spaced here, on hills around a pond of ice; there are spindly trees on the horizon. The house is warm, comfortable, shabby, with wind chimes on the terrace.

Cockcroft is very tall and lean, his face weather-beaten from years of sailing and working in the garden. It has a kind of luminous joy that is very childlike, unless he is weary. His voice is deep, hoarse and excitable. He is, in some ways, very conventional for a myth: he chops wood, drinks whiskey, eats chocolate biscuits, feeds the fire. When he wants something, he shouts for his wife, Ann. They have been married for 60 years and there is deep love between them. I can feel it all through the house.

Cockcroft at his home in Canaan, New York. Photograph: Reed Young for the Guardian

Slowly, he tells me the facts of his biography. He is warm, courteous and curious; at one point, when I mention I need money to buy a house, he offers, very seriously, to lend it to me. Sometimes he says he cant remember things. Sometimes he says he doesnt know why he does things. Sometimes he repeats that he has multiple selves, and cant access the one who has the answer to my question. (I begin to think he does this when he feels threatened; if it were habitual, wouldnt he they do it all the time?) Then he will give a sorrowful grin and we retreat: he to his study, to write or to answer emails from fans, I to the sofa to read a novel Ann wrote many years ago. Later, we try again.

Cockcroft grew up 30 miles away, in Albany. His grandfather was the chief justice of the supreme court of Vermont; his great-grandfather was the governor of Vermont; so the creator of The Dice Man was born to New England grandees. I ask about his family. My parents were both college graduates, he says, a curious first observation from a novelist who doesnt care about class. His father Donald was an electrical engineer, his mother Elizabeth went to Wellesley College. She was clever and expected cleverness from her two sons.

As a boy, he was shy and compliant, and began to use the dice at 16. He was a procrastinator: So I would make a list of things to do in a day and the dice would choose which one I did first. Then he began to use the dice to force myself to do things I was too shy to do. If the dice chose it, then somehow that made it possible.

He says he didnt have a single original thought in his adolescence. He went to his fathers school, again showing how little originality I had, and studied electrical engineering, like his father. I cant believe how naturally and easily I was conforming to everything, Cockcroft says. His younger brother James, an expert in South American politics, was a rebel; even today, his website describes him as author, lecturer, revolutionary. But I was a total conformist, he says. I was intellectually dead until I was 20.

He also studied psychology and English literature. He worked nights in a psychiatric hospital, and considered being a lawyer. (I long to meet a dice lawyer.) The dice chose Ann for him. He was driving home from the hospital and saw two nurses. He got out his dice. If it was odd, he told himself, he would offer them a lift. One of them was Ann.

She looked like Rita Hayworth, and he fell in love with her immediately, applying to Columbia University to be close to her in Brooklyn. They married in 1956 and had three sons: Corby, Powers and Christopher, who has paranoid schizophrenia and still lives with them. Cockcroft avoided the draft to Korea because he had varicose veins: I hate to think what would have happened if I had gone into the military, he says. (The dice soldier.) Instead, he taught English literature at a series of colleges in America and beyond.

With Ann in 1956, minutes after proposing to her. Photograph: courtesy of George Cockcroft

He says he has no idea why he began writing. He read outsiders, and men who railed against belonging: Tolstoy, Kafka, Hemingway. His first attempt at fiction was about a young boy who is locked up in a psychiatric institution because he thinks he is Jesus Christ. He abandoned it after 80 pages, but one chapter featured a psychiatrist called Dr Luke Rhinehart. He was a minor character, Cockcroft says, but there he was.

The year he began writing The Dice Man, 1965, there was a crisis in the marriage. He and Ann were living in Mexico with James and his family. Ann was pregnant with their youngest son, and developed hepatitis. She was very frightened for herself, for the baby, Cockcroft says. She felt isolated, and felt I was somehow closer to my brother than her. She came back from Mexico very resentful of me, and frightened in a way she had never been before.

He was reading Zen and Sufism, which he describes as attacks on the self. Somehow writing the book and reading these philosophies enabled me to be detached from any bad places I was in, to not be enmeshed in them. He wrote slowly, 50 pages a year for five years. His previous writing had been laboured and self-conscious, but this was different. As soon as I began writing The Dice Man, he says, I felt I had found my natural voice. I didnt think of it that way at the time, but the book is about what makes human beings unhappy and how they can escape.

He admits the writing was psychoanalysis, a way of understanding, and processing, his brief estrangement from Ann. The Dice Man involves some of the things I could do if I could free myself from Ann. But the book went way beyond that. There is, for instance, much adulterous sex.

Lukes wife in the book, Lil, funny, sexy, a good mother, is something like Ann. He admits that the children are based on my own children. But he couldnt go as far as Luke. My dicing has always been very limited, he says. I was wise enough to know that I didnt want to risk my marriage by giving options to things that might ruin the marriage. I never gave an option that would hurt people.

Upstairs, above his and Anns bed, there is a painting of two Georges one good, one bad by Ann. Her paintings fill the house. I wasnt consciously angry, Cockcroft says, of the trouble in their marriage. Sad is closer than angry. I never get very unhappy. Every year that goes by, you realise how unimportant everything is. I dont think Ive asked much of life since I wrote The Dice Man. I was ambitious then. Ive mellowed. Pretty soon Ill be a liquid lying on the ground.

Above the couples bed hangs a painting by Ann of two Georges one good, one bad. Photograph: Reed Young for the Guardian

Is Luke your repressed self, I ask. Because, for all his wit, Luke Rhinehart is a raging man, and George Cockcroft is not. But he wont answer the question. Remember, he says, there is no single you. So that is a question I would not answer. Later, he does go further. Luke is the hard, cold version of George, he says, then adds: What I have come to love about the Luke of the novel is his willingness to be a fool, his willingness to laugh at himself.

He shows me an excerpt from his diary, dated 10 June 1969, written in Mallorca: I must finish the Dice Man novel. I know that if I open the novel and begin to read it, I, and it, will live, and my desire to work on it and complete it will bloom again. I am the Dice Man in a way I am no one else. It is the idea which my life has created. I am not good for a second one. I am not a professional writer. I am without talent in any way. But the theory of the dice man, the ironic spirit of his life, grows as naturally in my rocky soil as do boulders here along the rocky coast of Mallorca.

Cockcroft came across the journal three or four months ago and was startled: he doesnt remember feeling that way. Later, in a restaurant by the frozen lake, I ask if the description of Luke that opens the novel is him: I am a large man, with big butchers hands, great oak thighs, rock-jawed head and massive, thick-lens glasses. Im 6ft 4in and weigh close to 230lbs; I look like Clark Kent.

Id have to look at it again, Cockcroft says. Physically, its not me. I made him a much bigger man. Hes overweight.

Luke is overweight? Ann says. I dont remember that.

Thats how I always picture him, he says.

Ann replies: I always picture him like you.

***

When Cockcroft was a child, there was a calamity. His father developed cancer in his 30s. He decided he wasnt going to put himself and his family through any more pain, he says, and he called up his doctor and said he was going to shoot himself and to come over and handle things, and he shot himself. Its the longest single sentence Cockcroft utters. He was eight or nine at the time. He cant remember exactly. He says his mother greeted him at the door after school and said, Father is dead. His only memory, after that, is, going out to the garage and not crying and wondering if I should cry. He was not close to his mother. She was a Vermont puritan, and not a naturally warm person. Did you ask her what happened to your father? No, he says, and for a moment I can hear the compliant boy. I mean no.

Do you forgive him? I admire him, he says wonderingly, as if the question is ridiculous. But it was a savage act of separation; his father didnt say goodbye.

Cockcroft says he remembers almost nothing of his life before his fathers death. He shows me fragments of an autobiography he has not finished, because he has not solved the problem of writing a narrative by multiple selves.

Was our childhood so traumatic we cant face it? he writes, in the third person. Our brother, Jim, thinks so. Jim is three years younger than we are and he remembers a cruel father that used to whip him with a belt. We dont have a single memory of being beaten with a belt. Jim is unrepressed, remembers a cruel father; we are repressed, remember nothing. Saw nothing, heard nothing, felt nothing. We have no painful memories pre-Dads death-day, nor any happy ones.

***

In 1969, while teaching in Mallorca, Cockcroft found a publisher for The Dice Man called Mike Franklin, and swiftly wrote the second half of the book. Franklin called it a near masterpiece and got a huge advance for the American edition.

It did badly in America, partly, Cockcroft thinks, because of a cover jacket featuring a naked woman lying on a bed. But it did better in Europe, particularly in England, Sweden, Denmark and now Spain, where it was for a time the most requested library book in Spanish universities.

No publisher asked for another novel, so he didnt write one. He fell into indolence; he was busy sailing and raising his children. Another example of my life of ambition, Cockcroft says, sarcastically. All through my 20s, I was fighting ambition. My mother had made me very ambitious to be successful at whatever I did, and I felt that was a sickness. I never wrote for money and I never consciously wrote for fame. The Dice Man was part of a lifelong process to get me to relax and enjoy things as they are, and not aspire to more than I have.

The film rights to The Dice Man were sold, and he wrote screenplays for a film that was never made. He and Ann travelled for years, often on boats; they smoked marijuana. He sank a catamaran in a storm in the Mediterranean, after Ann had prayed for three nights on deck while he apologised, precipitantly, for drowning their children. (They were picked up by a Scottish freighter 40 miles off the coast of Africa.)

The family settled in Canaan after following a Sufi cult to New York state. The Dice Man grew in fame, but Cockcroft didnt. He spent his money, and earned more. He discouraged any questions about his real self, and people rarely asked. They interviewed Luke Rhinehart and that was it, he says now. I wasnt being secretive so much as simply preferring to keep the two identities separate. Rhinehart allowed him to have a private life. Acquaintances in Canaan do not know he is the author of The Dice Man.

Cockcroft with his sons Powers (left) and Chris in 1972. Photograph: courtesy of George Cockcroft

He wrote books only when the mood, or the advance, came: White Wind, Black Rider; Whim; Long Voyage Back; The Book Of Est, a guidebook to a popular 70s cult; The Book Of The Die; and Naked Before The World, a novel alluded to in The Dice Man. Jesus Invades George is a very funny tale of George W Bush being possessed by Jesus Christ. He wrote The Search For The Dice Man, in which Luke ends up in a Japanese monastery, but it is the work of a sleeping writer: Luke barely appears and, when he does, he is a cipher.

In 2012, an email announcing his death was sent to 25 friends, apparently from Ann: It is our pleasure to inform you that Luke Rhinehart is dead. He very much wanted us to tell you this as soon as possible so you wouldnt be annoyed that he wasnt replying to your emails. But people were upset, and he later apologised for his thoughtlessness, blaming Luke. To pretend to die while sneakily lurking here and there in the darkest shadows is the lowest of the low. But we can expect no better from him.

Ask me about Invasion, he says now. He wants another roll; he is enjoying the attention. This latest book is full of his politics, which are the politics of Bernie Sanders; its tone is amused disgust, and it is very funny, if you can handle an alien protagonist who looks like a beachball, and whose beachball friend is called Molire.

I try to find a tactful way to ask him: do you mind that The Dice Man, your first book, is your best book? But my opinion doesnt bother him, because he cant agree. Right now, he says, using the multiple pronoun, we have no idea of the relative merits of our novels. At this moment, Invasion is liked very much by most of us, more than our previous books. Two years ago, we told people our favourite novel was Whim. After I finished writing Jesus Invades George, it was our favourite novel. If Invasion fails to sell, he says, he doesnt think it will bother him for more than a single afternoon.

At the end of my stay, I ask Cockcroft again about his father. He tells me he has nightmares about the garage attached to the house in which he grew up, in which he tried to weep after his fathers death. He has an image, he says hesitantly, too faint to be a memory, of a maid washing blood off the walls in the house, at the top of the stairs. I feel morbid, prodding him. He has already told me more than he has told any journalist, and he doesnt believe in cause and effect. He cannot see a connection between his fathers suicide and the creation of the Dice Man, so I stop.

But a few days later, after I have returned to England, he sends me an email. Last night I had a really remarkable dream, he writes, using the first person. For the first time in months, if not years, I was outside the house where my father committed suicide. I was walking over to our neighbours house, where contractors were arriving to do some sort of work that involved both the neighbours property and ours. I said with great confidence and authority in the direction of the contractors (not seen), I am George Cockcroft, the owner of this property. I think the subject line, in capital letters, is a joke at my expense. It says, Im CURED!

Invasion by Luke Rhinehart is published by Titan at 8.99.