Friday, November 02, 2018

Reading group: Bonjour Tristesse by Francoise Sagan

Warning: some plot spoilers.

I suggested this French novella which none of us had read (apart from John) but were glad to do so, understanding it as a classic and knowing that on its publication in the fifties it had been considered scandalous for its apparently explicit sex scenes - excised for the British translation of the time - and the amoral way of life it depicted. It had also been a sensation for the youth of its author, only eighteen when it was published, and the contrast of her apparently bourgeois background.

After such expectations, in the event I wasn't quite sure what to make of the book, and it turned out that everyone present for the meeting felt the same. It's the first-person narration of Cecile, looking back on the previous summer when she was seventeen. Cecile has been living a sophisticated but shallow Parisian life (involving fast cars and lavish dances and dinners and drink) with her somewhat philandering father - she writes of 'our fondness for entertainment and frivolity'. Now they have rented a villa for the summer on the Mediterranean, accompanied by her father's current, and young, girlfriend Elsa whose presence does not trouble Cecile since she is 'very sweet, rather dim and quite unpretentious', while Cecile, untroubled also by the fact that she has failed her exams at the Sorbonne, begins exploring her own sexuality with a student she meets on the beach, Cyril. However, very near the start of the book this sensual idyll is disrupted for Cecile by her father's announcement that he has invited to join them Anne Larson, a fashion designer and old friend of Cecile's dead mother, to whom Cecile's father 'packed her off' 'having no idea what to do with me' when she left boarding school two years earlier. Cecile's attitude to Anne is conflicted: she admires yet resents Anne's more serious, intellectual outlook and is pleased but, more, unsettled by her arrival. It is not long before Cecile - and Elsa - realise that Cecile's father is attracted to Anne, and, once Elsa has fled the household, they announce that they want to get married. After a brief moment of relief - 'it would be a life suddenly brought into balance by Anne's intelligence and refinement' - Cecile's resentment comes to the fore, especially when, challenging the popular interpretation of Existentialism Cecile espouses - basically that one should please oneself and give in to one's desires - Anne decides to take her in hand and make her study and stop seeing Cyril. Cecile then formulates a plot to get rid of Anne, a plot involving Elsa and Cyril intended to provoke her father's sexual pride and jealousy, and which will end in tragedy.

Narrator Cecile never remarks on her own motherlessness except briefly from her father's point of view: she writes that he had been a widower for fifteen years. It is easy from a contemporary perspective to see that the seventeen-year-old Cecile's conflicted feelings towards Anne are rooted in a need for the mothering she offers (a need of which Cecile herself is unaware, or denies) and sexual jealousy. Early on in the book, in considering Cyril (for whom she is making an exception), she muses: 'I did not like young people. I much preferred my father's friends, men of forty, who spoke to me with courtesy and affection and treated me with the gentleness of a father or lover'. This equation of 'father' and 'lover' underpins her whole relationship with her father with whom it is clear she often takes the role of companion on social occasions. Elsa, as a passing fling, is no threat - his feelings for such women, Cecile says, 'were transient' - but Anne is something else.

What was unclear to me was how conscious Cecile, as narrator, is of these issues. I felt for a lot of the time that she had to be, as protagonist Cecile herself is amazingly aware for a seventeen-year-old of her own torn emotional state, and articulate about it, delineating clearly her switches of attitude, her moments of not knowing what to feel, and even summing up cleverly at one point: 'that was what I held against Anne: she prevented me from liking myself'. However, the lack of any overt signalling of the Freudian psychological implications of those emotional convolutions made me wonder, and I wasn't clear how ironically the narration was intended. There is an admirable objectivity about the life Cecile and her father have been leading - 'the people we spent time with were noisy and insatiable - all that my father asked of them was that they be good-looking or amusing' - and there were sentences that I felt must surely be read as ironical: 'For, after all, what was our aim in life, if not to be attractive to others?'; 'A cynical idea ... occurred to me, and I was pleased by it, as I was by all my cynical ideas. Bolstered by a sort of confidence and a sense of colluding with myself that was quite intoxicating...' This last is surely self-irony. On the other hand, the narrator tells us, apparently without irony: 'I am still not ashamed of enjoying those shallow pleasures, and anyway I only call them shallow because I've heard people say they are.'

Others in the reading group hadn't seen irony at all in the prose. I said, Well, what about this sentence, near the beginning, describing Cecile's father on the beach: 'My father worked through various complicated leg exercises with the aim of getting rid of a small paunch that did not suit his image as a lady-killer.' ? The slightly ridiculous picture of the father conjured here - the paunch, the complicated  leg exercises - juxtaposed with his glamorous aspirations and the word 'lady-killer', must surely be ironic. However, Jenny didn't see that sentence as ironic, and no one else backed me up.

Basically, people were all a little baffled by the book's reputation and success. John said that as well as being amazingly insightful about Cecile's emotions, it was brilliant on the level of prose - economical, getting right on with the story straight away, and vivid - someone, Jenny or Clare, commented that the descriptions of the Mediterranean setting made her feel hot - and everyone agreed. (Though someone said that it was hard to read the book without the acute consciousness that it had been written by someone of only seventeen or eighteen and feel amazed at the achievement for someone so young and then afterwards wonder if you were giving it special allowance). However, all also agreed that they couldn't engage with the characters - they seemed stereotypes - and therefore with their emotional dilemmas, and that the plot did seem a little forced and even silly - John said, something of a soap plot cliche. The ending, too, which I won't give away here, seemed melodramatic, with someone acting quite out of character, and Cecile's interpretation of what actually happened both unrealistic and self-dramatising. Clare noted that there is no explanation for Cecile's departure from her boarding school at fifteen into the care of a father who at the time she hardly knew and who 'didn't know what to do with her'. She had read that Sagan herself had been expelled from her boarding school for bad behaviour, which makes this an autobiographical detail that remains unaddressed in the novel, leaving a gap, and which perhaps reinforces the notion that Sagan was also unable to address the Freudian implications of what she was writing.

On the whole, in view of our discussion, I felt that yes, the book was very clever for its author's age, and that there was indeed a level of irony but, because of the author's age, it was not sustained throughout the book. We had all read a modern edition in which all of the text is restored, and people noted with amusement that the so-called sex scenes were extremely modest and implicit by present-day standards, but we did appreciate that in its depiction of an amoral, hedonistic lifestyle the book must have seemed pretty shocking in the fifties.

Our archive discussions can be found here and a list of the books we have discussed, with links to the discussions, here

Thursday, October 25, 2018

Longlisted for V S Pritchett Prize

One reason I haven't blogged since I supposedly started again is that I came down with a horrendous fluey-type cold. (There have been other reasons: my mother has been seriously ill, for one thing - though I'm glad to say she's much better now.) While I was sitting in front of the fire shivering and sneezing and mopping up the drips from my nose, and generally wishing I could just lose consciousness and wake up and find it all over (I couldn't sleep I was in such discomfort), I happened to click on my phone and discovered an email from the Royal Society of Literature - I had been longlisted for the V S Pritchett Short story Prize! (V S Pritchett pictured left.)

To be frank, I simply didn't believe it, I thought I must be hallucinating with the fever. It was a story I had written very quickly during the summer while we were in Wales, prompted, out of the blue, by a real-life incident someone related to me, one of those things that just take hold of you, so move you that you have to write it down forthwithand since I wrote it right up to the deadline for the competition and had to bung it in in a great hurry, I considered it more or less a first draft, and really expected to get nowhere. (And I had even forgotten about it when I talked about my summer's writing in my Sept 3rd blog post.)

The next day - with my fever abated - there was the email still on my phone, but I still didn't believe I could have been longlisted, especially as the mail was addressed, 'Dear Prize Entrant': I thought someone must surely have pressed a wrong button, and the email should really have gone to someone else. And there was an embargo on the news, the whole thing was still shrouded in secrecy, which added to the sense of its lack of substance. A few days later, another email followed, inviting me to the award event, but once again my name was not in the mail - it was presumably a form mail sent to all short- and longlisted entrants - and I continued with the horrible sense that it was all a mistake. Finally, though, came a reply to my mail confirming that I'd attend, and at last I was addressed by name, 'Dear Elizabeth', and I had to believe it after all.

Anyway, I am of course very pleased. It's so funny how different stories work out, though: the story I mentioned previously, inspired by the transgender/intersex issues, and conceived well before the V S Pritchett story, is still undergoing rewrites, still struggling out from under the research I did (and my struggling obsession with it is another reason there has been no space in my head for blogging). It's not always the case, but sometimes the things you do most swiftly and intuitively turn out to be the most successful...

Friday, October 05, 2018

Reading group: Moonglow by Michael Chabon.

Doug suggested this book - all 400-and-something packed and small-print pages of it - since we were having a long summer break, and because he had really loved it.

It's a book that plays excitingly with the concepts of reality and fiction, told in the mode of a memoir in which the narrator shares the name of the author, and with very much the feel of authentic autobiography, but prefaced right from the start with this statement:
In preparing this memoir, I have stuck to facts except where facts refused to conform with memory, narrative purpose, or the truth as I prefer to understand it. Wherever liberties have been taken with names, dates, places, events, and conversations, or with the identities, motivations, and interrelationships of family members and historical personages, the reader is assured that they have been taken with due abandon.
The book consists of the story of the narrator's grandfather's life, as told to him from his deathbed. It's a story of a somewhat wild urban Jewish childhood in thirties Philadelphia, post-war marriage to the narrator's grandmother, a French Jewess and single mother rescued by nuns from a fate under the Nazis, his lifetime project to cushion her from her consequent bouts of depression, and a engineering career founded in an early-planted obsession with travel to the moon and the V-2 rocket designed by Germany during the war.

The story emerges piecemeal, in a non-linear fashion, as it is related over days to the narrator, and is interspersed with the narrator's own non-linear childhood memories of his grandparents. There is, however, a grounding linearity in the narrative frame, that of Chabon being told the story and sitting listening.

Everyone loved this book - except for John, who had basically been unable to read it, which flabbergasted Doug. The book begins with an episode in 1957, when Chabon's grandfather has been working as a travelling salesman of 'fancy barrettes' in a break from his engineering career which we will later discover has been made necessary by the need to pay for his wife's psychiatric treatment. He has however been pushed out at Feathercombs by nepotism and, in blind fury, bursts into the president's office brandishing a broken-off telephone cord which he will pull around his neck.  Like the whole of this book, the incident is related in a cool, wry and almost urbane tone:
For his part, the president of Feathercombs was astonished to discover that he had approved the firing of a maniac. 'What's this about?' he said.
It was a pointless question, and my grandfather disdained to answer it; he was opposed to stating the obvious.
John said that he found the tone too light and objective for the situation and the obvious distress of the protagonist; the wit and urbanity of the narrator was foregrounded over the emotional state of the protagonist. It put him off the rest of the book and he stopped reading. None of the rest of us, however, had this reaction - we felt there was deep empathy behind the measured and witty tone, and something that Ann would later say was that the book had great humanity: all of the characters were flawed, yet all were treated with understanding and made sympathetic - in this way she found a similarity with Jon McGregor's Reservoir 13, which we discussed here.

Everyone was very impressed by the way the story of the grandfather's engineering career unravelled the Nazi link with the American postwar space programme, and the moral ambiguities involved. Ann pointed out the contrast with McEwan, who tends to insert research-based lectures into his narratives; here everything was organically embedded in the story and the psyche of the protagonist.

Jenny said she had really liked the book but it was 'too long'. However, she compared it to Dickens and said that she had looked forward to reading it in bed each night. I got the impression that she had read it over time and rather as an episodic picaresque, and there were comments that implied that this was how others saw the book. Someone said that they couldn't really see the point of a very early episode in which the pre-pubescent grandfather comes upon an intersex woman seemingly imprisoned in a shack, and people also found a little strange the fact that as a child he threw a cat out of a high window, which seemed out of character. Unlike the rest, I had been remiss enough to leave reading the book until the last minute, and so was forced to read it much more as a single whole. As a result, for me the book had a clearer overall narrative arc than I guess might seem from episodic reading. The episode with the intersex woman was highly symbolic, totemic of the trajectory of the rest of the grandfather's life. Steeped in a comic-book fantasy of rescuing a young woman by taking her to the far side of the moon, his impulse is to rescue the 'hermaphrodite', and when she won't be rescued, he is left with this impulse unfulfilled, later to be fed by his obsession with gravity-escaping rockets and the rescue of first his wife, the narrator's grandmother, and then, in widowed old age, another woman. The way he tries, even in a retirement home, to be this last woman's hero, is to save her cat which has run off into a python-infested wasteland, which brings his life full circle back to the cat-throwing incident in an act of redemption.

I said I had one problem with the book. Years after his grandfather's death, narrator Chabon conducts some research and uncovers a very different story about his grandmother's origins, which, if true, she kept hidden from her husband, Chabon's grandfather, and her daughter, Chabon's mother, and of course Chabon himself, for the whole of their lives with her. In the light of this new (and fairly shocking) information, narrator Chabon tells us, he needed to reassess everything his grandfather had told him on his deathbed. He had been trying to turn it all into a novel, but he now decided he needed to write it as a memoir in order to 'get my story straight'. I wished that once he had done so he had gone one step further and shared with us that reassessment by actually revisiting and reassessing episodes for the reader (a form that is more usual in novels), since what had gone before was so lengthy and meandering that I found it impossible to do this for myself. One revelation is that before his grandmother met his grandfather she had adopted someone else's name, and it occurred to me at this point that I did not know by which name she was known in the family - whether it had been her adopted name or her own; I had no recollection of her having been given any name at all. However, I felt unable to sift back through the wealth of material to find out. Ann said something similar. It turned out that the deceptiveness involved had been missed by one or two people in our group, which perhaps adds weight to the notion that the book could have done with a more pared down and novelistically elliptical structure.

Someone, I think Jenny, added that the explicit sex scenes between the grandfather and grandmother made her feel uncomfortable, and others agreed - it always seems something of an intrusion to envisage one's parents' or grandparents' sexuality in graphic detail -  which is another problem that could have been overcome by a more wholeheartedly fictive presentation.

Nevertheless, we very much enjoyed and admired the book, and all Doug could do was shake his head at John.

Our archive discussions can be found here and a list of the books we have discussed, with links to the discussions, here

Monday, September 03, 2018

Research for fiction

So, picking up on the thoughts of A L Kennedy referred to in my last post, and the question of 'writing what you know' and research:

As Kennedy implies, these two things are not necessarily opposed: you need to research in such a way that your research becomes not just a body of facts 'out there', but deep, almost somatic  knowledge that is now part of you and will emerge in a honest and convincing way in your fiction.

Very rarely when I write a story do I start out with research as a priority. Perhaps one exception is 'The Next Stop Will be Didsbury Village', published this Spring in Confingo, but first commissioned for the 2017 performance Re/plac(ed), in which initial research was a stated prompt, and we commissioned writers sat around a table choosing sites in Didsbury to research and then write stories about. Even so, I knew already that I wanted to write about Didsbury railway/tram station because it had already been vivid for many years in my mental landscape, a resonant feature of my own life and past, and its history and changing character chimed strongly with my abiding themes of fluidity and memory and exile. Looking at old photos and maps and reading some of the history of Didsbury - and hanging around on the site and letting my imagination run in the light of them - served to make more vivid and concrete the sense I already had of it all, and locked my psyche into it more strongly.

Very often, however, you begin with something entirely personal and you still end up needing to do research. Last year two of my close relatives were involved in the Borough Market terrorist attack - neither of them physically hurt, thank goodness, though needless to say they were traumatised - and so there was no way I was not going to write about a terrorist attack at some time. Yet I hesitated: important as the subject was to me and my family, I felt that such a story needed to encompass a greater breadth than one family's particular perspective. I wanted to show wider circles of repercussion through society, and to touch on some of the causes. Finally, earlier this year, I wrote it, 'Kiss' (which was longlisted in this year's Short Fiction Prize, though is yet to be published). This was one story therefore where I dared to enter the heads of BAME characters - a young black man and the young Asian terrorist. I had in fact at one time done some research (for a proposal for a radio drama that never in fact saw the light of day) into the causes of radicalisation among Asian youth in the UK, but on the whole I had to rely on my own powers of empathy and understanding, and I hope they were up to it. However, the whole story revolves around the idea of touch/contact/kiss/detonation, and although when I started I thought I knew how bombs work, I soon found that I needed to check this out, and spent several days on bomb-making websites (and risking leaving a digital trail that could implicate me as a terrorist myself!)

In my first blog post back recently, I said that I had done little writing this summer, but I did write one story, and in fact I spent several weeks on research for it - more, perhaps, than I have ever spent for a short story. As I say in my last post, the idea of fixed identity has always been anathema to me - indeed feels threatening - so I've been very taken up by the recent debate concerning gender and gender transition. Transgender having only in recent years come to wide public debate, initially I felt pretty ignorant, and I read a lot, mainly personal testimonies. At this point I couldn't imagine writing a story about it (although Virginia Woolf's Orlando was always at the back of my mind): in the current social climate, I just felt it wasn't my place. But then my reading led me on to the subject of intersex (the condition of not being entirely female or entirely male, a condition which some scientists calculate exists in some form, often very subtle, in one in a hundred people), and this struck a real spark for me, and the urge to write about it arose. From there I was led off to the subject of embryology, and was off down a rabbit hole - utterly fascinated and absorbed, and it was all beginning to resonate for me in a way that felt entirely personal, relevant to me. It took a long time for me to be able to actually write a story - to absorb the research and make it mine, and then to find a form that didn't amount to cultural appropriation, and I had several failed attempts. I'm still not sure it's finished: I have put it aside to 'gel' before returning to it again. But the 'research' no longer feels like research: it feels part of my psyche and my life.

Tuesday, August 28, 2018

Cultural appropriation in fiction

* I recently came across writing advice from A L Kennedy (I'm sorry, I can't find it on the web just now to provide a link) in which she insisted on that maxim, 'Write what you know', which often puzzles people: how does that not leave writers with only their own usually boring, humdrum lives at the desk to write about? Kennedy went on to clarify. You don't have to stick to your own life - how boring that would be, if writers only ever did that! - but what you have to do is immerse yourself so thoroughly in whatever you want to write about, that you do know it, emotionally and psychologically as well as merely factually, and it becomes thus part of you. It is only this way that you will write something honest, and humble, which for A L Kennedy are the two essentials in writing, and over which I strongly agree with her.

This is relevant of course to the recent debate about cultural appropriation. Two years ago, Lionel Shriver was castigated for bemoaning identity politics in her keynote address to the Brisbane Literature Festival, objecting to the notion that BAME people's stories are theirs alone to tell and that white writers writing them are guilty of 'cultural appropriation'. BAME writers responded in dismay and anger to what they saw as Shriver's expression of annoyance at the threat to the historical privilege of white people to speak for all. One of the writers critical of Shriver was Kit de Waal, but her response was more nuanced than that of others. For me one of the great political virtues of fiction is the ability to create empathy, and one essential, in the service of that, is an ability in the writer to wear other people's shoes', to 'become the other'. However, de Waal warned in a speech to the International Writers' Festival in Dublin, 'When we become the other we need always to act with respect and recognise the value of what we discover, show by our attitudes and our acknowledgements that we aren't just appropriating but are seeking to understand.'

This is the crux. I feel very strongly about the experiences of people who are discriminated against, and have a strong urge to write about it. This is mainly, I think, because I have suffered discriminations of my own - for being female and, when I was younger, for being perceived either or both as working class and Welsh. In fact I never felt entirely any of these things; things were much more complicated than they seemed. Later I would suffer reverse prejudice - for not being female (or feminine) enough; by the time I went to university I had moved with my parents to England and had lost my Welsh accent, and at my Welsh university I felt resentment from Welsh-speaking students for being 'Saes' (English) (and once a Welsh publisher turned me down because she had no proof, until I gave it, that I was Welsh, a condition of her publishing house); later, my working-class in-laws and the children I taught in a Glasgow comprehensive would mock and resent me as 'middle class'. But I also want to write about discrimination because of its history in the various branches of my family, which has seen the 'passing' of pogrom-exiled Jews as Roman Catholic, the vain attempt of my father, arriving from Ireland to wartime anti-Irish prejudice, to hide his Irishness, the gradual 'whitening' of generations originating from ancestors in a southern port who from old Victorian photos were clearly to me partly black (I must do some family history research when I get time!), and the exiling of members for interracial marriage, along with their mixed-race children.

For these reasons I do react almost with horror to the notion of fixed identity - it's just not my experience that identity is fixed in any way, and probably the fundamental reason I write fiction is to explore this. And I do have an almost somatic sense - like a crawling on my skin - of the feeling of being judged for who you are by people who don't actually know who you are.

Yet I have often hesitated to try to write my way into the heads of BAME characters, since I haven't personally suffered that particular direct discrimination: for the colour of my skin. I'm always aware that there is something in that direct and specific experience that I could miss. I have even hesitated to include BAME characters at all, afraid that I would give them inauthentic things to say and actions to make. Yet not to include them would often mean seriously misrepresenting the society I'm trying to write about - and indeed render BAME people invisible. When I came to write a comedy series for Radio 4 about a baby-sitting circle, the chief interest of which was that it provided a cross-section of an inner city suburb, it would have been almost criminal to leave out BAME characters, and at least in drama you don't have to tackle the interiority as you do in a novel, you can rely on your (empathic) observation. (And not only that, here was a chance to create roles for BAME actors.) Yet there was one really awkward moment during recording, when the black actor playing the young lad, about to read his one-word greeting ''Spect!' turned to me and asked me if I knew what that meant. 'Respect,' I replied, and he nodded and carried on, but I was left with the feeling that I had been suspected of simply parroting a stereotypical notion of black idiom I didn't even understand (in fact it was a word I was hearing young people, black and white, using to greet each other all the time), indeed of failing to show racial respect. Or maybe he simply saw me as an adult woman appropriating the speech of the young - or maybe he meant neither of these things, and I was just being fearful: in any case, I did feel the chill of identity politics in that moment, and that fear of treading on other people's toes rather than standing in their shoes.

In her Guardian response to Shriver, Yassmin Abdel Magied says:
It’s not always OK if a white guy writes the story of a Nigerian woman because the actual Nigerian woman can’t get published or reviewed to begin with. It’s not always OK if a straight white woman writes the story of a queer Indigenous man, because when was the last time you heard a queer Indigenous man tell his own story? How is it that said straight white woman will profit from an experience that is not hers, and those with the actual experience never be provided the opportunity?
This is the same argument that was employed by feminists in the eighties objecting to men writing about women's experience. Basically, it's an argument that sees fiction simply as expression (the expression of an author's experience), rather than the exploration that Kit de Waal mentions, or the (political) exercise of empathy I have always held so important. It is not the right, this argument goes, of the group with power - the men, the white middle-class writers like Shriver - to speak for those whose experiences they do not share: it should be left to those with the experience to change the minds of others through testimony. You could counter that what matters is the text, not the author (as I have so often argued in my objection to the cult of personality in our literary culture): does it feel truthful, honest and authentic to the reader most likely to identify with the situation portrayed? But I suspect that in arguments like those of Abdul Magied there is an underlying assumption that no writer of privilege could ever portray the experience of the underprivileged as well as an underprivileged writer could. I'm not sure about this notion (I've read plenty of stories by women published as part of projects to 'create women's space' that fail to represent my experience as well as does some writing by some men). But as I say, it's what sometimes makes me nervous about writing black characters. And I do think we should seriously consider the possibility that in a white-dominated publishing world, in a publishing choice between a well-written fiction about black experience written by a white writer and a similar well-written fiction by a black writer, the fiction by the white writer is likely to win. Perhaps the key is in Abdel Magied's last words, in the provision of the opportunity. Perhaps it's not a question of making authors, black or white, stay for their writing in the categories to which society has designated them personally, but of creating better equality in society, and, in particular, greater diversity in the publishing industry, so that those with authentic stories to tell can indeed be heard.

Well, I started out this post intending to talk about a story I've been writing and for which I've had to do a lot of research rather than simply rely on what I already know, but as you can see I've been sidetracked, and that will have to be for another day...

*This post has been edited as I have developed my thoughts, tentative and exploratory as they are!

Friday, August 24, 2018

Return to blogging

Well - if anyone is out there reading this - I can't tell you how strange it is to be writing this blog again today. Apart from the monthly reports of our reading group I see that I haven't in fact written a post for going on for two years (and even those reports I've sometimes struggled to achieve). The reasons are several: I was working very hard on fiction that left little space in my head, or time in the day, for any other sort of writing, and there was personal stuff that made me want to pull in my horns and sit quiet and private for a while (but which is superb grist for the mill, of course!). I suppose also there was the sense that attention had moved on from blogs and the fact that a blog, which takes time to create, provides far less reward in terms of tangible interaction with readers than Facebook and Twitter.

Yet here I am, after a summer away from my desk - a summer completely taken up with trips and visitors and family, so that I have hardly written at all - with a yen to blog again (and yet with that initial awkwardness you experience when you've not seen someone for a good long time), to be able to contemplate things at greater leisure and with more permanence than the noisy, fleeting Facebook and Twitter allow. I realise too now that writing here about developments concerning my own writing provides a permanent record of publications, dates etc that can otherwise so easily get forgotten.

As for this last, this summer has seen the publication of two new stories, and a third, 'Kiss', was longlisted in the Short Fiction Journal Prize.

'The Meadow' appears in Words for the Wild, an anthology of poetry and prose fiction 'rooted in the countryside', edited by Amanda Oosthuizen and Louise Taylor. It's my first ever 'flash' and was first commissioned by Amanda for the Words for the Wild website, which was set up to support a campaign against development plans for executive-style housing on precious green space. 'The Meadow' tackles this situation directly and ponders the clashing issues involved (and is pretty autobiographical!). (I met Amanda in June 2015 at the Norwich launch of Unthology 7, in which we each had a story - we had a great time afterwards in the pub!).



'The Next Stop Will Be Didsbury Village' was published in the Spring 2018 issue of the literary journal Confingo. This story was originally commissioned for another project. Last summer (2017), the writer Sarah-Clare Conlon produced a performance for Didsbury Arts Festival, Re/Place(d), for which several of us - Sarah Butler, Adrian Slatcher, David Gaffney, Nicholas Royle, I and Sarah-Clare herself - wrote and performed stories inspired by various sites around Didsbury. I chose Didsbury tram station, which is on the site (more or less) of the old Victorian railway station, inspired by the sense it always gives me of people's comings and goings through time, and the shifts and yet permanences through the centuries. I don't usually write site-specific stories - or, at least, if I do I work hard on making them universal rather than specific (sometimes not even naming the place or changing its name): it seems to me that if you don't you risk making readers who don't know a place feel excluded. But I did find this a great project to do, and really enjoyed trawling through old photos of the station and taking photos of my own, and the way they formed ideas and a story in my head.




We read in the great atmosphere of Didsbury's Parsonage (which is supposed to be haunted) and old footage of Didsbury showed on a screen as we read. It was a great evening with a packed house. Confingo editor Tim Shearer was in the audience and afterwards asked to see my story with a view to publishing it. Here I am chatting afterwards with him (centre) and Nicholas Royle:


Well, it's taken me some time to write this blog - to provide the links and upload the photos etc, which reminds me why I found it so hard to keep going while working so solidly at other writing. Perhaps I won't achieve what I used to - I used to blog every day, or most days - but I do hope now to keep in touch with it.

Friday, August 03, 2018

Reading group: Harvest by Jim Crace

Some plot spoilers.

Clare suggested this historical novel about a rural English community that has been peaceably conducting subsistence farming under the benign supervision of a manorial landlord but is suddenly threatened with a new owner and enclosure for sheep farming managed for his own profit. It is told from the first-person viewpoint of Walter Thirsk, a relative newcomer who arrived in the village with the current landlord, Master Kent, when the land fell to Master Kent's now deceased wife, but who, on falling in love with a village girl (also now deceased), left his master's service to embed himself in the community.

Thus Crace creates a narrator with a two-fold perspective - a keen, somatic insight into the lives and perspectives of the villagers and an objectivity and insight that they in their rural innocence cannot have into the seismic historical changes about to engulf them.

It's an atmospheric novel, opening with what seem like smoke signals of doom: smoke from a newly-erected hut just outside the boundary of the village - which, ironically, will turn out to have been erected by a family ejected themselves from land newly enclosed - and from Master Kent's stables, a fire for which the newcomers will be blamed. Thus begins a series of tragic events that will end in the total destruction and evacuation of the village.

Clare said she found it an engrossing read, and most people agreed with her. There are vivid descriptions of the village and countryside that make the place almost tangibly real, and at the same time a down-to earth linguistic pithiness. What John and I found most impressive was the rhythm of the prose: there was a fluidity binding together all the elements - events and themes - and a propulsion that not only kept you reading but also created a sense of the unstoppable, formally enacting the theme of inevitable change.

People were struck by the novel's theme of contrasting and relative perspectives. The first sign of the coming change is the appearance during the harvest of a man dressed in town clothes, watching and writing things down with a quill - he will turn out to have been sent by the cousin of Master Kent's dead wife, who is now claiming the land. Walter Thirsk, having burned his hand in helping to put out the fire in Master Kent's stables and being therefore temporarily unable to do farm work, is assigned as his assistant as he surveys and maps the land. Thirsk is shocked and taken by the new perspective on the village afforded by 'Mr Quill' 's map - a completely new way of looking at it and experiencing it. He is also shocked by Quill's desire to name its parts - its fields etc - in descriptive or romantic ways rather than simply according to their use, and more generally by his romantic-aesthetic view of the landscape, which is divorced from its gritty realities. However, Thirsk remembers that this is how he too once viewed it as a newcomer from the town himself, and towards the end, when it becomes clear he is going have to leave the village, he is able to see it in that light again.

The group were a little puzzled by what seemed like some moral ambiguity. Master Kent spends most of the novel as a sympathetic character: he has been a benign landlord; he is impotent against his wife's cousin's claim on the land and is cowed by him; he appears to be crucified by the cousin's horrific effects on the villagers. (It is true that he keeps doves that steal the harvest gleanings, but the impression is that he does so in innocence, and he does have the two strangers blamed for the fire put in the stocks although their crime hasn't been proved, but then this seems naive adherence to custom). Yet when he rides away with the cousin, village women and a child accused by the cousin of witchcraft following on foot and tethered to horses, Thirsk, watching from a hilltop, sees Master Kent and the cousin amiably chatting and laughing as they ride. And Thirsk himself, too, seems morally ambiguous: after all, he has looked to his own safety above all else - understandably, perhaps, because, once the villagers are inflamed and incited to violence, his outsider status comes back to haunt him and is a danger to him. On reflection, it seems to me that these things are intended as sad but inevitable morally ambiguous consequences in a situation where people find themselves at the mercy of unstoppable and capitalistic historical forces.

People wondered in which century the story was meant to take place (the English countryside underwent enclosure from the fourteenth to the eighteenth centuries) and where in England. Neither of these things is stated. Some assumed it to be the earlier period, as the village was so very primitive and isolated. Others thought later, since isolated pre-enclosure rural communities stayed the same for centuries, and felt that some of the hints about town life smacked of the eighteenth century. The descriptions for me very much conjured southern England, but then some of the characters' names sounded Northern to me, in particular of course Thirsk. I think the uncertainty is the point: Jim Crace is famous for creating mythic places and situations that exist outside real-life geography and time (and although people in the group marvelled at the seeming accuracy of his research here, is also famous for saying that he doesn't rely on research but makes things up for his own fictive ends). What he does is create a dream into which one can interpolate oneself, and his novels are nearly always allegories of trends in our own time. Master Kent stands with Walter Thirsk surveying the land:
'This land,' he says, gesturing, 'has always been much older than ourselves.' ... this ancient place would soon be new, he wants to say. We're used to looking out and seeing what's preceded us, and what will outlive us. Now we have to contemplate a land bare of both ... we'll look across these fields and say, 'This land is so much younger than ourselves.'
A situation in which people are exiled by capitalist forces from homes they thought would last forever is both historically universal and crucially characteristic of our own global world.

John pointed out that much of the action takes place off-stage, due in the main to Walter Thirsk's removal from things because of his burnt hand. An interesting effect of this is that Thirsk, having to imagine scenes and fill in the blanks, keeps attributing better motives to people than they turn out to have, which creates dramatic irony and which I found poignant. John, however, said it made the novel rather dull for him. Pulled on by the rhythm, he was engrossed as he read, but he said he admired the book (finding it in fact very clever) rather than enjoyed it. He also said that, vivid as the details of the countryside were, he felt that they were rather coolly and even academically presented, in comparison to, say, those of Jon McGregor's Reservoir 13 (discussed here) where they carried a strong emotive charge. Ann, who had not said anything so far, now said that she was afraid that she hadn't like the book at all. She had found Walter Thirsk's 'eighteenth-century' register entirely fake and frequently interspersed with anachronistic modernisms - quite unlike the unique register devised by Francis Spufford for Golden Hill (discussed here) which felt entirely eighteenth-century-authentic and accessible at the same time. (I had noticed one or two modernisms in Harvest, which had brought me up short.) And because she had been very busy with other things, Ann had lost patience and given up on the book.

Clare now said something with which everyone else who had read the book agreed: that, engrossing as it had been as you read, in the end it trails away. The action reaches a climax which is then followed by a long hiatus in which Thirsk gets high and then ill on mushrooms, which not only seems out of character but holds up the action, dispelling the narrative tension, and which we suspected was merely an authorial stratagem to keep him out of the way while the final events, which he would otherwise have prevented, play out.

And that was the note on which we ended: a good read (for most of us) that disappointingly 'fizzles out'.


Our archive discussions can be found here and a list of the books we have discussed, with links to the discussions, here.

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