In going back through my Monthly Reading blog posts for the year I’ve identified 12 books published this year that I more than thoroughly enjoyed, that I think are great to brilliant examples of what they do, and that I feel will frame and influence my future reading. (A thirteenth, The Penguin Book of the Prose Poem, is not pictured because I’ve loaned it to someone.)
A quick scan of the books shows me Faber have had an excellent year – four of the twelve – and it’s no surprise that Fitzcarraldo and CB Editions show up, both publishers very close to my heart. (It’s only fair to point out that those books were complimentary/review copies, as was the Heti and the Johnson. All others bought by me.) And a shout-out to Peninsula Press, whose £6 pocket essays are a welcome intervention to the literary scene. Eight women to four men writers. Only one BAME writer. Two books in translation. Two US writers.
I’m not going to write at length again about each book, but rather provide links to the original monthly blog posts or reviews, but I do want to take a moment again to think about Sally Rooney’s Normal People, which seems to stand out for me as a Book of the Year in a more than personal way. In a year that the “difficulty” or otherwise of Anna Burns’ Milkman (which I haven’t read, and very much want to) became a hot topic, I think it’s worth considering just how un-difficult Rooney’s book is, and how that absence of difficulty, that simplicity, that ease-of-reading – allied to the novel’s clear intelligence – is central to its success, both as a novel unto itself, and more widely. You can see precisely why an organisation like Waterstones would make it Book of the Year: it is utterly approachable; it finds an uncomplicated way of narrating complicated lives and issues.
I read Normal People in September, a borrowed copy, but bought it again recently, and was pleased to find that Marianne and Connell drifted back into my life without so much as a shrug. I think it’s a brilliant accomplishment, while I’m also very aware that this is a book aimed squarely at me: white, middle class, educated. I embrace it because it reflects my situation and concerns, and in addition romanticises and bolsters the generation I now find myself teaching at university. I want it to work, and it does, for me.
Yet I am astonished that it does so much with so little. Present tense, shifting close third person narration. Unpunctuated dialogue. A drifting narrative almost without plot, chopped into dated sections.
I wrote here about how I didn’t want to have to buy it in hardback (though I did) and I wrote here about how these anti-technical techniques made the book a potentially dangerous model for Creative Writing students – it looks like you can get away with Not Much – and it is true that Rooney’s book seems to throw a harsh light on some of the other books on my list, sitting with it in that stack. They seem to be trying so hard: Jessie Greengrass’s Sight is so unashamedly intelligent, Will Eaves’s Murmur so oblique and poetic, Tony White’s The Fountain in the Forest so formally inventive (and in a number of different ways), Sheila Heti’s Motherhood so disingenuous in its informality, its seeming-naturalness. (I hope it’s clear that I love these books for the very aspects I seem to disparage.)
By contrast, Normal People seems written at what Roland Barthes called ‘writing degree zero’, by which he meant writing with no pretension to Literature – “a style of absence which is almost an ideal absence of style”. His model for this is Camus’ L’Étranger, and the comparison seems apt, except that L’Étranger is written in the first person. Everything extraneous is taken out. It’s interesting to note that David Szalay’s All That Man Is is written in a very similar way to Normal People, the only real difference being the use of single quote marks for dialogue. Yet they seem a world apart to me. Continue reading
I picked up a couple of Annie Ernaux books last time I was in France. I think The Years (Les années) was a recommendation from someone, possibly a bookseller. I remember starting it (“Toutes les images disparaîtront…”/”All the images will disappear…”) but didn’t read the whole thing until I received this translation, from Fitzcarraldo Editions. It is a stunning piece of work, a memoir of life in France since the second world war drained almost entirely of the personal. Ernaux presents her life as a series of disconnected generalisations – sociological, political and cultural: an election might carry as much weight as a film, or an advertising slogan, or the availability of abortion, or the changing tenor of parenthood or coupledom. She describes her goal at one point as presenting “an existence that is singular but also merged with the movements of a generation”.
The great stylistic trick of the original, of course, is her use of that characteristically French pronoun on, which carries none of the painful elitism of the English one, and in fact Alison L. Strayer often translates on as we.
A pair of underlined paragraphs – of which there are many in my copy – picked at random:
Meanwhile, we studied for our BAs while listening to the transistor. We went to see Cléo from 5 to 7, Last Year at Marienbad, Bergman, Buñuel and Italian films. We loved Léo Ferré, Barbara, Jean Ferrat, Leny Escudero, and Claude Nougaro. We read Hara-Kiri. We felt nothing in common with the yé-yés, who said Hitler, never heard of him, and their ideols, who were even younger than we: girls with pigtails and songs fo rthe school playground; a boy who bellowed and writhed on the floor of the stage. We had the feeling they’d never catch up with us. Next to them, we were old. Perhaps we too would die under de Gaulle.
But we were not adults. Sexual life remained clandestine and rudimentary, haunted by the spectre of ‘an accident’. No one was supposed to have a sex life before marriage. Boys believed their lewd innuendos displayed advanced erotic science, but all they knew how to do was ejaculate on the area of the girl’s body to which she directed him, for the sake of caution. No one knew for sure whether or not they were still virgins.
(As it happens, the first uses on in the original, and the second uses nous.)
The closest Ernaux comes to her own person is a series of descriptions of family photographs in which she features, from childhood to late middle age, but even here she is always she, never I. Dispassionate is the word.
There is an obvious link here to Barthes’ Camera Lucida, but Ernaux is not conceptually or theoretically interested in the idea of photography. In fact, in Barthes’ terms, the photos she gives us are all stadiumand no punctum. She refuses to pick out the single, novelistic detail that, despite its inconsequence, is able to carry the weight of sentiment. Continue reading