The launch of The White Review, the redesign of The Drawbridge, Areté still going strong, not to mention Ambit. With the sense that Granta, although perhaps a stronger magazine than it was a few years ago, is becoming more international, less distinctly British, the gap is there in the market for a replacement. If I want a literary journal to subscribe to, there is no shortage of options, so which should it be?
It turns out that over the last couple of years I’ve been buying single issues of literary and cultural journals, or magazines, or reviews, or quarterlies, or whatever they happen to call themselves, as if, consciously or unconsciously, I’ve been auditioning them for that very role. It’s time to get off the pot and sign on the direct debit dotted line.
Thinking about the precise elements that I’m looking for leads me to think, too, about what role, more generally, journals play in a reading life. You could go back to Puffin Post, or the NME, or 2000AD, but I suppose the moment that a journal really spoke to me with a genuine intellectual thrill was when in my late teens my parents gave me a subscription to Sight & Sound.
Cinema and I have since had a parting of the ways (it is an estrangement too complicated and bitter to go into here – suffice it to say that I look at a magazine like Little White Lies and wish, wish, wish that cinema and I were still friends) but the memory persists. Today, what I want, what I really, really want is a literary/cultural journal that does what Sight & Sound did then; that makes me feel engaged and informed in a way less parti pris than the cultural sections of the newspapers, and less dissipated and frenzied than the internet-based information channels.
I currently subscribe to Granta and McSweeney’s, and they both still get read, if not cover to cover. They are, though, a resource. (The TLS and LRB get read, from time to time, but I can’t store them – I want a journal that can sit on the shelves, and deserves its space on them; that is a usable resource, in short.) And the McSweeney’s are, of course, fantastically designed – distractingly so, even (as I blogged here). But these are essentially journals pushing new fiction (and, to a lesser extent, reportage and memoir.) Both make a point of excluding critical work. Which is fine, that’s their decision, but for my journal – my dream journal, the journal I want to call home – it is a fault. It somehow loosens them from the thread of history. Granta’s themed issues are often impressively urgent, but issue by issue it doesn’t answer to what I would portentously call ‘the spirit of the age.’
That’s what I’m after: the portentously-called spirit of the age.
So here are the magazines/journals/reviews I’ve bought recently, that I felt might fit the bill: Ambit (#203), Drawbridge (#19), Teller (#1), The Moth (#3), Stop/Sharpening/Your/Knives (#4) and now The White Review (#1), to which I’ll also add Areté, although I don’t have a recent issue.
Let’s rattle though them:
Stop/Sharpening/Your/Knives – this is a poetry magazine, from Norwich, thus I know one or two of the poets. It is impressively though simply designed, with some intriguing black and white illustrations made in response to the poetry. What it does, it does very well, but poetry is not my core interest or concern. So I pass on.
Teller – I blogged about this previously. It is certainly excellent value, especially considering the wealth of colour images, but the balance of text and image isn’t what I want – there is a comparative lack of weight to the prose selections. Moreover, it doesn’t have a spine, so disappears on the shelf. My ideal journal will call out to me as I pass, demand a second glance. A resource must be accessible, retrievable.
The Moth – I had high hopes of this; again it was inexpensive, but again it was stapled, so hard to keep track of on the shelves – in fact I can’t find my copy to write about it now. From memory, though, the fiction, of which there was plenty, was interesting rather than mind-blowing, and the non-fiction was limited to one interview.
Ambit – Ambit comes with a significant pedigree (look at that issue number – it’s been going for over fifty years!) and still upholds its support for the new and untried by refusing to commission anything. Everything it prints is unsolicited. Ambit looks good and feels good in the hand, with some b&w illustration. #203 has one thrillingly good short story (‘The Way We Live Now’ by Paul Goddard) and some equally good poetry, but really it’s the poetry/prose balance that put its out of my sweet spot, plus the only critical pieces are short poetry reviews. A remarkable and admirable publication, to be applauded for so doggedly carrying the torch for experimentation, but it doesn’t tick enough of the boxes for me, right now.
The Drawbridge – Although this is #19 in some ways it’s #1, as this intellectually out-looking journal has just relaunched in a new book-ish format. Previously, it came as a broadsheet newspaper and, I have to say, I preferred it that way. There was something exotic about reading short pieces of fiction and sometimes provocative non-fiction in this format: their length seemed to fit the constraints of the page layout. The new-look Drawbridge is, by contrast, an all-out luxury item – one issue of it costs as much as a year’s subscription to the old – and the artwork is now given proper space, not pressed into proximity with the text like photos and adverts in a newspaper, as previously.
What benefits the visual, however, harms the textual. The size of the page (19x26cm) simply doesn’t suit single column print – there’s too much white space; double column text might work better – and the exuberance of the colour images jumping out between each short stretch of prose seems to dominate proceedings, and suck energy from the words. The great benefit of the photo essay in Granta, by contrast, is that it keeps the visual element strictly constrained.
As for content, The Drawbridge is ambitiously international, with names like David Means, Mario Vargas Llosa, Italo Calvino and Julio Cortázar on the cover of this issue (together with others that I felt I ought to know but didn’t), though two of those are dead, and the Vargas Llosa piece is a squib about fear of flying that would certainly never have got published without his name attached. Such cosmopolitanism does, however, mean that it doesn’t feel particularly British or English – which is not a criticism, just that I’m after something that feels like it’s looking at the world from a particular cultural-geographic standpoint.
The final comment on the journal is that, like Granta, it gives each issue a theme, which to my mind is a demerit. Granta, at least, refuses to limit its themes to a single category (the last four are ‘Aliens’, ‘Best Young Spanish-Language Novelists’, ‘Pakistan’, ‘Going Back’). The Drawbridge sticks to nouns, often abstract (‘Flight’, ‘Ghosts’, ‘Action’, ‘Money’) which often seems like a way of hedging their bets – appearing to be adventurous in their editorial process while keeping things vague enough to let any old thing in.
Areté – Another serious contender for the ideal journal, which I occasionally buy and often consider subscribing to. It is intellectually rigorous, with a pleasing balance between fiction and criticism; definitely British in outlook, though hardly parochial; featuring an impressive list of contributors; and elegantly presented, with a defiant lack of qualms about having no visual element whatsoever. If something has stopped me signing on the direct debit dotted line, it is the occasional snarky tone, with its combative ‘Our Bold’ sections and willingness to enter into internecine literary warfare that, though admirable in some respects, can be tiresome for the general reader.
By now I think I’ve worked out the criteria for my perfect literary quarterly:
- content should be largely divided between new fiction and new critical/non-fiction writing.
- visual art and poetry are secondary, and neither is indispensable.
- good design is more important than artwork.
- finally, it should situate itself historically and geographically, should look forwards and backwards in equal measure, should consider the portentously-named spirit of the age, and should do all of this from somewhere that feels rooted in the British intellectual heritage.
All of which is a preamble to the announcement that I have found what I hope will be the journal of my dreams, although, as it’s only at the first issue, that declaration of love could turn out to be drastically premature.
The White Review is a new British-based journal that fulfils all of these personal requirements. The first issue (170pp, 17x24cm – just that crucial bit smaller than The Drawbridge) contains three interviews (Tom McCarthy, Paula Rego and publisher André Schiffrin – whose name they misspell at one critical point) plus an illuminating discussion about cut-up innovator Brion Gysin, two stories, a handful of poems and prose-poems, one photo section with accompanying essay, and five further essays ranging from the critical to the reportage. That balance feels almost perfect to me.
The artwork, of which there is not too much, is all black and white, which I think in the end is preferable to the distraction of colour. The design is superb, with a marbled bookmark carrying the table of contents and an ingenious cover that folds out to form a poster (though its very origami-like beauty means it’s sadly at risk of damage over time, as it gets put in and out of bags, pulled on and off the shelf). At £14 – roughly the same as The Drawbridge but significantly more than £8 Areté – it’s expensive, but feels worth the money.
I haven’t read all of it yet, but everything that I have read was stimulating and felt like it belonged together with the other pieces. The interview with Tom McCarthy, especially, was a pleasant surprise; he came across as less arch than he has in other contexts, and set me happily scribbling notes and graphs into response to his comments about character and narrative. It’s neat, too, that one of the magazine’s two stories, ‘Beyond The Horizon’ by Patrick Langley, gives a nice echo of ‘C’, with its anonymous short-wave radio transmissions pulsing out through a fractured contemporary world.
The editors of The White Review set out their stall by referring to La Revue Blanche, a Parisian review of a century ago that rode the rising wave of Modernism, which epoque they honour with translations of two poems by Rimbaud contemporary Charles Cros (the translations presented, as they should be, alongside the originals). The names popping up in the other essays – George Steiner, Milan Kundera, Primo Levi – and the views taken on post-War German architecture and contemporary uprisings in India, show a cosmopolitan view, though certainly nothing to frighten the horses. Areté perhaps gives a stronger sense of its own, as opposed to a borrowed, or received identity.
Enough. I want to get back to reading, and to writing, which is the point after all. The upshot of my search? Reader, I subscribed to The White Review – though with a definite intention to do the same to Areté when funds become available.
So I spent a week of my holidays sitting in and outside a gîte in Brittany reading Tom McCarthy’s ‘C’, which I had rushed out and bought largely on account of the amount of buzz around it on various blogs in the week or so before its emergence onto the Man Booker long list.
It occurred to me that one way in which blogs – and tweets – are changing the book world is the way that commentary around a book starts to flitter and fly, in sometimes gossipy, allusive form, before it’s even published, and reviewed in the mainstream media.
Do newspapers keep to an embargo, implicit or explicit, which bloggers are happy to ignore? Do publishers (or their marketing departments) even encourage this split in the coverage, for the way the blog- and Twitter-based content creates a kind of anticipation prior to the book’s release, and the ‘official’ verdict of the mainstream reviewers?
I’m not saying this is a bad thing, just pointing out how aware I became of it over the summer, especially through the web coverage of ‘C’ (which, after all, is exactly the kind of book to appeal to readers of the more literate book blogs). It occurred to me, too, that ‘previosity’ is more and more a feature of the books world. After all, when ‘C’ and ‘Room’ were longlisted for the 2010 Man Booker, neither of them were actually published (although granted it was only a matter of days before they were).
This reminded me of when ‘Brick Lane’ and ‘Politics’ won their authors inclusion of the Granta 2003 ‘Best of Young British Novelists’ list, despite the fact that those books, too, were read by the judges in manuscript form only. Similarly, The New Yorker’s ’20 Under 40’ had Tea Obrecht, for ‘The Tiger’s Wife’ (published next Spring) and The Telegraph’s British ’20 Under 40’ had Anjali Joseph’s ‘Saraswati Park’. It seems like an awards list just isn’t an awards list, these days, unless it includes someone that the reading public can’t yet get their unwashed hands on.
It’s a bit like when you listen (or used to listen) to the radio and the DJ would play ‘the new single’ by so-and-so, which they’d then announce wouldn’t be out to buy for another four or five weeks – by which time, presumably, everyone would be heartily sick of it. Sometimes you’ve got to tip your hat to the Radioheads and Pynchons of this world, who are quite happy to just drop new product on us announced.
Both Radiohead (in ‘Kid A’ mode) and Pynchon, of course, being perfectly good ways of returning this blog back to the subject of ‘C’, seeing as it shares with the former their glitchy intellectualism, and with the latter his paranoid sensibility, that sees everything linking to everything. The song from the musical comedy ‘The Amazonians’, excerpted on page 204, is simply the most obvious homage to Pynchon’s style:
Oh, of Thracian and Spartan,
Of suits tweed and tartan
We’ve all had our fill. (How much more can we kill?)
I enjoyed reading ‘C’, but decreasingly. Far and away the best section, I found, was the second, ‘Chute’, detailing Serge Carrefax’s exploits in the First World War. I loved McCarthy’s use of the ellipsis, as mentioned by Ben Jeffrey’s in his review in the TLS:
The predominant stylistic tic in C is Serge letting his imagination run outwards towards [the patterns of the larger, impersonal systems around him], envisioning them in rhythmic detail, before trailing off with an ellipsis.
I took to noting these down as I was reading the book, and in fact I can’t remember having made more notes for a book I wasn’t reviewing in a long time. John Self says something similar in his review on Asylum:
(I was forever scribbling in the margins of my copy, and I don’t pretend to have unpacked more than a fraction of its significance)
I made the mistake though of writing my notes in my notebook. A mistake because, as with all true paranoid systems, ‘C’ never breaks out of its own text. It’s a book that would bear endless near-re-reading, I think, and would keep giving more and more, but all that it gives, in the end of that endless reading, refers only to itself. Not, as in great novels, to the lived, experienced world.
So, enjoyably disappointed. Stimulated, but unmoved.
For a more forthright critique of ‘C’, try Aiden Cale’s Terror Fabulous blog:
Not only is the term [experimental] alienating, it’s inaccurate: ‘experimental’ implies cutting-edge, and the experiments performed in C were completed in the forties- he’s formulating general relativity when he could be discovering the Higgs-Boson.