Of the Booker fiction prize 2022, that is. I feel like I’ve been neglectful of all the other works that made it to the last or the last but one round. So here is the so-called long list and the short listed finalists. I have read but one – Elizabeth Strout’s Oh William!
I should say that the Booker website is an absolute treasure trove, including reading guides for the shortlisted books, quizzes that may (or may not) help one decide on what to read (or read not), information on the judges (Neil MacGregor was Chair this year), extracts, interviews and videos. And a featured list of works from Hilary Mantel as a tribute to her place in Booker history, in British writing – of their own history but not only.
The Booker prize for fiction 2022 was announced on a special edition of Front Row on BBC Radio 4 last night (The Guardian report here) and presented by the Duchess of Dings Bums … I mean the Queen Consort … (forgive me Camilla, for you are famously a real reader!) to the Sri Lankan author Shehan Karunatilaka for his novel The Seven Moons of Maali Almeida. I neither know the author nor his work, but I am secretly – well obviously not so secretly – pleased that it was not awarded (again) to a US publication. As I have said before, the US have enough of their own gongs and the anglophile book world deserves a space beyond those shores and the reach of a few powerful media conglomerates. On the later, it is also striking that Karunatilaka’s book is published by a small UK independent press – Sort of Books.
Everything you need to know about the winning book: what it's about, why it won, how the author wrote it and what the judges and critics said 📚🏆
Exploring the violent insurrections of 1980s Sri Lanka, The Guardian review from the summer suggests a work written in a magic realism tradition that blends the spiritual with the profane, sardonic humor with brutal reality, and which brings immediately Salman Rushdie’s Midnight’s Children to my mind. It is 1990 and the Maali of the title is a photographer – and he is dead. But he is a soul that has not found peace, and with now one mission: to expose the crimes of the decade gone with the evidence that he amassed during his professional (and earthly) life.
From his Front Row appearance, Karunatilaka comes across as a humourful and very interesting man indeed, and his website informs on a really spectacularly successful life – and I mean that to mean a life well-lived. And besides, he loves cricket. And, I will be reading this book.
The British Government line for why they have maintained a relatively passive role in deciding the fate of the stolen Parthenon Marbles (I’ve always said “Elgin Marbles” – me thinks that ain’t exactly p.c. these days!) has always rested strongly on the reasoning that the spectacular artifacts were removed from the Acropolis and brought into the UK by Lord Elgin in the 19th century – that is, it was a historically private initiative, unhindered by the Greek officialdom and following international and diplomatic protocols in place at the time, and over which the Government had little to no influence then and presumably no legal liability now. In the light of this, a report in The Guardian a couple of days ago about research suggesting that the foreign secretary of the day, Viscount Castlereagh, was, in fact, very much involved in the initiative and in facilitating the import of the marbles, offers an interesting new angle in what must be one of the longest and most famous disputes concerning stolen antiquities.
My own photograph, British Museum, 2012.
The publication of these findings comes at a particularly timely moment it has to be said; coming on the back of a renewed campaign by the Greek government, partly inspired by the sudden change of stance by The Times at the beginning of the year and public opinion in the UK in general, and the British Museum showing signs of a willingness to explore compromise solutions (talk for instance of a so-called “Parthenon Partnership” and a new Parthenon Project.).
Staying at the British Museum: There is the matter of the Rosetta Stone – famously, the engraved artifact with which Jean-François Champollion went about his decoding of the hitherto puzzle of hieroglyphs. The physical object of course is one thing, but just as important, perhaps, is the way in which the astounding work of Champollion and others shone new light upon the richness of ancient Egyptian civilisation – their society, customs and belief systems. In recognition of Champollion’s scholarship there is a major exhibition Hieroglyphs: unlocking ancient Egyptat the British Museum through to 19 February 2023 (and I note an extended blog piece by the curator, Ilona Regulski). And another at the Louvre satellite in Lens, Champollion: La voie des hiéroglyphes (the webpage is only in French, but the objects can be looked at) until 16 January.
My (not very good!) photo of the Rosetta Stone, British Museum, 2012
Not quite as loudly as Greece, but Egypt too has called for the return of their “lost” heritage over the years. The loudest, though no longer in a governmental role, has been the renowned (and publicity savvy) Egyptian archaeologist Zahi Hawass who regularly pleads for the Stone’s restitution (as he likewise does for Nefertiti’s return from Berlin). In some ways this case is more complicated, in that the Rosetta Stone was amongst the many artifacts that were handed over to the British in a formal agreement as a result of the capitulation of Napoleon’s army in Egypt. Though one could conclude: Okay, so the French excavated, confiscated – maybe nicked – all this stuff and the Brits just help themselves to the spoils? What!
I admit to being a convert tending more to the ‘return’ side of the argument. Way back whenever I was amongst those (many, I believe) interested observers of the mounting controversies who just sort of presumed western museums (located in democratic countries, in more moderate climatic regions – both factors remain good – but not defining – arguments) had the space, financial and technical resources, expertise to best ensure the preservation of some of the treasures of world civilization. Unfortunately, it has to be said, many of these institutions (mostly led by an older generation and with the tacit support of their governments) have over decades been too reluctant to seriously engage with the claims made by the nations and peoples from whence many cultural objects have originated and, even when, have confronted the claimants with a sometimes patronizing, often impatient and nearly always paternalistic attitude. Ultimately, I think, one has to be prepared to accept the good will and intentions of those who seek restitution of their property and their right to make decisions that they deem in the best interest of the preservation and continuity of their cultural heritage. There are enough examples of how that may happen – with partnerships, exchanges, even new museums.
It seems, then, after years of bulwark tactics, the British Museum may be finally progressing towards an inclusive and respectful course of cultural and intellectual exchange. And it is not alone, for younger generations are taking on leadership roles at many other of the world’s great institutions; generations that are more diverse and with broader cultural visions. This, I think, is good news (something at a premium these days!) for the many nations that are reorganizing their cultural legacy in a post-colonial world.
The Nobel Prize in Literature for 2022 is awarded to the French author Annie Ernaux,
“for the courage and clinical acuity with which she uncovers the roots, estrangements and collective restraints of personal memory”.
Press Release 6 October 2022
A very short formal announcement I must say – and not as punctual as one is use to (presumably their winner could not be contacted; follows, she wasn’t sitting by the phone! is that a diss? hope so!). Here is the biobibliography (that’s a mouthful!) on the Nobel website (and as pdf). How delighted I am I need not say; for, on Ernaux, I have said enough in the past.
Since 1922 (it just had to be 1922!) the BBC has informed and entertained at home and abroad; during times of empire – its waning and its demise; in war and peace; through political turmoil and social upheaval. In these days of instantaneous communication and the new media that has evolved out of it, she navigates gingerly through troubled waters but, hopefully and with good will and chance, is in no real danger of sinking anytime soon – with or without the license fee, meddling politicians, the next app, or the next big thing.
With a timeline to be explored either by year or thematically, and thoughtful collections of 100 objects, 100 faces and 100 voices that have been accumulating over the year, the BBC proudly displays the first century of their being.
And from the beginning, women were there; in many roles, mostly unheralded, underpaid and pawns to the patriarchal structures of … Auntie Beeb! For me the name Hilda Matheson jumps out; she who shared with Virginia Woolf (who wrote of her disparagingly – that, enough to make one curious) the affections of Vita Sackville-West. Specific to her work with the BBC, this blog entry is very interesting, and illustrative of what the ‘girls’ were up against.
During my exploration of the celebratory website, links to the Radio Timeswere prevalent and it turns out that the Programme Index includes amongst its (searchable) historical listings also digitized copies of the Radio Times. One way (should the time allow) of appraising the societal history of the United Kingdom over the last century – thinking about how far it has come and imagining how far it could go.
Hilary Mantel was for many years a contributing editor of the London Review of Books and for this weekend (only, one should say, and it is now almost gone) her many essays, reviews, stories, etc. are freely available. For those without a subscription, a collection of her work in the LRB titled Mantel Pieces: ‘Royal Bodies’ and Other Writing for the London Review of Books was published in 2020 – and mentioned by me here.
A statement from her publisher is here. And from her friend to whom she dedicated her Wolf Hall series, Mary Robertson, at The Huntington Library here.
Many sincere tributes written for The Guardian can be accessed here. The New York Times (subscription mostly required) obituary is here, also “What to Read by (and About) Hilary Mantel” . And today, an opinion piece from Kamila Shamsie in which she relates an anecdote of a meeting with Mantel at a dinner party (they share agents) not long before the publication of Wolf Hall; encapsulating some of my own thoughts on the extraordinary narrative voice that Mantel created:
[…] It was as though she’d been present and was relating, full of delight, a piece of slightly scurrilous gossip that she overheard while pouring wine, unseen, into Wolsey’s cup.
I told Hilary someone needed to record an audio guide to Tudor London, narrated by her, that visitors could listen to while walking past locations of significance. It was a mark of her graciousness that she looked amused though I’d reduced her to the role of tour guide instead of recognizing that she had a different way of entering King Henry VIII’s England than anyone else who’d ever written about it. When I started to read “Wolf Hall”a few months later I recognized instantly the narrative voice though I had never before seen it on the page: It peers over Cromwell’s shoulder, unseen, before entering his mind.
Shamsie goes on to say: ” […Hilary Mantel] embodies both the magician and the spell, and part of the particular wonder of reading her is the knowledge that no one else has ever written like that before nor will again. She seemed to see so clearly the things — the past, the spirit world, the intricate relationship between the self and power — the rest of us saw through gauze or not at all”. I love that: ‘both the magician and the spell’! Interestingly, Shamsie says that upon hearing of Mantel’s death she returned to the memoir piece “Someone to Disturb”, read by me just a short time ago as “Sorry to Disturb”, marveling again at the strange disquiet, inconsistencies – internal and external to herself – that Mantel could identify and render so wonderfully in her writing.
Again, I say: A great, great loss.
Wednesday 28th September 2022: A tribute from Hilary Mantel’s friend to whom she dedicated her Wolf Hall series, Mary Robertson, from The Huntington Library in California where Mantel’s papers are being collected.
Saturday 1st October 2022: Just how great a loss can be most realized only in reading Mantel’s work but she was unafraid to enter the public fray, and the depth of her intellect and humanity is apparent in her wonderful Reith Lectures series for the BBC in 2017 – available here.
It has just been announced that Hilary Mantel, one of Britain’s truly finest novelists, died yesterday. She has rarely been well – suffering most of her life from chronic endometriosis – but it comes as a shock just the same. And in my humble opinion a monumental loss to contemporary literature.
Only a few months ago I wrote about Hilary Mantel, and before that, and before that, on a number of occasions. Only last week did she come to mind as, swept away somewhat by the furor following the Queen’s death, I suddenly had the urge to steep myself in Royal dynasties, history, tradition, and my bookshelf could only offer up Antonia Fraser and Mantel’s Wolf Hall trilogy.
That latter became – and remains – my all time favorite work of historical fiction. I was immediately drawn into the space that Mantel created, the historical stringency she adhered to up until the point she didn’t and the imagination took over, enthralled by the unusual narrative voice adopted – so present in every sense and tense, so powerful, so intimate, and so very modern – and by the splendidly drawn characters, intricate plot construction and the vividly realized descriptive passages. All put to page with majestic elegance.
I don’t know what Mantel was currently working on, or planned to work on next. I do distinctly recall reading that, totally unforgiving of the Brexit fiasco, she and her husband planned to move to Ireland; also that she wrote the theatrical ending to Wolf Hall for the RSC but that it arrived amidst the confusion and uncertainty of Covid restrictions at the end of last year – and suffered accordingly. At that time she stated that she had belatedly come to the conclusion that the theater was her true medium of expression. I can believe that; for my reading of Mantel’s Th. Cromwell saga quite often had the effect of transporting me up there amongst the players on medieval floor boards and into the midst of a profoundly human drama with all its essential elements of love and jealousy, power and denial, that just happened to be a Tudor drama. And at other times I felt myself transformed into an invisible body – mingling there at Court or at Austin Friars, immersed in the constant human struggle of the day to just see in the next dawn. Such was Hilary Mantel’s gift as a story teller: to make certainty and doubt, closeness and distance, reality and imagination all somehow complementary and making clear in the present the blurred reflections of a shared past.
Surely many admiring tributes will be written about the great Hilary Mantel in the next days. For my part; I’m just feeling very sad indeed.
Now for me, Bennett is only the Bennett of Mr Bennett and Mrs Brown; that essay from a certain Mrs. Woolf that is the wryly imagined culmination of the legendary dispute between herself and the aforesaid, and is a proxy – so to speak – for that greater reckoning between proponents of realism and modernism in the early 2oth century novel.
More than a little snarky when it comes to Mrs. Woolf, in my opinion, is the Mr. Wilson. Nor quite accurate either. Bennett and Woolf were contemporaries only up to a point, more precisely their careers briefly overlapped; most of Bennett’s works (including the “Clayhanger” series) were published in the first two decades of the century, and Mr. Bennett’s criticism of Mrs. Woolf’s third novel Jacob’s Room came in 1922 and before her real rise to literary fame with Mrs. Dalloway. And Wilson’s claim that she (and others) had it in for Bennett because he was too “middle-brow” is rather specious. On the contrary, one could contend; it was Mrs. Woolf’s “Mrs Brown” who displayed various degrees of the too easily maligned “middle-brow” – Mrs. Woolf is rooting for the “middle-brow” with all their peculiarities and inconsistencies and against easy assumptions made of them. Her point is: if it were to be a “Mr. Bennett” who was to imagine and describe his “Mrs Brown”, he would have her been imbued in his own image, reflecting the world as he saw it.
I do understand Mr. Wilson’s loyalties towards Mr. Bennett – the links between the two men: Stoke-on-Trent, potteries, Wedgwood are clear. And Clayhanger and The Potter’s Hand stand only a century apart in the setting and a (different) century in the writing of; neither of which I have read, but am inclined to.
