This year’s Booker Prize shortlist is easily one of the freshest in years. I’m not entirely sure if I agree with Robert McCrum that it is also one of the best, but it certainly deserves commendation for looking beyond the usual names and even the usual modes for the best literature of the year. Where I might agree with McCrum, however, is in his ruling that David Szalay’s All That Man Is should not, in all honesty, be termed a novel.
Szalay has written novels in the past, and the nine sections of his latest book have all the energy and wit of the most observant purveyors of the craft; if he also occasionally mistakes brand-names for granular detail (one of the recurring motifs is that characters smoke Park Lane cigarettes), then you might allow it as a sort of comment on the flattened, samey world he sets out to depict. For, despite the volume’s title, All That Man Is cannot be characterised as expansive. The masculinity it maps is a narrower, rather more embattled, beast.
In truth, this collection of nine short stories – which maps awkwardly despite its number onto Shakespeare’s seven ages of man – would be more appropriately titled All That Straight, White, Repressed European Man Is. One assumes that this title was too unwieldy for its publisher, which also insists on continually referring to the book as a novel – presumably to get the Booker nod it has fortunately managed to parlay out of a punch-drunk panel. The opening story features a seventeen-year-old protagonist, the closing one a septuagenarian; in between we see desultory sexual encounters, unwanted pregnancies, child-rearing and senescence. We see prostitution and bargain basement holidays, Inter Railing and academia. The book, published prior to the UK’s June 24th referendum on membership of the European Union, reads like a mimetic version of Dave Hutchison’s recent trilogy of science fiction novels: avowedly, if acidicly, European, it does not shield us from the vapid vulgarity of much (post-)modern life.
The overall tone is captured well by the close of the third story, which focuses on a Central European bodyguard who travels to London with a friend and his sex-worker girlfriend. He, like most of the characters here, falls into a passive, unrequited love, but learns from its unattainability something about his own essential lack of ambition – and immediately projects this onto another woman:
And then there was the girl at the chicken place. She was always there, serving the customers, but he hadn’t really noticed her until tonight. The little smile she gave him when she took his order, it occurred to him, as he sat down to wait for his food, was not the first. Part of the lace edge of her bras showed in the V-shaped neckline of her T-shirt, where’s a little gold cross lay on the skin. He watched her dealing with the next customer, her earnest manner, her hand tightly gripping the pen with which she wrote the orders down. He wondered what she thought about things. Though she was not smiling now, she had a nice face. [p. 150]
And that it’s – end, quite literally, of story. The women of these stories never get much beyond the girl in the chicken place. The reader wonders if Szalay wants us to condemn his characters for this lack of curiosity (“[she] pathetically overestimated his own emotional engagement” we read of another character (p. 158), whose investment is won only when this latest woman – a girl, an undergraduate to the male’s lecturer – takes a younger boyfriend); but these stories go by with so little sense of judgement, of any ironic detachment, that they begin to read as shrugs. “This is how men are,” Szalay seems to say. “So it goes.”
Given his self-selected narrow sample, this seems like an odd project to undertake, much less for which to claim some sort of wider unity or significance. Still, early on, Szalay’s pseudish teenager Simon posits a structure for the cycle of short stories he opens: “an image of human life as bubbles rising through water. The bubbles rise in streams and clouds, touching and mingling and yet each remaining individually defined … until at the surface they cease to exist as individual entities” [p. 18]. That Simon is fairly obviously not quite as clever as he thinks he is, one wonders if this will be contradicted as the volume goes on. But it isn’t, and again we’re left with what we’re presented. It closes with the senescent man, his daughter Cordelia leaving behind (really), and the “Via Maggiore … fading away in their dusk” [p. 437]. That is, the bubbles evaporate. For all his self-evident priggishness, our first male predicts the last.
That the book’s claim for novel status – its building of a vision of manhood from nine separate stories – is also the most eloquent embodiment of its tonal failure to interrogate that central theme might do for a work less well written. But All That Man Is can be mesmerising at the level of the sentence, and is often very funny (“they do not succeed in finding it, the Kafka exhibition” [p. 41]). I can recommend it if Philip Roth: The Cappucino Years sounds like the sort of book you’d like, and you should dip into one or two of its stories even if it doesn’t. But is it a novel? Not really.
That leaves, for my money, The Sellout and Hot Milk contending for the prize. Do Not Say We Have Nothing is too evanescent, Eileen too contrived. His Bloody Project might be the dark-horse, but I think its final third’s pedestrian turn may scupper its chances. All told, The Sellout should win; but the Booker has been known to surprise before. We’ll find out tonight.