“The Will of Fate, and the Fated Will”: Lahiri, Catton and the Booker

The Lowland by Jhumpa LahiriIn his 2007 history India After Gandhi, Ramachandra Guha wrote of the militant Indian Maoists who emerged from the conflagration at Naxalbari in 1967: “‘Naxalite’ became shorthand for ‘revolutionary’, a term evoking romance and enchantment at one end of the political spectrum, and distaste and derision at the other.” [pg. 423] In her new novel The Lowland, shortlisted for this year’s Booker Prize, Jhumpa Lahiri plays with precisely these reactions, positing a long tail of consequences whipping outwards from a single Naxalite’s decision to fuse ideological fervour with murderous deeds.

The novel begins with Subhash and Udayan, two brothers living in the Kolkata suburb of Tollygunge during the 1950s. Subhash, the elder by a scant fifteen months, is cautious and prone to hesitation; Udayan “was blind to self-constraints, like an animal incapable of perceiving certain colours” [pg. 11]. Despite their differences, the boys are as inseparable as the twin pools wallowing in the topographical hollow of the title: “After the monsoon the ponds would rise so that the embankment built between them could not be seen. The lowland also filled with rain, three or four feet deep, the water remaining for a portion of the year.” [pg. 1] This governing metaphor emphasises not just the occasional indistinguishability of the brothers, but also how the consequences of events have a habit of squatting in our lives long after their initial happening: like water with nowhere to drain away, history lingers in the lives of each of Lahiri’s characters, turning brackish and stagnant.

The first section of The Lowand is consequently bulging with Cliff Notes history, context shoe-horned into a smaller story because without it the personal, soapy tragedies which proceed from Udayan’s inevitable radicalisation make no sense. “It was one of a string of villages in the Darjeeling district,” Lahiri writes of Naxalbari, “a narrow corridor at the northern tip of West Bengal. Tucked into the foothills of the Himalaya’s, nearly four hundred miles from Calcutta, closer to Tibet than Tollygunge.” [pg. 20] We get thumbnails of American history, too, since as Udayan becomes ever closer to his Communist friends, Subhash attends college in the USA. We read of India and of Udayan at arm’s length during this stretch of the novel (difficult because Indian news is not something one will “come across in any newspaper in Rhode Island” [pg. 87]), and Subhash returns to Tollygunge only on the news that his brother is dead, shot by soldiers who have homed in on his Naxalite activities.

Subhash’s life is transformed. Not only has he lost the brother who formed his other half; he feels obliged to marry Udayan’s pregnant wife, Gauri. Yet the only love affair Subhash has undertaken in the US has been desultory and practiced, involving “a woman whose company he was growing used to, but whom, perhaps due to his own ambivalence, he didn’t love” [pg. 77]. According to Subhash’s mother, meanwhile, Gauri has no material instinct or aptitude. We think at first this is spite, but learn as the novel proceeds in elliptic fashion that it is a judgement more or less fair. Indeed, Lahiri eschews the tumescent context of her first hundred pages once Gauri joins Subhash in the USA, dropping us into strings of vignettes separated by often large – and important – chunks of time. Gauri develops a love of academia and philosophy, attending lectures on the quiet; Subhash turns his studies into a career; and the daughter they pretend is his rather than Udayan’s develops a personality at a rapid clip (by the close of the novel she is in her forties).

Lahiri intends to write a family epic alert to the irony of unintended consequences – for her senior college thesis, Bela (long since abandoned by Gauri, now a college professor, and living an itinerant lifestyle with which Subhash is uncomfortable) chooses to study “the adverse effects of pesticide runoff in a local river” [pg. 221], encouraging the reader to recall those pools of water in which, we learn, Udayan attempted to hide before the soldiers found him. All of this has a certain piquancy, and the sad, stilted lives of the main characters do have the power to move: alone and adrift, for instance, Subhash feels “that this arbitrary place, where he’d landed and made his life, was not his” [pg. 253], and we feel for a man at sea in his own cast-off-course life, “linked”, like Gauri, “into a chain she could not see” [pg. 292]. But there’s also an obstinacy to The Lowland – all that insistent commentary, crystalline-but-crafted sentences, and punished protagonists (Gauri’s desolation, in particular, feels simply unfair) – which lends it an air of inflexibility. The Indian sections have a nice ambivalence – at one moment “the sour, septic smell” of Tollygunge [pg. 89], at another the “gestures of hospitality from shopkeepers” [pg. 113] – but, in the way of We Need New Names, the prism of America over-directs the novel’s light away from this valence of detail.

The Luminaries by Eleanor CattonDetail is not something lacking in Eleanor Catton’s The Luminaries, however. At 832 pages, it is by far the largest book on this year’s shortlist – which might be the reason that I’ve left it last to review. More than any other of its competitors, Catton’s novel is interested in capturing the sense of a single place – not evoking a milieu we view from a more familiar one (Bulawayo, Lahiri, Ozeki), not abandoning specifity (Crace), and not being so fiercely concise that all but the most essential details are pruned away (Tóibín). Catton’s 1860s New Zealand goldrush town of Hokitika emerges as a pungent presence, mapped and – aha – mined thoroughly in the course of what becomes a compendious tour. But what is remarkable – and a little thrilling – about all this detail is that the novel conspires to make it entirely irrelevant.

At yesterday’s Booker Prize shortlist event in Cheltenham, Catton discussed the dual meaning of ‘fortune’: the prospectors of Hokitiki are in search of riches, of course; but fortunes are told as well as found, and in this way The Luminaries – its title, too, offering a dual reference, to the novel’s cast of Hokitika’s leading lights but also to the celestial bodies around which Catton structures her action – considers determinism and destiny. Its first of twelve parts – we note the allusion to the Zodiac – is itself novel-length, introducing us to (again) a dozen characters who are each in some way implicated by circumstance in the death and possible murder of a rich prospector named Crosbie Wells. In the discursive style of the nineteenth-century novels which are read by the characters themselves, Catton introduces us to the most intimate aspects of each man’s self-image. New arrival Walter Moody “had studied his own reflection mutely, and, in a way, knew himself from the outside best” [pg. 4]; shipping magnate Thomas Balfour “liked very much to feel that he was at the vanguard of an era” [pg. 12]; cleric Cowell Devlin “spent the present moment in a state of constant visualisation, conjuring in his mind the untroubled future self he had determined that he would one day become” [pg. 87]. We come to know these characters entirely, and often through the medium of gloriously witty pen portraits.

But Catton’s story lies elsewhere, in a string of coincidences involving none of the characters who feature in this hefty first part – and who consequently never develop from those initial thumbnails. Significantly given the centrality of the moon to the novel’s vision of ‘fortune’, it is two women who emerge in the book’s second half as the engines of the story: the Hokitika prostitute Anna Wetherell and the scheming villainess first introduced to us as Crosbie’s estranged wife, Lydia Wells. That the tart-with-the-heart and the scheming adulteress are both wearied and wearying types is part of Catton’s project. Individuals are not the drivers of this novel’s action. At one point, Balfour’s main client, and a man himself inextricably linked with the vengeful Lydia, opines that, “Only a weak mind puts faith in coincidence” [pg. 63], but in fact life in The Luminaries is governed by it. Characters act not in relation to their painstakingly-rationalised self-perceptions, but to their star signs or schematic roles in the narrative (the corrupted chemist, the tragic Chinaman); stories have less a beginning, a middle and an end, and more a series of intersections between random events which can build accidentally into denouements; and, as the novel’s twelve parts reduce in length by a mathematical ratio, and the chapter summaries which commence each segment grow ever more rococo in inverse proportion to the wordcount of the chapters themselves, Catton plays with narrative, subverting the certainties and assumptions of precisely the nineteenth-century realism she pretends to ape.

The Luminaries is interested in the way in which the sense of self which novels impose upon us, that bourgeois conception of the individual as an independent agent making choices which forge destinies in the way of Lahiri’s brothers, might not capture the way in which the world really works. Anna is in love with Emery Staines, the richest prospector in Hokitika, a young man who disappeared on the same night Crosbie Wells died and on which Anna herself collapsed in the street; they were born, she finds, on the same day at the same time of the same year, and this seems to give them an uncanny connection, in which one feels the emotions of the other, or can forge their signature without discernible discrepancy. In this context, Staines’s individuality is not important – indeed, the way he intersects with other people and events is the real root of his character, and self-presentation or -perception merely a gloss. “Emery Staines knew very well that he created a singular impression in the minds of all those whom he met. This knowledge had become, over time, an expectation, as a consequence of which, his singularity had become even more pronounced.” [pg. 732] That is, the self is simply self-fulfilling prophecy.

Whether this radicalism is contained in a package effectively executed is a slightly different question; Catton is attempting to interrogate the novel using a novel, and this perhaps inevitably leads to a bagginess, at times even an awkwardness: all that detail, all those words, can come to feel recursive. There’s an extent to which Catton’s concept – perhaps fittingly – overtakes her material, and The Luminaries can feel stretched as a result. Indeed, I wonder if, at the other end of this shortlist’s spectrum, Colm Tóibín’s The Testament of Mary isn’t both just as radical and significantly more disciplined and artful. If The Luminaries is certainly extremely clever, the Tóibín might also be articulate. One of these two should certainly win the prize (I’d probably plump for The Testament of Mary myself), but I wonder if Jim Crace’s reputedly final novel, the elegiac-if-inexact Harvest, might not be awarded the Jacobson-Barnes Award for Life-Time Achievement. The stars will reveal their alignment on Tuesday.

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“They Wanted This Vacancy Filled”: Crace, Tóibín, and the Booker

Harvest, by Jim CraceThis year’s Booker longlist has been greeted with enthusiasm principally because it seems to offer an escape route from the conservatism of the last few years: Mantel, Jacobson, Barnes, Mantel is a list of consecutive winners which skews towards the establishment. However deserving Mantel’s Cromwell novels, and however passed-over Jacobson and Barnes have been in the past, four years of middle-aged Brits winning the prize might not be a trend worth continuing into 2013.

Despite Robert McFarlane’s on-the-record praise for one of 2012’s most exciting novels, M John Harrison’s Empty Space, the longlist remains in style much as it has before (Richard House’s The Kills confirms crime fiction in its position is the ‘respectable genre’). But youth and internationalism characterises the selections, and this seems enough given what we have come to expect of the types of book the Booker chooses to recognise and reward.

The Testament of Mary, by Colm ToibinIf the establishment has its champions on this longlist, the mantle (a-ha-ha) must rest rather awkwardly on them. Both Jim Crace and Colm Tóibín have been previously shortlisted for the Prize (Tóibín, of course, won with The Master, his magisterial evocation of the life of Henry James); both are regular commentators in the national and international press; both are middle-aged and both are – dear reader, ineluctably – male. On the other hand, neither quite sits as neatly at the top of that tree as a Jacobson or a Barnes: Crace is based in Birmingham, not London, and though my suggestion that he had made a good living taking the mickey out of contemporary and classic fiction alike is obvious nonsense, he continues to sit to one side of contemporary literary culture. Tóibín, meanwhile, may well be one of the English language’s most important, dynamic and perceptive writers – and that makes him very difficult indeed to dumb down, reposition or, that dread word, ‘sell’. (His last novel, Brooklyn, was longlisted for the Booker but didn’t make the grade in the year Wolf Hall won.)

For those rooting for more of their same from their Booker winner, both writers offer a lot of encouragement. Tóibín’s The Testament of Mary is slim, almost The Sense of an Ending-ish, and yet preponderantly well-turned. It is narrated by a woman in first-century Ephesus whose son, a man in his early 30s who is wanted by the authorities, has just been crucified. Tóibín is less coy than my précis – there is in The Testament of Mary no attempt to debunk or debase the story of Jesus, and though Mary is shuffled off gently from the wedding at Cana so that we never read her direct observations of the water and the wine, she does witness Lazarus walking around as if he had never been dressed for burial.

The pooh-poohing of miracles is too facile a pastime for Tóibín; rather, his Mary is a witness to their aftermath (“the hordes had moved on, she said, followed by an even larger caravan of hucksters, salesmen, water-carriers, fire-eaters and purveyors of cheap food” [pg. 37]). Mary’s is the female voice raised against the male transformation of Christ’s work into Christian cult. Mary is attended each day in her Ephesian exile by two of Jesus’s disciplines – they are never named – and Mary instinctively understands “the elaborate nature of their desires” [pg. 3], desires which are thrust upon her son, who is told “that he was not a mortal as we are mortal, but […] that he he was the one we had been waiting for” [pg. 33]. These expectations, this worship, transforms her son: “There was nothing delicate about him now,” she observes as Jesus takes his place at the centre of the crowd, “he was all displayed manliness.” [pg. 49]

In part, this is a tender story of a mother letting go of her son – Jesus becomes “a power that seemed to have no memory of years before, when he needed my breast for milk” [pg. 54] – and Tóibín very much casts his Mary as a representative of a conflicted, everyday humanity distinct from the impossible perfection of the Gospels. Mary worships both at the temple of Artemis and of the one God; she begins her narrative improbably modern – “I disliked weddings […] the bride and groom more like a couple to be sacrificed” [pg. 27] – but ends it identifiably compromised (she chooses, despite the stories concocted after, to flee the site of the crucifixion rather than wait to bury her son, “to protect myself” [pg. 84]); and, ultimately, she stands for contingency over conviction (“Now I know how random it was and uncertain” (pg. 88). All of this makes for a quite astonishingly resonant novella, and a beautiful, poised piece of ventriloquism. It also speaks to the religious questions of our own age, in which women are again subjected, “within this group of men [… to] a set of hierarchies” [pg. 66], and their truths treated as inconvenient (“It will be as though what I saw did not happen” [pg. 99). The Testament of Mary is as exquisite, as slight, as a scalpel.

Crace’s Harvest is, in comparison, a doorstop – and yet is itself significantly shy of three hundred pages. Set in an indeterminately early modern decade, probably around the late sixteenth or early seventeenth century, Harvest takes place entirely within the confines of a tiny hamlet, overseen by a manor house but more properly subject to the tender mercies of its land. Our narrator, Walter Thirsk, first came to the village some years earlier as the manservant of the new master of the manor, a man now in turn to be supplanted by the rightful heir – his dead wife’s wily cousin. At first, however, we like the villagers have no notion of the outside world, and the novel begins with two plumes of smoke – the first a fire at the manor house, the second a sign that interlopers have arrived at the edge of the village’s bounds.

It is remarkable how deftly Crace then spools outwards his plot from these two innocuous spots of grey on an otherwise vivid skyline. He writes about the natural world with spare, evocative economy: “There is a silent ripeness to the air, so mellow and sappy that we want to breathe it shallowly, to sip it richly like a cordial.” [pg. 60] Yet this is no Arcadia, or Romantic idyll: “The countryside is argumentative. It wants to pick a fight with you.” [pg. 63] The village is isolated, two days’ ride from the nearest market town by even the fastest horse, and this has led to inter-breeding – Walter stands out in his colouration and facial features, and observes that “we are too small, and getting smaller” (pg. 4) – but has also played host to a real, if exclusive, community and an umbilical connection with the jealous soil. Indeed, the villagers have yet to bother building even a church, so busy are they with survival, but also, like Mary, with the simple common-sense knowledge that God is not the active agent which sustains them.

Into this centuries-old lifestyle steps first the man the villagers come to name ‘Mr Quill’, a map-maker whose work “has reduced us to a web of lines” [pg. 39], and then the master’s cousin himself. In the stocks, meanwhile, are the itinerant countryfolk responsible for that second plume of smoke – themselves likely displaced by enclosing maps such as Mr Quill’s. Four or five outside individuals are enough thoroughly to destabilise the village’s ancient but precarious balance: by the close of the novel it has changed irrevocably as a consequence of the latest innovation being applied to unprofitable villages such as Walter’s: sheep. “I’ll only have to touch them with this candle flame,” Walter observes of his master’s brittle documents of ownership, “and they will leap with fire.” [pg. 269]

“These are sad and hasty times,” the master sighs at one point [pg. 189], and Harvest certainly twinges a little for what has been lost: as the sheep-farmer’s retinue marches across the nameless fields, Walter sees “Privilege in its high hat. Then comes Suffering […] Malice follows […] afterwards, invisibly, Despair is riding its lame horse.” [pg. 202] On the other hand, Mr Quill is one of the novel’s most sympathetic characters, an artistic dupe for the cousin’s more brutal schemes, perhaps, but still a bringer of beauty and of culture: “His endeavours are tidier and more wildly colourful – they’re certainly more blue – than anything that nature can provide.” [pg. 133] Harvest offers a wise and inconclusive picture of what living more closely in harmony with the land means, and, conversely but simultaneously, what a more developed society can offer – Walter’s village, unchecked by the mores of the town, shaves women’s heads and charges them with witchcraft if they speak out of turn. There is little need to point out how this parable, too, is of urgent contemporary relevance.

In some years, both Crace and Tóibín would make the shortlist: The Testament of Mary, I think, pulls off the preternaturally difficult trick of being simultaneously the tauter and more supple work, but it is only a nose ahead. Given the inclinations of the longlist, however, it would seem odd if both men make it through. Crace has suggested Harvest is his last novel – in a press release, the Man Booker hopes its longlisting might change his mind – and so his might be the book to watch. Whatever. Both are superb, inspiring, important pieces of fiction, and though perhaps the Booker could do with some visibly fresh thinking, we could all do with more novels like these.

‘Love and Summer’

"Love and Summer"

ETA: A basic assumption of this review has been rather conclusively blown out of the water in the comments: somehow, I’d managed completely to misremember 2009’s Booker shortlist. Go me! Still, Love and Summer is still a deeply decent read…

Ever since John Self read and rated William Trevor’s Love and Summer last year, I’ve been wanting to get around to reading it. To some extent it was knocked back by reading 2009’s Booker shortlist – deeply unfair on it, as was its exclusion from that august company. It is a tender and clear-sighted tale of a youthful love affair in the small Irish village of Rathmoye. Its setting is indeterminate, Rathmoye’s stifling inter-connectedness as likely today as it might have been in the 1950s, which feels the closest fit if we were forced to choose one. The best we get is the clue that the novel takes place “some years after the middle of the last century”. The summer of the title is certainly seasonal – events take place over a few months, and end at the onset of autumn – but the closeness and stretched quality of both personal relationships and time exhibited in Rathmoye echo the qualities of uncomfortable, but lazy, days.

All of which is to suggest that Love and Summer is a quite careful novel: it is intricately plotted and intimately characterised, and even the most initially extraneous detail will, in the intensely shared environment of Rathmoye, prove significant. There is a Jamesian aspect to the novel, then – all internal monologue and pained interiority – which calls to mind Trevor’s countryman Colm Tóibín, and indeed Love and Summer reminded me distinctly of the latter’s Brooklyn, a novel which did manage to make last year’s Booker shortlist. Despite criticisms of 2009’s clutch (it was all ‘historical fiction’ and thus rather limited, apparently), it seemed to me that the novels were actually quite separate in time and approach; and so, surely, it was a straight contest between Trevor and Tóibín, two writers stumbling upon similar times and travails.

It’s a shame Brooklyn won out. Not because it is a bad novel – in fact, it’s exquisitely observed, and as John Mullan is noting in the Guardian at the moment, expertly executed. But Love and Summer, which most resembles the Irish scenes that bookend Brooklyn, achieves in its narrower focus a far greater versimilitude: its village gossip isn’t a caricature, its tortured pasts are equally torturously revealed, rather than slap-dashed across the page in the brief scenes allowed them. There’s something about the way in which Trevor slowly – again, carefully – reconstructs the pained histories he hints at from the very first page which makes their awful tragedy all the more acute.

Most interestingly, the way in which his character deal with this acuity is to disassociate themselves from the past. Some, such as the main female character, Ellie, can barely remember their past, their recalled childhood spent in the stasis of a convent; others, such as Miss Connulty or Ellie’s husband, Dillahan, are in denial or refutation of their pasts, suppressing their previous selves and attempting, with varying degress of success, to craft a new identity – almost a new person, a denial of self. Rathmoye, of course, cannot – will not – forget, and this puts it at odds with the novel’s strangest character, Orpen Wren, a former archivist whose memory now plays cruel tricks upon him, mixing past, present and future into an incomprehensible – and oddly comforting – melange.

Into this strained atmosphere appears the male half of Ellie’s summer of love, Florian. An Irish-Italian semi-bohemian of dubious motivations, he is at first introduced as a kind of hero, but ultimately might seem to some readers a picture of irresponsibility. The passion he arouses in Ellie is never quite recipocrated by him – although he certainly acts on whatever feelings he does experience – and the love affair of the title is something less than the sun-kissed idyll we might expect. Indeed, Trevor’s key success is to defy expectations: the withered and embittered village matriarch Miss Connulty is one of the novel’s most humane characters; Dillahan’s moment of revelation spins on an axis quite different to the one we are led to predict. The novel finds a way to judge each character on their own terms. One might suspect a novel such as this, written by a prose master such as Trevor, of concentrating on a perfection of the commonplace. It goes one better.

The Virtue of Quiet: Colm Tóibín’s “Brooklyn”

As soon as Eilis returned to her classes at Brooklyn College the baseball frenzy became worse. What surprised her was that she had noticed nothing of it the previous year although it must have been going on around her with the same intensity. Now she had returned to her routine of seeing Tony on Thursday nights after class, on Friday nights in the parish hall and on Saturday for a movie, and he talked of nothing except how this would be the perfect year for him if they could be together, Eilis and himself, and if Laurence and Maurice and Frankie could be with them too and if the Dodgers could win the World Series. To her great relief, he made no further mention of having kids who would be Dodgers supporters. [pg. 162]

"Brooklyn", by Colm Toibin
"Brooklyn", by Colm Toibin

Colm Tóibín’s Brooklyn is a quiet novel. I bought it just before Christmas on the strength of all those end-of-year recommendations in the papers, and in the week I finished it Tóibín went and won the Costa Novel Award for it. Significantly, it saw off Hilary Mantel’s Wolf Hall to win that prize, despite not even making it the Booker shortlist which Mantel went on to dominate. Brooklyn is a very different book to Wolf Hall, which is all vast canvases and wild ambition, so in a sense there can be no surprise different judging panels will rate it far higher than others. It does seem strange, though – and stranger in the light of the outright Costa win – that it didn’t even make the Booker shortlist, because it is so very finely wrought a book.

Quiet, though – very quiet. The passage above implies many of the book’s peculiarities: a focus on the internal, a modesty of style and of ambition, and a dry, sardonic humour. The book is the story of Eilis Lacey, a young Irishwoman who emigrates from her native Enniscorthy – an economically stagnant town from which her three older brothers have already fled, and in which her mother, increasingly propped up by the powerful presence of Eilis’s only sister, Rose, has fully settled – to the USA. Father Flood, the Irish priest to whose Brooklyn parish Eilis travels, is shocked that a girl of her potential can secure only the merest of Sunday shop jobs in Ireland. America is presented to her, as to so many other Irish, as a land of opportunity and excitement. “Eilis was aware that going to work in America was different from just taking the boat to England; America might be further away and so utterly foreign in its systems and its manners, yet it had an almost compensating glamour attached to it.” [pp. 31-32]

Notice that ‘almost’. Eilis isn’t sure she wants to go to America, is never convinced that what she is going to is worth what she is leaving behind – which, of course, she returns to near the end of the book and must explicitly compare and contrast with all she has gained. Brooklyn resists the temptation either to romanticise or demonise the USA. In his review of the book in The Independent, Aamer Hussain argued that, “there isn’t enough psychological contrast between her American sojourn and her return to make her dilemma entirely convincing.” This misses the point: there is no real psychological contrast between America and Ireland for Eilis. Whilst in America she successfully takes her accountancy exam, we see her studying for it in Ireland on the very first page of the novel; where she meets a man, Tony, in America there is no sense that she would not meet a similar man at home – indeed, we are introduced to several; and, ultimately, she works in a shop in Brooklyn as in Enniscorthy (notably, it is always Brooklyn – never quite Manhattan). Whilst economic necessity forces Eilis to leave her hometown, that is all which does: Brooklyn is the anti-immigration novel, in which horizons are constrained wherever the immigrant goes.

This moderation, this passivity, is part of Eilis’s character as well as the novel’s. Over at the Asylum, John Self can’t really be argued with when he says that “the book is written in a low-key tone which, while entirely appropriate to Eilis’s personality, frankly lacks oomph.” But this careful tone is so much a part of the book’s project, of character and of theme, that it can’t be seen as a fault per se. Self admits that the book’s precision is astounding; the control Tóibín shows is masterful stuff, and Eilis is undoubtedly fully realised as a person in the course of its pages. Tóibín does not dictate her character so much as allow it to express itself. Every line is telling, every word properly chosen. The book is also full of incident – Eilis’s Brooklyn boarding house is one of real character and atmosphere; the sexually frustrated Miss Fortini, for whom Eilis works at the department store, has a few choice scenes, as so too do most of the supporting cast; and there are social, economic and racial issues brought into modest play, too. For this combination of unity of tone and variance of experience alone, the book deserves its award.

Perhaps, though, it falls a little foul of what Niall found problematic in Adam Roberts’s Yellow Blue Tibia the other day: it is so very perfect, without a hair out of place, that there isn’t much energy or life to it. But it is hard to hold a stylist’s control against him, and Brooklyn is a book of such gorgeous understatement that it would also seem a tad churlish to do so. It might be fairer to say that the book doesn’t stretch itself further – and yet, again, it is so avowedly focused on Eilis that in doing so it would have betrayed itself. I was struck by Ruth Scurr’s comparison of Brooklyn with James’s A Portrait of a Lady, in which style and character are likewise fused. When Eilis returns home to Ireland, she quickly falls into old patterns, another self she holds at arm’s length from her American one: “Everything else that had happened in Brooklyn seemed as though it had almost dissolved and was no longer richly present for her,” Tóibín writes. [pg. 231]  Eilis’s passivity bestows upon all her experiences the qualities of a dream; she drifts between the few options life allows her, and her reflections on those options are eloquent but rarely grand. Eilis is a quiet, at times distant, girl; and likewise, Brooklyn is a quiet, but beautiful, little book.

Don’t hold that against it.

Turn On, Tune In, Drop Out

The Sheepwalks

We did our best to drop out this weekend after a busy preceding week for both of us – some tense deadlines gave us a good excuse for a little indulgence. So on Friday we stayed in and made ourselves a creditable spaghetti carbonara – though with linguine, and some homemade garlic bread. It may be that Dan over-did the garlic, but everyone was far too polite to complain. (Incidentally, Morrison’s Freedom Food bacon is now branded as ‘SpoiltPig‘ – does this make you feel better or worse about eating the stuff?)

We spent much of Saturday lazing away, too – we got ourselves a copy of the weekend Guardian, but neither of us felt too switched on. Anna did enjoy the ethical living supplement – is anyone else following some mixture of the 10:10 challenges? The Christmas Books feature was worth a scan, too – Brooklyn seemed to come out well. One for the To-Be-Read pile?

Dinner with friends on Saturday evening was followed on Sunday by a very pleasant winter walk on the Enville estate – the sheep are back on the Sheepwalks, which is wonderful to see after our autumn walk there felt a little lonely without them! We were lucky to avoid Sunday’s sheeting rain, which meant the evening, alas, saw us back to work. Though at least a little refreshed!