The excellence of the novels shortlisted for the Goldsmiths prize goes without saying. I am telling myself that I will try to read at least one of them.
That might be enough. Or enough without sandwiching them with other kinds of novels. For the prize’s remit is ‘to reward fiction that breaks the mould or opens up new possibilities for the novel form’.
Again this is an excellent thing. It’s good to encourage writers to explore, to experiment with art forms. Didn’t Jane Austen create a new kind of novel?
But I read through the accompanying blurbs for the shortlisted novels with a sinking heart. They all sound rather hard work.
I am not proud of these feelings. The pursuit of enjoyment should not be the primary reason for reading a novel, we should be looking to have our minds and hearts expanded, to be taken on a journey, to learn something about the world we live in.
But there’s the dread that there will only be the unfamiliar or confusing territory, and enjoyment will be in short supply or missing altogether. This is when I find myself reaching with a guilty hand for more ‘sunlit’ novels which tell a story in straightforward language. These may not win prestigious prizes but they don’t leave the reader feeling exhausted.
They do look chewy, but then it’s a prize for novels which by definition are going to be challenging?
I used to love ‘sunlit’ writing, but as life has happened in all sorts of unpleasant ways, I’ve found happy escapist writing increasingly abhorrent. I find that I don’t want to waste a second of my life in a comforting illusion. I want inoculations of pain and discomfort so I can build up resistance.
But I must say that I feel a book should make it worth your effort. Several hundred pages of misery and alienation with no payoff is just self-indulgence on the writer’s part, and I’ve chucked a book across a room before now when I realise I’ve paid good money to act as a writer’s sick bucket. A good novel can put you through a wringer, but leave you a more enlightened and tolerant person. I’m not sure Atwood’s ‘The Handmaid’s Tale’ ,or Shriver’s ‘We need to talk about Kevin’. for two examples, could be read for comfort, but are both hugely worth the emotional toll.
So I’m afraid I tend to wait until a book’s built a head of steam and I’ve been given a reasonable guarantee that it’s not a waste of my life to read it. That’s probably quite cowardly -or perhaps that’s a critic’s raison d’etre?.
May I just say that, aside from the excellent points you both make, how beautifully you express yourselves. Really enjoyed reading your comments.
A recent newspaper headline caught my eye: Reading saved my life – books stopped me feeling alone. It would be interesting to compare notes on which fictional characters become so real to us that they walk alongside us in our lives, just like living people.