Book review: Downsizing

The title here is not so much comment on his career subsequent to his resignation as an MP just prior to the 2019 general election (and when his seat went to the Tories) as a reference to the conscious battle against weight gain which Tom ‘Two Dinners’ Watson engaged in subsequent to a diagnosis of Type 2 diabetes in 2015. It’s an engaging and easy-read account of a typically resolute and determined (though not without a recent setback) fight to cut down on the intake of sugars and processed foods which contributed in a major way to his obesity and to real fears for his health.

His chosen vehicle for this – despite the pull quote on the cover from Michael Mosley, who is more associated with a (very) low calorie intake and a balanced, Mediterranean-style diet – was the ‘keto’ diet, a controversial way to weight loss via replacing all carbohydrates with fats and proteins, allied to ‘bulletproof coffee’ (whose origins Watson is careful to attribute correctly) and an exercise regime. Watson correctly asserts that everyone is different and that he can only report on what worked for him – and it clearly did: losing eight out of nearly 23 stones does indeed leave him a shadow of his former self and on this Watson should be congratulated, alongside his account of the resulting improvements which he has experienced in terms of his concentration, fatigue and responsiveness.

For all the easy-to-consume nature of the writing style, the tone is evangelical, proselytising even, in connection with the benefits of the keto diet (and, let’s not forget, the associated exercise regime which has him doing workouts in a park, attending a gym and, eventually, cycling, hill walking, kayaking and running) which can, at times, read a little like the script of a committed, and now enthusiastically clean, convert. Well, he is one such, of course. But a keto diet clearly works for others, too; and Watson is no doubt right that doctors need better guidance (and training) in recommending weight loss programmes which focus on individual needs and which puts ‘one size fits all’ programmes completely to one side. Personally I’m not convinced that a ‘hit list’ of ‘banned’ foods is a healthy way of improving our relationship with food and, as a committed beer drinker (and bread maker), neither do I think that carbs are ‘the enemy’. I also worry that a diet high in fats – for all the admirable desire to save the NHS from vast amounts of spending on the health problems which are related to obesity – is building up future health problems (and therefore spending) of its own. But then, I’m not really the core audience for Downsizing; I’ve always been blessed with a fast-acting metabolism and I’ve never been a fan of sugary fizzy drinks, takeaways and convenience food. Neither, it seems, do I have a particularly addictive personality. But, it seems, diet is one of those areas which absolutely commends itself to subjectivism and there is, therefore, little point in me substituting my views for those of others. If it works, it works (and we need to take the long-term into account in judging that) – and fair play, too.

This is not a political memoir – Watson provides little comment on any of the developments in UK politics since 2015 other than in how they form the general background to his desire to lose weight and in his achievements in doing so; and he throws few bones to those searching for political comment about his relationship with the Labour Party and specifically with Jeremy Corbyn. For the truly committed he does, however, contribute an amusing anecdote about a remark thrown his way by a member of the public who spies him engaged in early morning boxing sessions in a public park; while Len McCluskey, now retired as leader of Unison, is on the end of a laugh-out-loud line which references his negotiating style.

For all that the book focuses on Watson’s weight loss, this is not a diet book and it does, for the whole of its final one-third, address some of the core related policy issues to obesity and public health spending. As you might imagine, Watson – and his (uncredited, though not unacknowledged) co-writer – is very good on the policy stuff around the food lobbying industry and in his attempts to get particularly the manufacturers of high-sugar foods (‘Big Sugar’) – Kellogg’s, Coca-Cola, Pepsico and Unilever come in for special mentions here – to pay a share via a ‘sugar tax’ of the costs of the addictions that their foods and beverages have created in people; and to prevent high-budget branding and marketing programmes from such companies not least when they are targeted at children. There are some powerful vested interests here and Watson deserves credit for taking them on, not least in a ‘naming and shaming’ style in a book of this type. He is also very good at seeking to ally trade union principles to the cause of giving the millions of people in the UK with Type 2 diabetes a voice in his desire to achieve his earnest goal of ‘remission for all’.

And yet, for all the desire for a policy-related outcome to the problems of diet and sugar addiction in particular, and for all the desire to give leadership to people who do absolutely need a voice when faced with the necessarily isolating circumstances to which shame (of weakness, of body image and of fault) is a major contributor, Watson’s decision to step down from parliament in 2019 necessarily reduced his influence over policy and his potential to provide people with that voice. Downsizing, indeed.

There are few clues here as to what led Watson – still not yet 55 – to resign his seat and, apparently, his political career. It’s not as though as he has given up interest in policy development: he currently chairs UK Music which is engaged with the righteous battle to #FixStreaming; and, while his website might currently suggest he is short of a role or two other than in podcasting, a lot of that might well be explained by the arrival of Covid-19 which has had a lot of us on hiatus for much of the intervening time since the back end of 2019. Scrutinising Downsizing for a few between-the-lines clues, I suspect the decision to retire from being an MP has much to do with a quite literal desire to ‘spend more time with his family’ – that curse of politicians – as well as the more evident fearful, personal recognition that a stressful role in frontline representative politics is likely to have played a major role in robbing him of his health as it did with his friend, Labour leader John Smith, before him; and, perhaps, of robbing him of his relationships.

Who knows what the future holds for Watson – and that no doubt includes Watson himself. But I ‘wouldn’t rule out a return’ to party politics once he has satisfied himself that his weight is fully under his own control and once his children, quite naturally, are happy to be spending a little less time with their Dad. ‘Big Sugar’ still needs controlling – and that may well need to be driven by someone whose considerable energies are no longer fuelled, as they once were, by its products.

Book Review: Case Study

Published by Saraband only at the start of October – precisely on the anniversary of the birth of the Scottish countercultural psychiatrist, RD Laing, no less – Case Study jumped (for a number of reasons) straight to the left hand side of my to-read shelf. Remarkably therefore, I find myself in the position of delivering a review of a book not only in the month of its publication but while the author himself is still out and about in promotional activity for it. Probably I need to decide whether being this far ahead of my usual self – even if not quite ahead of the curve – is a comfortable place to be.

A word first of all, however, for the cover. Dan Gray has done a mesmerising job, hitting the spot with a design which summarises the core of the novel’s content: the 1960s and swinging London; psychiatry; and handwritten notes dividing the otherwise steady gaze of a woman who is, therefore, very much at the centre of the novel.

Rebecca Smyth is the name of this woman, from a well-to-do background and with a role as a ‘Girl Friday’ at a theatrical agency in Soho, who consults a radical, charismatic anti-psychiatrist, Collins Braithwaite. Or, rather this is the name she uses since she sets up her consultations with him having come to the belief – on finding a book of his case studies – that therapy sessions with him had driven her sister, Veronica, to death by suicide; we never actually find out her real name. Written in the belief that she may be putting herself in danger as a result of her interactions with Braithwaite, the notebooks are her own handwritten records of her series of consultations, alongside other notes she also makes about her life. These notebooks – five in all – form the bulk of the book and these are interspersed with chronologically-ordered biographical details of Collins Braithwaite’s immensely controversial and volatile life and work as drawn by the author – ‘GMB’ – whose initials will be familiar, being those of the writer researching his grandfather in His Bloody Project and who comes across the materials presented there about Roddy Macrae, as well as the translator of Burnet’s Inspector Gorski novels. The notebooks are sent to ‘GMB’ by Martin Grey, who found them when clearing out the house of his uncle (the father of Veronica and her sister) and who did so in response to a blog post ‘GMB’ had written about psychiatry.

Burnet’s interest in psychiatry, and the extent to which the material presented in case studies is objective or scientific, is genuine. Furthermore, that blog post (dating from 2019) does exist and is also given added impetus by a comment at the start of this year which draws a response from Burnet that his next book ‘very much inhabits this terrain’. And there we have the set up – or, of course, the question is whether it us that is being set up. Fans of Burnet can already see from this post what to expect – Alphonse Maeder is real; Braithwaite a work of Burnet’s own fiction – and Case Study absolutely doesn’t disappoint. Mixing fact and fiction, real people with walk-on parts (including RD Laing himself) and author-drawn characters, reality and fantasy, truths and alternative truths, the reader is thus invited to participate in the novel and in the world created by Burnet not least by cross-checking the existence of people and places; or, in my case, electronically wandering up and down the roads around Primrose Hill in London and Darlington and the North Yorkshire Moors in the steps of those who populate the novel. The blurred lines that are created between fiction and true life extend the form of the modern novel – did it happen or was it made up? – and openly encourage the reader, by joining the dots between the material in the notebooks and the results of ‘GMB’s own research about Braithwaite, into self-reflection about the nature of identity and sanity.

Burnet says that he doesn’t set out to manipulate readers and that his books don’t start with the intention of writing about a theme; both emerge as a consequence of the novel’s natural development and the life it comes to take on during the process of being written, giving space to the reader to come to a thus unchained, or unanchored, text in their own, equally valid way; and that themes emerge and characters develop in ways that sometimes surprise the writer. Nevertheless, being played is part of the experience the reader has in reading Burnet’s work, and this is true once more of Case Study whose narration features a range of story-telling devices with Burnet firmly locating his work in line with Barthes’s essay on the ‘death of the author’.

The core theme that emerges in the sessions between ‘Rebecca’ and Braithwaite is not so much that the reader is unsure of who is therapist and who is patient – though how much of ‘Rebecca’s testimonies are real and how much they are developed because that’s either what she wants Braithwaite to hear, or thinks he wants to hear, is a moot point. Either way, putting her at the centre of how the sessions are related to the reader serves a dual purpose: the book becomes about her but it also, at the same time, puts her in control of what the reader sees and of how the dynamics of the encounters with Braithwaite appear. This increases the power of Burnet’s text and is fully in line with ‘GMB’s realisation in his blog post that the presentation of the core material of key psychiatric studies – sometimes as fabricated by the therapist – is likely to say as much about the therapist as about the patient. Or, as Braithwaite himself puts it:

The crimes of psychiatry are legion, but they can mostly be attributed to a single cause: the idea that the therapist knows more than the patient.

Other themes will be familiar to Burnet’s readers: people struggling with themselves in some way and feeling that they don’t fit in may well be an established element of most literature, but the twist, repeated here from His Bloody Project, is of characters who narrate their own stories via written testimonies: a re-assertion of the power of the written word in contradiction of Braithwaite’s (humorous) condemnation of it late in the text. Also featuring here, as in other of his novels, is teenage sexual fumblings told unstintingly and in a fair amount of detail; while alcohol, and heavy drinking, again also play key parts in the novel and in the development of the plot.

In my review of The Accident on the A35, I wondered, somewhat implicitly, whether Burnet had the confidence in his own abilities to ‘write female characters that have as much depth as his male ones’; and that Case Study was likely to prove something of a landmark in this respect. Here indeed we have a woman at the centre of the text and, within the confines of the plot, she is reasonably well-drawn as a woman with 1950s attitudes and clearly unable to participate in the swinging London of the 1960s – which helpfully makes the point that not everyone was able – or wanted – to join in with that. She also has the lion’s share of the book’s many cracking lines and her account is written strongly and assertively, in spite of the domesticity that lies at her core, and with a droll sense of humour. Burnet also deserves credit for taking on the development of a character of a woman of some (family) means rather than the working class characters which have largely inhabited his work so far. On the other hand, she is rather repressed and the lack of her real name (other than ‘Rebecca’) is, not least in this context, problematic. Braithwaite fulfils the role of bluff northerner/angry young man, fitting in well with the iconoclastic breaking of the class divides of the time and the rejection of the old guard. Here we point directly to Colin Wilson (The Outsider) and John Osborne (Look Back in Anger), while I’d also throw Alan Sillitoe’s northern working class males into the mix there, too. While fulfilling a clearly secondary role to that of the main protagonist, his character is the better drawn, being more rounded. There are clear plot reasons for this but it is somewhat unfortunate. Nevertheless, Burnet brilliantly brings off the challenges of voice presented by the manner of his story-telling: in writing, as a woman, a set of notebooks detailing her character; and, at the same time, conveying the details of ‘GMB’s own incipient biography of the character of Braithwaite. These two aspects of the tale – plus ‘GMB’s own in the novel’s essential Preface and Postscript – never overlap in terms of their voice and the reader is never confused as to where they are in the text.

‘Rebecca’ and Collins Braithwaite present themselves as rather different individuals – ‘Rebecca’ naive, concealing and somewhat other-worldly, and Braithwaite lewd, direct and very worldly – but, ultimately, they share a number of things in common with regard to life experiences that, however unlikely it might seem, do interlink their lives. The outcome is an inventive, entertaining, tautly plotted (here, uniquely, loose ends are few in number) and wryly observed meditation of the gaps in identity, self and sanity and the nature of the lines between how people present to others in different contexts and the different personas they take on and inhabit as a result, and who therefore they truly are. Stripping out the controversy which otherwise surrounded its own author, the novel highlights that there is much to be said for RD Laing’s theories of the Divided Self, which Burnet has spoken of as a ‘stunning and electrifying piece of work’; with such a reference in view, Burnet has produced a rather fine homage to the value that lies in exploring, and accepting, our own contradictions and the varying authenticities of our reality.

Book Review: Do Not Say We Have Nothing

Madeleine Thien’s sweeping inter-generational novel about the upheavals in the creation of modern China was the fourth book I picked up from the 2016 Man Booker Prize shortlist (the others being Paul Sellers’s The Sellout, which won that year; Deborah Levy’s Hot Milk; and Graeme Macrae Burnet’s His Bloody Project). Although I’ve read one or two shortlisted works in most years of the Prize, this is a total never reached before or, especially, since – the result, I suspect, from living in a place (Perth, at the time) with a bookshop offering the opportunities to browse; buying books off the ‘net is not the same when you can’t pick something up, feel its heft and read some of its prose (I’m a firm believer in the power if not always of the opening line then certainly of the opening paragraph or two).

Thien’s book – a family saga set against the background of actual historical events – certainly has heft: it weighs in at nearly 500 closely-typed pages; and its subject matter (China after the civil war which ended in 1949 with the triumph of Mao Zedong’s Communist-led army) has serious weight. Her title – and indeed her text – is well chosen: it’s drawn from the closing line of the first stanza of the Chinese version of The Internationale, identifying the need for people to rise up together in revolt. The Internationale became the anthem of the Chinese Soviet Republic established in 1931 and was also a rallying cry of the students at Tiananmen Square in 1989, whose events form the climax of this work. The forty years of history from 1949 to 1989 were tumultuous, with China experiencing famine, labour camps, repression and brutality, re-assignment of people to remote areas and unfamiliar work and a continuous state of struggle as the leaders sought to defend and entrench the revolution; although the 30 years since (25 at the time of the book’s publication) have seen much less of all five with leaders opting for a controlled bread and circuses approach, essentially subverting the words of the anthem. Neither, it must be said, did the experience of keeping people in a state of perpetual revolution contribute to the development of an improved society.

The changing nature of words and their subjective duality, forming a continuing quest for meaning in a context in which messages can be either apparent or buried in text, or can change given the different tones used in Chinese language, as well as be manipulated in the service of a powerful regime’s politics, forms much of Thien’s material. The early part of the work sees Li-ling, a young Chinese girl living in Vancouver who also goes by her English language name Marie and who is the novel’s narrator, striving to come to terms with the loss of her father, who died by suicide in Hong Kong in the months after the events at Tiananmen Square. She is simultaneously also dealing with the development of meaning in the Chinese characters of a letter sent to her mother and then in a series of notebook manuscripts. Later, this duality is given space in terms of music – the two families which form the core of the novel are connected by musicianship through study at the Shanghai Conservatory prior to the Cultural Revolution – and the extent to which artists performing another’s material are copying, or reproducing, that work or adding new meaning to it by nature of their own performance; or, for instance, by transcribing musical scores into jianpu, a numbered (mathematical) musical notation system. Given the artistic flair with which the characters forming Chinese language are drawn, the same can be said for writing words and slogans, or copying texts – one of the means by which one of the family branches communicates within and down the generations.

The development of the novel’s plot is triggered by Ai-ming, a girl in her late teenage years, coming as a refugee to stay with Li-ling and her mother subsequent to her involvement in the student movement in Tiananmen Square in 1989. Ai-ming is the daughter of Sparrow, a composer and teacher at the Shanghai Conservatory whose work and parts of whose family history made him, at the time, suspicious in counter-revolutionary terms; while Li-ling’s father, Jiang Kai, was a skilled pianist and accompanist, and one of Sparrow’s students. Thien captures well the repression which Sparrow, whose life is at the centre of the novel, first experiences and then consciously develops as a means of survival in the face of the fear, grief and guilt sparked by the Cultural Revolution; and both him and Kai, who develops a different approach to the very same needs, are drawn hugely sympathetically. Both live for, as well as by, music and the impact of being denied this is different for each, driven by their own familial history and personal motivations while silence is explored not only as a way of dealing with grief but also in the context of the music of which it also forms a whole. The coming together of the daughters is the spark of the plot, leading Li-ling to uncover the layers of mystery in the backgrounds of the two families, but it is the fathers who are at the core of its development; while the fear of the sins of the fathers again being visited on the daughters, in a repetition of family history, tragedy and memory, lies at the core of Thien’s theme.

This is a hugely resonant work of immense depth, perception and feeling. It’s not by any means an easy read: there is a large cast of characters; you need a broad awareness of Chinese history (Thien, born in Vancouver to Malaysian-Chinese immigrants to Canada, makes few concessions here); and the savagery of the post-War years, during the period of land reform in the 1950s as well as the Cultural Revolution and the ‘re-education’ programme of intellectuals in the 1960s and 1970s, is described unstintingly as mobs are encouraged in acts of physical violence and humiliation during ‘struggle sessions’ against those pinned as class enemies. Lest we think this is the product of another time and another country, these days the violence is as likely to be mental as physical and we now call such sessions, when they occur on social media, ‘pile-ons’: Red Guards still exist and they are indeed cross-cultural, even if they don’t these days wear armbands. As the war in Bosnia and Herzegovina also shows, people can all too easily be whipped up into hatred and the oppression of others. And, as regards the Uighur Muslims, China itself continues to run re-education camps and to commit human rights abuses.

It must have been an emotionally harrowing novel to write and Thien, who had previously written about the Cambodian genocide under Pol Pot, has, by the look of her own rather quaint website (tumblr??), produced nothing coherent in the five years since: a period in which she has, no doubt, been spending time listening, having spoken of the reconfigurative powers of music – in particular, Bach’s Goldberg Variations, which appears as a motif throughout ‘Do Not Say We Have Nothing’ – as a way of dealing with the overwhelming sadness of the events about which she writes. Her word choices and metaphors sometimes require thinking and don’t always appear to work at first sight – occasionally, the book takes on the appearance of a translated text which, interestingly, is a theme shared with the work of fellow nominee that year, Graeme Macrae Burnet) – which, for a person born in Canada, is surely deliberate by way of reminding the reader of the gaps which exist in culture and in interpretation of meaning as well as in the fluidity with which the latter can (be) change(d). Thien demonstrates great skill in contrasting the greys of the historical sections of her non-linear narrative with the colours of Li-ling’s childhood in Vancouver and in contemporary China on her visit towards the end of the novel; and in the use of colour to emphasise the different approach and thinking embodied by a student movement concerned not to follow the mistakes of their parents. The historical detail of the work seems not only accurate but also told without embellishment.

The level of input required of the reader in understanding Thien’s apparently abstract expressions does sometimes act as an inhibitor while the rhetorical dialogue between characters (or the author) and the reader, and the figurative language of the text, sometimes palls: this is a problem which authors engaged in historical fiction frequently encounter. If something was real and there is testimony to it, a novel’s value lies in encouraging the reader to step into the shoes of the characters and to debate their actions and their own responses. ‘Saying too much’ might be as much of a problem as saying too little since it can prevent the taking of those steps, but Thien mostly stays on the right side and, while we know of the clear and established links between mathematics and music – Li-ling in her later life is a mathematics professor, complementing the musical skills of her father – her skill as an author lies in emphasising, in contrast to cold mathematics, the poetry of language that music, and musicianship, possesses.

Nevertheless, concentration is required: I was afforded the space to give the novel the attention it both needs and deserves by virtue of a trip to the mainland involving long journeys by train. If you can give it that space, then it will repay you: this is indeed a ‘magisterial’, in the words of Isabel Hilton’s insightful, but rather rushed, review in The Guardian, as well as an interestingly-structured work; and, if the Booker Prize really is about pushing books on to family and friends, as beautifully described by Charlotte Higgins in this morning’s wonderful long read about the Booker in The Guardian, then consider this review as me doing precisely this. ‘A heady tangle of arguments, controversy and speculation’ the Booker may be – in other words, it’s all about opinions – but, from the four of the six choices on that year’s shortlist that I did get round to, this really ought to have been the victor.

Book Review: The Accident on the A35

This, the third novel by Graeme Macrae Burnet, shows the author setting himself up as a unique and original voice in Scottish crime writing. I’ve read and reviewed both the earlier novels (The Disappearance of Adele Bedeau and His Bloody Project) and this addition, published in 2017, adds further layer and texture to his career ahead of a new publication (Case Study) this coming autumn.

Here, we have middle-aged forty something Saint-Louis Chief of Police Georges Gorski, who becomes one of the two main characters in Adele Bedeau about one-third of the way through, again featuring as one of the two central characters alongside 17-year-old Raymond Barthelme, the Sartre-reading son of a leading lawyer in the provincial town of Saint-Louis and whose father is the subject of the eponymous accident. Both are, in line with the novel’s Sartre epigraph, ‘seekers after truth’: Gorski, aware and worldly-wise as well as world-weary, pursuing a line of police enquiry following the accident; Raymond, inquiring but vulnerable, after discovering a mysterious address written in a female hand on a scrap of paper in the foreign territory of a drawer of his father’s desk.

Burnet’s plot – as with Adele Bedeau – is slight and the novel is brief enough, at less than 260 pages: the accident itself, right there on p. 1, seems on the face of it to be just that but there are disquieting elements including some unexplained scratches on the car; while there is also doubt, expressed by Barthelme’s widow, the unfulfilled Lucette, as to why the car should have been on the A35 at all: her husband had long dined every Tuesday at the best restaurant in the town with his ‘club’ of friends. As both Gorski and Raymond pursue their own interests in the accident, each taking successive chapters, the voice changes while the issues that they are each grappling with (separation, bereavement, attraction, sexual fumblings, drinking and bars, relations with parents, existentialism and what being free truly means) become entwined as the novel builds towards its conclusion and as Burnet continues to evolve his two main characters.

The plot is slight, and largely very slow burning, although – in a slight criticism of the author’s judge of pace – the closing chapters explode into fire-crackers in which the characters (and the writing) evoke, in turn, emotional cruelty, sadness, humour, acute self-awareness, forgiveness and genuine pathos.

In a novel such as this, the emphasis falls very much on characterisation – something which Burnet has spoken about in a podcast for Scots Whay Hae! – and on the author’s ability to evoke people and their actions and the times and places in which they live – here, Saint-Louis, a real French town, at some point in its recent past. Despite being young in his writing career, Burnet is accomplished at this (at least, and this is a criticism, he is so (up to now) as far as the male characters of his novels are concerned): partly this is a question of having lived enough life to draw such characters with depth and maturity; and partly it’s a question of research: of reading – Burnet is a fan of Georges Simenon’s detective Inspector Maigret (though there are important differences as well as evident similarities between Maigret and Gorski), having been writing a blog on Simenon’s books; and of knowing enough about the places you’re writing about to ensure the characters can properly inhabit where they live (here, the product of a research grant to re-visit Saint-Louis). As Burnet’s afterword concludes – in what may partly be an attempt to deflect criticism about the slightness of his plot:

The real measure of ‘truth’ in any novel is not whether the characters, places and events portrayed exist beyond the pages of the book, but, rather, whether they seem authentic to us as readers… A novel is, in Sartre’s phrase, ‘neither true nor false’; but it must feel real.

p. 255 Saraband hardback edition

This is not a contemporary crime novel, nor a police procedural, in which the plot twists and turns as evidence comes to light or which leaves the reader struggling to catch up with the mental gymnastics as the plots thicken; and fans of crime fiction may end up disappointed with the plot’s lack of complexity. The book does, however, encompass elements of both those things although it is, largely, a novel of mystery and the core of its undoubted appeal is its evocation of people and places, and their intertwining in a difficult interaction in which the character of the town and of its inhabitants come to reflect each other. Saint-Louis may not be as unfortunate (at least, in relative terms) as described (as Burnet writes in his afterword), although it appears he has done so authentically (that Scots Whay Hae! podcast), but the author’s capturing of its essential spirit reflects well the disappointment, snide cynicism and indeed anger with which those who choose to inhabit left-behind, somewhat historical backwaters frequently experience what life has to offer them.

Burnet’s other demonstration of his authorial skills lies in the extraordinary devices on which each of his novels hinges – here, that Accident purports to be Macrae’s translation (from the French) of a cult novel drawn from the pen of Raymond Brunet (‘author’ also of Adele Bedeau), whose work appears at least partly autobiographical. Here, some odd word choices and slightly awkward phrasing echoes well the linguistic framing of a novel that has gone through translation – posing an interesting conundrum for the French translators (Adele Bedeau already having been translated into French and this being surely destined to follow). The book’s foreword and afterword – in which Burnet sets out the novel’s influences in an unconventional, but appealing, way – are very much required reading.

This device hints at a further novel in this series and Macrae spoke – that SWH! podcast again – of this set of homages to Georges Simenon being a trilogy (but no more). It seems, from Case Study‘s page on Macrae’s website, that the forthcoming novel (which also features his familiar structural device) is not the closing part of this trilogy and this, which features a female central character, is likely to be a clear landmark in Macrae’s confidence in his ability to write female characters that have as much depth as his male ones. At the close of Accident, there are enough loose ends in the lives of the characters who so successfully bring its pages to life, and in Saint-Louis itself, that Macrae is surely far from being done with them when the third part of his French trilogy (eventually) appears. Both are keenly awaited.

Book Review: Why I’m No Longer Talking to White People About Race

It’s never a bad time to read a book- and it’s never a bad time to read this book. Arising out of Reni Eddo-Lodge’s 2014 blog post of the same title, and published originally in 2017 (this (expanded) edition in 2018), it received a second life rising to the top of best-selling book charts this time in 2020 after the murder of George Floyd. In 2021, it was certainly interesting to be reading it in the aftermath of the backdrop of the government’s Sewell Report, and when England footballers continue (with official support) to take the knee in solidarity with those experiencing racism; and to be writing it when an England cricketer is – rightly, pace today’s political pronunciations – suspended pending an investigation into racist (and sexist) tweets written a while ago, when he might well have been in a different place but while an adult and certainly old enough to vote, and when the dance group Diversity have just picked up a BAFTA for a routine inspired by #BlackLivesMatter.

In 2021 as in each of those earlier years in this book’s life. And in the many decades and centuries before it, too. This is a recurring theme.

Make no mistake: Eddo-Lodge’s title is not an attempt to shut down conversation or to be racist in itself and neither is it an attempt at justifying isolation. As Eddo-Lodge herself points out early on, she has actually done little else but talk to white people about race since the publication of her book while ‘Aftermath’, a brief addendum added to cover events around the time of publication, and since, is not without hope that the conversation can be – and indeed is being – changed. The entire purpose of the book is to have that conversation about race.

It’s particularly interesting to be reviewing the book in the prism of current events in sport. Sportsmen and women are predominantly young people, some better placed than others to be at the forefront of a national debate but all blameless, albeit highly visible, players in it. Eddo-Lodge’s approach and style of writing is very much to see things in ‘black and white’; there are some grey areas in this debate but very few and none of them at the forefront of it. You are either booing the players (from your own team) or generally feeling uncomfortable about their actions in taking the knee; or else you are applauding them in solidarity with their own efforts to show solidarity with others. We are all on one side or the other in this and, I suspect, a lot can be understood about where we stand on the issues raised generally by race identity by where we stand on the players’ actions on the football field (and also their suspension from the cricket field).

Eddo-Lodge’s essential starting point is that (at least in the Global North, and there may be some caveats which need to be inserted in that respect), there is a link between skin colour and privilege and that, where you are white, you start off with an in-built advantage which few white people ever actually recognise or are forced to confront. For people of colour, in contrast, doing so is a regular, daily occurrence. Setting out the facts about the disadvantage and the prejudice leads Eddo-Lodge to her preferred theory of structural racism in which such disadvantage is a part of the system; and this is of course the issue which is the dividing point. For too many people, racism is in the face, and in the fists and boots, of hard core far-right fascist sympathisers without recognising that this is the easy bit – that the more uncomfortable truths lie in the systemic issues which disadvantage people and which moderates are less likely to see as actionable. A lengthy quote from Dr. Martin Luther King – no militant, he – proves the point (p. 101). Objects like bananas and darts, as reported by Mark Walters after signing for Rangers in 1987, being thrown is something that will not have been experienced by white footballers in this country on the grounds solely of their skin colour. That they are no longer experienced by black players represents progress (of sorts) – but it is not a sign that equality has been reached: not the least, as Walters’s insightful, well-put together, touching and educational programme underlines, because black people were being written out of histories long before the abuse started (and because that abuse is still being levelled, now verbally, at black players). Particularly in one interview towards the end (and with full credit to Graeme Souness), Walters’s film (for BBC Scotland) brilliantly makes Eddo-Lodge’s case about white privilege. Furthermore the desire not to see racism other than in the identity of a shaven-haired street-fighting thug spewing abusive language means refusing to see the wider battles which are having to be fought and which are occasioned by a white-dominant world view in which toleration and ‘colour blindness’ imply no presence of disadvantage as long as people passively ‘know their place’ and do not challenge too strongly.

In elaborating her theme, she moves through the modern histories of black people in Britain and their experiences at the hands of organisations meant to serve the community through to privilege, the ‘fear of a black planet’ and which touches on ‘Great Replacement Theory’, conservatism within the white feminist movement and the links between race and class which also feature in the Sewell Report and which led those authors to a disappointingly different analysis and set of conclusions. Institutional – or structural – racism does exist. In so doing she makes some particularly interesting points around the need for better education on British history (not, for example, seeing civil rights uniquely through an American lens), since the history of black people in the UK did not start with the Windrush but stems from colonialism, and she raises the fundamental question of why white people don’t recognise that they have a racial identity – a ground which the usual suspects from the commentariat are now, inevitably, trying to dominate.

Sometimes Eddo-Lodge’s examples are episodic, even anecdotal, in character which lends a rather personal, blog-style atmosphere to the work, and the interview with Nick Griffin is shallow and rather poorly-judged – but the facts are always on her side. Ultimately, this is an approachable and highly readable account which hits its targets, uncovering as it does not only the extent of the prejudice which exists against people of colour, which may be evident to people who have been paying any sort of attention, but, more importantly, to the unifying force which lies behind them. It may be light on action, but that is not the purpose of the book which is to change the conversation and that is a difficult enough thing to do when, as other footballers have also recently pointed out, there are many competing things in our lives which distract us from having the hard conversations that we need to have. The goal of equality is, it seems, a long-term one and it will not be won as a result of winning a single game and certainly not from scoring a single goal within a single game. The issues remain complex – Diversity’s award was won on the strength of a public vote, while the sound of booing of players taking the knee has, this last week, been drowned out by applause. Here, there are some good signs and more of the applause, please, at Euro2020. Nevertheless that goal does come a little closer each time an open, respectful conversation, which proceeds honestly from the inequality that one side experiences by virtue of their skin colour, is had. If you haven’t yet had that conversation – Eddo-Lodge is a good person with whom to start, even vicariously.

TotW: The Bamboos – Ride on Time

Black Box’s ‘Ride On Time’ was a game-changer when it came out in 1989. Sampling was already being done – M|A|R|R|S’s ‘Pump Up The Volume’ was a massive hit two years earlier, illustrating the power of cutting and splicing tracks against a beat, and the same sample which Black Box had used had featured on Samantha Fox’s ‘I Wanna Have Some Fun’, a track which somehow, curiously, passed me by at the time, one year previously. What we now know as electronic dance music was experiencing its first flourishing as house music coming out of the Chicago scene, led by Farley ‘Jackmaster’ Funk’s beat tracks and the DJ International label; and the second summer of love had just gone by. Grandmaster Flash’s ‘The Message’ was as early as 1982 and Public Enemy’s ‘Yo! Bum Rush The Show’ was released in 1987 and hip-hop was a familiar face by the end of the decade.

There was, to coin a phrase, nothing that was particularly new about Black Box’s ‘Ride On Time’; the ground – if not that well-trodden – had at least been well-prepared.

What was different about it was firstly the technology – Black Box (a team of three Italian DJs and producers) had bought a sampler which allowed them to remix live in clubs, although it wasn’t capable of storing more than three vocal snippets at once; and secondly that they took an identifiable sequence of notes, literally a few seconds of vocal and the song’s essential hook, from a single, existing song and, cutting and re-cutting it repeatedly into different combinations, made a whole new song out of it, threading everything together with an insistent piano rhythm which marked their genre. In the process, they raised arguments about ownership, royalties and copyright which were not unfamiliar ones either when artists were sued for copyright infringements – or when, conversely, they elected not to do so – but which had rarely, if ever, previously aired quite as intensely or as controversially as this.

Thirdly, of course, they made something which not only came later to symbolise the euphoria of the time but something which was also, through its visceral physicality, quite firmly grounded. ‘Ride On Time’ was a remarkable song whose ground-breaking nature lay not in that it was new, but that it was possessed of enormous strength, a life force capable of splitting atoms and an astonishing vibrancy which was perfectly in tune with its time. Listening to it now is not only to be reminded of those times but to be reminded of the song’s sheer presence although very little of its essential spirit actually came from Black Box themselves.

The song which they used was originally a 1980 track by Dan Hartman called ‘Love Sensation’, written for disco singer Loleatta Holloway. The full story – quite well-known now, of course – is well set out by Terry Matthew in an article for Chicago house specialist magazine 5mag.net, setting the song against the background of Hartman’s life and career, building in also aspects of Holloway’s own, while Black Box have also given lengthy, and similar, interviews to DJ Mag and to NME coinciding with a 30th anniversary remix they gave the song in 2019, essentially taking it back to its 70s disco roots.

Essentially, ‘Love Sensation’ was one-half of a swap deal which saw Holloway contribute a brief, but barnstorming, vocal contribution to Hartman’s own ‘Relight My Fire’ (if you know the Take That version, think (evidently) Lulu’s contribution but multiply by ten) while Hartman wrote and produced ‘Love Sensation’ for an album that Holloway was working on. She later reported that Hartman made her sing ‘Love Sensation’ 29 times before the final take, wanting deliberately to run her vocal chords ragged to get that note of on-the-edge desperation to the delivery of her lines which is both the song’s hallmark as well as the physical power base which Black Box took. Ultimately, Holloway was apparently aided by coffee sweetened with Vick’s VaporRub. However, the song immediately fell to obscurity – by the time it came out, disco was in its death throes in the US and the industry was experiencing an unprecedented, unheralded and unwanted backlash – being ignored on the crossover pop charts and spending no more than one week at No. 1 even on the specialist dance charts.

If you don’t know ‘Love Sensation’ – or especially if you know it only through ‘Ride on Time’ or one of the more than 30 other tracks which have sampled it amidst the more than 300 samples which have been built on Holloway’s work – do check it out: divorced from the chopped repetition of the samples on ‘Ride On Time’, and sustained over the course of a whole song which has a start, a middle and an end, it is noticeable that Holloway’s performance on the song is varied, being blisteringly raw and possessed of quite extraordinary physical power and emotional intensity at some points as well as moments of soaring sweetness at others. Despite whatever else was going on in the music industry at the time, this deserved to be a huge hit.

Note, if you will, the relative play counts: 84k for ‘Love Sensation’ (there are actually several versions of the original floating around but nothing more than this, I don’t think); while the official Black Box video for ‘Ride On Time’ has some 17m.

Not expecting much to come out of their own work in putting their track together other than for local kids, Black Box didn’t seek any sort of clearances, but the song became a huge hit in the UK and right across Europe following UK DJs Paul Oakenfold and Danny Rampling travelling to Italy in search of Italo house music, a niche but growing sub-genre, for their gigs and shows, and landing heavily on it, buying up all available copies. The UK label to which Black Box eventually released the song once the level of demand had been realised late that summer had also told them they would secure clearance although a legal dispute between record companies meant this had not been fully resolved. The rest is history. While Dan Hartman’s observation on hearing ‘Ride On Time’ was the laconic ‘I think I wrote it’, followed by legal action, Holloway was deeply dismayed, traumatised and bitter, regarding that her work had been taken without credit and later confessing that it had brought her close to a nervous breakdown. Scared by the furore, Black Box quickly re-cut the track, it seems with future M People singer Heather Small, also originally uncredited, albeit with somewhat mixed results. A video hastily shot for the song featured an Italian model, who didn’t speak English, lip-synching to Holloway’s words which, unfamiliar a process as it was at the time, poured oil on the flames already consuming her: not only had they stolen her voice, they had traded her image in for a younger, skinnier version physically incapable of generating Holloway’s power.

Hartman’s legal action ended with him making a friendly and generous gesture of a one-third share of the royalties, when he could have had the lot; Holloway, however, never received a penny since her label, Salsoul, owned the rights to her studio work although publishing has, since those times, credited her on the song as ‘feat. Loleatta Holloway’ in a style that is now familiar. Given that ‘Ride On Time’ is stamped right through with her – her presence, her aura and her labour – she ought to have been properly recognised for it at the time (as she had been through samples done earlier by DJ International) and certainly she ought to have had a better share of the proceeds than the fur coat she is said to have been furnished with while being prevented from speaking badly about it in public. Black Box bought out those rights in 2018; Holloway had died in 2011. Sad on so many levels.

Now, however, nine-piece Melbourne funksters The Bamboos have bravely taken on the impossible by covering ‘Ride On Time’, mondegreen and all, as the ‘B’-side of their new single, arising out of some studio session work for their forthcoming LP (due out early next month). The tune had cropped up on some 90s music which the band was listening to while relaxing between takes. A suggestion and a nervous laugh later, and the musicians accepted the challenge. Just to be clear: what we have here is a band covering a track that was itself little more than a few seconds of snatched sample, but as a fully-fledged song in its own right. I’m sure m’lords back at Rough Trade were all over this and it’s well worth checking out as a track of the week:

For those keeping a watch on these things it’s notable that this is already not far short of 20k plays. Without much of a current presence on Bandcamp – though The Bamboos do have something out for Record Store Day this year – this is one you’ll need to pick up from your local record shop (happily now open again) – it’s out as a 7″ on Rough Trade (PT009) or direct via The Bamboos’ website store.

At a time when live music needs all the help it can get, it’s great to see a working band cover a song originally made in the studio out of pre-recorded clips. It’s also great to see The Bamboos already out on the road in Australia; it’s a hopeful sign that these times might, one day, come our way again, too.

It’s not so much a cover as a necessary reinterpretation of Black Box’s original confection. Wisely, The Bamboos use the crisp brassiness of the horn section to do the heavy lifting on some of the more blistering elements of how Black Box’s sampling and sequencing made Holloway’s voice appear, while band vocalist Kylie Auldist, capable of mixing it with anyone among her contemporaries for vocal power (check out also her work on ‘Hard Up’, the A-side) but who also knows when to exercise restraint, sensibly chooses not to try and out-Loleatta Loleatta Holloway while nevertheless ensuring the song has the gritty kick it needs to retain its emotional punch. The production has a wonderful amount of space in it, allowing all the instruments room to breathe and in sharp contrast to the tightly claustrophobic atmosphere set down in the Black Box original. The drums, at the fore throughout, send you skittering for cover, the guitars lay down a funky bottom line to set your hips shaking and the brief organ break, which re-states Black Box’s own vital contribution (the piano hook) and gives the space from which Kylie leads the charge home, is a surprise and a delight. The horns win the right to finish the song and the few moments of quiet after the fade reminds the listener of the need to breathe again. Enormous fun. Grab your share!

Book Review: Black Moses

Black Moses is the sixth novel by Congolese man of letters and literary award winner Alain Mabanckou. Published in an English translation (from 2015’s original French Petit Piment) in 2017, this has sat on my to-read shelf for a while and the work is already no longer Mabanckou’s most recent novel, having been surpassed (in English translation) in 2020.

Black Moses was long-listed for the 2017 International Booker Prize and tells the story of Moses – nicknamed occasionally ‘Little Pepper’ (hence the French title) – and his life growing up in an orphanage in Loango, a small way north on Congo’s Côte Sauvage from the major coastal town of Pointe-Noire, and then afterwards on the streets of Pointe-Noire itself, during Congo’s Marxist-Leninist revolution from 1969. Life in the orphanage is brutish and marked by casual violence both between the residents (mostly boys; there are girls too although they feature little in the story) and as administered by the director and his warden acolytes. Corruption is rife and shortages are plenty and Moses learns quickly of the need for allies as well as friends if he is to survive; and, as he grows older, those lessons serve him well as he swaps life in the orphanage firstly for the streets of Pointe-Noire, followed by a degree of comfort among a group of immigrant sex workers and work on the docks before, in a situation of rapidly deteriorating mental health in which neither a French-trained psychiatrist nor a traditional healer can help him, he is confronted with an opportunity to try and make a difference.

Reading through this brief summary of the plot, this all looks rather bleak and, while the themes and the conclusions are so, Mabanckou’s skill is to tell his story in a characterful way and with the use of as much colour as is encapsulated by the book’s cover (which, we should note, symbolically embodies the colours of the flag of Congo). Whether it is in the orphanage or on the streets, the sights and the sounds and the colours are vividly real and this ensures that the tale leaps off the page in a vibrant way, despite the tough subject matter and the toughness of Moses’s own life in each of its different stages. Mabanckou is also able to deploy a mischievous humour in the same direction albeit that the use of humour in a novel with these sorts of dark themes requires fine judgment both in getting the reader to the point of realising the urgency of the scenes presented and to accept the reality of the toughness of street life and the choices being exercised. Picaresque it may be but these are also serious themes which humour risks under-playing.

The shift in the title from the French to the English is interesting since it shifts the focus of the book from a potential reminiscence – the book is dedicated to a ‘Little Pepper’ whose stories helped inspire it – and more towards allegory. Here, a little biblical knowledge might be required although, for those without, whether Moses grows up to fulfil his destiny is also covered off in the opening chapter. Regardless, this subtle shift in emphasis occasioned by the title change heightens attention on the novel’s key theme which is that of the impossibility of escaping the life situation into which we are born, particularly in the book’s context of the circumstances of the poverty and oppression in the Congo of the time but, as is likely, given our shared human experience, more widely in other contexts (and country locations) as well. Despite the biblical theme, this is not just a question of the inescapability of destiny, or more correctly the destiny that we feel is imposed upon us, but more particularly the endless circle into which our social situation traps us.

Given the ready availability of an English translation of the original title, changing it thus seems to have been an editorial decision. Mabanckou, a full professor at UCLA, where he teaches literature and creative writing in the Department of French & Francophone Studies and African Studies Center, was surely at least au fait with the decision.

There are clear difficulties in any situation of translating local context into a different language, not least given the colonial aspects. Mabanckou comments – in relation to a previous novel – that he writes in French ‘but with an African accent’; as well as that there are more difficult languages into which to translate than English where anything missing as regards the sense is likely to be no more than ten per cent although there are always cultural aspects which differ. My own instincts tell me here that the shared exploitation of the African continent by the major western European powers may in some respects lessen those cultural aspects while evidently heightening them in others. The translator of Black Moses – Helen Stevenson – has translated Mabanckou before (in respect of a more technically difficult piece of work than this) and comments that the key is giving people a voice, which is not the same as aiming for linguistic equivalence, something which Mabanckou also echoes in his interview linked above.

The second thematic aspect to the novel is the extent to which people growing up in institutions can become institutionalised. Moses – the name is given to him by a priest – is left at the orphanage as a baby and never manages to leave institutional settings for very long. Meanwhile his relationships, few of which are lasting, highlight the abandonment issues which people in such a position frequently experience, along with difficulties in forming attachments, while the few attachments he does manage to form are quite closely linked to the desire for a mother – and, very occasionally, a father – figure in his life. The difficulty with what is quite a short novel (of 200 pages) is that there is not a lot of room for detailed characterisation and, with Mabanckou choosing to focus on the street smarts which Moses learns in the orphanage in the novel’s lengthy opening section (and which were probably critical to his later survival, given his choices), this is under-explored and both Moses’s sensitive, vulnerable side and the later mental health issues come not only as something of a surprise to the reader but appear thus as the rather too visible hand of the author. Either way, they don’t really convince in a context which requires the reader to connect with the main character.

Nevertheless, we have here a well-rounded tale, complete and entire in itself and where all ends are wrapped up (and with substantial pathos at the end) and which has an interesting tale to tell of the difficulties that social and political revolutions face in and, as here, of themselves in making life better for people; as well as of the difficulties people face in escaping their status and, indeed, their destiny. If orphanages were indeed the ‘laboratories of the revolution’ in Congo, Mabanckou is specific that they failed. Regardless, societies of all types need to do more to ensure that people are not trapped by either status or destiny as well as to ensure that all who need it get the help they deserve.

Book Review: Summer

Ali Smith’s Summer – the last in her quartet of seasonal novels – was published in August 2020. Autumn, the first, emerged in October 2016 which means that, within the life of this blog, whose first post was also October 2016, she has published four bestselling, critically-acclaimed novels. I have read – and reviewed – them all (Autumn, Winter and Spring). Smith’s is a phenomenal achievement whose origins might owe something to a long-rooted desire to produce a series of connected novels about the seasons but more so to a piece of personal misfortune – she was a year late with her manuscript for 2014’s How To Be Both, but the publisher still managed, somewhat heroically, to get the book out more or less on time. Among other things, this demonstrates something very interesting about Smith’s own writing process, of which more in a bit.

Summer, recently shortlisted for the 2020 Highland Book Prize, ties up some though by no means all the loose ends established in the earlier novels. For those with an interest in these things, others have exhaustively and painstakingly drawn the myriad links which Smith has made, connecting characters, motifs and figures in the art world, in the course of these four novels.

This one starts, however, with new characters Grace Greenlaw, recently divorced from a husband who now lives next door (interesting, but entirely coincidental, thematic echoes here of Our House which I read just previously), together with her daughter and son, Sacha (16) and Robert (13). In terms of the narrative arc, there is an entirely chance meeting with Art and Charlotte, who we met in 2017’s Winter (though this time it’s the real Charlotte), who are on a mission to reunite Daniel, the old man we met in Autumn, with something which Sophie, Art’s mother, wanted returned to him after her death. This they do. In the course of the journey, Grace and Daniel both revisit their youths, summer being a time for warm, even dreamy, recollection, her at the end of the 1980s, him in the 1940s, while the tale is spiced with latter-day notes prompted by the activism of Sacha, who is concerned not only with environmental issues but also with the fate of refugees in immigration removal centres whose story was central to 2019’s Spring. The item is returned and the tale reaches a surprisingly romantic (and, perhaps, a rather cliched) conclusion as a vehicle for Smith to relate her significant optimism and hopefulness for our future on this planet, born from the warmth of our essential humanity and the timeless things that endure about the human spirit.

The narrative arc is thus slight but, as in all the novels in this series, the point is indeed the journey not the culmination of the tale, just as summer is neither the end of the chronological year nor, indeed, is the end of the year ‘the end’ as the seasons continue rhythmically to roll around. The book, and thus the series, does have a conventional end – it would have detracted from the work had it not – but, in pointing us back towards autumn, we are reminded both of those seasonal rhythms, that eternal regeneration and the continuing evolution of the human story.

This evolution is naturally picked up via Smith’s literary reference points throughout the quartet to Shakespeare (in Summer, overtly, to The Winter’s Tale); and to Dickens (in terms of narrative genius as well as Dickens’s own writing of some of his stories, including Oliver Twist, serially for regularly published journals). Both would recognise Smith’s characters in their own times and their own tales feature recurrent human tragedies and heroism (and with a strong eye on the singular rather than the grandiose).

Smith started writing Summer at the end of January, when the Australian wildfires which wrought such devastating environmental effects were much in the news, and just as stories were coming to the attention of the western media about Covid-19, with the narrative mostly taking place in March – Summer is not set in summer, but in late spring – handing in the final manuscript as Black Lives Matters protests took to the streets (there is an understandably brief reference to the murder of George Floyd, which took place at the end of May 2020). Thus it was written entirely during the early phases of Covid-19 and there are references to the ‘sickness’ – which is unnamed – in the novel both thematically as well as in terms of the events described, both Daniel and Charlotte experiencing their own lockdown imprisonments, both physical and mental. Six weeks from manuscript to finished product, in the middle of a pandemic, is indeed another heroic achievement by Smith’s publishing team.

Writing in this highly contemporary fashion allows Smith to use literature to shine a light on our own times as well as to draw illuminating connections with events in our shared history. This not only allows her to explore the circularity of events within the human condition, but also lends a considerable topicality to her work – Daniel’s (very real) recollection of the 1940s is as the son of an unnaturalised German living in the UK, and thus interned for a period on the Isle of Man (while his beloved sister Hannah is fighting the Nazis in occupied France): events called to mind later in 2020, and which have re-surfaced recently, as the Tories have openly considered sending asylum seekers to places such as Gibraltar and, indeed, the Isle of Man for the processing of their asylum applications (an idea immediately rejected by both). Lorenza Mazetti, related to Einstein and the artist whose spirit informs this part of the quartet, and who died only as Smith was getting underway with Summer, was herself an ‘undesirable alien’ in 1950s London. More humourously, the disagreement about sourcing a Hannah Arendt quote from the internet, the subject of a debate at the start of the novel between Sacha and her mother, crossed my Twitter feed on only Wednesday this week as Deutsche Welle wondered why so many famous quotes – many of them from Einstein – are fake.

As with the rest of her novels, Smith glories in language, both verbal and non-verbal, and in playing around with words and Summer is no different – I love, for example, the fun she has here with Einstein and ein stein; while here, the opening monologue takes on, and challenges, the simple word ‘so’, in the first place as an expression of jaded, shoulder-shrugging, care-free indifference and in the second as a word as resolute, determined, programmatic and as focused on action as any verb. This love of language dominates her work and its expression here – never forced, never apparently hard work – seems to come entirely naturally to her. The revelation that she suffered during the writing of Spring from a loss of faith in what she calls ‘dialogue with the form’ – the conversation between author and novel in progress – is thus a surprising one, Spring representing for me a return to form from what I saw as an over-hasty realisation of Winter.

All artists suffer at some times from a form of “writers’ block” – that crisis of confidence in which you read, or hear, or see only the weaknesses in your work accompanied by a stymieing inability to recognise that what makes something great can also be its weakness, whether you’re a late-20s New Jerseyan taking months to get right not just the sound but the opening sound on what will turn out to be your most famous record; or a member of a production crew walking around Los Angeles at more or less the same time wearing T-shirts carrying the legend ‘Stevie’s nearly ready’. It is therefore a sign of great confidence in her own abilities that Smith took on the task of producing such a masterwork in this timeframe, as well as in bringing it to its conclusion. Artists of all kinds have to have the confidence, but also the courage, to ‘let it go’ – to let things out in the wild despite what may be imperfections and such that they stand or fall as products of their time. Smith makes such a connection between art and literature in this series; I draw a similar connection between literature and music in the same way – not that literature needs to be the rock’n’roll more than anything else does (rock’n’roll being some way from falling on its back). But, a novel is much like an album: you let it go and it may turn out to be ‘long grass by the wayside’ in ten years’ time (as Smith herself self-deprecatingly thinks likely about these volumes) or your songs may still be being sung 120 years in the future (see Nanci Griffiths’s introduction before playing track ten).

It’s partly confidence but it’s also about process. Smith is able to get novels out in this short timeframe because she re-drafts and edits as she goes. Consequently, there is no lengthy period of to-and-fro between writer and production house: what the production house gets as a final manuscript is – give or take a bit of subsequent judicious editorial intervention – what the reader holds in their hand. This ‘dialogue with the form’ is the key: books don’t ‘write themselves’, but they do go down their own roads in the process of being written, sometimes in ways that surprise their authors the most successful of whom have that confidence in the natural evolution of what they are writing. Writing is, ultimately, about your own reading.

Summer starts out as a book about forgiveness, perhaps as befits a novel whose purpose, at least in part, is to bring about some form of closure to the series. But with the pandemic raging against the background of a government whose multiple failures, weak preparation and incompetent handling, alongside PPE debacles and cronyism, allied to its catastrophic trust in a murderous herd immunity strategy, this was clearly no time for a message of ‘forgiveness’. In lesser hands, this turn of events might have implied disaster to a novel written for the here and now but Smith has skilfully turned the book into an extended consideration of the collective implications of the occurrence of a national sickness.

Far, therefore, from Summer being ‘derailed’ by the pandemic, as some readers have alleged, it is in fact made by it. This is the case not only in that the pandemic forms the essential background to the novel – which would have been written to the same timeframe whether it had happened or not – but which also provides the key hook for the key message which she allows to evolve from it – that, given Smith’s ability to juxtapose opposites and enjoy doing so: a Winter’s Tale toured in summer; lightness in the middle of darkness; happiness in the midst of sadness; protests in the face of implacable opposition; hope for the possibility of another world when this one seems to be at its worst; health (and healing) coming after sickness – we may still, despite all the signs of loss of the times in which we live, find the hope of a healing which will resolve the fractures and the fractiousness of the years in which this series of novels has been set. That we cannot truly experience joy unless we have always seen despair – that, in terms of the theatre, we carry two masks: one for comedy and one for tragedy. There is, at least, hope and, indeed, times pass as time passes. Til then, our pandemic-influenced position is, as it is for Leontes in The Winter’s Tale which Grace interprets for her colleagues in the repertory company as follows:

A blight comes down on him, on his country, from nowhere. It’s irrational, It has no source. It just happens. Like things do. They suddenly change, and it’s to teach us that everything is fragile and that what happiness we think we’ve got and imagine will be forever ours can be taken away from us in the blink of an eye. (pp. 282-3)

Smith is not for everyone – those who prefer a more linear narrative arc will find the novel’s extended flashbacks and playing around with the time sequence confusing and disorienting. Others of a less liberal mindset will find much that they will despise. Purists will hate the lack of quotation marks when characters are in dialogue. But, if you love words and enjoy the thought of watching a master writer at work, able to tell a story about the way we live in our times and, in doing so, relate much about the creative process that authors and editors experience, do engage with this: Summer, both in its own right as well as the summation and realisation of an immense literary ambition, deserves all the awards that ought to be coming its way.

Book Review: Our House

Our House, the twelfth book by Louise Candlish, was published in 2018 and was well-garlanded following publication, not least being selected as the British Book Award’s 2019 Crime and Thriller Book of the Year.

Set in the fictional London district of Alder Rise, which may or may not be the Herne Hill of the author’s own residence, or perhaps somewhere just a little further south-east, it features Fi and Bram Lawson, a forty-somethings husband and wife with two young children living in upwardly-mobile suburbia whose outward appearances, as is well established in literature, are not as they seem (and which is very well-captured on the hardback cover of the UK version). The house of the title is the source of the couple’s invisible wealth but visible relationship stresses, as well as the device around which the plot revolves: we learn in the first few pages that the house has been sold without Fi’s knowledge with the guilty party apparently her husband; the questions that remain are to do with the whats and the whys which are successively peeled back in the novel’s pages as the two relate their post-event stories of their rapidly-evolving relationship in the first place via a podcast called ‘The Victim’ and secondly via a Word document which, we quickly learn, is a self-confessed suicide note. These are interspersed with brief, in the moment, accounts of Fi’s developing horror as what has happened to her becomes evident, alongside comments from the Twitterati listening along to her podcast.

Now, I don’t read a lot of crime stuff but this looks to me to be well set-up as a highly plausible cautionary tale about property and aspiration as well as being probably somewhat unusual in the genre in that the thriller aspects lie not in uncovering the identities of victim and perpetrator but in the explanations of their behaviour. It’s certainly a page-turner and this is a tribute to the gripping descriptions of the initial set-up as well as the step-by-step reveals of how the main characters have got to this point. The ending, containing also a moral message albeit somewhat confused in a contemporary setting, is quite breathtaking and which will leave the reader with a strong sense of melancholy. Ultimately, this is a novel about how little we too often know about those with whom we set up our lives, not least in the light of the ‘laws’ of attraction between people, where Candlish has some interesting things to say; and it provides some interesting contrasts between our tendency to share so much of our lives online, increasing our own vulnerabilities, and the ease with which fraud can take place both in the property sense and in terms of the ease with which men and women can choose to cheat each other.

There are, however, several difficulties, betraying the period of writing coinciding while the author was partially out of contract and, perhaps, with her mind on other issues. The book is under development for a four-part TV series now in production for ITV and due to be filmed this summer; and it will be interesting to see how the scriptwriter resolves these for TV.

Leaving aside some of the plot twists, which owe a remarkable amount to chance, this ought, firstly, to be a character study. Our sympathies may – and indeed should – shift as the accounts slowly reveal motivations and explanations; voice and the reliability of witness are important elements of a good crime novel. However, the characters are not only shallow in their obsessions but also rather shallowly drawn to the point where the reader realises that they actually care rather too little about either one. This makes it impossible for those sympathies to develop, or to shift. That’s not to say, however, that there aren’t occasional elements of real pathos affecting not least Bram, or sadness about poor choices affecting not least Fi, or a sense of bewilderment about their inabilities to communicate with each other. Secondly, the set-up of the novel ought to see it evolve as a psychological thriller; certainly it has some psychological elements but it contains too little in the way of the sustained sense of threat which would contribute to our growing understanding of why they act as they do (and which underpins the YouTube video made in support of the publication). This is partly a function of the author’s rather weak characterisation – had these been drawn deeper, psychological terror could have take a stronger root – but it also reflects the manner of the telling of the tale: step-by-step reveals told in reflective flashback do miss the terror of the motivations for actions as described in the moment.

The structure of the tale is somewhat odd. It’s not that the book is, at 435 pages, too long – although that is one criticism that has been levelled at it but which I suspect stems more from fans of a genre in which pace and mystery is key. Fi’s ‘The Victim’ podcast, however, stretches out over three hours. Now, I absolutely defy anyone to listen to a three-hour podcast – I top out at about an hour and it takes a lot for interest to be sustained over much more than about forty minutes. However ‘interesting’ other people’s ‘true-life’ stories are to fans of this sort of thing, I simply don’t believe that Fi’s podcast would still have listeners at the two-hour mark, let alone three. Bram’s Word document, we learn towards the end, has been written over a period of six weeks surely qualifying it, at least in literary terms, as the longest suicide note in history. The problem is not that these as vehicles for a tale are poor in themselves – they demonstrate an eye for a structural hook – but they are clearly inappropriate vehicles for the amount of detail the author wishes to convey. Additionally, at key points in the text, Twitter threads developed from the listeners’ comments could have acted as a kind of Greek Chorus, prompting deeper reflections in the reader, but they are used more to generate light relief and, while the author might have had a bit of fun with them, they turn out to be rather tiresome, adding simply too little.

Additionally, the essential set-up for the novel’s denouement also contains weaknesses – it’s not actually clear why Bram chooses ultimately to go through with his scheme – while the key event in the middle of the novel is poorly described and, as a result, somewhat hard to visualise. These are rather basic plot development faults which an author of this experience ought to have ironed out by now.

We are left with a well-conceived tale which has an interesting twist in its conclusion and which spirals outwards from a very well-conceived, imaginative starting point. The middle of the journey – the story’s engine room – is, unfortunately, not as well captured as it ought to have been and this leaves it with an absence at its core which is as full of emptiness as the couple’s obsession with property rather than with each other. As much as concern about property ownership might have lain at the heart of Candlish’s purpose in developing and writing the work, the nature of the development between the praiseworthy start and end points leaves the reader with a sense of disappointment.

Book review: Four Futures

This slim volume (150 pages) is a joint product, published in 2016, between Jacobin magazine (for which the author, Peter Frase, is an editor) and Verso Books. The book contains scant biographical details about Frase and neither does the author’s own website say too much (the ‘about’ page merely contains quotes from three well-known intellects and philosophers); but Jacobin I do know a bit about: being ‘reason in revolt’ and ‘a leading voice of the American left’ it may claim, but it has published theories denying that the Srebrenica massacre was genocide and falling for the conspiracy theory that the camps run by Bosnian Serbs were exaggerated in the effort to gain sympathy – comprehensively debunked by Peter Maass and by Adnan Delalić during the entirely justified furore over the award of the Nobel Prize for Literature to Peter Handke.

Imperialism (not only of the US) remains a problem but the desire to see my enemy’s enemy as my friend (as I heard articulated at meetings in London in the 1990s) is an over-simplistic cliche while it is perfectly possible to take a standpoint which both accepts that the actions of the Bosnian Serb militias were genocidal while leaving the individual free to criticise imperialism in general. The ethnic division of Bosnia as promoted by the Dayton Agreement (and, presumably therefore, at the instigation of US imperialism, in this view) has left the country not only divided and sclerotic but has also established perennial fault lines which, until they are finally addressed, continue to leave the country permanently prey to being placed in a choke-hold by ethnic extremists. The gains from that to monopoly capitalism are not obvious and, furthermore, they have, at the very least, been somewhat slow to emerge. It may still be a bit too early to tell (at least in historical terms), but it has now been 25 years since Dayton.

There are of course known links between imperialism and capitalism, so this introduction to my review is not so much of a digression – Frase’s book is sub-titled ‘life after capitalism’ and his ‘four futures’ does some thinking about the alternative organisation of life and work in a post-capitalist context: two favourable and which put people first; the other two more favourable to hierarchies, or elites. A lot of thinking has been done post-2008 about whether we are in a post-capitalist state and, if so, how we define the tools and measures of economic management in view of establishing a fairer, more sustainably secure society. The starting point of this brief contribution is that, if we are not already in a post-capitalist state, the combination of rapid automation and increasingly scarce resources at a time of intense climate change will soon put us there.

What works well is Frase’s linking of theoretical thought with totems of popular culture, including TV and literature. The bringing together into one volume of speculative thought about very different futures linking four concepts of abundance, scarcity, hierarchy and equality in different combinations also has substantial merit. The first chapter explores a post-work scenario prompted by advanced robotisation at a time of an increasingly predominant universal basic income; the second a rentier economy based on the prevalence of intellectual property; the third climate change amidst scarce resources; the fourth our domination by rich hierarchies.

What doesn’t help is his choice of format: the brevity of the individual essays setting out the four different futures means that his choices take on, necessarily, a selective and somewhat random appearance; illustrative rather than explanatory; and occasionally oddball rather than pervasive. His arguments run the risk of being superficial and, while the format mostly works in enforcing a straitjacket of clarity on the thought process, Frase is not free of sections of prose that strive for intellectualism but which actually turn out to say very little. I’m always wary of taking quotes out of context but if anyone can explain what this, in the comparatively lengthy introductory chapter, means, I would be grateful:

Science fiction is to futurism what social theory is to conspiracy theory: an altogether richer, more honest, and more humble enterprise. Or, to put it another way, it is always more interesting to read an account that derives the general from the particular (social theory) or the particular from the general (science fiction), rather than attempting to go from the general to the general (futurism) or the particular to the particular (conspiracism).

p. 27

For a minute, I thought I had already advanced into a future in which even our prose was being written by robots.

The chapter dealing with abundance and equality, while looking at the principle of universal basic income, ends with a lengthy and rather odd celebration of alternative currencies (while the notion that robots will take all the jobs is in itself controversial); the chapter on intellectual property doesn’t reference the right of creative artists to earn from their creations; and the chapter on climate change has an odd belief in the ability of markets to drive socially-useful gains, prompted (apparently without a trace of irony) by the differential pricing scheme for car parking operated in Los Angeles in which more popular times of day for parking attract higher prices. Additionally, the effect of this in allowing the rich to park where they want when they want, and without any consideration of the effects on the elderly and the disabled, seems to have bypassed Frase completely.

The chapter on hierarchy and scarcity, while looking at the issue of ‘exterminism’, takes on much stronger relevance at a time of the pandemic than Frase could have foreseen before publication, but focuses only on individual examples of state agents taking out people and makes no mention of eugenics, which has quite a history in the US, for example in the US prison service. Writing at a time of the Covid-19 pandemic, we have better insight into the chilling examples of precisely the issues that Frase was considering – earlier this month, the British Medical Journal was editorialising on the ‘social murder‘ that the response to the pandemic represents globally, led by the US, Brazil, Mexico, India and the UK (which together account for one-half of the world’s deaths from the virus); while we also have other examples of forced sterilisation operations on women held by the Immigration and Customs Enforcement agency in Trump’s America. There is, as we know, nothing new here – yet Frase makes no mention of any exterminist actions that have a class-based focus. Neither do the chapters referencing work and UBI make any mention of trade unions – which is odd, even in a post-work scenario – or, alternatively, any other form of the collective organisation of people in response to threats to them.

As Frase concludes, our future is likely to contain individual elements of all the four futures he sets out – although, as of now, some elements do look more a part even of our present than others. Ultimately, we are likely to need new names for systems in a post-capitalist world that were themselves developed in response to the problems set out by industrial capitalism (one reason for not mentioning them by name here). The key debates set out out – over robotisation, universal basic income, sustainability and climate change amidst increasingly scarce resources – are far from resolved and will continue as we define our future. We need only to think about the issues caused by tensions over availability of Covid-19 vaccines. But it is in the area of hierarchies – or elites – and our response to them that Frase’s book has, unwittingly, most resonance as well as, critically, being the one which, in our pandemic current, is thereby responsible most for dating his contribution.