Reading the Booker Prize shortlist is a reading goal towards which I have aspired for years, and in 2021, I finally (mostly) achieved it. My personal winner was Great Circle by Maggie Shipstead, but my prediction was The Promise, and it was very gratifying to learn that this guess was correct. See my reviews of each book on the shortlist below.
“Couldn’t he see her arms all full of the sapphires of the instant?”
Hmm. Not a big fan of this one. It started off as an indictment of Internet culture, then halfway through, became a rumination of how there's more to life than tweeting, and this transition was not done seamlessly: it was one thing, and then it was the other. I did appreciate that it was broken up into small, bite-sized paragraphs to imitate how our attention spans have all shrunk to 240 characters, but I didn't appreciate that most of those bite-sized paragraphs were needlessly conceptual gibberish. The thing is, I agree with this novel's conceit: the Internet has skewed our perspective of what is and isn't important, and it has made performance artists and narcissists out of us all, and there is more to life than crafting tweets with just the right balance of universal comprehension and niche meme references, and sometimes it can take a tragic or traumatic event to remind us of this. And I did like that; I like how the tragedy through which the narrator's family goes realigns what is and isn't important to the narrator. The issue is that the book delivers its message in an awfully pretentious way, and to be honest, I don't know if there is a method of delivering that message without it being pretentious. Like, hur dur internet bad. We get it. Did you have to write a whole book about it?
“Something awful about being the messenger: you are always tainted by the message.”
I was surprised to enjoy this as much as I did. (Considering that I wasn't expecting to like it at all, the bar wasn't hard to step over.) This is a clever, sometimes satirical, often slightly cryptic novel that challenged me without making me feel too stupid. Galgut's writing style kept you on your toes, sometimes flowing so fluidly between character's consciousnesses that you didn't realise you had changed from one perspective to another, and sometimes so blunt and crude that it jarred you out of the dreamlike mood into which it had previously lulled you. If I'm honest, I'm not entirely sure what purpose this served, but I did think it was well-executed and interesting. I also really liked the four-act structure, how each act was earmarked by the name of the character who would die in the preceding pages. It was ominous, as you knew the character was going to die, but you didn't know how or when — the first two characters had very straightforward deaths that occurred before the chapter commenced, but for the final two characters, you follow them in the moments leading up to their deaths, which left me constantly on edge as I anticipated what action or moment would be their last. Other than that, I thought this was an interesting story that covered a wide expanse of South Africa's recent history, and the Swart family's bigotry and open racism at once repulsed and compelled me, showcasing the socioeconomic/political climate of South Africa's last four decades.
"He survived his mother's death. I figured he'd survive my best intentions."
Not entirely sure how I feel about this one. This book has huge heart, from Theo's unconditional love for his troubled son, to Robbie's uncompromising passion for saving the environment (inherited from his mother, Aly, who worked for a conservation NGO), to their shared grief over Aly, who died two years prior to the book's start. I liked that Theo's parenting was flawed, driven by instincts that weren't always correct, and I liked that the narrative made room for his anxiety over that exact fact — Theo didn't really know what he was doing, as no parent truly does, and he worried constantly that the choices he made on Robbie's behalf weren't the right ones, weren't the ones that Aly would make. Robbie's own anxieties over the rapidly-declining condition of the climate crisis factored heavily into his inability to control his emotions, and I understood Theo's reluctance to medicate his son when, considering the dire state of current affairs (the novel takes place in an altered version of the present day where a Trump-like figure has become a fascist dictator and the climate crisis has leapt forward in both years and severity), Robbie's anxiety and erratic behaviour seemed fairly proportional. Yet perhaps because I'm not a parent, Bewilderment, it failed to click with me the way many books of similar emotional heft usually do. I would recommend it based on the uniqueness of theme and plot, but I can't vouch for the emotional chokehold it may put readers in, as I managed to evade this phenomenon. The Promise was my pick for the Booker Prize winner this year, but I wouldn't have been surprised if this had taken home the trophy instead — its literary value is inarguable, and it has the makings of a commercially successful novel as well, straddling that elusive line between literary and commercial success.
"He won't let them use him as the rag they soak up spilt blood with."
I wish there had been some indication at the start of the book of the fact that this is based on true events, because I feel I would have enjoyed it much more if I had known that from the beginning. (Maybe there is some indication in the physical book; I listened to the audiobook, so can't be sure.) Set in Cardiff, Wales in 1952, The Fortune Men is based on the true story of Mahmood Mattan, a Somali seaman who became the last person to be hanged in HMP Cardiff after he was wrongfully convicted of homicide. I had a good feeling about this book before diving into it, but unfortunately, my expectations weren't met. I found it boring and unengaging, which is a shame, because I think the subject matter is quite interesting. Sadly, I never became endeared to Mahmood and never really rooted for him or cared much about his story; I think a non-fiction book covering the real events on which this book is based would have appealed to me much more, because it wouldn't have tried to create so much uninspiring human drama that ultimately bogged the story down. Also, there was entirely too much information provided about irrelevant side characters, which interfered with the pacing of the novel and slowed it down to an interminable pace. I barely cared about Mahmood, the martyred main character; I couldn't even begin to care about the inconsequential side characters peppered throughout the book. The climax/conclusion of the book certainly packed a punch, but only because it is abrupt and swiftly followed by the revelation that the book is based on true events. The fact that a novel is based on true events shouldn't be the reason it has an impact on a reader; the novel should be able to do this on its own, and The Fortune Men failed this test.
I started this, but ended up only getting halfway through before giving up. This was undeniably well-written, and I liked the ruminative, brooding atmosphere that Arudpragasam created. Unfortunately, I have never been a fan of stream-of-consciousness fiction, so the relationship between A Passage North and I was ill-fated from the setup. It's a shame, because the concept, setting, and inciting incident of the novel enthralled me, but the writing style lost me from the first page. Oh well! Maybe I'll come back to this one once my new meds have settled in and run-on sentences no longer make me feel like I'm shifting out of time and space.
The impulse to flee persists; the horizon beckons. If she could just go farther, live nowhere, possess only an airplane, and if that airplane never needed to land, then maybe she would feel free.
From the first page, I knew that Great Circle was going to be my favourite fiction book of the year. Marian Graves is a deliciously complex character with an extraordinary life, and although the book is over 600 pages long, not a second was boring, not a moment felt wasted. The span and scope of this novel — from Prohibition-era Montana to modern day Los Angeles, war-torn Britain to the Ross Ice Shelf — astounded me, taking me on a historical and geographical journey the likes of which I had never endeavoured before. I loved every character, reveled in every perspective, gasped at every twist in the plot, and particularly adored the integration of real-life moments in aviation history; little historical cameos like Charles Lindbergh’s famous non-stop flight from New York to Paris in May 1927, the disappearance of Amelia Earhart, and a walk-on from Jacqueline Cochran all brought exciting elements of realism to Marian’s story, while blurring the line between fact and fiction enough that I regularly had to remind myself that Marian was a fictional character, not a real pilot lost to the annals of history. My only criticism would be the under-utilisation of Hadley's perspective in the book. I really liked Hadley and loved reading in her snarky, witty, disillusioned voice, but I felt that she wasn’t used to her fullest potential; it was too clear that she was only present as a device to uncover secrets in Marian’s story, and although I appreciated that was a role she needed to play, it could have been less blatantly obvious that that was all she was there for. God, I loved this book. It grabbed me from the first page and never let me go, and I know that Marian Graves will live in my mind for a very long time.
Ngā mihi nui,
Sarah
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