Baileys Prize Shortlist Wishes

This is what I would put on the Baileys Prize shortlist if it were all up to me (which, obviously, it should be). The shadow panel has reached a group decision (with, I might add, a minimum of contention, though we’ve had some amazing and impassioned discussions about the various merits of each book), and our (un)official shadow shortlist will be posted tomorrow (Sunday). For now, though, here’s what I’d have:

The Power, by Naomi Alderman (my review)

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What it’s about: One day, all over the world, women and girls discover that they have a power: they can harness and discharge electrostatic energy. From this apparently gimmicky premise, Alderman spins the stories of four people—three women and a man—who are affected by the new global order.

Why I picked it: For the ease with which it rises above those charges of gimmickyness. Alderman isn’t positing this for the sake of a cool premise; she’s interested in the most fundamental aspects of what makes human civilisation possible. The title is very apt: this book might seem to be about gender, but really what it’s about is power, and whether it is even reasonable to suggest that humanity is capable of creating a society where power is shared equally. It is the book from the longlist that most haunts me even now, weeks after reading it.

The Mare, by Mary Gaitskill (my review)

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What it’s about: Velvet doesn’t know that she’s a natural horse rider until a summer trip courtesy of the Fresh Air Fund. For two weeks, she stays with Ginger, a childless artist in her late forties, and Paul, a professor at a small college in upstate New York. Across the road, there’s a stables. It’s there that Velvet meets Fugly Girl, a seriously damaged mare, learns to ride, and becomes invested in salvaging Fugly Girl’s spirit.

Why I picked it: For the strength, compassion, and rejection of stereotyping that Gaitskill brings to her character work. Velveteen is one of the most impressive fictional creations I’ve come across all year: a pre-teen of Puerto Rican descent when we meet her, she grows over the course of several years into a beautifully complex fourteen-year-old, full of age-appropriate longing to fit in and to meet boys, as well as distinctly mature concerns about her physically abusive mother Silvia, and, above all, a driving passion for horses. Silvia is almost completely inexplicable to soft, middle-class Ginger: a woman who tells her only daughter that she’s ugly, a woman who hits her kids, a woman who loves her kids so hard that she can’t show them any love. And Ginger is well-meaning, kind, and often very wrong, a refreshingly sharp take on white liberalism.

The Sport of Kings, by C.E. Morgan (what I wrote; scroll down)

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What it’s about: The book follows the Forge family, one of Kentucky’s oldest racing dynasties, as Henry Forge attempts to create the perfect racehorse, and to retain control of his own family—specifically, headstrong daughter Henrietta. Meanwhile, Allmon Shaughnessy, a black ex-con, is hired at the Forge farm and must come to grips with Forge’s racism, his own past, and his interest in Henrietta.

Why I picked it: This book bites off more than most other books even glanced at this year (yes, I know that metaphor is mixed, thank you). Morgan wants to talk about everything: racism in America, drug-dealing, heredity, the mythos of the Old South, parenthood, the line between madness and dedication. If the novel is occasionally baggy, that’s because there’s a lot in it, and for my money, she integrates her themes pretty damn well. It was among the most ceaselessly entertaining and moving of the longlist contenders, and I like ambition.

Barkskins, by Annie Proulx (my review)

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What it’s about: Much like The Sport of Kings, Barkskins focuses on the growth of an industry in America—in this case, logging—through the lens of family—in this case, the Sels and the Duquets, over the course of about four centuries.

Why I picked it: Did I say that I like ambition? Well, I do. Is this book flawed? Hell yes. Is that because it’s too long? Hell yes. Is it too long because Proulx is trying to make a point about time and legacy and the importance of taking the long view? Precisely. Is that point conveyed through characters who—sometimes—we get to know and love, with a staggering array of background detail that makes the whole thing (if you like detail) like a gorgeous tapestry, or (if you don’t like detail) like a metastasizing mess? Yes, it is. Ultimately I think one’s reaction to Barkskins comes down to whether you’re willing to forgive its sins in deference to what it’s trying to achieve, and in awe at what it actually does achieve. I’m willing.

First Love, by Gwendoline Riley (what I wrote; scroll down)

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What it’s about: Neve is a young writer married to older writer Edwin. Over the course of scarcely two hundred pages, we learn about her marriage, her background, and her needy, manipulative, intensely deluded mother.

Why I picked it: First Love was not a book that I actually enjoyed reading, which is exactly why I’ve chosen it: Riley is so good at dialogue, at evoking tension and venom and the nuances of love and hate that often characterise parental and marital relationships, that you have to just stand back in awe. It ain’t pretty, but it’s a hell of a stylistic achievement.

Do Not Say We Have Nothing, by Madeleine Thien (my review)

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What it’s about: Framed by a ’90s-set device where eighteen-year-old Ai-ming tells her family’s history to Marie, the daughter of a family friend, the book spans seventy years in the middle of the twentieth century in China. It covers the effects of the Cultural Revolution on a family, focusing especially on three young musicians at the Shanghai Conservatory, and the ways in which they bend or snap under ideological pressure, depending on their personalities.

Why I picked it: It’s by far the most sophisticated book on the longlist, and could stand as an example of a book that not only attempts the breadth and depth of Barkskins and The Sport of Kings, but fully succeeds—and in fewer pages. Thien’s characters are always people that we care about, and the dilemmas they face are so profound—how do you maintain integrity as an artist under oppression? Is there even a good reason for creating art when people are being killed daily for no reason?—and dealt with in such a mature fashion. I almost wish it hadn’t been as good, because it’s already done well on the Canadian and British prize circuit and it’s time for someone else to have the spotlight, but goddamn, the universal praise is well deserved.

Stay tuned for the shadow panel’s shortlist, to be revealed tomorrow chez Naomi (The Writes of Woman)

Baileys Prize Longlist Reading 5: Proulx

Being a series of short reviews of the Bailey’s Prize longlisted titles I hadn’t read before the announcement. These are mostly hack-jobs, consisting of extrapolations of my reading notes. Luckily I tend to make notes in full sentences. Spoilers ahead.

Barkskins, by Annie Proulx

51qccavjjel-_sx326_bo1204203200_Before we start, let’s be clear about one thing: Barkskins is extravagantly, almost defiantly, flawed. For one thing, it is far too long. Nobody needs 717 pages all at once; I know it is traditional to make exceptions for War and Peace and Clarissa but I am honestly not sure that even they make the most of their unwieldy page count. Barkskins certainly doesn’t need it; it would always have been a big book, mind you, but it could easily have been 200 pages shorter. For another, that length is compounded by Proulx’s tendency to sacrifice depth to breadth, most notably in terms of her characterisation. Characters are introduced, get married, go to seek their fortune, and die choking on river water or crushed by a falling log, all within the space of five pages—not just once, but repeatedly. As the book edges closer to contemporaneity, we’re allowed to focus more on individuals (I think this may also have something to do with the upward trajectory of the average lifespan), but there’s still a lot to keep track of, not least how all of these people relate to one another. (There are two family trees provided, but, for reasons surpassing understanding, they are in the back, so unless you flick through the whole volume first, you won’t know they’re there until it’s far too late.) It is the sort of book that could not have been published without the author being a big enough name to guarantee that it’d be worth it.

And yet, unlike most such books, Barkskins is actually pretty good. Once it settles down and starts focusing for longer stretches on individual characters, we find people who are worth caring about. There is the sexually aggressive Posey, who engineers not only the death of one husband who’s no good to her, but goes on to seduce and marry James Duke, heir to the Duke logging fortune. There is her daughter Lavinia, who from the 1880s onwards runs the business more competently and ruthlessly than any of the men on its board. There is part-Mi’kmaq Jinot Sel, who travels to New Zealand with his employer and patron and is horrified by the naive paternalism shown by whitemen towards the native Maori. (This eventually gets Jinot’s employer killed, which isn’t good news for Jinot either.) Everywhere, for over three hundred years, we are met with two things: the visceral ways in which men (and women) react to forests, and the complacent conviction of whites that they know best, wherever they are, whichever indigenous nation they’re encountering.

Barkskins is a lot like another book on the Baileys Prize longlist, The Sport of Kings, in that it refracts the history of an entire industry in North America through the focusing lens of a family (or two). Barkskins takes a much longer view—it starts in the 1690s and goes all the way up to 2013, where The Sport of Kings only starts in the nineteenth century—but Proulx’s and Morgan’s projects are almost identical. They ask us to see the ways in which racial prejudice is a definitive part of the American identity, and in particular of the business culture that America developed. Where Morgan focuses on the endemic racism of the South created by plantation slavery, Proulx looks much further back: the experience of black Americans is entirely absent from Barkskins, but only because she focuses on the displacement and total destruction of Native American ways of life. Though much of this is achieved through despoiling the natural habitat (I lost count of the number of times characters proclaimed that the forest needed no conservation, because it was infinite—literally too big to fall), a lot of it is also achieved through racial mixing. This starts in generation one, when Charles Duquet and René Sel both have children with Mi’kmaq women in New France (now Canada), and the effects of it continue to be felt for centuries: young men in later generations return to a dying Mi’kmaw village (yes, it’s spelled both ways) headed up by the long-lived patriarch Kuntaw. They’re mixed-race, poor, and looking for a place they can belong, but the old ways are disappearing fast, and there simply aren’t enough Mi’kmaq being born to replace the ones who are dying. It is also interesting to note that the Sels, who never attempt to hide or erase the Native parts of their heritage, develop into a dynasty of lumberjacks: they are professionals and have deep knowledge, but they are the workers. The Duquets, meanwhile—a line which at one point early on seems as though it might run out of boys, prompting Charles Duquet to adopt three from European orphanages—become the Dukes, owners of the greatest logging empire in North America. Their success exists alongside their utter rejection of any whiff of Mi’kmaq in their family’s past. (Proulx also dwells gleefully on the deep irony of a company that prides itself on family ownership and heredity being founded on adoption, a non-blood relationship.)

Proulx isn’t just interested in race fatalism, though; she uses race to comment on environmental choices. Whitemen are baffled by the Native American tendency not to develop and cultivate land, not to “improve” it; most white people genuinely see this as a sign that natives are unfit to live in the country. The Mi’kmaq, meanwhile, as well as representatives of other tribes and nations that we see, cannot understand what whitemen think they are doing: their “improvement” involves slash-and-burn cutting, huge amounts of wasted timber, erosion of topsoil leading to flash floods and landslides, and the total eradication of wildlife, which doesn’t seem much like improvement from an indigenous—or, indeed, sensible contemporary—point of view. Proulx mostly avoids the “magical Indian” stereotypes of inscrutable redmen in touch with the spirit of the forest, but she makes it quite clear that centuries of rapine and our current ecological disaster situation is due to the greed of white people. There’s a grain of hope: near the end of the book, a Duke son begins to take an interest in replanting, and develops a seedling nursery which later becomes a fully-fledged foundation that (in a nice touch) gives a grant to two young Sel descendants to study forestry and participate in a replanting project. And that grain of hope is appropriately complicated by the book’s final page; we want to believe that human ingenuity and determination can fix this problem, but we can’t fix everything.

So, final verdict time. There are awkward parts to Barkskins; quite apart from the length and the often-perfunctory investment in characters, we’re often treated to infodumps in the form of conversation which sounds stilted and silly even for a historical recreation. But overall? It’s surprisingly readable; when we do get the space to care about characters, they’re rounded and vivid; and Proulx’s staggering ambition is in large part repaid by the realism with which she corrals her themes and her loose ends. To be honest, I wouldn’t complain if it ended up on the shortlist. It’s trying to do something immense, and I think that’s worth celebrating.

The Baileys Women’s Prize for Fiction shortlist is announced on 3 April. For more commentary, see the rest of the Shadow Panel: Naomi, Antonia, Meera and Eric. Barkskins is published by 4th Estate, and is available in hardback.