The White Tiger and Portillo's Socks

The judges of this year’s Booker prize said from the outset they would reward good story telling. “We were looking for a book that would knock our socks off,” said Chairman of the judges, Michael Portillo. Aravind Adiga’s extraordinary first novel, ‘The White Tiger’, it would appear, did just that.

Many have described this as a surprising win. Certainly it will have surprised the six amateur arbiters of literary merit that met in Homer on 9 October to review the shortlist – only days before the real judges would convene for their final deliberations. ‘The White Tiger’ garnered only one vote among us – with most going to Amitav Ghosh’s ‘Sea of Poppies’.

But, while there may have been surprise, there will have been little disappointment. Of the six books we read, four – the tiger among them - were deemed to deliver in spades on the judges’ ‘damn good read’ criteria. Perhaps Poppies won out because, as its supporter among us pointed out, "it gives a very thorough description of the pleasures of opium”. It seems those pleasures are many and that we were all keen to find out about them. Hmmm…

I had better confess immediately that our performance as ‘alternative judges’ was less than robust. We gave ourselves a very relaxed time of it, reading only one of the short listed novels each and then providing our co-readers with a review that, while it was as honest as we could make it, could hardly fail to be partisan. If we’re honest, we were probably influenced as much by the passion of each book’s supporter than by the books themselves.

So, what did we have to say about the shortlist?
The ones we loved….

‘The Secret Scripture’, Sebastian Barry: A compassionate study of one woman’s life through her own reminiscences and those of her psychiatrist. Our reader loved its fine lyrical writing, which complemented a sensitive investigation of the accuracy, power and, ultimately, truth, of memory.

‘The Sea of Poppies’, Amitav Ghosh: An absolute page turner with lashings of sex, drugs – and swash buckling adventure standing in for rock n roll. Good Lord, does that sound like a Booker winner? No, thought not. Wishful thinking on our part then. We wanted it to win but thought it wouldn’t - disadvantaged by being only the first part in a trilogy.

‘The Clothes on Their Backs’, Linda Grant: A book about a woman’s relationship with clothes…? You’d imagine a limited audience for this one. But you’d be wrong. Grant’s obsession with shirts and skirts disguises deeper concerns. Clothes, they say, ‘maketh the man’ but, for Grant, they are little more than ciphers for the personalities we adopt for survival. A powerful examination of alternative responses to suffering and loss.

‘The White Tiger’, Aravind Adega: A polemic for 21st century India; angry, honest and funny with a compelling anti-hero who wins our favour despite being a murderous villain.

The ones we hated…

‘The Northern Clemency’, Philip Hensher: The fly cover compares this to the great Russian novels of Dostoyevsky. We were perplexed. “This book is to literature what blancmange is to fine dining,” complained our reader. “Bland to taste and with no nutritional value whatsoever.”

‘Fraction of the Whole’, Steve Toltz: Too clever by half, we thought. This examination of that perennial favourite for introverted young male authors (yawn) - the father/son relationship - left our reader so cold she couldn’t even bear to finish it. Tsk, tsk!

So, did Booker 2008 deliver on its ‘rollicking good read’ promise? Certainly the four we favoured all had great narrative energy. None were the ‘difficult but rewarding’ reads that we normally associate with Booker winners (take your medicine, its good for you). But, blessedly, they each delivered something more. It seemed to me; as I listened to our readers describe them, that they shared and were set apart by their ability to throw fresh light on the human condition, and to describe with compassion the impact of history - both personal and global - on the human heart, mind and spirit.

‘The White Tiger’ surprised us, but pleasantly so I think. And it seemed to surprise most of the critics, too – when will they learn not to underestimate the wisdom of youth? But the thing that surprised me most was that a panel of judges led by Mr Portillo, of all people, would hand the Booker accolade to such a brazenly anti-capitalist book. So, (and here come four words I never expected to use in the same sentence) well done Mr Portillo. I even feel inclined to buy you a new pair of socks!

Annie Garthwaite

Helen Wendy Cooper - The Shapeland Books

Helen Wendy Cooper, author of the popular children's series Shapeland, was in the bookshop with Silly Samuel Square on Saturday morning.

The Booker Supper

Deaf Africa Fund (DAF) Charity Fund Raising Supper

Heartfelt thanks to everyone who helped make our charity fund-raising supper at the Bilash restaurant so successful. Thanks to the generosity and hard work of Ram, Tor's generous gift, and everyone who bought tickets or came on the night, we have made £1000 for the Deaf Africa Fund. An amazing achievement and great fun!

Miss Woodford, the charity's founder, returns to Africa on 20/10/08. We wish her a safe journey and a productive trip; we will keep you updated as to how the money has been used.

Deaf Africa works to support deaf children in the east and horn of Africa by providing training, schools, and opportunities for deaf young people to gain the skills they need to lead active and productive lives. If you would like to help in any way, please contact the bookshop and we will forward your details to the charity.



















You can also by charity Christmas cards published by NB Cards to support the work of DAF; visit http://www.nbcardsltd.co.uk/xmas.htm or call in at the shop.

Gillian Carke - National Poet of Wales

The evening with Gillian Clarke was the quiet delight of a lifetime. Her uncertainty about her confidence to interest and entertain a 100-strong audience proved unfounded. Despite my familiarity with much of her work, I found myself entranced immediately by her easy company and overt enthusiasm for all aspects of poetry.
My active interest in Gillian's work has spanned some 25 years since I first encountered "Letter from a far country" when I was an environmental studies student in North Wales in the late 80s. It was thus a rare and very welcome chance to witness the poet speaking candidly and poignantly about her work and her life in Wales and in the wider world (inc. the Soviet Union)!
Amongst the many memorable glimpses of her family and her upbringing which she described, being a witness at a motorcycle accident and her portrayal of her Auntie Phyllis stand out most prominently for me. It was, of course, a distinct pleasure, also to hear as yet unpublished material as well as some heart-warming (and always slightly uncomfortable) favourites.
Gillian was, I believe, truly overawed not only by the turnout but also by the longevity her work has enjoyed.
It was my final pleasure of the evening that she signed for me her latest prose work "At the source" and dedicated and signed a copy of "Letter from a far country" for my Milanese student of English who (like us, in anticipation of "A recipe for water") doesn't know what wonderful poetry is coming her way.

Andy Strang
5.10.08

Jackie Kay at the Guild Hall

“There’s this poet reading at the Guildhall, Friday night...” So you know what that will be like. Lots of obscure references and foreign words, some introvert mumbling into the night because they’ve got no home to go to.
Wrong. Jackie Kay is not like that. She’s lively, outgoing, endlessly enthusiastic about writing, reading and meeting people. I first encountered her ten years ago, and everyone I know who’s met her since, on courses, at workshops, at readings, has responded in the same way to her energy and warmth.
She writes rhyming poems for kids, and there’s a comic epic about Ma Broon and colonic irrigation, which she read in a rich Glasgow accent. She paused in the middle of reading one story, at the line “I’m not interested in spreading a banana on another man’s toast” to say – “Oops, that come out sounding worse than I intended.” And from a writing point of view, she’s been lucky with her background – born black, of African parents, adopted by white Scottish communists, with a father passionate about Bessie Smith. It’s material to die for.
But she makes the most of it. The poem that made her famous was The Adoption Papers, a wise, witty exploration through three voices of what adoption means to three of the people involved. One of the highlights of Friday’s reading for me was Pride, a long poem in which she’s on a train, and a fellow passenger stares at her, sure that she’s of Ibo descent. She is, and went to Nigeria to trace her birth father, to whom she was a guilty embarrassment. He wanted nothing to do with her.
So it’s not all laughs. There are searing love poems, like Spare Room, where a lover senses the increasing distance between her and her partner. There were audible gasps in the audience, as the full brutality of intimate betrayal sank in. And then there’s The Lamplighter, a full length radio play for four voices about the slave trade. This is her most recent publication – as she signed my copy she made me kiss the book, because this was absolutely the first one to be sold.
If you heard it on Radio 3 you’ll know what I’m talking about. The plan was for Jackie Kay to read from it at this reading, but that would have made a less varied and entertaining evening, and the one extract she did perform clearly cost her a lot. But you haven’t missed out; for less than ten pounds you get a copy of the script, and a CD of the broadcast, so my detached, impersonal recommendation is to grab it while stocks last.
All through the evening Jackie Kay would throw out odd jokes, reminiscences, friendly comments about audience reaction. At one point she paused reflectively, musing “Who knows, we can ponder these things…” But the aside that seemed to linger was her enthusiasm about the Guildhall, and the audience. Looking around she said “Hey, we could have a poetry lock-in.” It was a great joke, but after she’d stopped laughing Anna seemed to be thinking, plotting maybe. Watch this space…

Paul Francis 21.9.08

Rose Tremain Orange Prize Dinner

Winning this year’s Orange Prize for her novel ‘The Road Home’ has brought Rose Tremain a level of critical acclaim and public attention that many of her loyal readers consider long over due. On Friday 29 August a mixed bag of Tremain aficionados and new readers met at the home of Marilyn and Patrick Pietroni to discuss the merits and the appeal of her account of the immigrant experience in Britain. The discussion, like the excellent supper provided by our hosts, was full flavoured, nourishing fare that worked as well to pique the appetite as to satisfy it.

Few punches were pulled as people spoke with frankness and in equal measure about both the novel’s universal appeal and the magnitude of its failings. The former, I believe it’s true to say, focused chiefly upon the subject matter, the latter the writerly success with which Tremain explored it.

Tremain has chosen a subject which can hardly fail to compel – the experience of the outsider in search of a new future. Her hero Lev, of undetermined Eastern European origin, is presented as a kind of universal every man, whose odyssey reveals the weaknesses and hypocrisies of a society where the fear of difference frequently reveals itself as active hostility or – worse still, perhaps – passive neglect.

But there were concerns among the group as to how honest an account of migrant life Tremain actually offers. While many of the stock images of the migrant experience are there – accidental arrests, misunderstandings of language and intent, impoverished working environments, exploitation and patronisation – many felt that the tale lacked the gritty realism needed to make it credible. After all, though Lev endures his share of hardships, he triumphs in the end. And he is aided along the way by a series of beneficent supporters who’s tendency to pop up exactly when they’re most needed stretched the credulity of at least this cynical reader. All in all, one can’t help but be left with the feeling that the migrant experience isn’t all that bad, actually, as Lev makes the transformation from displaced worker to capitalist entrepreneur with surprising ease. His experience is, in the long run, a tacit reinforcement of ‘on yer bike’ cultural values that Normal Tebbitt (remember him?) would have recognised and applauded.

Fortunately, the journey from Baryn to London and back again isn’t the only one that Lev makes and, to the minds of many in the group, it is the second journey which Tremain describes with more profound insight and genuine empathy. Lev’s real journey home is the journey back from loss to belonging. As the novel opens Lev has lost his love, his livelihood and his home. With them, has gone his sense of worth. As the bus carries him relentlessly across Europe he is leaving behind all that has anchored him to the past and motivated his expectations for the future. His greatest ambition now is only to survive and to endure.

That he finally discovers within himself the ability to begin again, to turn a barren (Baryn) existence into one that promises new life, not just for him, but for his small community of family and friends, is Lev’s real triumph. And it is the account of this second journey which is Tremain’s real achievement.

So, all in all, we agreed to acknowledge but set aside concerns about the believability of some of the books minor characters, the stereotypical depiction of the London arts scene and the novel’s sometimes creaky narrative infrastructure to conclude that Tremain has written a good book, though not a great one.

On whether it was a worthy winner of the Orange we were divided. There was a general feeling amongst those who had read Tremain extensively that she has produced other novels with greater merit. Having not read them, I cannot say. Yet, I have a sneaking suspicion that it was Tremain’s subject matter, rather than the quality of her writing, that captured the judges’ attention in this case. Perhaps they, like so many of us, want to believe we’re not such a bad lot after all, that we understand the plight of the outsider and behave differently – and better – than our fellows. In doing so, however, do they run the risk of turning Tremain’s book into a politically correct fashion accessory, rather as Sophie made of Lev when she paraded him, uncomfortable in his too-expensive suede jacket, to boost her own kudos among her literary friends.

Annie Garthwaite.

Beth and Harriet

Perched behind the counter, Harriet and big sister Beth turn up to give a hand with returns: we're zipping through it! What with two extra pairs of hands AND the "batch returns facility" we'll be done in a day! Progress indeed.