It's a false notion to set 'zippiness' against literary merit. After all, nothing is a good read if it is badly written
Was Jeffrey Archer entered for the 2011 Booker? He had a book out. And this year's judges have explicitly exalted, above all other qualities, that of "readability". Archer is horribly readable. How could they have resisted another of his jaunty, trademark yarns, combining plot twists and utter fatuity in a way that just keeps you ploughing on, despite your better nature and the certainty that virtually any other activity would be a better use of these precious hours of life? For sure, his inclusion would have led to protests but if, as Chris Mullin, one of the judges, has said, "such a big factor" for him is that the novels "had to zip along", nobody could deny that Archer ticks the zippy box, along with hundreds of other authors who might, in previous years, have been given to understand that a total lack of seriousness, along with the inability to write a decent sentence, still constituted powerful obstacles to Booker success.
No longer. Announcing the shortlist, Stella Rimington, the retired spy who is chairman of the judges, said, "We were looking for enjoyable books. I think they are readable books".
Naming no names, this was clearly meant to be a refreshing departure: "We wanted people to buy these books and read them. Not buy them and admire them." Got that, specialists in obscure words, unnecessary convolutions, useless subtleties? Accordingly, the annual Booker protests also have a new look, featuring something more coherent than random indignation. Last week the literary director, Ion Trewin, was not just defending the prize, as per, for ignoring titles that "did not measure up to the judges' exacting standards", but against charges of dumbing down: "What nonsense!"
Really? Man Booker's excellent circus would not be the same without the spectacle of breathtaking snubs and horrifying errors of judgment, but this year's most flagrantly sidelined titles amount, you might think, to a more enticing selection than the actual shortlist – with the brilliant exception of Julian Barnes's The Sense of an Ending (which had the common decency to be succinct and plainly expressed, as well as utterly unsettling). If Barnes once called the contest "posh bingo", this year looks a lot less adventitious. The prospects for Alan Hollinghurst's awesomely accomplished but languidly paced The Stranger's Child, for example, were surely inferior, in a game of zippy-style bingo, to yarns that Chris Mullin's mates would hail as bona fide page-turners. "What people said to me when it was announced I would be on the judging panel", he told journalists, "was, 'I hope you choose something readable this year.'" Alluding to Howard Jacobson? Or was it Hilary Mantel they just could not be doing with? Either way, said the prolific memoirist, the judges did not want books that "stay on the shelf, half-read".
Full piece at The Observer.
No longer. Announcing the shortlist, Stella Rimington, the retired spy who is chairman of the judges, said, "We were looking for enjoyable books. I think they are readable books".
Naming no names, this was clearly meant to be a refreshing departure: "We wanted people to buy these books and read them. Not buy them and admire them." Got that, specialists in obscure words, unnecessary convolutions, useless subtleties? Accordingly, the annual Booker protests also have a new look, featuring something more coherent than random indignation. Last week the literary director, Ion Trewin, was not just defending the prize, as per, for ignoring titles that "did not measure up to the judges' exacting standards", but against charges of dumbing down: "What nonsense!"
Really? Man Booker's excellent circus would not be the same without the spectacle of breathtaking snubs and horrifying errors of judgment, but this year's most flagrantly sidelined titles amount, you might think, to a more enticing selection than the actual shortlist – with the brilliant exception of Julian Barnes's The Sense of an Ending (which had the common decency to be succinct and plainly expressed, as well as utterly unsettling). If Barnes once called the contest "posh bingo", this year looks a lot less adventitious. The prospects for Alan Hollinghurst's awesomely accomplished but languidly paced The Stranger's Child, for example, were surely inferior, in a game of zippy-style bingo, to yarns that Chris Mullin's mates would hail as bona fide page-turners. "What people said to me when it was announced I would be on the judging panel", he told journalists, "was, 'I hope you choose something readable this year.'" Alluding to Howard Jacobson? Or was it Hilary Mantel they just could not be doing with? Either way, said the prolific memoirist, the judges did not want books that "stay on the shelf, half-read".
Full piece at The Observer.
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