Smacked across the face with a wet Hilsa
Slow-paced, stark modernism in a tale leaves Ditio Syed-Haq disappointed
The Gathering
Anne Enright
Jonathan Cape / Vintage
I must confess to a certain weakness for works of fiction by women authors.
There is a tenderness and intrinsic simplicity in the feminine pen that seldom fails to allure. I must also admit to a long-standing fondness for the Irish, having experienced first-hand their cheerful outlook, inherent friendliness and carefree attitude towards life on numerous occasions over the past twenty years or so. So, it was with more than a touch of exhilaration that I picked up a copy of Anne Enright's 2007 novel The Gathering in my local Waterstone's bookstore. The grey-scale photo of an androgynous face on the front cover staring back at me with haunting eyes of electric blue, a semicircle in the top right corner cheekily proclaiming itself as "Winner of the Man Booker Prize 2007". I was sold. Trembling with excitement, I walked up to the counter and prepared myself for what I had convinced myself would be the story of a lifetime.
Sadly, two hundred and sixty pages and some painfully long hours later, I have to say that The Gathering has been a disappointing read. Not so much to the extent as to call into question my observations regarding women writers and Irish-folk in general, but disappointing nonetheless. The Gathering is a dark and lingering journey into the thoughts of Victoria Hegarty, one of the nine surviving children of the Hegarty clan. The family have gathered in Dublin for the funeral of their alcoholic brother Liam. Victoria does not reveal fully to her siblings the unusual circumstances under which Liam died, or the hidden family secrets that may have led him to take his own life. Much of the plot is presented as back-story in which we are revealed the sequence of events across three generations that converge towards this singular, tragic incident; the remainder focussing on the deeply disturbed and troubled thoughts of the narrator.
Victoria is a woman unable or unwilling to make peace with herself. She has taken to staying up at nights while her husband and children lie asleep upstairs. Dissatisfied with almost every aspect of her life, disdainful towards family, Victoria recounts their numerous failings and, in doing so, stirs up the ghosts of the family past. Largely existential, it presents itself as a study into the workings of a mind in conflict.
But it is not the story itself on which The Gathering lets itself down. This is a genre of novel that has been used extensively and to great effect in the past by the likes of Sylvia Plath and Virginia Woolf. It is let down by the excruciatingly slow pace, linear characterisation and formulaic approach that makes it almost destined to be consigned to the pile of supplementary reading for Literature Under-Grads. For example, the narrator often hints at the strong ties between herself and Liam and yet attempts little more than a hastily-sketched scene at a bus shelter to demonstrate this point. That said, Enright undoubtedly reveals herself as the possessor of a wonderful and vivid imagination, particularly evident in passages where she views the world through the eyes of a child. But imagination alone does not constitute what makes a memorable piece of work.
Even more frustrating is the way in which the text is peppered throughout with literary devices that stand out to the reader simply because they are "being used" rather than adding any discernible value to the body of the prose itself. To give an example, about two-thirds of the way through the book, Enright employs the popular post-modernist technique of dragging the reader out of their thoughts and making them abruptly aware of the fact that they are, in fact, reading words on a page. A good device? Yes, but only if used sparingly and, even then, when necessary. To me it felt as if the prose had reached out an etheric hand to grab me by the throat and exclaim, "Look at me! I'm a literary technique!". It felt like a stranger had come to me in the street and smacked me across the face with a wet Hilsa. Readers will notice many more such devices -- to the rate of at least one per page and to the extent that the studious application of academic technique begins to appear gimmicky.
I must point out that I am not alone in these sentiments -- a quick scan of the reviews on Amazon.co.uk will reveal a general consensus of public opinion in line with the above. One reviewer goes so far as to say, "I watched myself reading this book while thinking about other things", whilst another questions, "Did the judges even read the book?" -- Both of which sum up in far fewer words the point that I have tried to make here.
This raises the important and fundamental question of the basis upon which a work of fiction is deemed worthy of being the recipient of a prestigious and major literary award such as the Man Booker. The judges of such awards, who are largely writers themselves, would do good to bear in mind that it is not they but readers who are the ultimate judge of a work of fiction, and this blindingly simple fact is demonstrated by the embarrassingly poor response to this book.
Had I the (mis)fortune to have been on the editorial board, I would have been tempted to suggest that the title be renamed to "The Grumbling" instead. Feel free to replace this with "Muttering", "Rambling" or any other depressive verb of your choice. If slow-paced, stark modernism is your cup of tea then, by all means, go for it. Otherwise, grab yourselves a copy of Animal's People by Indra Sinha -- an excellent book that was also short-listed for the 2007 Booker but failed to make it through to the end. Perhaps because the judges thought it was far too readable?
Ditio Syed-Haq is a UK-based writer and freelance contributor to the Daily Star.
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