Orange Prize for Fiction Shortlist Announced

The Orange Prize shortlist reminds us of the international quality of the award.

This year's Orange Prize for fiction shortlist (announced this morning) has boasts an international quality that reminds of the Orange Prize's aim of celebrating fiction from "throughout the world" -- the six shortlisted writers hold six nationalities between them: Serbian, American, Canadian, British, Sierra Leonean and Irish.

Emma Donoghue - Room; Picador

Aminatta Forna - The Memory of Love; Bloomsbury

Emma Henderson - Grace Williams Says it Loud; Sceptre

Nicole Krauss - Great House; Viking

Téa Obreht - The Tiger's Wife; Weidenfeld & Nicolson

Kathleen Winter - Annabel; Jonathan Cape

Whereas Henderson, Obreht and Winter have all been shortlisted on the strength of first novels, Emma Donoghue's Room is the 7th novel of the self-proclaimed "novice to the world of big prizes" (see her interview with Jonathan Derbyshire in an October 2010 issue of NS). Alongside a coveted place on the Man Booker shortlist, Room has already won cross-Atlantic awards in the Hughes&Hughes Irish Novel of the Year, and the Rogers Writers' Trust Fiction Prize for Best Canadian Novel.

Aminatta Forna's second novel is also proving to be worthy of international acclaim, having already won the Commonwealth Writers' Prize 2011. Forna is known as a documentary-maker as well as a novelist, having made three films about the African continent (Through African Eyes (1995), Africa Unmasked (2002) and The Lost Libraries of Timbuktu (2009).)

Nicole Krauss, whose third novel has already been decorated with 2010 National Book Award, is famously multi-national -- although being born in New York to an English mother and American father, her maternal grandparents were German and Ukrainian, and her paternal grandparents Hungarian and Belarusian (they met in Israel). Yugoslavian-born Tea Obreht, meanwhile, spent her childhood in Cyprus and Egypt, before emmigrating to America in 1997.

Kathleen Winter lives in Canada, and beginning her career as a script-writer on Sesame Street, progressed to writing short stories (for which she won prizes). Annabel has previously been shortlisted for the Scotiabank Giller Prize, the Rogers Writers' Trust Fiction Prize and the 2010 Governor General's Awards (all Canadian awards).

Emma Henderson breaks the international trend by being born in London. Despite a brief spell in France, she still lives in London. Nevertheless, her novel was shortlisted for both the Commonwealth Writers Prize in the Best First Book category and for the Wellcome Trust Book Prize 2010.

This year's winner will be announced at the Royal Festival Hall in London on 8 June.

Photo: Prime Images
Show Hide image

The Sad Part Was: this story collection puts the real Bangkok on display

Thai author Prabda Yoon descends into the voices and minds of a small cast of characters.

In Bangkok’s budding literary scene, Prabda Yoon sits at the centre. Born in 1973, he’s the scion of a well-known family (his father Suthichai Sae-Yoon is the co-founder of the Nation newspaper) and is known in Thailand as not only an enfant terrible of letters but as an illustrator, screen-writer and director (his first film, Motel Mist, was shown at European festivals in 2016).

His reputation rests mainly on a collection of short stories published in 2000 entitled in Thai Kwam Na Ja Pen, roughly translated as Probability, and it is from this early collection that most of the stories now collected in The Sad Part Was are derived. Translated with cool elegance by Mui Poopoksakul, they are among the first modern Thai stories to be published in the UK.

As Poopoksakul points out in her afterword, she and Yoon are the products of similar backgrounds and epochs: upper-middle class children of Bangkok who came to consciousness in the late Eighties and Nineties. Often foreign-educated, fluent in English and conversant in global pop culture and media – Yoon did a stint at Parsons in New York after prep school at the Cambridge School of Weston – this new generation of Thai writers and artists were born into a society changing so fast that they had to virtually invent a new language to transcribe it.

In The Sad Part Was, the result is stories that one could glibly label as “post-modern” but which, in reality, perfectly match the qualities of the megacity where they are set. Bangkok is infamously mired in lurid contradiction, but it’s also a city of subtle and distorted moods that journalism and film have hitherto mostly failed to capture. The whimsical and playful surfaces of these stories have to be read against the high-octane anxieties and surreal dislocations of what was, until recently, one of the fastest-growing cities in the world.

Yoon uses the short form of the ten-page story to descend into the voices and minds of a small cast of characters: a schoolgirl and a beautiful female teacher who form a platonic lesbian infatuation while riding a daily bus in “Miss Space”; a couple making love during a thunderstorm whose activities are interrupted by the dismantling of two giant letters, which fall onto their roof in “Something in the Air”; a young man who meets a mysterious older man in Lumpini Park called Ei Ploang, who forces him to consider the intertwined nature of good and evil. In “Snow for Mother”, a mother waits for her little boy to grow up so that she can take him to Alaska to experience the real snow, which he never knew as a little boy in the tropics.

In “The Sharp Sleeper”, a man named Natee obsesses over losing his shirt buttons and is led into a strange reverie on the nature of dreams and the competing qualities of red and yellow pyjama shirts (Thailand’s political culture is riven by two parties popularly known as Red and Yellow Shirts). The commentary slips into effortless sarcasm:

Natee has proudly worn the red pyjama shirt several times since then, and his dream personality hasn’t altered at all. On the contrary, the shirt has encouraged him to become a man of conviction in his waking life. As to what those convictions were supposed to be, Natee wasn’t quite sure. But it was safe to say that a night shirt so principled wouldn’t drop a button so easily.

Since these stories were written, Bangkok’s political schizophrenia has lost its former air of apathy and innocence, but Yoon’s tone is quietly prescient about the eruption of violent irrationality a few years later. It’s a reminder how precious the subtlety of fiction is when set against the shrill certitudes of activism and reportage.

My favorite story here is “Something in the Air”. Its dialogues are written with hilariously archaic, bureaucratic formality, while delving into the disorientation of sexual and romantic hopes in the present century. After the couple’s love-making is interrupted, the young man suggests insolently to the woman that they resume in the open air, exposed to the furious elements. She agrees. They then notice that a dead body is lying on the roof nearby, crushed by the giant letters.

While waiting for the police to arrive, the woman sits quietly and describes her future, a happily married future in which her current lover will play no part whatsoever. He listens in melancholy astonishment until the couple are called to give their testimonies about the dead man. The officers then suspect that the couple themselves have done something scandalous – and so, stung by shame, the woman considers breaking off the relationship and setting in motion her own prophesy.

The Sad Part Was is unique in the contemporary literature of Bangkok – it doesn’t feature bar girls, white men, gangsters or scenes redolent of The Hangover Part II. Instead it reveals, sotto voce, the Thai voices that are swept up in their own city’s wild confusion and energy, and it does so obliquely, by a technique of partial revelation always susceptible to tenderness.

Lawrence Osborne is a British novelist living in Bangkok. His next book, “Beautiful Animals”, will be published by Hogarth in August

The Sad Part Was
Prabda Yoon
Tilted Axis Press, 192pp, £8.99

This article first appeared in the 20 July 2017 issue of the New Statesman, The new world disorder