The Books Interview: Craig Raine

You are a poet first and a novelist second, but you have said that Heartbreak is not a "poet's novel". What do you mean by that?
I just mean that most poetry is kind of noble. And there are emotions that everyone knows about, but which don't get into poetry much. I think the novel is a freer space - there are fewer customs restrictions on what you can say. If you wanted to write about tattoos or haemorrhoids, you could do it in a novel rather more easily than you could in poetry.

You have said that you began the novel a decade ago. Had you never tried your hand at novel-writing before that?
No. I've got some short stories that I'm deeply ashamed of hidden away somewhere. They were terrible. They were written by Ernest Hemingway's dyslexic brother - they were awful. My idea was to have a novel that would be a project for my retirement. So, for about a decade, I kept notes. In 2000, I tried to put all these fragments together. I had no idea how to do it, but, in the end, I kind of solved it.

One of your heroes is John Updike. In this novel, you write very lyrically, as Updike has done, about a female character's pudenda.
Everyone says this about Updike. I have a letter somewhere from him - some critic or other had accused him of indulging in descriptions of vaginas - and in his letter to me he says: "As far as I know I've never described a vagina." He has described pubic hairs, but not the actual vulva, I think. When I wrote about that character, I wasn't thinking, "Hello, Updike": I was thinking, "Hello, mons pubis."

What do you think of Updike's poetry?
I don't think he's a great poet. It's always a matter of amazement to me that people think it's incredibly hard to rhyme, that sort of thing. Novelists are thinking: “He just said 'fork', and 'stork' and 'walk'. Bloody hell! His head must be on fire with genius." Obviously poets can do this standing on their heads.

Milan Kundera is another influence.
I think Kundera is a great writer. He's made discoveries that one can use - the mixture of fact and fiction, for instance. What I really learned from him is swiftness. In Kundera, you get what you need and there's no wastage. It's a very lean approach to fiction. I admire it enormously. As for those people who are writing conventional novels - like, say, D J Taylor, turning out another piece of reproduction furniture - no one says of them that they are copying the traditional novel. It seems to me that Kundera is a perfectly respectable antecedent; I think one would be crazy not
to follow him. The other writer who is a huge influence on me is Kipling, whose short stories I admire very, very much.

Didn't you say somewhere that you think Kipling's stories are a match for Chekhov's?
Yes. This is sometimes regarded as an eccentric position by people who haven't read much Chekhov. One of the things about Chekhov is that, although he's wonderful, he is unbelievably repetitive. He repeats himself all the time. You get his best things at least three times. There are no repeats in Kipling.

It seems that another of the tricks you have learned from Kundera is the fusion of novel and essay.
I think this is partly because one of the things I am is a critic. The essayistic parts of the novel are mostly literary criticism of a kind. Literary criticism is second nature to me.George Eliot used to be accused routinely of destroying the fabric of her fiction with her intrusive narration, in which she talks about her characters as though they are real people. In fact, it doesn't make the reality less, it makes it more. If you can move seamlessly from the fictional to the factual, people don't feel too uncomfortable about it; they've already grown to feel comfortable. Then it becomes a way of creating a more perfect illusion.

And one thinks of the digressive, intrusive mode that marks the beginnings of the English novel - Fielding and Sterne, for instance.
Yes, and that's obviously where Kundera comes from. Everything comes from something else; you give it your spin. You couldn't not give it your spin.

Heartbreak is published by Atlantic Books (£12.99)

Jonathan Derbyshire is Managing Editor of Prospect. He was formerly Culture Editor of the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 05 July 2010 issue of the New Statesman, The cult of the generals

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Cake or Death: why The Great British Bake Off is the best thing on television

Those who are complaining that the show has “caved in to political correctness” have missed the point.

The Cake is a Lie. That’s what viewers of the Great British Bake Off, now in its fifth season, are complaining about in the run-up to this week’s final. Out of thousands of amateur bakers who applied, three have made it through the gruelling rounds of Mary Berry’s disapproving pucker and faced down blue-eyed Cake Fascist Paul Hollywood’s demands without a single underbaked layer or soggy bottom in sight - and two of them aren’t white. The subsequent crypto-racist whining from PC-gone-madattrons in the press - one paper suggested that perhaps poor Flora, who was sent home last week, should have baked a "chocolate mosque" - runs against the whole spirit of Bake Off.

The charge is that the competition is not merit-based, and the entire basis for this complaint seems to be that two out of the finalists are of Asian origin - which makes total sense, because everyone knows that white people are better than everyone else at everything, including baking, so obviously it’s political correctness gone mad. The fact that last week Nadiya Hussain, a homemaker from Luton who happens to wear a hijab, baked an entire fucking peacock out of chocolate biscuits had nothing to do with it.

For those of you who mysteriously have better things to do with your time than watch 12 British people prat about in a tent, let me tell you why all of this matters. The best way to explain what's so great about The Great British Bake Off is to compare it to how they do these things across the pond. In America, they have a show called Cupcake Wars, which I gamely tuned into last year whilst living abroad and missing my fix of Sue Perkins getting overexcited about Tart Week. 

Big mistake. Cupcake Wars is nothing at all like Bake Off. Cupcake Wars is a post-Fordian nightmare of overproduction and backstabbing filmed under pounding lights to a sugary version of the Jaws soundtrack. Contestants mutter and scheme over giant vats of violent orange frosting about how they're going to destroy the competition, and they all need the prize money because without it their small cupcake businesses might fold and their children will probably be fed to Donald Trump. Every week a different celebrity guest picks one winner to produce a thousand cupcakes - a thousand cupcakes! - for some fancy party or other, and it’s all just excessive and cutthroat and cruel. Cupcake Wars is Cake Or Death.

Bake Off is quite different. Bake Off is not about the money, or even really about the winning. Bake Off is a magical world of bunting and scones and dapper lesbian comedians making ridiculous puns about buns and gentle, worried people getting in a flap about pastry. There are very few hysterics. Legend has it that if anybody has a real breakdown in the middle of a signature bake, presenters Mel Giedroyc and Sue Perkins stand next to them repeating brand names and swear-words so the cameramen can’t use the footage, and don’t you dare disabuse me of that fact, because I want it to be true. The prize money, in a desperately British way, is almost never mentioned, nobody tries to sabotage anyone else’s puff pastry, and at the end whoever has to leave gives a brave little interview about how it’s a shame but they tried their best and they were just happy to be there and they’re definitely going to do some more baking almost as soon as they get home. 

Bake Off is the theatre of the humdrum, where fussy, nervous people get to be heroes, making macarons as the seas rise and the planet boils and the leaders of the world don't care that they've left the oven on. I’m always a little bit frightened by people who can bake, because I can’t even make a muffin out of a packet, although one danger of watching too much Bake Off is that you become convinced you ought to give it another try, and I apologise to my housemates for making them eat my savoury vegan chilli-chocolate cookies (don’t ask). They say that if you can bake a cake, you can make a bomb, and by that logic I should definitely be kept away from the explosives when the zombie revolution comes- but the Bake Off contestants are probably the sort of people who will be Britain’s last line of defence, quietly constructing landmines and apologising that the stitching on the flag of insurrection isn’t quite perfect. People with this specific and terrifying personality type are that are precisely the reason Britain once had an empire, as well as the reason we’re now rather embarrassed about it. 

For now, though, Bake Off is a gentle human drama about all the best bits of Britishness- and diversity is part of that. In fact, this isn’t even the first time that two out of three finalists have not been white - that was two years ago. But something seems to have changed in British society at large, such that the same scenario is now more enraging to the kind of people who get their jollies from spoiling everything lovely and gentle in this world with casual bigotry - they know who they are, and may their Victoria sponges never rise and all their flatbreads turn out disappointingly chewy.

Britain is getting harder and meaner, and even Bake Off is not immune. In the first season, it was more than enough to bake a half decent brioche. This season an affable fireman got sent home because the grass on his miniature edible Victorian tennis court was not the right shade of green, and I’m not even joking. In one of the challenges the bakers had to produce an arcane french dessert that looked like the turds of a robot angel, and most of them actually managed it. The music is getting more dramatic, the close-up shots of flaky chocolate pastry and oozing pie-lids more reminiscent of 1970s pornography. It’s all a bit much.

The human drama, though, is as perfectly baked as ever. Lovely Flora, the baby of the bunch who missed out on a spot in the final because her chocolate carousel centrepiece was slightly wonky, was actually one of my favourites because she's so deliciously millennial, with her pussy-bow collars and obsessive, Type-A attention to detail. Paul the Prison Officer was a delight, mainly because he looked so much like Paul Hollywood- cue six weeks of two enormous men called Paul having bro-offs over bread, nodding and trading gruff, dudely handshakes over the specific crunchiness of biscotti. One week, Prison Officer Paul produced a giant dough sculpture of a lion's head and Judge Paul gave him a special prize and then they probably went off into a gingerbread sweat lodge together and it was the manliest moment ever in Bake Off history.

This is what Bake Off is about, and that’s why the people who are complaining that something other than merit might have been involved in selecting the finalists have missed the point entirely. The point of Bake Off is not to determine the best amateur baker in the land. That's just the excuse for Bake Off. Even the gentlest TV show needs a vague narrative structure, and otherwise there'd be no tension when someone's blancmange collapses in a heap of eggy foam and broken dreams. But in the end, when all's said and done, it's just cake. If your ornamental biscuit windmill has a soggy bottom, well, nobody died, and you can probably still eat the pieces on your way home to have a cup of tea and a little cry. 

That's the point of Bake Off. None of it really matters, and yet it consistently made me smile during a long, weary summer of geopolitical doomwrangling when absolutely everything else on television was unremitting misery. I hope Nadiya wins, because she’s an adorable dork and I love her and she gets so worried about everything and I want nothing remotely distressing to happen to her, ever; I expect Tamal Ray, the gay doctor whose meat pie had me drooling, is the best baker overall, but I can’t be objective there, because I keep getting distracted by his lovely smile. Ian Cumming, the last white person in the tent (apart from both of the presenters and both of the judges) is a little bit dull, which is a problem, because of all the delicious treats produced on the show, Ian's are the ones I would probably eat the most. I want his tarragon cheesecake in my face immediately. I would just rather have a conversation with Nadiya while I'm doing it.

But at the end of the day, it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter! And that’s the utter, unremitting joy of Bake Off. It’s possibly the last show on earth where in the end, it doesn’t matter who wins, as long as everyone gave it their best shot and had a laugh over a disastrous scrambled-egg chocolate tart or two, because ultimately, it’s just cake. And that’s marvellous. Now let’s all have a nice fat slice of perspective and calm down.


Now listen to a discussion of the Bake Off on the NS pop culture podcast:

Laurie Penny is a contributing editor to the New Statesman. She is the author of five books, most recently Unspeakable Things.