The Books Interview: Jasper Fforde

The author of the <i>Thursday Next</i> novels in conversation.

Have you ever spoken to any of the 76 people who rejected your first book, The Eyre Affair?

No, not really, and it doesn't matter. Speak to any editor and ask them what they turned down and they'll have long lists of books. My first editor passed on [Alex Garland's bestseller] The Beach. It's not bad form, just unlucky. And with the kind of work I do, I'm not surprised -- in précis, it looks like batty nonsense that wouldn't sell a single copy. It took me ten years to get published and I realised then that it would take me ten years to get established.

How do you begin writing a novel?

What I tend to do is give myself a narrative "dare" and challenge myself to write my way out of it. In the Nursery Crime series, it was: "Humpty-Dumpty is a large egg who's murdered" -- OK, make that believable. With The Eyre Affair, it was: "Create a world in which Jane Eyre can be kidnapped." One of the short stories I wrote back in the 1980s was all about a world that was black and white and you had to have the colour synthetically piped to plants. That was the jumping-off point for Shades of Grey.

What's your writing routine?

A standard Thursday Next book takes 100 days, typically spread out over six months, and that brings forth about 100,000 words. Having a two-year-old and a baby, I find it hard to closet myself away and write. My wife understands that sitting in my office and staring into space is actually work but we're rebuilding the house so I can't closet myself away at the moment. I find myself working until 4am -- so that I have time when the phones aren't ringing and there are no emails or builders asking me what shape roof I want.

You worked in the film industry before writing novels full-time. Did you ever consider writing a screenplay?

I did [write one] -- I thought it was good but it completely failed to light anyone's fire. Everyone in the film industry wants to be a director so I was trying to write scripts for years because the one thing you can do is write your way in. I heard that Graham Greene used to write long treatments, which were short stories of 8,000-10,000 words, which he then used to turn into film scripts because it allowed him to get to grips with the characters and situations. He did this famously with The Third Man -- the novel is in fact his elongated treatment, which he then changed into the film script.

So I started writing short stories which were supposed to be treatments . . . but then I found that the short stories were far more enjoyable and one of them turned into a novel -- and here I am as a novelist, when all I wanted to do was direct movies.

The Toad News section on Jasperfforde.com is bitingly satirical. Are you a political person?

When you're an author, you're always two people. Jasper the writer is different from Jasper the person at home. I don't want to be preachy but with Toad News I can vent as much as I want and it doesn't matter. I hope that in my books there's an undertone of politics, basic tenets of how we should live.

Do you have a favourite author?

Not really. I like non-fiction. I don't have a favourite author and I think that's healthy because I tend to regard genre as the measles of the book world. People do tend to stick to fantasy, or science fiction, and there's something wrong with that. I was hoping, deep down, that my books would end up as a Grand Central [Station] for readers -- you'd arrive on a fantasy train and go out on a science-fiction train. I get emails from people who've come to the books from sci-fi and they're now working their way through Austen.

Are there any classics you've alluded to in your work that you haven't read?

Oh, lots! That's the problem: I read but I'm not fantastically well read. So once I've used up the very obvious ones, such as Alice in Wonderland -- and my books are very hungry for ideas -- I have to start searching around and pulling up précis and looking up references. We were a Brontë family rather than an Austen family (it's like Asterix and Tintin -- you can be one or the other but not both), so I'd never read any Austen until quite recently. Now I get to read all these classics that I didn't have time for earlier.
Interview by Helen Lewis-Hasteley

Helen Lewis is deputy editor of the New Statesman. She has presented BBC Radio 4’s Week in Westminster and is a regular panellist on BBC1’s Sunday Politics.

This article first appeared in the 07 February 2011 issue of the New Statesman, The New Arab Revolt

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In Kid Gloves, Knausgaardian style provides a route through a writer's grief

Adam Mars-Jones has created a clever, stoical and cool account of caring for a dying father.

In bookish circles, it’s pretty commonplace these days to remark on the way in which the spirit of the Norwegian writer Karl Ove Knausgaard hangs over our literary culture – noxious gas or enlivening blast of ­oxygen, depending on your point of view. Nor would I be the first critic to point out the similarities between his prolixity and that of the British novelist Adam Mars-Jones. Reviewing Knausgaard’s My Struggle in the New Yorker, James Wood likened its style – “hundreds of pages of autopsied minutiae” – to that of Mars-Jones’s novels Pilcrow and Cedilla, the first two volumes in a thus far unfinished project in “micro-realism”. But originality be damned: I’m going to say it anyway. As I read Mars-Jones’s new memoir, Kid Gloves: a Voyage Round My Father, it was Knausgaard I thought of repeatedly. Mostly, this was because I simply couldn’t believe I was so fascinated by a book that was at times so very boring.

Mars-Jones is by far the more elegant writer of the two. He is also feline where Knausgaard is only wide-eyed. Nevertheless, they clamber (slowly and with many pauses to consider the view) over comparable territory. What, after all, is Knausgaard’s account of the effect of milk on a bowl of ­cereal compared to Mars-Jones’s disquisition on the subject of orange juice? The Norwegian’s reverie is the longer of the two but it is Mars-Jones who is the more triumphantly banal. “Shopping on a Monday I saw a wide variety of types of orange juice on display in a supermarket and bought large quantities,” he writes early on. I love that “Monday” – it’s so precise. But it also prompts the question: which supermarket, exactly, was he in? Was it the same “large branch of Sainsbury’s” where, three paragraphs later, we find him picking up a carton of buttermilk?

You will think that I am taking the piss. I’m not – or not entirely. For all its pedantic weirdness, Mars-Jones’s memoir, clotted and rich and true, does its job rather well. As the subtitle suggests, at its heart is his tricky relationship with Sir William Mars-Jones, the high court judge who died in 1999. A clever man but also a difficult one (having made a bit of a leap in terms of education and social class, he clung rather ardently to certain comforting reflexes), he is brought to life vividly by his son, who often simply replays their most frustrating conversations. In doing so, Mars-Jones, Jr also tells us something of himself. He comes over as a bit silly and fastidious but also as clever, stoical, kindly and, above all, ever cool in the face of provocation. In this light, his Pooterish digressions are just another symptom of his unnervingly temperate personality, his clinical even-handedness.

His memoir is oddly artless, the stories tumbling out, one after another, like washing pulled from a machine. An account of his father’s better-known cases (he prosecuted in the Moors murders trial) shades into a detour on soup-making; an analysis of Sir William’s retirement – he gravitated, his son writes, towards the state of “inanition” – takes us, almost slyly, to an explanation of why Mars-Jones tenderly associates Badedas with shingles (a friend who had yet to discover he had Aids, of which shingles can be a symptom, bathed in it).

The reader waits, and waits, for the big scene, for the moment when Mars-Jones tells his father, a regular kind of homophobe, that he is gay. But in a strange way (it does arrive eventually) this is beside the point. From the outset, we know that it was Adam, not his brothers, who looked after his widowed father in his last days, sharing his flat in Gray’s Inn Square; so we know already that an accommodation has been reached, however horrifying Pater’s reaction was at the time. (Mars-Jones, Sr suggested that his son could not possibly be gay because, as a boy, he played with himself during a film starring Jacqueline Bisset; more cruelly, he delegated his clerk to research the possibilities of testosterone treatment for his son.) In any case, there is a universality here: for which of us, gay or not, hasn’t trembled on hearing our mother say, down the line from home, the dread phrase “Dad would like a word”?

After his father’s death, Mars-Jones attempts to continue to live in his parents’ home, insisting that the inn will have to evict him if it wants him gone. When it does turf him out, he writes a piece for the Times in which he denounces its members – in ­effect, his parents’ friends and neighbours. Is this just the response of a more than usually broke freelance writer? Or is it that of a man in deep grief?

Perhaps it’s both. Mars-Jones tells us quite a bit about his parlous finances but relatively little of his feelings of abandonment. He was closer to his mother. It is more than 15 years since his father died. And yet, here it is, his book. Those Knausgaardian impulses of his – perhaps they’re just displacement for his loss, word-fill for a void so unfathomably big that it still takes him by surprise, even now. 

Kid Gloves: a Voyage Round My Father is available now from Particular Books (£16.99)

Rachel Cooke trained as a reporter on The Sunday Times. She is now a writer at The Observer. In the 2006 British Press Awards, she was named Interviewer of the Year.

This article first appeared in the 27 August 2015 issue of the New Statesman, Isis and the new barbarism