Wish You Were Here

Wish You Were Here
Graham Swift
Picador, 256pp, £18.99

Graham Swift's novels are symphonies of inarticulacy. Each of his three previous works of fiction - Last Orders, which won the Booker Prize in 1996, The Light of Day (2003) and Tomorrow (2007) - is narrated in the first person, using the clichés, solecisms and crabbed cadences of everyday speech. His latest novel is told in the third person not the first, but its protagonist, a Devon farmer turned Isle of Wight caravan-park proprietor named Jack Luxton (from whose standpoint the narrative unfolds), has a characteristically tortured and decidedly unliterary relationship to language.

At the end of one of the book's most moving set pieces, in which the body of Jack's younger brother, Tom, is "repatriated" from Iraq to RAF Lyneham, he fantasises about delivering a eulogy in front of the top brass who have gathered to greet the fallen soldier's coffin. "But it wouldn't have worked . . . because Jack Luxton could never have got up to make a speech - before lords, ladies and colonels - even to save his own damn life."

But Jack's wife, Ellie, who persuaded him to sell the farm in Devon he had inherited from his father and take over the Lookout caravan park, is a virtuoso of the ready-made phrase. She takes pride in flourishing such formulations as "steep learning curve" or "cream on the cake", as if these were emblems of distinction - though, in truth, they limn the narrowness of her horizons as surely as Jack's infelicities and hesitations do his.

As in Swift's earlier novels, the characters here are confined not just by their language but by their locale. Wish You Were Here is rooted as firmly in a corner of north Devon (and then the Isle of Wight) as Last Orders is in south-east London, or The Light of Day in SW19. Reflecting on his and Ellie's taste, acquired in their thirties, for holidaying in the Caribbean, Jack thinks: "Once upon a time . . . the notion of being anywhere other than England would have seemed totally crazy to [him]." (The novel is structured around a series of attempts to flee, some more successful than others: Tom's flight to the army; the suicide of the boys' father, Michael, in despair at the ravages of foot-and-mouth disease; Ellie's delirious jaunt as an adolescent in her father's Land Rover; her and Jack's subsequent decision to sell up and move south.)

We expect a glib phrase such as "Once up­­on a time" to fall from the lips of someone like Jack. What is less expected is his habit of unpacking his language for himself. When he insists that his brother's funeral be a private affair, in contrast to the very public repatriation, he sees that "private is a treacherous word". Is it plausible that such a thought would occur to someone whose utterances are so impoverished?

Swift's uncertain grasp of free indirect style makes it hard to work out if this is Jack's thought or the narrator's. He once wrote that, as a novelist who gives up so much to his characters, "you are vital to the whole enterprise . . . yet you are also redundant". Perhaps he is beginning to tire of being invisible.

Jonathan Derbyshire is culture editor of the New Statesman

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

This article first appeared in the 13 June 2011 issue of the New Statesman, Rowan Williams guest edit

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Bohemian rhapsody: Jeanette Winterson’s “cover version” of The Winter’s Tale

 Jeanette Winterson's The Gap of Time is full of metaphorical riches.

Shakespeare – that magpie plunderer of other people’s plots and characters – would undoubtedly have approved. The Hogarth Shakespeare project invites prominent contemporary writers to rework his plays in novelistic form and this is Jeanette Winterson’s reimagining of The Winter’s Tale. Like the original, it shuttles disturbingly between worlds, cultures and emotional registers. It has never been an easy play, for all its apparent focus on reconciliation, and Winterson handles the gear-changes with skill, moving between the offices of Sicilia, a London-based asset-stripping company, and New Bohemia, a New Orleans-like American urban landscape (with interludes in both a virtual and a real Paris).

Her Leontes is a hedge-fund speculator, Polixenes a visionary designer of screen games (the presence of this world echoes the unsettling semi-magic of Shakespeare’s plot). They have a brief and uncomfortable history as teenage lovers at school and Polixenes – Xeno – has also slept with MiMi (Hermione), the French-American singer who eventually marries Leo.

The story unfolds very much as in the play (though Winterson cannot quite reproduce the effect of Shakespeare’s best-known deadpan stage direction), with Leo using advanced surveillance technology to spy on Xeno and MiMi, and Perdita being spirited away across the Atlantic to the US, where her guardian, Tony, is mugged and killed and she is left in the “baby hatch” of a local hospital – to be found by Shep and his son and brought up in their affectionate, chaotic African-American household. Perdita falls in love with Zel, the estranged son of Xeno, discovers her parentage, returns to London and meets Leo; Leo’s PA, Pauline, has kept in contact across the years with MiMi, a recluse in Paris, and persuades her to return secretly to give a surprise performance at the Roundhouse, when Leo is in the audience, and – well, as in the play, the ending is both definitive and enormously unsettling. “So we leave them now, in the theatre, with the music. I was sitting at the back, waiting to see what would happen.”

That last touch, bringing the author into the narrative in the same apparently arbitrary way we find in a text such as Dostoevsky’s Demons – as a “real” but imperfect witness – gently underlines the personal importance of the play to this particular author. Winterson is explicit about the resonance of this drama for an adopted child and one of the finest passages in the book is a two-page meditation on losing and finding: a process she speculates began with the primordial moment of the moon’s separation from the earth, a lost partner, “pale, lonely, watchful, present, unsocial, inspired. Earth’s autistic twin.”

It is the deep foundation of all the stories of lost paradises and voyages away from home. As the moon controls the tides, balances the earth’s motion by its gravitational pull, so the sense of what is lost pervades every serious, every heart-involving moment of our lives. It is a beautifully worked conceit, a fertile metaphor. The story of a child lost and found is a way of sounding the depths of human imagination, as if all our longing and emotional pain were a consequence of some buried sense of being separated from a home that we can’t ever ­remember. If tragedy is the attempt to tell the story of loss without collapse, all story­telling has some dimension of the tragic, reaching for what is for ever separated by the “gap of time”.

Winterson’s text is full of metaphorical riches. She writes with acute visual sensibility (from the first pages, with their description of a hailstorm in a city street) and this is one of the book’s best things. There are also plenty of incidental felicities: Xeno is designing a game in which time can be arrested, put on hold, accelerated, and so on, and the narrative exhibits something of this shuttling and mixing – most effectively in the 130-page pause between the moment when Milo (Shakespeare’s Mamilius, Leo’s and MiMi’s son) slips away from his father at an airport and the fatal accident that follows. In the play, Mamilius’s death is a disturbing silence behind the rest of the drama, never alluded to, never healed or reconciled; here, Milo’s absence in this long “gap of time” sustains a pedal of unease that has rather the same effect and the revelation of his death, picking up the narrative exactly where it had broken off, is both unsurprising and shocking.

Recurrent motifs are handled with subtlety, especially the theme of “falling”; a song of MiMi’s alludes to Gérard de Nerval’s image of an angel falling into the gap between houses in Paris, not being able to fly away without destroying the street and withering into death. The convergence and crucial difference between falling and failing, falling in love and the “fall” of the human race – all these are woven together hauntingly, reflecting, perhaps, Shakespeare’s exploration in the play of Leontes’s terror of the physical, of the final fall into time and flesh that unreserved love represents.

A book of considerable beauty, then, if not without its problems. MiMi somehow lacks the full angry dignity of Hermione and Leo is a bit too much of a caricature of the heartless, hyper-masculine City trader. His psychoanalyst is a cartoon figure and Pauline’s Yiddish folksiness – although flagged in the text as consciously exaggerated – is a bit overdone.

How a contemporary version can fully handle the pitch of the uncanny in Shakespeare’s final scene, with the “reanimation” of Hermione, is anyone’s guess (the Bible is not wrong to associate the earliest story of the resurrection with terror as much as joy). Winterson does a valiant job and passes seamlessly into a moving and intensely suggestive ending but I was not quite convinced on first reading that her reanimation had done justice to the original.

However, weigh against this the real success of the New Bohemia scenes as a thoroughly convincing modern “pastoral” and the equally successful use of Xeno’s creation of virtual worlds in his games as a way of underlining Shakespeare’s strong hints in the play that art, with its aura of transgression, excess, forbidden magic, and so on, may be our only route to nature. Dream, surprise and new creation are what tell us what is actually there, if only we could see. Winterson’s fiction is a fine invitation into this deeply Shakespearean vision of imagination as the best kind of truth-telling.

Rowan Williams is a New Statesman contributing writer. His most recent book is “The Edge of Words: God and the Habits of Language” (Bloomsbury). The Gap of Time by Jeanette Winterson is published by Vintage (320pp, £16.99)

Rowan Williams is an Anglican prelate, theologian and poet, who was Archbishop of Canterbury from 2002 to 2012. He writes on books for the New Statesman

This article first appeared in the 01 October 2015 issue of the New Statesman, The Tory tide