In the Critics this week

Robert Skidelsky on British industry, Richard J Evans on Norman Stone, Olivia Laing on Sheila Heti, Megan Abbott on Detroit and Ryan Gilbey on Quentin Tarantino.

 

In the Critics section of this week’s New Statesman, the economic historian and biographer of Keynes, Robert Skidelsky, reviews The Slow Death of British Industry by Nicholas Comfort. “In the early 1950s,” Skidelsky writes, “Britain was an industrial giant. Today, it is an industrial pygmy.” The reasons for this sorry decline are various, Skidelsky suggests. But “running through this history is a lack of continuity: government policy towards taxation and incentives continually changed, long-term aims were repeatedly sacrificed to short-term financial exigencies, projects were taken up and abandoned when they became too costly …” But it needn’t have been like that. It was a historic mistake, Skidelsky argues, for Britain to rely so heavily in recent decades on financial services. “Like individuals, governments should hold balanced portfolios … Governments … need to promote a balanced economy.”

Also in Books: historian Richard J Evans reviews World War Two: A Short History by Norman Stone (“Perhaps the most disappointing aspect of this book is its unremitting dullness”); Olivia Laing reviews How Should a Person Be? By Sheila Heti and Wild by Cheryl Strayed (“Though Strayed’s book is both touching and instructive it’s Heti’s …that will stay with me”); Lesley Chamberlain on Roberto Calasso’s La Folie Baudelaire (“a kind of self-parodying continentalism for the coffee table”); Catherine Taylor enjoys Deborah Levy’s short story collection Black Vodka (“There is a sexy hauteur in Deborah Levy’s prose reminiscent of the voice of Marianne Faithfull”); American novelist Megan Abbott reviews Mark Binelli’s The last Days of Detroit (“the metaphorical distance between the city and its hostile suburbs is immense, treacherous”). In the Books Interview, Jonathan Derbyshire talks to Jared Diamond about his new book, The World Until Yesterday: What Can We Learn from Traditional Societies? “Life in Africa,” Diamond tells Derbyshire, “is socially rich but materially poor, whereas life in the west is materially rich but socially poor.”

Elsewhere in the Critics: Ryan Gilbey on Quentin Tarantino’s Django Unchained (“Portraying the perpetrators of slavery as merely monstrous, and their victims as holy, does a disservice to the oppressed …”); Rachel Cooke wishes the BBC hadn’t tried to adapt PG Wodehouse’s Blandings stories (“[Some] funny books … have never and will never work on television”); Antonia Quirke is baffled by Smooth Radio’s Osmonds obsession; and Alexandra Coghlan pays tribute to Polish composer Witold Lutoslawski, whose centenary is celebrated this year. PLUS Will Self's Real Meals.

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The Underground Railroad is a novel which offers hope for the very strong of heart

Whitehead’s prize-winning novel of slavery in America is his finest work yet.

30 DOLLARS REWARD will be given to any person who will deliver to me, or confine in any gaol in the state so that I can get her again, a likely yellow NEGRO GIRL 18 years of age who ran away nine months past. She is an artfully lively girl and will, no doubt, attempt to pass as a free person, but has a noticeable scar on her elbow, occasioned by a burn.

 

“Want ads” for runaway slaves serve as section breaks throughout Colson Whitehead’s searing novel The Underground Rail­road, which takes a familiar story – concerning the manifold injustices of American slavery – and brings it to terrible, terrifying new life. Whitehead does so by revealing, in close view, just how brutal and businesslike were efforts to ignore, obscure and destroy the dignity and humanity of so many men and women for so very long.

The novel begins with an auction:

 

Onlookers chewed fresh oysters and hot corn as the auctioneers shouted into the air. The slaves stood naked on the platform. There was a bidding war over a group of Ashanti studs, those Africans of renowned industry and musculature, and the foreman of a limestone quarry bought a bunch of pickaninnies in an astounding bargain.

 

Thereafter we learn that “A young buck from strong tribal stock got customers into a froth”, that “A slave girl squeezing out pups was like a mint, money that bred money”, and that a mother “maintained a reserve of maternal feeling after the loss of her five children – three dead before they could walk and the others sold off when they were old enough to carry water and grab weeds around the great house”.

Finally – and this is still just in the opening pages of the novel – we discover, through the eyes of a young woman named Cora, what happens when any of these persons resists living as purchased property: “She had seen men hung from trees and left for buzzards and crows. Women carved open to the bones with the cat-o’-nine-tails. Bodies alive and dead roasted on pyres. Feet cut off to prevent escape and hands cut off to prevent theft.”

Whether in spite or because of these consequences – and mindful, even haunted by the knowledge, that her mother managed to escape her own bondage – Cora decides to join a fellow slave named Caesar in running away. In Whitehead’s treatment, a metaphor for the secret network of support that helped black slaves reach the free (or at least freer) American north and Canada becomes an actual makeshift train that travels underground, which Cora and Caesar ride across the South. They are in constant peril, relieved by passing periods of respite: sleeping in a bed for the first time, learning to read and write, and even coming into a small amount of money, which, Cora soon discovers, “was new and unpredictable and liked to go where it pleased”.

Throughout their escape, they are pursued by a vicious slave-catcher called Ridgeway, who is motivated by far more than merely financial reward: “Charging through the dark, branches lashing his face, stumps sending him ass over elbow before he got up again. In the chase his blood sang and glowed.” Ridgeway, Cora and their respective others meet throughout the novel, their positions of advantage and opportunity revolving in ways that make for flat-out suspenseful reading. Many others are grievously harmed in the meantime, as they move through a small-town, 19th-century American world of crafty and hypocritical politesse and ritualised violence. The violence is never rendered more awfully than in the festive, Friday-night lynching sessions that take place at a picturesque park which Cora watches from an attic refuge.

The Underground Railroad, awarded the American National Book Award for Fiction last month, is Whitehead’s sixth novel. Following the more playful novel of manners Sag Harbor and Zone One, a zombie romp, it is his most ambitious and accomplished book since the Pulitzer-nominated John Henry Days of 2001. In fact, the lack of literary showiness – vividly presenting the rudely built underground railway and the hard lives of those riding it – makes The Underground Railroad perhaps his finest work. Although the repeated encounters between Cora and Ridgeway across such a sprawling set will strain the credulity of anyone save a diehard Victor Hugo fan, Whitehead is a confident enough writer to let their lines of escape, pursuit and capture braid and break apart again and again, building to an exciting and rending conclusion. It is one that offers hope for the very strong of heart. 

This article first appeared in the 01 December 2016 issue of the New Statesman, Age of outrage