Ali Smith: "The novel is a revolutionary force". Image: Rex
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Ali Smith wins the 2014 Goldsmiths Prize for her novel “How To Be Both”

The £10,000 prize for experimental fiction has been awarded to the Scottish writer for her sixth novel which is “dizzyingly good and so clever that it makes you want to dance”.

Ali Smith has been awarded the 2014 Goldsmiths Prize for her sixth novel How To Be Both. The Scottish-born writer’s previous works include four collections of short stories, seven novels – that is if you include the genre-defying essay collection Artful, as last year’s Goldsmiths judges chose to do in drawing up their inaugural shortlist – a memoir, Shire, and two plays. Smith collected the £10,000 award at a ceremony this evening (12 November) at Foyles bookshop on Charing Cross Road in London.

After being shortlisted three times for the Man Booker Prize (for Hotel World in 2001, The Accidental in 2005, and How To Be Both in 2014), twice for the Orange (now Baileys) Prize (Hotel World and The Accidental), it has taken a literary contest dedicated to “opening up new possibilities for the novel” to fully recognise Smith’s long-standing commitment to language and form. Like Eimear McBride, the debut novelist who won in 2013 with A Girl is a Half-Formed Thing, Smith seeks to find a path out of modernism which resists being dry or remote. Perhaps most remarkable (and in contrast to Girl) is that even in dealing with grief, as she frequently does, Smith has found a way to make that path feel optimistic.

How To Be Both is a kind of diptych: published in two editions with its two halves rearranged, exploring themes of gender, art, bereavement and politics to create a reading experience which resembles a fresco – layered, composite, visible from a number of angles. One half of the book concerns a clever and pedantic 16-year-old, George, and the differences between her and her passionate, free-thinking mother who has recently died. The other imagines the life of a little-known Renaissance painter, Francesco del Cossa, about whom nothing more is known than that “he” asked for a pay rise. Like the “Time Passes” section in Virginia Woolf’s To The Lighthouse, or more recently, Geoff Dyer’s Jeff in Venice, Death in Varanasi, the two halves are linked in a non-linear conversation informed by the reader’s interpretation of events.

In her review of the book, the critic Frances Wilson wrote: “How To Be Both is a novel of ideas in which the ideas break free and float like figures in the fresco. It’s dizzyingly good and so clever that it makes you want to dance.” The Chair of Judges, Francis Spufford, who was joined this year by Geoff Dyer, Kirsty Gunn and NS Culture Editor Tom Gatti, said of the panel’s decision: “We are proud to give this year’s Goldsmiths Prize to a book which confirms that formal innovation is completely compatible with pleasure – that it can be, in fact, a renewal of the writer’s compact with the reader to delight and to astonish.”

The Prize, run in association with the New Statesman, is now in its second year and will continue to assert its place among the expanding number of prizes attempting to fit the increasingly diverse publishing landscape. Following her victory in 2013, McBride’s novel went on to win the Baileys Women’s Prize for Fiction (plus a number of others) and publication rights were sold to Faber & Faber. “The support that winning the Goldsmiths Prize gave A Girl is a Half-Formed Thing changed the entire life of the book and my own with it,” she said earlier today. “It afforded me the, previously impossible, opportunity to connect with an interested, engaged readership and I am incredibly proud to have been its first recipient.”

After a reading by the shortlisted authors Goldsmiths University last month, an audience member asked each writer to describe their novels stood for. Some declined to answer, but Smith didn’t hesitate: “Justice and injustice, on a larger scale than we’re used to thinking about. Borderless justice.” When asked about originality in her work, she explained that while it may be the case there is nothing new under the sun, “The novel is a revolutionary force. It can do all sorts of things and reveals to us the cycles in history and changes in the things that happen to us as human beings ... there is something live about the novel that makes it brand new every time you find a shape for it. Even if Tristram Shandy did it first.”

Click here to read Frances Wilson’s review of How To Be Both

Click here to read Tom Gatti's account of the judging

Eimear McBride and Ali Smith both appear at Cambridge Literary Festival, in association with the New Statesman, on 30 November

Philip Maughan is a freelance writer in Berlin and a former Assistant Editor at the New Statesman.

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Conjuring the ghost: the "shape-shifting, queer, violent, hippie genuis" of David Litvinoff

A new biography tracks down the elusive Kray confidant who became a friend of Mick Jagger and Keith Richards.

David Litvinoff is a mythic character to anyone with an interest in London during the Sixties. An intimate of the Krays, he was a tough and violent Jew from the East End. He was also a musical genius with an unrivalled knowledge of jazz, the blues and rock that made him a valued friend of Mick Jagger and Keith Richards. It was his ability to move from the East End to Chelsea, from the dives of Soho to Notting Hill, that was the critical factor in the extraordinary vision of London that Donald Cammell and Nicolas Roeg conjured into the film Performance, for which Litvinoff is credited as dialogue coach. And yet, even though all this is known and recorded, he remains a ghost, a figure who wrote nothing and who systematically destroyed all the records of his life he could lay his hands on. Even his exact role in Performance is shrouded in mystery. He is said to have dictated much of the script to Cammell. This biography claims that Jagger’s mesmerising song on the soundtrack, “Memo from Turner”, was in fact a memo from Litvinoff.

Multiple reports describe him as the most brilliant talker London had known since Coleridge, but although there are rumours of tapes they have always been just rumours. I’d have thought he was a figure who would defeat any biographer – a shape-shifting, queer, violent, hippie genius lost in a mist of hallucinogens – but Keiron Pim’s account of this extraordinary character is a magisterial work of scholarship. He tracks down all the living witnesses; he has also unearthed letters, and even some of those long-lost tapes.

The story that emerges is even harder to believe than the legend. Litvinoff came out of the Jewish East End but he was from one of its most talented families. His name was not even Litvinoff: his mother’s first husband went by that name but David was the son of her second, Solomon Levy. Long before he met the Krays or the Stones, he was a gossip columnist on the Daily Express, practically inventing the Chelsea set that shocked the prim Fifties. By that time he had met Lucian Freud, who painted him in an astonishing study, the working title of which was Portrait of a Jew. Litvinoff was furious when Freud exhibited it with the new description of The Procurer, and the bad blood between these two men, both of whom inhabited the drinking clubs of Soho and the Krays’ gambling joints, remained for the rest of their lives. In fact, it is Freud who comes over as the villain of the book, fingered by Pim as the man behind the most violent assault on Litvinoff: he was knocked unconscious at the door to his own flat, on the top floor, and awoke to find himself naked and tied to a chair suspended from the balcony, nose broken and head shaved bald.

I learned much from this book: a period working for Peter Rachman before he became involved with the Krays; sojourns in Wales and Australia when he was fleeing threats of violence. The big discovery for me, however, was Litvinoff’s encyclopaedic knowledge of the jazz and blues traditions that gave birth to rock’n’roll. He taught the Stones a lot but he taught Eric Clapton even more – they were both living at the Pheasantry building on the King’s Road, and Litvinoff seems to have had unlimited access to the most recherché back catalogues and the most recent unreleased recordings. The book traces, but does not comment on, a transformation from an amphetamine-fuelled hard man in the Fifties and early Sixties to the oddest of hallucinogen hippies by the Summer of Love in 1967.

But, for all Litvinoff’s knowledge, wit and gift for friendship, his tale is a tragedy. A man who could talk but couldn’t write; an out gay man long before it was acceptable, who seems never to have been at ease with his sexuality; a proud Jew without any tradition of Judaism to which he could affiliate. Above all, this was a man who lived to the full the extraordinary moment when London dreamed, in Harold Wilson’s Sixties, that class was a thing of the past. Back from Australia in the early Seventies, Litvinoff awoke again to find that it had indeed been a dream. His suicide in 1975 was cold and deliberate. He had outlived his time. 

Colin MacCabe edits Critical Quarterly

Jumpin’ Jack Flash: David Litvinoff and the Rock’n’Roll Underworld by Keiron Pim is publisyhed by Jonathan Cape (416pp, £16.99)

This article first appeared in the 25 August 2016 issue of the New Statesman, Cameron: the legacy of a loser