An Evening With Will Self

I went to Leicester University the other night to hear author Will Self discussing his new book, ‘Umbrella’ [1.], as part of their ‘Literary Leicester’ festival.  Self is a familiar, often controversial figure within the British cultural scene and enjoys an international reputation for both his fiction and journalism.  He’s adept at playing the media at its own game and is regularly observed performing his cynical, ex-junkie of letters routine across multiple platforms.  The fact he also appears possessed of a brain the size of a planet and habitually delivers material that is as perceptive and well crafted as it is challenging, makes this more amusing than irritating.  He appears equally comfortable appearing on populist T.V. or demonstrating intellectual rigour and a formidable mastery of the language to an academic or broadsheet audience.  He’s by turns withering, engaging and sardonically amusing.

Will's Shelves, (Photo: The Guardian/Karen Robinson).

Plenty of attention was paid recently to the somewhat surprising nomination of ‘Umbrella’ for the Man Booker Prize for fiction, - eventually losing to second-time winner Hilary Mantel’s Tudor Novel, ‘Bring Up The Bodies’. [2.]  That Self’s formally experimental and self-consciously Modernist novel should be judged alongside supposedly more middlebrow offerings, or be included in the fatuous beauty pageant at all, has been described as “a category error” by his own wife, journalist Deborah Orr. [3.]

Certainly, the man himself was quick with a swipe at historical fiction of, “say, the Tudor period”, before making genuinely interesting points about how Modernist literary tropes like magic realism, stream of consciousness and multiple voices might actually be closer to real experience than the more conventional modes; (for instance, third person narrative), typical of less elevated writing.  It was intriguing to hear an author with such a palpable love of words explain his belief that humans don’t generally think verbally, and certainly not in the manner of much contemporary fiction.

On reflection, his distain for Mantel’s work sounds slightly misplaced.  I’ll accept it’s not mere sour grapes as I’ve no doubt Self is sincere in his understandable aversion to the infantilisation of a culture expressed through prizes and award ceremonies.  One might inquire why then, he chose to collude with the aforementioned category error.  It’s possible the whole thing was a bit of a lark to highlight the contrast between comfort literature and the hard stuff.  Certainly, his amusing approach to the official photo might  affirm that, (I do wonder if the chosen form of his name, Will Self, itself might actually signify that his entire public persona is all a huge, knowing gag).

Will Self's Single Handed Elevation Of The Novel Form,
(Photo: AP/Lefteris Piterakis).

Where I find Self to be slightly unfair is in ignoring that Mantel herself has, in her Tudor novels [4.], used a somewhat more experimental approach to form than is common in much historical fiction. If she has extended her writing beyond the normal constrains of genre, this surely represents some kind of intellectual advance.  Ironically, Self’s reading, complete with character voices actually reminded me slightly of Mantel’s own inhabitation of her own protagonist’s internal monologue.  Whilst clearly not operating at Self’s own Joycean altitudes, her books caused at least one reader of my acquaintance to describe them as a really interesting if rather demanding read.  Ultimately, perhaps Self chooses to forget that who’s cleverest or which work is the most worthy, are all relative.

A Tall, Thin Author With High Standards, (Photo:
Telegraph/Andrew Crowley).

I can agree that the Tudor soap opera is an account that has been over-rehearsed and that to be endlessly reacquainted with the same events can be dispiriting.  But the lurid events of that period undeniably mark a fulcrum in British history with a legacy that is still felt today and it seems arrogant to assume that, because I know something, so must everyone else.  Also, where Mantel does find new ground is in relating events from the viewpoint of Thomas Cromwell, - a man whose own story is often overlooked.  We must make a clear distinction between the study of History and historical fiction as entertainment but, as I’ve previously discussed, the two strands may inform each other perfectly successfully.  My own experience of HF as a gateway drug to more serious study convinces me of that.

Keeping Tabs On Will Self In Flaneur Mode, (Photo: Casey Kelbaugh).

Self was keen to validate his use of stream of consciousness in his current work by claiming that his perception of the world is largely in the moment and that references in the past tense must, in most cases be little more than reconstructed false memory.  At the same time, I noticed the word ‘Psychogeographic’ was used with some abandon during the discussion of his recent work.  My understanding of the term is that the interaction of present experience with multiple pasts, (including subjective or reconstructed memory), is a potentially important element within the approach.  Self’s own supposedly Psychogeographic writing, including ‘Walking To Hollywood’ [5.] and 'Psychogeography' [6]; has actually been dismissed by Iain Sinclair as not actually in the true spirit of that tradition at all.  It does suggest that, as Self himself demonstrated, one writer’s real deal may be another’s weak gear.

This post is admittedly compromised by the fact I have yet to read ‘Umbrella’ or indeed ‘Walking To Hollywood’.  I do know that I want both Will Self and Hilary Mantel, (and Iain Sinclair), on my shelves and suspect that context is all and horses really are for courses.

(I enjoyed the hour we spent in Mr Self's company and, on the off-chance he might actually read this one day, - must apologise for my own woolly thinking, mangling of the language and probable misuse of punctuation.)

[1.]:  Will Self, 'Umbrella', London, Bloomsbury, 2012

[2.]:  Hilary Mantel, 'Bring Up The Bodies', London, Fourth Estate, 2012

[3.]:  Deborah Orr, 'For A Moment I Really Thought My Husband Had Won The Booker. But No!', The Guardian, Friday, 19 October 2012

[4.]:  See Also:  Hilary Mantel, 'Wolf Hall', London, Fourth Estate, 2012

[5.]:  Will Self, 'Walking To Hollywood', London, Bloomsbury, 2010

[6.]:  Will Self & Ralph Steadman, 'Psychogeography', London, Bloomsbury, 2007