Morning:
14°c
THE MAN Booker judges have determined that Aravind Adiga's debut novel about the seamier side of Indian life is the best fiction of the year. How do they do that?
Last month, the Guardian published an illuminating article in which judges from each of the past 40 years of the Booker Prize were invited to look back on their experiences. They weren't happy bunnies, on the whole.
"How very arbitrary it seems, in retrospect," said Jonathan Coe. "We chose the wrong book," stated Anthony Quinn firmly. "I often think I've never quite recovered from my experience of being a judge," Jason Cowley reckoned. "It was a dispiriting experience," admitted Paul Bailey. "We'd spent the afternoon at loggerheads and in the end compromised by giving the prize to everyone's second choice," Hilary Spurling confessed.
Why does the Booker so often get it wrong? The prize has frequently been given to the undeserving Kiran Desai, DBC Pierre, Ben Okri, Keri Hulme, notable among them. Or to the right author for the wrong book Ian McEwan won only for Amsterdam, his slightest book, as did Penelope Fitzgerald for hers, Offshore.
In 2003, when the dreadful Vernon God Little took the prize, Mark Haddon wasn't shortlisted for The Curious Incident ... In 2006, Edward St Aubyn was indeed shortlisted for Mother's Milk and should then obviously have taken the prize but didn't. This year, Zoe Heller's new novel The Believers should have been a contender but completely failed to make the cut.
And then it has missed so many great writers altogether. Muriel Spark, perhaps the finest novelist publishing these past 40 years, never won. Nor have any of our best genre novelists John le Carré, PD James, Ruth Rendell, Robert Harris, say ever been considered, most unfairly when you look at the literary quality of some prize Booker specimens.
So what's the problem? The dignified explanation is that trying to get a jump on the verdict of history is bound to be a fallible process. Try as they might, no judges, however assiduous, could assess so many books so quickly and always get it right, we could generously grant.
Then, slightly less dignified, there is the notorious problem of working by committee. The members never agree and then they always settle for everybody's second choice, by definition the wrong book for everyone. The camel is an animal designed by a committee and the Man Booker Prize an award judged by one.
Slightly less dignified again, there's the problem of who these judges are. They change every year, so there is no continuity. And perhaps in any case most have no taste worth respecting?
All these businessmen, actresses, retired politicians, broadcasters and comedians have no obvious expertise in the contemporary novel. Then again, academics, professional critics and other writers can know plenty but still not have good literary judgment, falling back instead, like most people, on other prejudices sexual, ethnic, political ... It's all too easy then to reward the right subject matter, rather than the best writer. This year's panel has at least chosen a highly readable book, not always the case.
What, then, is the solution? There isn't one. In sports competitions, the winner is obvious. All arts contests are, however, a joke. Funny, sometimes. Helpful in generating publicity, often. But a joke.
