Edward St
Aubyn’s ‘Lost For Words’ is a satiric novel about the judging process for the
Elysian Prize, a fictitious literature award that is not that dissimilar to the
Booker. In it, publishers, authors, and even judges all look to push particular
books into consideration for the prize, with their reasons only sometimes having
to do with literary merit. One contender is ‘wot u starin at’, an Irvine Welsh-like piece of ‘gritty social
realism’. Another is ‘The Palace Cookbook’,
a book of recipes that was entered by mistake, and which is seen by some as a
new form of postmodern multimedia, and by others as, well … a cookbook.
Shifting alliances between the prize’s judges affect the Long List, the Short
List, and ultimately the winner, essentially portraying the whole of the
literary award process as a bit of a farce. (And yes, the novel has ending up
winning an award itself: the Wodehouse
prize for comic fiction.)
For the most
part I am sympathetic to this message. Arts and entertainment awards often are
little more than an excuse for back-slapping, and in some cases they are in
large part just a reflection of what has sold well. Prime example: the Grammys,
which as the
Simpsons told us, is possibly the most irrelevant of them all. For the most
part though the Grammys can be written off as relatively ineffectual; this is less
true for literary awards, which are very important for getting books on
audiences’ radars. Winning a major award can translate into a large boost in
sales (even if apparently, as a study
shows, it also leads to more negative reviews).
My theory, largely
unproven I guess, is that people face greater constrains when choosing books
than they do when choosing, say, albums or movies. One can get through plenty
of albums or movies in a year and can afford to waste their time on a few duds,
whereas they have to be more confident with books that they are choosing
something of quality. Plus books are less hyped and advertised, and so the
short lists of awards may very well be people’s best source of information on
what ‘new and notable’ books have been released that year.
The temptation is to just dismiss the results of
awards, and see ‘general judgment’ as being more pure – for example, the Stooges,
the Smiths, or the Pixies never had to win awards for their music to be
perceived as ‘classic’. But that conclusion may be a little too comfortable;
maybe – and maybe this could in part be
the message of St Aubyn’s book – even ‘general judgment’ involves some type of
politicking. Regardless of whether there are black ties and a big, shiny
pyramid on offer at the end, careers can have their ebbs and flows depending on
the tedious office politics of the time, without
the person really doing anything different. Ultimately, we are all pushing
our preferences, whether it is through our book recommendations, our
conversations about movies, or our Wooden
Finger Fives. Which does not mean that those stupid, back-slapping awards
do not deserve a good bullocking now and then …
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