Blurbiosity overkill
Now if I had picked this one up in a bookstore it would never have carried me to the checkout. For why? For because when you look into the first few pages of a book these days, fair enough, you do expect to see not the publication details, dedication, epigraph and opening page, but first to be forced to hack your way through the choking jungle of gush, you know the style: exciting, extraordinary, exhilarating, exceptional. Thought-provoking (an absolute minimum requirement rather than praise, I’d have said). Accomplished – why, yes, for here it is, in my hands. Oh, that doesn’t just mean it’s finished?
I did a very quick, and statistically insignificant survey of the books lying within easy reach. Alice Munro: back cover only. None inside. Christopher Clark: back cover and one page inside. Thomas Mann can dispense with such vulgarity entirely. I suspect there is a direct correlation between how well established and respected a writer already is and how much blurbiness needs to get rolled out. Two pages: new writer, we’re a little concerned that no-one has heard of her. Three or four pages: we’re deeply insecure about this one. Five pages indicates a grave case of the jitters and six is, well, positively needy. The equivalent of the security blanket and a reassuring suck of the thumb.
But this one is right off the scale. We’ve gone way, way past tense and troubled. Before you even get to To my parents (aaaw) there are no fewer than eleven pages of Praise for The Submission. Let me say that again. Eleven pages. Plus quotes on the inside cover, plus three more on the back cover.
Eleven pages. That isn’t persuasion, that is harassment. That is intimidation. That is bludgeoning the audacious blogger into submission. You wouldn’t dare (would you?) disagree with ALL the prestigious British broadsheets, with Salon, Vogue and Marie Claire, with Kirkus Review, Booklist and Publisher’s Weekly. With The Washington Post and (deep intake of breath) Michiko Kakatuni in The New York Times??? You, a mere amateur could not possibly be so presumptuous as to claim to know better than these august professionals?
Well, yes, I could. (Is anyone surprised?)
Naturally I can only prove a point by finding fault, so imagine my initial disappointment when I had to admit that there was really quite a lot right with this novel. The writing is sharp and fresh, the basic premise is not entirely without interest, and Ms Waldman, a journalist herself, is unafraid, indeed reckless in her eagerness to do the dirty on one of her gild who manipulates and manoeuvres, distorts and deceives and betrays with little concern for the collateral damage. But I was soon most gratified to find that the story began to drag. When you get to chapter 8 and 9 and there are yet more new characters turning up, then you begin to wonder quite where this is going to go. The trouble is, this is a novel of ideas, and ambitious too. So every single nuance of opinion on both sides of the dividing line has to be represented. And I’m afraid that is where the people remained: in the debating club, representing a Point of View. They never got legs and ran.
Which of course begs a question: had Michiko Kakatuni been knocked senseless on the day she compared The Submission (favourably) to The Bonfire of the Vanities? No, no, no. Although the publishers included every review they could find, it goes without saying that they selected their passages very carefully. Let me insert what they omitted: ...she lacks Richard Price’s pitch-perfect ear for dialogue and instinctive sense of pacing... or the evolution of Claire’s thinking about the memorial may not make that much sense to the reader — this and the cartoony portrait of Alyssa are the novel’s two big flaws.... Funny that. Eleven pages, but no room for those remarks.