March

Geraldine Brooks has concocted a story about the American Civil War, slavery, pacifist beliefs, and a whole lot of other things from the missing tale of the father in Little Women, and has won the Pulitzer prize for it. She took a lot from L.M. Alcott’s father’s story, mixed it up with other readings and ideas which she came across, and developed this novel. It’s good – it’s full of facts and ideas – but in the hands of a real writer it could have been great. And I must say after the last few Pulitzer prize winners that I've read that I have no respect for that particular award. Whether it’s Brooke's journalistic background or something else, she has a very ordinary style – it’s the same from beginning to end. The characters speak in the same way. You don’t ever have to guess what someone’s thinking – it’s made so very clear. Maybe it’s the constant use of first person? Funnily enough, an interview at the end deals with something I was thinking about – the difficulty of creating a reality from a set of little details – and she scoffs at it (scoffs at Henry James’ disdain of historical fiction, actually). Well, I think his quote is valid, to an extent. Surely you can’t put a modern mind into the past with old clothes and funny words and expect it to really reflect reality? That’s what this feels like – your average modern person dressed up. Still, it’s a good enough read. I think you could have written a whole book just with the detail of Henry Thoreau being the inventor of pencils, and maybe that’s another flaw, too much information and not enough depth. Imagine what Ondaatje would have done with this! Well, if he’s not going to write about it, it’s all right if Geraldine Brooks has a go.