By Kevin Duffy • Published 22nd April 2013
The following feature appeared on the Guardian’s The Northerner blog. It was written by Ross Jamieson, the Bluemoose online editor, in reaction to Granta magazine editor’s comments that Leeds is ‘completely out of the literary world.’
It was supposed to be a day to showcase Britain’s fresh crop of literary talent. A golden opportunity to celebrate our cultural diversity; raise a cheer for gender equality; marvel at how far we have come; and show the world a liberal democracy at work. It was the day Granta announced the 2013 Best of Young British Novelists. Then the editor said something…
It reads, at first, like a slip of the tongue; a tongue whose owner probably hopes no-one notices, but who is not too concerned should anyone do so. It is a split-second blip. The public mask momentarily slips off… And yet, rereading it, over and again, it still reads as a slip and a blip, but is embarrassingly revealing, incredibly offensive, and casts a gloomy cloud over everything we were just celebrating.
The problem arose when John Freeman, Granta’s American editor, commented on Sunjeev Sahota’s inclusion on the list: ‘[Sahota] had never read a novel until he was 18 – until he bought Midnight’s Children at Heathrow. He studied maths, he works in marketing and finance; he lives in Leeds, completely out of the literary world.’
By highlighting everything that is un-literary about Sahota’s background, Freeman was attempting to make all the more remarkable his literary achievements. The problem with this strategy is that Freeman would inevitably sound pompous and snobbish: in childhood and adolescence, Sahota was poorly-read; maths, with its love of numbers, is alien to the craftsmanship of the wordsmith; he works in marketing and finance, whatever they are; and he was so culturally uncouth he even bought a modern classic from – of all the blasphemously un-literary of places – an airport.
And then, the slip, the blip, the quote’s venomous tail: ‘he lives in Leeds, completely out of the literary world.’
Surely Freeman was just being clumsy. He does not really mean that Leeds is completely out of the literary world. Perhaps he means, Leeds, completely out of the literary world, is not an international centre of publishing, like London? Perhaps.
The more I read it, the clearer it says: Leeds is un-literary, it does not register on the literary landscape, and it is remarkable that anyone from Leeds could possibly produce anything literary at all. Sahota is an outsider, who has been welcomed, initiated and accepted into the literary world. And that is the crux. Freeman’s words ooze insular imagery – of within and without – the literary circle. It is the view from literature’s headquarters.
I am not sure what the likes of Alan Bennett, Tony Harrison, David Peace (from the 2003 Granta list), et al. would make of Freeman’s slip, but I am quite sure that a logical, rational definition of ‘literary world’ would be anywhere where people read. And yes, people in the North can, and do, read. But Leeds, completely out of the literary world, might as well be a dark and dusty crater on the far side of the moon.
There is nothing new about London-centric literary snobbery. But there is something deeply troubling about an organisation which, when declaring the brilliance of British literature’s multiculturalism, its progressiveness, its ability to reflect society, goes on to exclude others in a crass, tribal comment.
The Granta list has, for the first time, a majority-female contingent, and is breathtakingly diverse and truly global, an honest reflection of British history and how far we have come in striving towards equality. It is not perfect, but it is progress. Indeed, from within the walls of the literary world, Freeman said: ‘the novel has a bold, brilliant future in Britain.’ Presumably, being completely out of the literary world, this truism excludes Leeds. And it does make me wonder from what distance other northern towns and cities orbit the literary world. Pluto’s relationship to the sun might be comparable. After all, Pluto isn’t even a proper planet.
And yet, not far from Leeds – just a sheep’s hop over hill and dale – nestled in the Calder Valley, is a little town called Hebden Bridge. Remarkably, this far out of the literary world, a publisher is based here. Recently ditching chalk and slate in favour of the most modern and technological of reading devices, paper, Bluemoose Books appears to be doing something right. Lurking in this far-flung outpost, it might come as a surprise to learn that Bluemoose has gone international. They signed the Canadian novelist, Adrian Barnes, whose debut novel Nod has been shortlisted for the Arthur C. Clarke Award, Britain’s most prestigious science fiction book prize. Bluemoose is the only independent publisher to make it onto the shortlist. It is an impressive achievement.
The publishing premise at Bluemoose appears simple, but successful. As Barnes says: ‘My previous experience trying to get published was of agents and editors being very positive about my writing, but ‘marketing’ being reluctant for various reasons. The great thing about [Bluemoose] was that [they] simply read the book, liked it, and asked to publish it. My jaw almost fell off. To think it could be that simple.
‘So when [Bluemoose] made the offer I just accepted on the strength of that simplicity. I haven’t been disappointed. Nod has consistently been treated with care and respect by the folks at Bluemoose, whereas I’ve heard horror stories of writers having had their novels mangled by bigger houses.’
It is a refreshing approach to publishing, in sharp contrast to the formulaic and predictable output from within the literary world. Kevin Duffy, co-founder of Bluemoose Books, explains: ‘The champagne and peanut trailers of Hampstead and Highgate are always trying to discover the new great hope, and it is this insular and myopic metropolitan view of what literature is, or should be, that blinkers what is published and reviewed. When big money advances are thrown at wunderkinds and celebrities, usually unearned, then the literary ringmasters have to keep spinning in order that those writers they’ve heavily backed keep getting their gongs and the media attention that follows. J B Priestley had it nailed, when he said, “There is something shameful about praise, that soft southern trick.”’
We live in an age where organisations pump out and project their desired image – images which carry messages that cannot realistically carry the opinions and beliefs of all those who do the pumping and projecting. Be careful what you say; you might reveal what you really think. But if that is the future of publishing, then perhaps Bluemoose will do better to stay completely out of the literary world. The view looks good from their northern literary outpost.
