I can't imagine I am alone in finding Alan Hollinghurst's prose style affected, but worse than that, as really dull. He writes like I would find myself writing if I was trying to give a ponderous literary-sounding sheen to some commonplace description or observation, and as such I actually find it almost laugh-out-loud embarassing. And to hear all the fine praises he gets, now in abundance after winning the UK's premier fiction Booker prize. Put to one side the snobby upper-class, high-art milieu he seems to find so intriguing (reminds me of Jeffrey Archer brand name inserts more than anything else), but I just think he doesn't stand one second's comparison with any of the really good writers of crackling prose.
The Guardian has helpfully printed an extract from his Booker prize wining novel, and as an illustration I'm going to set it side by side with some randomly chosen passages from Saul Bellow's "The Adventures of Augie March" and Jonathan Franzen's "The Corrrections". Yes I know these are top of the pile books, but Hollinghurst has just won a major prize, and my point is not just that he is not as good, but that he is laughably not within a lifetime of getting close.
Here's Hollinghurst from "A Line of Beauty", chosen by the Guardian: (my marking in bold )
When the women had gone, he went back upstairs, but in the remorseless glare of the news, so that the flat looked even more tawdry and pretentious. He was puzzled to think he had spent so much time in it so happily and conceitedly. The pelmets and mirrors, the spotlights and blinds, seemed rich in criticism. It was what you did if you had millions but no particular taste: you made your private space like a swanky hotel; just as such hotels flattered their customers by being vulgar simulacra of lavish private homes. A year ago it had at least the glamour of newness.
Now it bore signs of occupation by a rich boy who had lost the knack of looking after himself. The piping on the sofa cushions was rubbed through where Wani had sprawled incessantly in front of the video. The crimson damask was blotted with his own and other boys' fluids. He wondered if Gemma had noticed as she sat there, making her inanely upsetting remarks. He wasn't letting her in here again, in her black boots. Nick felt furious with Wani for fucking up the cushions. The Georgian desk was marked with drink stains and razor etchings that even the optimistic Don Guest would have found it hard to disguise. 'That's beyond cosmetic repair, old boy,' Don would say. Nick fingered at the little abrasions and found himself gasping and whooping with grief ...
I mean the passage is full of cliches, lazy phrases and portentous but meaningless judgements . The conceit about hotel decor is an obvious and boring one, and even the idea about all the boys stains etc. on the fancy furniture is somehow just contrived and uninteresting. There's nothing to smile, chuckle, or sit upright for in any of it, but plenty to groan and wince at.
So for comparison, two masters, who would never use "inane", "tawdry" or "conceitedly" where some thick narrative description should be doing the work instead. And also you can feel a totally different verve compared to the winsome detached self-regard that pervades Hollinghurst's narrative voice.
Here's from Bellow's "The Adventures of Augie March", fourth random passage I looked at, but pretty much anything would be great:
I took a room on the South Side, in a house on Blackstone Avenue, four flights up, three of mingy red carpet and one of thready wood, up in the clumsy dust, next door to the can. Here I wasn't far from the Nelson Home, and as it was Sunday morning when I set myself up and I had time, I went to visit Grandma Lausch. By now she was almost like everyone else in the joint, to my eyes having lost her distingusihing independence, weakened, mole-ish, needing to look around for her old-time qualities when she greeted me, as if she had laid them down, forgetting where. She didn't seem to recall what grievances she had against me either, and when we sat down together on a bench in the parlor, between some silent old people, asked me, "And how is - is 'jener', the idiot?" She had forgotten Georgie's name, and it horrified me; yes, it sent me for a loop until I remembered to think how small a part of her life compared with the whole span she had spent with us, and how many bayous and deadwaters there must be to the sides of an old varicose channel.
And here's Franzen from "The Corrections", randomly looking for a piece of description, this from pg 452:
Cindy had gone thick around the middle and looked, Denise thought, far worse than she had to. Her features were lost in foundation, rouge and lipstick. Her black silk pants were roomy at the hips and tight at the ankles. Brushing the cheeks and weathering the tear-gas attack ofCindy's perfume, Denise was surprised to detect bacterial breath.
Cindy's husband, Klaus, had yard-wide shoulders, narrow hips and a butt of fascinating tininess. The Muller-Kaltrau living room was furnished with baroque loveseats and Bierdemeier chairs in sociability-killing formations. Softcore Bougueraus or Bouguerau knockoffs hung on the walls, as did Klaus's Olympic bronze medal, mounted and framed beneath the largest chandelier.
Comments