In
2004 Alan Hollinghurst made literary headlines by winning the Man Booker Prize
for his novel The Line of Beauty. Set in Thatcher’s 1980’s Britain
it courted mild controversy with its depictions of cocaine abuse and graphic
gay sex. Seven years later The Stranger’s Child made the Man Booker long list and
then fell out of contention, which led to bitter complaints from those critics
who believe that Hollinghurst is Britain’s greatest living writer.
I
approached this book with optimism. I hadn’t read The Line of Beauty but I knew enough to
realize that Hollinghust could be an interesting proposition. The novel begins
just prior to WWI and finds the sixteen-year-old Daphne Sawle reading poetry
and awaiting the arrival of her older brother George and his university friend
Cecil Valance - a poet from a wealthy family who also happens to be bisexual.
Cecil’s impact over the course of his stay is significant; he upsets George’s
mother, who suspects the truth of their relationship, causes a servant to
marvel at his collection of silken underwear, frolics with George in the woods
and flirts with Daphne. Most significantly he writes a poem, supposedly for
Daphne, called “Two Acres”, after the name of the Sawles property. After his
death in the war Cecil and his poem become immortalized when Winston Churchill
quotes from “Two Acres” in a speech.
The
events of this first section, just one of five, set the novel up for an
exploration of mythmaking, the changing attitudes to homosexuality and the
subjective nature of truth. Hollinghurst also devotes a great deal of space to
the question of the moral ambiguity of biographers and their trade,
particularly during the latter half of the book. Such a concentration of
weighty themes seems more than enough to make the novel both entertaining and
philosophically intriguing. Disappointingly The Stranger’s Child mostly fails in both
regards, although it does have its moments.
The
novel’s strengths lay in the way it depicts the evolution of British culture
during the twentieth century and how it affected people’s lives. In this regard
the scope of the novel is ambitious and does at least move the plot forward.
The naiveté and pleasures of the pre war section give way to the bleak post war
section, in which Daphne has married Cecil’s brother – Dudley, who is beset by
mental problems due to his part in the war. Everyone suffers, including the
children, Daphne and an old German woman who comes to an untimely end (a parody
of Agatha Christie?). The third and most pleasing section, set in 1967, finds
several gay characters, including the future Cecil biographer Paul Bryant,
discussing the impending decriminalization of homosexuality in Britain. By the
novel’s close, set in 2008, everything’s changed and significantly the gay
characters are marrying each other and can now live their lives in the open.
Despite
the novel’s initial promise and Hollinghurst’s ambition I was quite often
utterly bored with The Stranger's Child. Turgid is a good adjective to
use. There is simply too much dialogue, with endless boring interactions
between characters at parties and dinners. During these extended scenes the
characters are regularly nervous to the point of being neurotic. Often they
appear to be hamstrung by politeness and therefore never say what they really
mean. Hollinghurst is probably making a point about what it is to be English or
even human, but unfortunately it happens so often that you begin to tire of it
and start to feel that way yourself.
With
many of the major events taking place outside of the narrative the plot is
stretched thin and therefore there is virtually no tension generated and no
real desire to find out what may happen next, or to invest emotionally in the
characters. The novel is also overwritten to the point of exhaustion. No
character can speak without a description of their facial expression or how
they are looking narrowly at another character or off into the middle distance.
Hollinghurst’s writing is incredibly detailed, which is sometimes quite
startlingly effective, but his obsession with the minutiae of everyday
interactions does not make for riveting reading.
As
a literary monument to the cultural history of Britain over much of the
twentieth century The Stranger's Child succeeds to an extent, but it is
ultimately hamstrung by its flaws. As with most books some readers respond well
whilst others do not. A handful of my book club members absolutely loved this
book, but most either marginally appreciated it or thought that it was too long
and tedious. In the end The Stranger’s Child simply made me yearn for the
succinct brilliance of Carson
McCuller’s writing. Despite Hollinghurst’s fine reputation my advice is to
approach this novel with caution, or perhaps not at all. It seems that the
judges of the Man Booker prize were right after all.