So I will once again try to read the entire Booker Prize longlist that was released last year. I had already read Hilary Mantel's massive tome THE MIRROR AND THE LIGHT, and have followed this up with Colum McCann's novel APEIROGON, which provides an intimate account of two real life protagonists, an Israeli and Palestinian, who both have lost their daugthers to the conflict and have taken their sadness into the peace movement. Here are my thoughts.
Despite offering a formally balanced account of the Middle East conflict, focusing on the tragic stories of two fathers, one Palestinian (Bassam) and one Israeli (Rami), each having lost a daughter in the conflict, Colum McCann’s celebrated APEIROGON minces no words that the ultimate culprit, the ultimate villain in his story, is the Occupation of Palestinian lands by Israeli forces. McCann doesn’t hammer us over the head with this point, but rather lets his protagonists get us there, who repeatedly recall every detail that surrounded the deaths of their children, to the point of forensic precision, a way for them to understand what mechanically has happened to their child so that they can begin to grapple with the why. Bassam and Rami, who could easily have descended into unfettered anger and desire for vengeance, instead become voices for peace, working together to tell their stories both inside their borders and internationally, exposing the humiliation and brutality associated with occupation and that in the end there is no peace and security that comes out of this, only victimhood across both peoples.
There is no question that McCann is a wonderful writer and the story he tells in 1000 chapters (many just a sentence long, some a paragraph, some longer) is a glimpse into the conflict that may reach audiences McCann can access and others cannot. My issues with this book, however, are not in quality as much as what it represents. Despite the occasional flourishes of flowery prose, it reads like narrative non fiction, almost journalistic in quality, and as such as a work of fiction it worked less well for me, lacked the magic that fiction can create.
Before delving into that, I do want to grapple with some other issues that others have brought up.
The first is the issue of cultural appropriation and others have sought to call McCann out for writing a story that is others to tell. This issue has been much debated in literary circles, especially as communities who have had their stories told to them have challenged who is constructing the narratives of their histories, who is exposing their intimacies. These concerns are legitimate and I don’t believe that dismissing it with the quip “people can write whatever they want” has merits, since having McCann write this story means that he does take a spot away from another author. A publisher could choose to publish a story of a less known Palestinian author or a well established commodity like McCann and they are likely to choose the latter for commercial reasons. That said, I’m not opposed to authors telling other’s stories, the question is always whether they do their homework, are sensitive to their perspective as an outsider, and don’t resort to stereotypes. APEIROGON is definitely no AMERICAN DIRT in this respect. McCann elevates the real voices of Bassam and Rami, he relies heavily on testimonies and researched texts. It’s a thoughtful and respectful telling of others stories and as such this would not be a criticism I have of the book. That said, we should not lose sight of the larger publishing implications of having McCann tell this story rather than someone who may have more intimate connection to the subject matter but will never find a publisher to tell their story.
The second issue, which is the huge elephant in the room, is the accusation of sexual misconduct that has bee levelled toward McCann. Roxanne Gay and others have brought this up on twitter and it’s a charge that should not be treated lightly. This is an accusation of course, not proven, and whether it should play any role in how we appreciate art is heavily debated. I’m personally done with the act of separating artists and art though. Fiction is supposed to, among other things, promote empathy and if you go out and behave in ways that are antithetical to empathy, then yes it will colour my view of the text as a reader. I found out of the accusations just as I began the book, and admittedly it did leave a sour taste in my mouth. That may not be fair to the novel, but it is what it is.
Despite this, I did manage to appreciate the text and it was moving. However, I am still not convinced this is a work of fiction or if there are moments of fiction, those are considerably weaker and persuasive than the more fact based accounts of Bassam and Rami’s story. I admittedly listened to the audiobook (narrated very well by McCann), which meant that I could not see the text and this may have impacted how I interpreted it. From the beginning McCann acknowledges that this story was largely based on accounts provided by Bassam and Rami and in fact the middle section are direct transcripts of their stories. McCann insists that this is the base but built upon it is his fiction. I found his fiction hard to find and when it emerged it was not the least compelling part of the book. Most of the text appears to be accounts of the protagonists’ life experiences and then the days and weeks surrounding the deaths of their daughters (which would have been directly from the protagonists accounts). Interspersed are factoids about various things (the history of explosives, the history of rubber bullets and tear gas, the history of Israel’s creation) that read as encyclopedic entries rather than accounts through McCann’s voice. There are occasional philosophical ruminations but again, is this fiction? McCann’s decision to structure his book in these very short chapters also means that he never lets his own prose get much momentum, and when it does it quickly comes to an end, cut off by another factoid or account of Bassam and Rami. In the end, I found the most compelling writing to be the non-fiction bits and was annoyed whenever McCann interrupted it with his own voice, his own efforts to insert his fiction.
If this had sold itself as a work of narrative non-fiction the rating would have been higher (a 4 or 4.5) but it insists it is a work of fiction and as such I judge it as that and it frankly does not work as well as a novel. It never had the magic that we get from fiction, the poetry, the enveloping prose that lets us examine the truths of the human experience and not just facts. APEIROGON, unfortunately, is a greatly flawed novel because it failed to produce that magic.
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