Georgina Wilson discusses the place of Fifty Shades of Grey within the contemporary literary scene
We like to think that our approach to reading these days is progressive. Liberal-minded, all-inclusive, anti-elitist. Except, tell anyone that you’re writing an article exploring three contemporary novels published to the tune of much media-hype and people nod along encouragingly, until they feel it their kindly duty to point out the anomaly on the list. “Well, The Cuckoo’s Calling and Fifty Shades of Grey are obviously very popular, but don’t you think Hilary Mantel is rather the odd one out?” Others tell you that Fifty Shades of Grey is a literary scandal that should be thrust to the bottom of the rubbish heap in the glorious tradition of Lolita or Lady Chatterley’s Lover. But rather than making value judgements that divide one novel from another, I think it far more interesting to look at the connections between all three contemporary success stories, especially three that have such significant places the national psyche for such hugely different reasons.
We could, for example, look at the books in terms of what provoked each instance of media hype. The Telegraph and the Guardian between them ran no less than eight articles on Bring Up the Bodies between May 2012 and January 2013, mainly because Mantel herself was an established author who had provoked anticipation for the sequel of her Man Booker-winning Wolf Hall. Similarly, the name of J.K. Rowling (ahem, Robert Galbraith) was the main attraction for most people looking for an easily-devourable summer read in The Cuckoo’s Calling. The international authoress was dastardly tricksy in hiding her identity from ever-hungry fans, but thanks to a rather gossipy lawyer from Rowling’s law firm who revealed the secret to a family friend who revealed it to a Sunday Times Journalist…. We all found out. Which, despite Rowling’s tragedy of losing some blessed privacy, did at least boost sales figures from 43 copies a week to over 17,000 copies immediately following the discovery.
We could, for example, look at the books in terms of what provoked each instance of media hype. The Telegraph and the Guardian between them ran no less than eight articles on Bring Up the Bodies between May 2012 and January 2013, mainly because Mantel herself was an established author who had provoked anticipation for the sequel of her Man Booker-winning Wolf Hall. Similarly, the name of J.K. Rowling (ahem, Robert Galbraith) was the main attraction for most people looking for an easily-devourable summer read in The Cuckoo’s Calling. The international authoress was dastardly tricksy in hiding her identity from ever-hungry fans, but thanks to a rather gossipy lawyer from Rowling’s law firm who revealed the secret to a family friend who revealed it to a Sunday Times Journalist…. We all found out. Which, despite Rowling’s tragedy of losing some blessed privacy, did at least boost sales figures from 43 copies a week to over 17,000 copies immediately following the discovery.
in 2012 only 24% of reviewers of the London Review of Books (LRB) were women, and 27% of books reviewed were written by women
And E.L. James? Well nobody had heard of her before Fifty Shades of Grey. Or him – let’s not pretend that Erika Leonard’s condensing of her name into two syllables and the edition of a masculine surname wasn’t deliberately misleading –a suggestive prod toward male authorship shared by a certain Phyllis Dorothy (the real identity behind crime writer P.D. James). From our trio Hilary Mantel is certainly the odd one out in sticking to her own, non-ambiguous name. It’s rather sad that, for all our attempts to address the imbalance, when it comes to hard sales figures female authors are more likely to miss out. The concrete evidence for this imbalance comes from the Guardian, who reported that most “literary” journals are dominated by reviews for and by men: in 2012 only 24% of reviewers of the London Review of Books (LRB) were women, and 27% of books reviewed were written by women. It comes as no surprise that the LRB got straight down to business and churned out their (male-authored) review of Bring Up the Bodies a month after the novel had snaffled up Mantel’s second Man Booker prize. The Cuckoo’s Calling hasn’t yet had a look in, but what may cause those serene head-nodders rather more of a start was that the LRB succumbed to the power of the people, and in July 2012 reviewed Fifty Shades of Grey. A damning review, certainly; Andrew O Hagan’s dripping sarcasm is only punctuated by direct criticism: “in the absence of good comedy there is always bad seriousness”, but a review nonetheless. The fact that the LRB chose to acknowledge such a novel is surely a triumph against the cultural snobbery we might argue it perpetuates.
however many times E.L. James drags Tess of the D’Urbervilles kicking and screaming from the dregs of the intertextual barrel, she cannot resist pummelling any trace of progressive irony out of her
J. K. Rowling, charcoal portrait by Millie Morris
It is ironic, then, that what repelled me most from Fifty Shades was E.L. James’ conformity to such literary hierarchy. Why else would she incessantly reference Thomas Hardy, if not to try and “elevate” the statue of her book? To make matters worse, however many times E.L. James drags Tess of the D’Urbervilles kicking and screaming from the dregs of the intertextual barrel, she cannot resist pummelling any trace of progressive irony out of her. Ana delights in Tess’s quote to her newly estranged husband: “I agree to the conditions, Angel, because you know best what my punishment ought to be, only – only don’t make it more than you can bear!” A modern day reader shudders at the very idea that Angel “knows best”. E.L. James, on the other hand, is stuck receiving the lines at face value: a Victorian heroine perpetuating the timeless desire of women to submit to higher, testosterone-fuelled powers. The insistent parallel between Hardy’s heroine and her own is jarring not because of a conservative judgement that places greater value on a novel widely read in academic institutions than on one dancing off the virtual shelves of Amazon, but because the parallel arises as a result of misreading Hardy. Whether or not you believe that Anastasia Steele’s sexual submissiveness says anything about the state of twenty first century feminism– (though lines such as, “You’d kidnap me? Hold me against my will? Jeez, this is so hot”, beg at least a fleeting thought for the diabolical statistics of rape prosecution) – it is impossible to see her and Tess as fictional characters with anything like the same agenda.
Whilst E.L. James claws ever more desperately at the sides of the “literary” abyss instead of playing on the controversy of her novel to challenge the very existence of such an antiquated pit, Robert Galbraith rather self-consciously injects a bit of canonical oomph into his own work with the epigraphs that start each of the five parts. The first quote is some Rosetti, whose presence is justified on the basis that the poem “A Dirge” contains the words “dying” and “cuckoo’s calling”. So far so sort-of-relevant. But the next five epigraphs (Boethius, Virgil, Virgil, Pliny, Virgil) – well, what do they really add? Proof of a degree in French and Classics, perhaps, and otherwise more a subtle but equally bitter-tasting belief that overt references to long-standing, much-studied works of literature might somehow validate your own. Hilary Mantel, sticking firmly to the time-period in hand, would never dream of such explicit intertexuality – but then having won six prizes and a CBE before even starting her Cromwell trilogy, it would seem that someone else had taken it upon themselves to validate her work anyway.
Whilst E.L. James claws ever more desperately at the sides of the “literary” abyss instead of playing on the controversy of her novel to challenge the very existence of such an antiquated pit, Robert Galbraith rather self-consciously injects a bit of canonical oomph into his own work with the epigraphs that start each of the five parts. The first quote is some Rosetti, whose presence is justified on the basis that the poem “A Dirge” contains the words “dying” and “cuckoo’s calling”. So far so sort-of-relevant. But the next five epigraphs (Boethius, Virgil, Virgil, Pliny, Virgil) – well, what do they really add? Proof of a degree in French and Classics, perhaps, and otherwise more a subtle but equally bitter-tasting belief that overt references to long-standing, much-studied works of literature might somehow validate your own. Hilary Mantel, sticking firmly to the time-period in hand, would never dream of such explicit intertexuality – but then having won six prizes and a CBE before even starting her Cromwell trilogy, it would seem that someone else had taken it upon themselves to validate her work anyway.
So a description of Anne Boleyn presents the polemic women in terms of not what she sees, but what she appears to see
Part of the reason Bring Up the Bodies does provokes discussion in the cosy tea-parties of literary editors is its intriguing style of narrative; that nifty historic present tense that has become Mantel’s crowning glory. We see events through the eyes of a man – this is sixteenth century England after all – but a bang-up-to-date twist challenges the authority of a single perspective. So a description of Anne Boleyn presents the polemic women in terms of not what she sees, but what she appears to see. “Her prominent dark eyes she uses to good effect, and in this fashion: she glances at a man’s face, then her regard flits away, as if unconcerned, indifferent… then slowly, as if compelled, she turns her gaze back to him… she examines him as if he is the only man in the world”. All those “as if”s highlight a fundamental problem that faces Cromwell-as-narrator: he cannot be sure about any other character who operates on the same level of fiction as he does. Mantel’s approach – to give back to the cryptic Anne a sense of veiled mystique – firmly undermines any claims that her novels reinforce the asymmetry of the male gaze. Galbraith narrates The Cuckoo’s Calling from the point of view of a narrator who splits their time between the antics of private detective Cormoran Strike and his female assistant Robin Ellacott (whose efficiency and organisation bear a striking resemblance to those of a certain Hermione Granger). The accident which causes the two characters to collide is a perfect example of narrative egalitarianism. Chapter two ends with Robin “knocked off her feet and catapulted backwards”, and then we are launched into chapter three as “Strike absorbed the impact”. There’s no hierarchy of perspectives here.
Anyone worried that a pair of handcuffs and a rather eventful bath-time in one of the best-selling books of the century add up to a nation obsessed with kinky sex can breathe a huge sigh of relief
There is also no sex; and, conspicuously, no roaming along the path of romance which meanders invitingly alongside a recently separated man and a not-very-happily engaged woman. Anyone worried that a pair of handcuffs and a rather eventful bath-time in one of the best-selling books of the century add up to a nation obsessed with kinky sex can breathe a huge sigh of relief. The steadfastly platonic relationship between Cormoran and Robin proves as much a relief to him as it does to us: “he found Robin’s company satisfactory and restful, not only because she was hanging off his every word, and had not troubled to break his silences, but because that little sapphire ring on her third finger was like a neat full stop: this far and no further”. Before we break out in a harmonious cacophony of protest against this hero-worship, let the context of the lines be mentioned. The detective lets slip his belief that Robin is “hanging off his every word” just after the narrator returns from a timely trip into Robin’s consciousness revealing her to be rather more judgmental than Strike would like to think.
The Cuckoo’s Calling hasn’t sold anything like the number of copies of Fifty Shades of Grey – but then neither has Bring Up the Bodies, so maybe its E.L. James whose the odd one out. Whatever connections we draw between these three simultaneously popular books, we can always show a different one to be the anomaly. So before we start drawing unhelpful lines between “types” of book, lets first celebrate the fact that the twenty-first century reading public welcomes such a wide variety of novels with open arms. And then duck behind our blessedly neutral Kindle covers to carry on with some raunchy S&M.
The Cuckoo’s Calling hasn’t sold anything like the number of copies of Fifty Shades of Grey – but then neither has Bring Up the Bodies, so maybe its E.L. James whose the odd one out. Whatever connections we draw between these three simultaneously popular books, we can always show a different one to be the anomaly. So before we start drawing unhelpful lines between “types” of book, lets first celebrate the fact that the twenty-first century reading public welcomes such a wide variety of novels with open arms. And then duck behind our blessedly neutral Kindle covers to carry on with some raunchy S&M.