Mitchell's Little Idyll

Taking childhood memories and turning them into a bestseller is not a simple task. David Mitchell, eminent contemporary British author, knows this. Black Swan Green is the evidence.

There is a point during the reading process at which the reader finds himself in thrall of the prose before him and turns each page in feverish expectation; sucked as he is into the world of its characters and events. Conversely, there is a point at which his interest in the characters starts to wane and he needs excitement, twists and ingenious plot hooks to keep him enthralled. This book is difficult to meet halfway. Explanation to follow.

Precis & Criticism

Spanning the year 1982, the novel is a stylised account of the annus mirabilis experienced by Jason Taylor; an ambitious, super-literate kid with a stammer from a lower middle class family in a Dorset village. Author David Mitchell – not to be confused with the podgy English comedian of the same name – is from a similar neck of the woods to this conveniently poetic, titular village; and the novel is part autobiography and part fiction. Mitchell also had a stammer and presumably, judging from his own literary successes, had an advanced poetic ability just like his protagonist. The book is designed as though it appears to have been written by a thirteen-year-old boy (albeit a very precocious one) but is aimed towards the adult market, helped no doubt by the fact it cakes its nostalgia on with a trowel.

His novel is strange in that it reads at times like the rambling monologue of a hyperactive thirteen-year-old boy, loaded on Tizer round his mate’s house, spilling every last detail about his life to whoever’s listening. On this basis alone, the wealth of detail and insight Mitchell has into the teenage mind is impressive, since most people forget all these little quirks and silly nuances that happen in their youth and he seems to have the key to all of it. However, it is arguable that since most teenage boys never talk about their lives, it is unlikely that he would be able to write anything other than one long hormonal grunt. But that would be a rather dull book on balance. There are also huge blocks of the text, divided into thirteen 30-page chapters, that consist solely of his stylised, hyper-slick dialogue and this invariably provides most of the excitement and drama. Events revolve around his home life and his friends/ enemies, outside and inside of school.

Mitchell is also allowed to write a subtly poetic narrative on the basis that Jason Taylor likes to write poetry, and at times I wondered whether his precocity was perhaps being pushed a little, since there are descriptions of weather and the landscape more akin to David Mitchell, well-read and distinguished author, than this thirteen-year-old boy. However, I think the balance is here is more or less spot-on, since at no point does the language get too ornate or indulgent. The prose is written also in a dangerously loose style so that the grammar and punctuation gets very messy indeed. There are quotation marks within inverted commas (argh), brackets intercepting dialogue every few moments (help us all) and deceptive paragraph spacing that seems to serve a dramatic purpose but then doesn’t really (we are doomed).

Criticism & No Precis

My main gripe with this book is that Mitchell cannot get away from the ugliness that dogs the time and era. In 1982, Britain was sick. By combining the ugliness of early secondary school life – the constant torment from bullies and male hormones, his attempts to save face among girls and so on – with the economic hurricane of Thatcher, there is little pleasant nostalgia to be found here. Although it is written with a zest and passion from a character with an infectious lust for life, his friends and all the boys are presented as aggressive males who just want to fight, imagine fights and talk about fighting. The book also touches upon all the political upheavals of the time (the Falklands war), there are constant references to the post-punk bands of the era and it deals with the issue of gypsies living outside communities and the hostilities they face. Essentially, Mitchell tosses 1982 Britain into a blender and serves up part of the splatter throughout.

Also, I found that my interest in some of the other characters was lacking. Jason’s sister Julia, for example, was roundly irritating throughout, and reminded me of tribulations experienced with my own older sister. So perhaps I am biased on that one. His father and mother spent most of the book arguing and relatives brought a whole hurricane of grief his way in a staggering tornado. I found the dialogue, with the exception of the arguments, a little too stylised for my tastes. It would have been dull to keep the dialogue all on a realistic level, but here he makes his family come across at times as conceited or smug. Jason Taylor himself also started to get on my wick, which is understandable since there is only so much of a thirteen-year-old narrator a person can take. Although he was at times also charming, chivalrous, insightful and ingenious. Hangman is the name given to his stutter, and there are perhaps a few too many interruptions from this surreptitious beast.

There are episodes most people will recognise from their own adolescence, and Mitchell delves into sexual awakenings through Jason’s obsession with early bloomer Dawn Madden and tacks on the obligatory disco sequence where it all gets hormonal and icky. His own development is mirrored to that of the land, and that rustic setting is very much an integral part of this book’s soul. Mitchell is obviously a bumpkin at heart, which I mean in the nicest possible sense, and there is none of the pathos and romanticism about the past in the text. This is not a book that mourns the loss of innocence or the bygone days gone by, instead it presents a childhood for what it can be – a massive, nasty ordeal but with the potential for one or two good laughs along the way.

It Is The End (In-Joke)

Black Swan Green is not something I would usually read – my heart lies in the grim sewers of modernism – but Mitchell is that rare author who attempts to infuse genuine beauty into the messiness of everyday existence. That is why this book is to be found in all its splendour at airports and train stations, and it is possibly the safest bet for the 30 plus market looking for a quick fix of nostalgia (so says the cynic in me). Hell… the lad is perhaps even a latter day Coleridge or Southey. But don’t tell him I said that. He might start on the opium. Although I disliked the style he adapted here and the characters failed to captivate my interest, for all this book professes to deliver, it shoots and scores on all accounts. It is not as radical perhaps as his previous masterpieces Ghostwritten or Cloud Atlas but is an interesting detour in his bibliography nonetheless. One for all those still stuck in the past. You know who you are.