[Many thanks to Peter Jordens for bringing this item to our attention.] Alex Preston (The Guardian) interviews Marlon James, who speaks about his life, his writing, and literary choices. Here are excerpts:
It’s two days before the US release of Marlon James’s much-hyped fourth novel, Black Leopard, Red Wolf and the prizewinning Jamaican author has an air of baffled, exhausted ebullience about him. He’s no stranger to critical success: he won the 2015 Man Booker prize for his violent, multi-voiced epic, A Brief History of Seven Killings. But it feels like this new book will propel James into a new galaxy of literary stardom.
[. . .] We order and I pull out my tattered proof of the book. I’ve read it twice already, I tell him, and love it as much as any book I’ve read for a long time. James’s UK publisher, he says, was worried that it would be “too literary for fantasy fans, too fantastical for literary fans”. But the best novels defy the narrow clannishness of genre labels and Black Leopard…is one of them. It’s complex, lyrical, moving and furiously gripping. The critics, whose panegyrics have been appearing over recent weeks, seem to agree. Ron Charles of the Washington Post said that “James has spun an African fantasy as vibrant, complex and haunting as any western mythology and nobody who survives reading this book will ever forget it”; the notoriously sniffy Michiko Kakutani of the New York Times declared that “with Tracker and the Leopard, James has created two compelling and iconic characters, characters who will take their place in the pantheon of memorable and fantastical superheroes”; there was also a rave on the revered speculative fiction website Tor.com, with the reviewer, Alex Brown, getting himself into a right tizzy: “Y’all, Marlon James’s Black Leopard, Red Wolf is a miracle. It’s a gift from Anansi himself. This book. This book. THIS BOOK.”
Black Leopard, Red Wolf is the first instalment of the Dark Startrilogy, with each novel in the series telling the same story from a different perspective (James tells me he’s planned the next two, but has been too busy promoting this book to start writing them yet). Set in a version of Africa that feels at once ancient and fantastical, Black Leopard… is narrated by Tracker, a flawed, wounded, beautifully nuanced protagonist who has the uncanny ability to scent out people wherever they might be in the various kingdoms he travels through. It’s a quest narrative – the search for a missing child – but one whose result is established in the book’s very first lines: “The child is dead. There is nothing left to know.” At almost 700 pages long, with a vast cast of characters both human and mythical, and with a plot whose labyrinthine divagations are dizzyingly complex, it’s not an easy novel, but then that’s not why people read Marlon James.
[. . .] The central event in James’s Man Booker-winning third novel, A Brief History of Seven Killings, is the 1976 assassination attempt on Bob Marley, in which the singer was shot in the arm and his wife, Rita, through the head. The novel is unflinching in its portrayal of the violence that swept across Jamaica at the time, the gun-toting criminals who segued from political thugs into murderous drug gangs. James was six at the time, his parents both police detectives.
He must, I reason, have had some sense of this turbulent atmosphere as a child, particularly given his parents’ occupation. “Even then, given everything that was going on in Jamaica, my childhood was frustratingly middle-class,” he tells me. “But what I remember about when Bob Marley got shot was that I rarely saw my parents get scared for long, but they were afraid after that. They were always chill, they were always in control. Marley changed all that. The fact that the most untouchable man in Jamaica could get shot was what threw them off.” There was another event that stuck with him. “I remember election night 1980, gunmen shot up my mum’s workplace. She was in there. She was so matter-of-fact about it. ‘Yeah, they shot up HQ.’” [. . .]
Against this dramatic backdrop, the bookish, reclusive James lived out an adolescence that mixed solitude with bullying from the jocks at his Kingston high school, who called him “sissy” and “Mary”.
“My teenage years before college, I spent pretty much all of my time in my bedroom,” he tells me. “I spent so much time there that my neighbours thought I did high school in America. I’d go to class, then I’d disappear. I’d just basically come home to eat dinner, sleep, draw comics.” [. . .]
James went from high school to the University of the West Indies, still living at home, still writing, but now reading whatever novels came his way, from Fielding – “Oh my God, Tom Jones was so much fun” – to James Clavell – “I’m sure that hasn’t aged well.” He studied literature and accounting – “that was a terrible idea” – but it was writing that made his trips to campus worthwhile. “One of the absolute great things about college was creative writing classes. I didn’t even know they existed until I got there. The teacher was John Hearne, one of the first great novelists of the 20th century in Jamaica. It was a game-changer for me. Here was a class where I was going to be judged on the thing I was doing so much at home anyway.”
On leaving UWI in the early 90s, James found himself a job at an advertising agency, figuring that it would be a continuation of the creative, geeky world he’d built around himself at university. “When I hit advertising it was nothing like I’d imagined. It was like going back to high school. People were narrow, not open-minded, homophobic. But people gotta eat. And I was good at it.”
[. . .] “I was trying on being a writer for size,” he tells me. “I was trying on writing about things that are close to me for size. Like sexuality. At the time, I wasn’t in any form of gay relationship. It’s funny that I’ve gone from hating pop psychology to being way too Freudian. I can see all my fears and desires in it. Ones I could never give in to because I was deep in the church and I was a super-suppressed gay dude.”
He left the church and sent his novel out to a selection of New York agents. When the first handful said no, he sent it to more, and more, and more, 78 in all. Each of them rejected it. “I remember that somebody said it was the subject matter – that nobody wants to read about the Caribbean, that it was because it was super dark, because there are no white people in it. At that time, dark had to be couched in a certain way. It had to be The Lovely Bones. It had to have a redemptive narrative. I think we’re still in a place where we want a white person to play a part, even in a black story. I briefly toyed with putting my [white] friend Gerard’s picture in my biog and sending the book back out,” he says with a laugh.
In the end, James’s novel was read by an American author, Kaylie Jones, who passed it on to the indie press Akashic Books in New York. John Crow’s Devilwas published to a warm critical reception in 2005. The narrative from here is often painted as an inexorable rise to literary stardom, but James reminds me that his second novel, The Book of Night Women, a brutal 18th-century slave narrative that takes place on a Jamaican sugar plantation, was also turned down almost 20 times, before being picked up by Riverhead Books and published in 2009.
It was his next book, A Brief History of Seven Killings, which established James as a major literary force. [. . .]
One thing the new novel shares with its predecessors is a uniquely intense presentation of violence. I ask him whether he ever feels that his work strays close to gratuitousness, to a kind of wilful lingering over scenes of pain.
“You have to risk it or you won’t get close to the power or the horror of it,” he says. “You have to risk going too far. Man, I sound like Foucault. I actually think this kind of antiseptic, clipped, edited version of violence I see in literature sells it short. If you don’t read the scene of the murder of a child and find it unbearable, then that scene failed. I think people are used to violence, but they’re not used to suffering. In Hollywood films, we see violence, but we don’t see suffering. In my writing of violence I do not escape suffering and I think one of my violent scenes is equivalent to 30 of someone else’s. I get this rap of being too violent, but actually what I’m saying is that violence comes with consequences and suffering and I don’t blink at either. So it’s going to reverberate longer in my books.” [. . .]