Cheltenham Festivals news archives

10 months
2 weeks ago

It’s the last day of the Festival. For me, these nine days have been a whirl of literary, philosophical and historical debate. People occasionally popped up in the Writers’ Room offering shots of whisky to an eager crowd. I chatted to strangers and made new friends. I spotted celebrities and didn’t have the courage to go and say hello. I bought books by great writers and wondered when I’ll get time to read them all. And I wandered around the streets of Cheltenham on sunny autumn days, marvelling at the stark and sudden division of posh and poor.

A week ago I was immersed in William Dalrymple’s hour-long narrative on marginalised lives in India. The writer sat on the stage, a master storyteller, filling his glass of red wine as soon as it was a quarter emptied, and spun tales to a hushed and hypnotised main hall; we were as charmed as rattlesnakes. I walked out with the taste of the stories still in my mouth, and had odd dreams that night involving skull collectors and blind men singing in divine voices. Despite being intelligent, rational grown-ups, most people still find it easy to suspend disbelief and surrender to a world of a tale, whether true or not. We go on journeys through books, films and TV programmes, and sometimes even forget we are not actively taking part in them. I thought about this as I listened to and laughed with David Mitchell and Robert Webb as if they were old friends. The illusion of knowing actors or writers personally persists because though reading their books or watching their work on the screen, we feel as if we’ve been there with them, that we were part of their world, that they’ve spoken to us personally.

A highlight for me was the day programmed by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie. I learned about new African writers, their books on top of my reading pile. Adichie herself was a charming speaker, and she talked about her identity in a way that confirmed my idea of similarities in the mentality of the third and second (i.e. Balkan and Eurasian) worlds. When she moved to the US Adichie was confronted by a number of labels: she was seen as ‘black’ and ‘African’, though they were categories in which she’d never placed herself before. So far, she had simply been Chimamanda, nationally a Nigerian. When I came to the UK from Bosnia, I was surprised to find I was seen as an ‘Eastern European’ or a ‘Slav’. I had always seen myself as just me, a girl from Mostar, Bosnia-Herzegovina. ‘Identity is not something you come up with by yourself,’ said Adichie. ‘It’s something other people stick onto you.’

Identity was also tackled on Alice Roberts’ day, though in a slightly different context, when she and Stephen Oppenheimer discussed the basics of human evolution and migration in a fascinating presentation on humanity’s exit out of Africa and its subsequent dispersion across the globe. It felt heartening to find that we all stem from the same root — literally, through our DNA — and that our divisions are but an illusion.

Yesterday, I got passionate about the subject of organ donation and presumed consent (I am for it). I’d never considered our impulse to feel possessive of our bodies, even after we are dead. This thing we go about in is so fragile at the best of times that one never knows who will need to donate or be donated to, in their lifetime. I walked out of the event thinking that ethics and debate are a luxury for those of us who are healthy.

Finally, it was A L Kennedy who tackled what we were all here for in the first place: words. Her one-woman theatre show gives words to us all; words that heal us, liberate us and make us escape from our (possibly dreary) lives. ‘Words’ is an elegant weaving of comedy and pathos, and Kennedy cleverly avoids the show’s poignancy ever being saddled with sentimentality. Instead she empowers the audience to own their words and wear them as jewels, but more than anything to know their power. A subtle political message is woven through when Kennedy invites us to consider the absurd phrase ‘A Repetitive Administration of Legitimate Force’; it’s a phrase that at an innocent glance appears to have something to do with filing papers in an office, but that on better consideration actually means torture until death. It was a phrase — and method — that was used by US anti-terrorist squads throughout the Bush regime, and that, as news surface over this weekend, was also present in the vocabulary of Tony Blair’s government. Kennedy is right: words have immense power, in ordinary life and in politics. But she also points out their beauty. Words are a tool for expressing love and they nurture the imagination. Her show underlined, for me, what book festivals are all about: people who love words, coming together. So enjoy the Festival’s last day and come back next year to celebrate more words.

Vesna Maric is one of our three writers in residence at this year’s festival. Catch up with Vesna Maric, Kapka Kassabova and Sathnam Sanghera in event 282 on Sunday 18 October.

Vesna’s latest book is Bluebird published by Granta Books.

We’ve tagged this post with literature, review, writers in residence on Sunday 18 October 2009.

10 months
2 weeks ago

Mad, Bad and Sad

Madness was in the air today — in a nice, literary way. Two talks were inspired by psychological disturbance, and the poets Don Paterson and Owen Sheers promised me to try and ‘naturally exude mental illness’ at their reading to fit in with my topic. They didn’t. They exuded pitch-perfect poetry, which is why the Poetry Café was full. And why I regretfully zoom past them and skip to the nineteenth century.

This is where we find the classic mad woman in the attic — Mrs Rochester, described by her husband as ‘intemperate and unchaste’. The three writers and psychiatrists in the ‘Madness: a fiction?’ discussion led by Vivienne Parry agreed that the nineteenth century wasn’t a good place to be considered insane. Even Jane Eyre hears voices in her head, but that was seen as normal. Which immediately leads to the question of what is sane and insane, normal and abnormal. The psycho-literary plot thickens when you read the ‘prequel’ to Jane Eyre, Wide Sargasso Sea — a magnificently imagined colonial answer to the Victorian puzzle of Mrs Rochester. It’s fitting that the author, Jean Rhys, was herself a magnificent fruitcake.

Next on the couch was The Woman in White, perhaps the first Victorian novel to raise awareness of mental illness and the effects of institutionalisation — namely that if you weren’t already barking when you went in, you were when you came out. One panellist suggested that simply being a Victorian female could be a liability. Hysteria, a female affliction in Freudian terms, comes from the Greek word for womb. And did you know, Vivienne Parry said, that the vibrator was invented in the 1880s as a cure for ‘blocked wombs’?

But we digress. Lisa Apiganensi, author of the superb study of mental illness through history, Mad, Bad and Sad, redressed the gender balance by reminding us of the rich English literary history of male lunatics. For every Ophelia, there is a Hamlet.

And then, at the mild end of the madness spectrum, there is Madame Bovary who simply suffers from extreme dissatisfaction, coupled with extreme fantasising. It’s a bittersweet cocktail of romanticism and realism, and the condition has become known as Bovarism. Emma Bovary’s disturbances are psychosomatic — just like Flaubert’s nervous breakdowns. While he wrote the scene of Emma’s suicide with arsenic, culminating with black bile coming out of her mouth, he became violently ill. When he declared ‘Madame Bovary, c’est moi’, he wasn’t exaggerating. The French Romantic poet Rimbaud called this a ‘systematic derangement of the senses’ and believed it compulsory for artists. But then he died young — a good career move.

Not so with the English Romantic poet John Clare. He lived long, went mad, wrote stunning poetry, and was forgotten. His derangement wasn’t systematic — it was genuine. It started with the ‘English malady’ known as melancholia, and ended with extravagant delusions. He believed he was Shakespeare and Byron — at the same time. When he sent his last poems to a publisher, he was told that only cookery books were being published these days. All this I learned from the gripping talk by John Clare’s biographer Jonathan Bate and novelist Adam Foulds who has imagined the poet’s last years in his A Quickening Maze.

They have brought to life a great Romantic soul who, in his darkest hour, dreamt of going to a place somewhere…

‘Untroubling and untroubled where I lie. The grass below — above the vaulted sky.’

And in all these words — the poet’s, the novelist’s, the biographer’s — we have the exact antithesis of mad, bad and sad. We have sanity, humanity, and hope. In other words, we have books.

Kapka Kassabova is one of our three writers in residence at this year’s festival. Catch up with Kapka Kassabova, Vesna Maric and Sathnam Sanghera in event 282 on Sunday 18 October.

Kapka’s latest book is Street Without a Name published by Portobello Books.

We’ve tagged this post with literature, review, writers in residence on Saturday 17 October 2009.

10 months
3 weeks ago

I’ve admired Elizabeth Jane Howard, the author, one-time director of the Cheltenham Literature Festival, and former wife of the late Kingsley Amis, ever since I heard her opining, on Radio 4, on my favourite subject: the agony of writing. And sure enough, it wasn’t long into her talk on Thursday that she returned to the theme. ‘Writing is difficult for me,’ she remarked, sitting perched on a mobility scooter. ‘I’m very slow, I don’t write easily, and I envy people who love writing. I feel awful when I don’t write but then I feel pretty awful when I do write. It’s like trying to punch a whole into a tin of condensed milk.’

Of course, finding something difficult doesn’t mean that you don’t want to do it, and Howard, now in her eighties, has always been incredibly driven. A famous beauty, she married young and, after a series of affairs, left her first husband and daughter to become a writer in 1947. ‘I moved to a flat in Bayswater. I was selfishly determined to be a writer at any cost. I always wanted to write. I remember writing my first story at the age of seven. It was the story of the nativity written from the view of the innkeeper. My grandmother summoned the servants on a Sunday afternoon and read the story to them. I remember feeling terribly embarrassed.’ Given this intensity of ambition, her success must have been very pleasing? ‘Well, I had quiet success, I was not a bestseller or winner of prizes. But it felt good to be able to carry on.’

She was being modest: the sell-out crowd was proof that she has done more than just ‘carry on’ writing. She has now penned 12 novels and a frank memoir entitled Slipstream. Though her productivity did fall while she was married to Kingsley Amis. ‘It was hard to write at all when we were married, what with the three stepkids and other commitments. I remember saying to him in advance that I couldn’t iron shirts, which was a complete lie, but at least I didn’t have to do that. But being a step mother is time-consuming, and then stepchildren started having girlfriends and boyfriends which meant making dinner for 12 people at times. But Kingsley was very funny to be with, which was great. Also, I had a writing block for a long time.’

A block that is clearly no longer a problem. Howard spoke at length about, Love All, her latest novel, dismissing the sniping of a reviewer who remarked that the title made it sound like ‘the biography of a lesbian tennis player’. ‘Some people were rather rude about the title. But I like it! The book is about the consequences of the absence of love on various levels… sexual, intellectual and so on, and the damage it does. Love is the single most important thing people can have.’

Did her mother, Kit, a composer’s daughter, who gave up her career as a dancer in the Ballet Rambert for marriage to Howard’s father, an inspiration for the book?. ‘Well, I don’t think she cared for me much. She loved her sons. It took me a long time to get out on the other side of that. I think she had a very sad life, giving up work for marriage. I think she always regretted that, but she was a victim of her times.’ It’s a theme Howard will be returning to in her next novel, which will explore the tension between careers and homelife in three generations of women. ‘People imagine it has changed more than it has.’

Sathnam Sanghera is one of our three writers in residence at this year’s festival. Catch up with Sathnam Sanghera, Kapka Kassabova and Vesna Maric in event 282 on Sunday 18 October.

Sathnam’s latest book is The Boy with the Topknot published by Penguin.

We’ve tagged this post with literature, review, writers in residence on Friday 16 October 2009.

10 months
3 weeks ago

Two questions that are of huge interest to me have been springing up persistently this week: 1) How important is it for a writer of literary non-fiction to respect facts? and 2) How important is it for a fiction writer to invent things from scratch?

Binyavanga Wainaina is a Kenyan writer who lives in the US. He is currently working on a memoir about growing up in the African country and has come to share the stage at Cheltenham Festival with Colum McCann. Wainaina has electric energy, evident as much in his shiny blue shoes as in the way he cracks a joke and sticks his tongue out. He reads from a bunch of A4 pages stapled together, and before he starts he announces that the book has no title yet, so if we have any ideas we should let him know. The writing is playful, brilliant, messing around with sound — ‘Prrroud!’, he exclaims, ‘Prrrrim!’ he shouts, and he smacks his lips with imaginary rouge when he describes his older sister and cousins putting on their mothers’ make-up. His childhood impressions are explosions of sensation, texture and colour. The audience is delighted, people giggle, they’re on a journey. I sit there, listening to it and wishing the book was finished, that I could go out and buy it immediately.

When he’s finished, the chair asks Wainaina why he decided to write a memoir. ‘It took me a few months for the word ‘memoir’ to pass my lips comfortably,’ he says. Wainaina confesses that he struggled with the categorisation, and that he’d thought of classing it as fiction at first, but that he’d finally decided that a memoir might work best since it is a real place, real people and real time he’s writing about. ‘It’s just that,’ he says, ‘as a writer, I have zero respect for facts.’ The chair, and some audience members, are surprised, even slightly shocked by this. How, they ask, can you write a memoir without adhering to fact? Wainaina sticks his tongue out and wriggles in his chair, smiling. He explains that memories are difficult. He can’t exactly remember what colour the sky was on a certain day or whether the girl of his dreams walked into his room on Independence Day or on a completely different day. ‘The things I write about happened in my life, and I write about them in the way I feel is emotionally true. Whether the actual fact of a place or time is accurate or not is of no real concern to me. It doesn’t add or detract from the truth of the story.’ I sit and listen and applaud Wainaina’s honesty and I go up to him at the end of the talk to say how much I agree. And to find out when the memoir is out. Not until next year, he says.

A memoir is not always a factual account of a historical event or people or a place — though it is often that; it’s also a reflection of the writer’s memories of a time in his or her life, and most importantly, the impressions of that time. Often our memory cheats us, makes us think something happened when and where it actually didn’t. But it’s those flawed memories that may hide our true impressions of a time, it’s from those firmly un-factual memories that we can learn what we may have thought about someone or something. On the other hand, one can simply (and brazenly) choose to invent new surroundings for certain events, those that might have perhaps fitted the situation better. After all it’s the role of the writer to invent, and as long as one is not printing a libellous or nasty untruth, how much does it matter in the end?

Geoff Dyer’s new novel, a diptych entitled Jeff in Venice, Death in Varanasi, plays with the same notion, only the other way round. Dyer admits to all of his fiction being heavily influenced by autobiographical material. ‘I can’t invent stories,’ he says. ‘Everything I write is observationally derived. I like the embellishment and elaboration of reality.’ Dyer seems to have dedicated his life to the genre-confusion of the reader, and he likes it. ‘So are you comfortable calling your latest a novel?’ the chair asks. Dyer looks at him mischievously. ‘Yes. I think it’s very novel. And highly unusual.’ He adds that in challenging categorisation, he is waging a war against cliché not just as a linguistic tiredness, but against the cliché of concept. An audience member asks whether he can afford not to care because he’s so well known and he knows he’ll get published whatever he writes. The mischievous look appears again. ‘The thing of writing what is expected of you always comes down to a desire for commercial success. I don’t care much about sales or what the publishing world wants. The most important thing is to write what you want, not what anyone else thinks you should write. That’s what freedom is all about.’

There are still rebels among us. And to my delight, I found two in one week.

Vesna Maric is one of our three writers in residence at this year’s festival. Catch up with Vesna Maric, Kapka Kassabova and Sathnam Sanghera in event 282 on Sunday 18 October.

Vesna’s latest book is Bluebird published by Granta Books.

We’ve tagged this post with literature, review, writers in residence on Thursday 15 October 2009.

10 months
3 weeks ago

Looking at the Stars

I’ve been staring at the cover of Paddy Ashdown’s autobiography and I can’t get past the title: A Fortunate Life. I unreservedly admire the man, but I wonder why a writer would use such a title, unless he was either being ironic or has had an irony by-pass. To find out, I’ll have to literally get past the title.

But in the shorter term, here’s a longer question. Pin-up girls and other ‘celebs’ publish books these days, and if it’s not about quality writing, it must be about character. Who makes a good character? Because it’s character — real or fictitious — that makes a story worth reading. A few events today promised a few answers.

First, I travelled to Shanghai of the early 1900s in the company of sinologist Robert Bickers. His book’s title Empire Made Me quotes from a document written in the early 1900s. It’s a personal-sounding statement, and this is indeed the personal story of an English nobody called Richard Maurice Tinkler who ‘died as he lived — violently’. Feel free to forget the name instantly, because the point is not in the name. It’s in the life and what it illuminates. Quite a lot: the story of Shanghai as it became Asia’s super-city; the lives of British ex-pats caught up in it — the expression ‘Shanghaied’ meant kidnapped or trapped; in short, the momentum of 20th century history.

‘I’m of that growing strand of historians who like telling stories’ — Bickers said — ‘stories of ordinary people and the complexity of their situations. Tinkler’s life tells us something about empire. And about failure. As a historian I’m very interested in failure. We’re often blinded by success stories, discourses full of confidence, control and rule. But failure is as much a part of life as success, if not more so.’

I salute this breed of intimate history. Through one character, it brings to life monumental cities and eras. It’s a healthy antidote to celebrity publishing which brings to life monumental egos while imitating intimacy.

I was startled out of my reverie by two ‘butlers in the buff’ at the entrance to the ‘Literary Heroes’ event. It started with the fluffy question: ‘Who was your first crush?’ and ended with the fluffy announcement of the nation’s favourite romantic hero (Mr Rochester). But in between, sharp questions were asked and interesting things were said about good romantic heroes and what makes us remember them. Heathcliff might be a ‘manic-depressive nutter’ in Sharon Kendrick‘s words, but he is unforgettably conflicted. My highlight was Stella Duffy’s answer to: should the perfect hero get everything they want?

‘No,’ she said. ‘Otherwise, story wouldn’t exist. Story with a capital ‘s’ exists for us to explain ourselves. All story is quest. It doesn’t have to be through love. It can be something else we don’t have.’

At the end of the day, my quest took me to a story about an immortal hero. Not immortal in a Dorian Gray way, but in reverse. It’s the story of his creator who died young but his writing never ages. Fortune and misfortune, success and failure, agony and ecstasy — it’s all there, in the one-man play by Leslie Clack More lives than one. Oscar Wilde might have found himself in the gutter towards the end, but never stopped looking at the stars. He was one of them. The real stars, that is.

Kapka Kassabova is one of our three writers in residence at this year’s festival. Catch up with Kapka Kassabova, Vesna Maric and Sathnam Sanghera in event 282 on Sunday 18 October.

Kapka’s latest book is Street Without a Name published by Portobello Books.

We’ve tagged this post with literature, review, writers in residence on Wednesday 14 October 2009.

10 months
3 weeks ago

I like Alastair Campbell. I know many people don’t, holding him responsible, among other things, for the moronification of British political discourse, but I think he’s charismatic and interesting, I admire the work he does raising money for cancer charities and his openness about his depression, and his work ethic is impressive.

Still, this is Cheltenham, not the most Labour of towns, and 2009, when New Labour is about as fashionable as Michael Bolton, and the main reason I went to see him speak in the Town Hall was to see if he’d get pelted with eggs. He wasn’t. But the questions from the audience suggested a healthy level of scepticism: ‘Did you get addicted to life in power?’; ‘Do you recognise yourself as spin doctor?’; ‘Does “call me dave” Cameron have better spin doctors than Gordon Brown?’; ‘Did you undermine the Civil Service in your time as Tony Blair’s spokesman?’; ‘Has the media succumb to Cameron’s media hype?’. And, of course the obligatory question about how Campbell felt about Burnley, his beloved football team, being promoted.

His responses to these questions were, respectively: ‘No, I was never seduced by the trappings of power’; ‘no’; ‘David Cameron says he is Tony Blair’s successor, but the truth is that he is my successor: he’s all about image and positioning, whereas Tony Blair was good at decision-making and strategy and political change in a way he isn’t’; ‘no’; ‘yes, nick Robinson, the other day referred to Cameron as PM — there hasn’t even been an election yet’; and ‘delighted’.

When it came to being interviewed by broadcaster Kirsty Lang, the two themes Campbell concentrated on were mental illness and novel-writing. On the former he was, as ever, frank and brave, admitting to suffering from a major physical and mental collapse after leaving Downing Street. ‘I noticed the gaps between the depressions were getting shorter and for the first time I saw a psychoanalyst for a sustained time. I now realise the depressions are as much a part of me as hairs on my leg, and when I was transcribing my Downing Street diaries I was surprised by how many of my moods could have been depressive without me or those around me realising it.’

On the theme of writing, however, he was annoying, if only because he seems to find it easy and enjoyable, and I wish I did. ‘The idea for the first novel, All in the Mind, just came to me,’ he said, adding that he didn’t tell anyone he writing it until he’d done a draft and confessing he was afflicted by a kind of ‘demonic energy’. ‘In all it took about seven months to finish. And of all the things I’ve done since Downing Street this has been the thing I’ve enjoyed most. I guess it’s because as a novelist you can control everything!’

Needless to say, the second novel is finished. ‘It’s about a female filmstar and her relationship with a boy she went to school with.’ A pause. ‘It’s about how lives change as a result of fame, the trauma of fame.’ Based on someone he knows? ‘Well, all I can say is that she’s British, and she has dark hair. And I’m very proud of the fact that I sort of designed the cover. It’s a hazy picture of a very beautiful person.’

He may have given up spin doctoring, but it seems Campbell still can’t resist dabbling in a bit of image-making.

Sathnam Sanghera is one of our three writers in residence at this year’s festival. Catch up with Sathnam Sanghera, Kapka Kassabova and Vesna Maric in event 282 on Sunday 18 October.

Sathnam’s latest book is The Boy with the Topknot published by Penguin.

We’ve tagged this post with literature, review, writers in residence on Tuesday 13 October 2009.

10 months
3 weeks ago

‘The blank piece of paper is unimpressed. It hasn’t read your previous work.’ John Irving sits on the stage resembling Dennis Hopper with his cool demeanour, blue jeans and white hair combed back. He looks down at his hands and frequently peppers his musings on the writing life with dry wit. ‘I’m interested in the inevitable bad outcome of a story,’ he says. ‘I like the Oedipus myth, for example. When Oedipus kills his father and sleeps with his mother, you know that’s not going to end well.’ His talk is, to writers and writing-enthusiasts alike, a lesson in what a life in writing is — or can be. Irving’s method consists of such hard discipline and persistence and knuckling down, however, that it makes the Japanese Zen Buddhists’ daily routine (meditating in a single position for anything up to twenty hours a day; all pain endured) like an all-day breakfast in bed.

Irving writes ten to twelve hours a day, every day, seven days a week. Not only that, he believes that this is the only way to be a truly excellent writer — or that a truly excellent writer can do nothing but write all day. Also that he or she must always know his manuscript inside out. Every mention of every small detail needs to be accounted for in the writer’s head, page number and all, at any point of the writing process. And this is achieved, says Irving, by constant, painstaking rereading and rewriting. Fifty, sixty times at least, of every manuscript you ever write. As I listen, I feel inadequate, ashamed. I am so lazy, I think. I can only muster four to five hours at the computer, five days a week. And then I’m wiped, nothing good comes out. I do reread and rewrite a lot, though, so that may offer some salvation. But I remind myself of how very different the writing process can be from one writer to another — Hemingway famously wrote standing up, and only in the morning, while others, like Balzac, only worked at night.

‘Were you born disciplined? Or did you learn to be disciplined?’ asks an awe-struck audience member. Irving pauses, as he does before each answer, takes a breath, fiddles with his arthritic fingers, a charming Zen master of sentence structure. You can hear him rereading and rewriting his answer in his head before he speaks. At one time in his life, he says, he taught writing and wrestling (not simultaneously), and the discipline of sport, the monotonous drill of training for hours on end, learning his skill and paying attention to detail, is what helped him set up his writing discipline. He talks about having a problem with anger as a young man. ‘Real life was too chaotic for me. Too many ambiguities, unanswered questions,’ he says. It made him angry. Real life, he goes on, simply fell short of the meaningful, purposeful structures of novels he’d loved reading, writers like Dickens and Melville where everything happened for a reason, and every cause had its consequence. He hated the chaos, the lack of a clear direction he found in ordinary, every day life. So writing, and the discipline that went with it, gave him meaning, a purpose. But I like the chaos of life, I realise as Irving talks, and I like the ambiguities, the unanswered questions. It’s chaos that everything was created from and it is the purpose of (good) literature to decode and underline the inconsistencies of human beings and the world, and perhaps with a bit of humour, to offer some salvation.

Irving’s talk is fascinating. He’s an old-school writer, a man who takes his task of creating fiction seriously. He hates first-person narratives, says he finds them limiting, and is at his happiest when creating intricate plots or researching the background material for his stories. On the day when Alastair Campbell, while promoting his first novel at the Festival, says it took him a single year to conceive, write and publish his book, Irving’s revelation that the idea for his latest novel (his 12th), Last Night in Twisted River, was brewing in his mind for twenty years, and took a ‘quick’ three years to write, gives me back faith in the writing process and the value of taking your time. True, writing is hard, slow work that can sometimes seem endless. But if you think plenty before you start, knuckle down and most importantly, enjoy it, it’s the best work in the world.

Vesna Maric is one of our three writers in residence at this year’s festival. Catch up with Vesna Maric, Kapka Kassabova and Sathnam Sanghera in event 282 on Sunday 18 October.

Vesna’s latest book is Bluebird published by Granta Books.

We’ve tagged this post with literature, review, writers in residence on Monday 12 October 2009.