George Saunders was sitting in London’s Guildhall at a dinner last Tuesday celebrating the 2017 Man Booker Prize. “It’s a nerve fest,” he said. “I’d picked up on a vibe that it wasn’t going to go my way, and that was fine. We were having a lot of fun, so it was a big shock” when it was announced that his novel, Lincoln in the Bardo, had won the prestigious award.
Saunders’ decidedly unconventional novel follows president Abraham Lincoln into the graveyard where his 11-year-old son, Willie, has just been laid to rest. Elsewhere, the Civil War, not quite a-year-old, kills scores. And within the boundaries of the cemetery, but beyond Lincoln’s view, the souls of people trapped in the bardo — a transitional state between life and death — still toil, telling and retelling their own stories.
In praising the book, a statement from Lola Young, chair of the Man Booker Prize judges, said, “The form and style of this utterly original novel, reveals a witty, intelligent and deeply moving narrative. … Lincoln in the Bardo is both rooted in, and plays with history, and explores the meaning and experience of empathy.”
Saunders, an Oak Forest, Illinois, native, is the second American to win the prize, which was closed to US authors until 2014. Paul Beatty won for The Sellout last year.
The Chicago Tribune reached Saunders, who has been working on a TV pilot for Amazon based on his short story Sea Oak, by phone last Wednesday. He was still in London, where he had been fielding press calls since the early morning hours. Here’s a transcript of the call, edited for clarity and space.
How does it feel to win the Man Booker Prize for what is perhaps a distinctly American book?
A British reader doesn’t feel Lincoln as acutely as we do. They don’t know who he is, but a lot of people were saying, “I kind of knew who he was, but he seemed to me like a grieving father so that was good enough.” You can feel and hear a lot of nervous agitation about this Trump era and about Brexit here, and I don’t know quite how the Lincoln book connects with that. As I was writing it, I felt like it was sort of reworking my patriotism, in a sense. Like, OK, this is us at our best in a moment of great trial, and I think that seems to resonate with people here too. Because of the Brexit situation, there’s the sense that the centre isn’t holding. Which side are you on, and what are the sides? That kind of feeling seems to be very much in the air, and they’re looking at (the United States) with some concern and with a lot of love just to see if this old friend of theirs is going to come out of the ditch or not. I don’t know what the judges were thinking, but in the discussion, people are very aware of our situation and kind of mindful about it.
What do you think is the role of literature in confusing times?
I think among those of us who read, I think it’s the same consolation it ever was, which is you feel alone and you feel like the gap between you and other people is unbridgeable and you read a book and that just gets softened a bit. You think, oh yeah, actually people are on the same continuum as I am; it is possible to understand someone else’s mind.
I think the secondary effect is, both for the writer and the reader, I think the brain on art is pretty amazing. At least from my experience, when you’re in the middle of writing a book like this, your mind is really sharp and it’s very agile and it’s kind of OK with ambiguity and it’s curious and it’s sort of more fearless. If we’re in this situation we’re in right now, anything that makes us bigger in terms of our humanness is a plus. Anything that makes us a little slower to judge or to be violent or to be projecting about other people is useful.
But having said all of that, I also know that’s a nice argument for people who are already reading, and a lot of the people who are already reading are already those things. For me, it’s just a consolation to go into that place of artistic creation and be reminded that there are actual layers to who I am. Like when I’m only on social media, I’m kind of agitated and kind of aggressive and I want to reach a quick decision and prove to everyone else that they’re wrong. But in story mode, you’re kind of doubling down on the idea you can occupy different consciousnesses and move back and forth between different people. So I think that’s just a more enjoyable way to live. It’s almost like if you’re in a period of your life when you’re in really good shape, everything physical is more enjoyable; I think that when you’re reading or writing a lot, it’s the same but for your brain.
What do literary awards, in general, mean to you?
The real wonderful thing was to be in that short list with those writers because we really bonded. It was honestly just a feeling of, wow, that’s amazing that I could be in that club. That was the first order thing.
And then selfishly — and this is probably a bad commentary on my character — you think, OK, this group of strangers liked my work and that always gives me a little confidence. I could afford to go a little farther, be a little weirder, be a little more difficult. So I guess what I would say is, it kind of reassures you that your assessment of your audience isn’t 100 percent wrong, which then kind of emboldens you to try bigger and more difficult things.
And then, practically, it’s amazing. I came out of the award thing and I looked at my phone and there were like 80 messages there. The Booker has a really incredible power that I hadn’t seen before with any kind of good news, so that was really interesting to see.
My thing is, what you want to do is enjoy it for about a minute and then kind of plow it under the category of things that might help me do better work later. It’s sort of that old Catholic in me who doesn’t want to go dancing. You know, just go back to work.
— Chicago Tribune/TNS
HONOUR: George Saunders with his prized possessions, the work and the award.
