You always expect the Booker to throw up a few surprises, as the passing judges inevitably strive to leave their own mark on the award. But this year’s shortlist in particular has been especially unexpected, with the inclusion of the award’s first western and not one but two books from debut novelists. The first of the debuts that I’m going to look at sees A.D. Miller, who is by day an editor for the Economist, telling a gritty Russian tale of post-communist corruption in Snowdrops.
Somewhat predictably the response to Snowdrops has been mixed with some praising the unconstrained approach of the judging panel and others lamenting its inclusion at the expense of other strong runners. Somewhere in amongst all the knee-jerk and snobbish vitriol though there is an important question: is this book really a genuine contender for this year’s strongest work of novelistic literary art, or rather just headline fodder from a panel looking for a quick reputation?
Snowdrops does have a very aesthetic appeal, with bleakly evocative descriptions of a decaying Russia gripped by parasitism and duplicity, against which Miller sketches a highly original morality tale. Recounted as a first-person confessional, and addressed to the narrator’s bride-to-be, it tells of the final year of a British expatriate’s experience working for a Moscow-based law firm. Primarily though, the focus is on the seduction and eventual betrayal of the narrator by an icily quintessential Russian girl, Masha. The more than slightly suspect dealings of the law firm meanwhile are woven in as a parallel subplot.
Deeply atmospheric, Snowdrops uses the harsh Russian winter to great effect, piling on the snow as the layers of deceit accrue. Meanwhile, sensuously contrasting depictions of eroticism are deployed to blur the line between passion and seediness, or good and bad, in the book’s underpinning conceit, of morality being lost in a snowstorm. The idea presented is that morality is transient, that we are capable of astonishing oversight and tenuous self-rationalisation when the reward is personal gain, which is enormously appealing as a literary theme. And no doubt Miller’s experience as a journalist has contributed to his ability to structure a narrative, as the book is thematically well realised and the sense of menace and dislocation is ratcheted up expertly with the deepening winter.
There’s something rough about Snowdrops though — it feels like a first novel. It goes beyond genre fiction, and it’s indeed better than the average crime novel, but it’s flawed. Overwritten perhaps. When it’s at its best, Snowdrops is brooding and impressive, but Miller doesn’t quite seem to know when to stop. Often you’ll read a passage that is darkly suggestive by its dialogue alone, but then Miller goes and ruins it by drowning it in overly sentimental reflection. And then there are the wince-inducing similes, which occur all too frequently. Albeit with a relentless heterogeneity that seems to lull you into believing that you might just be past the worst of it. Its greatest failing though is that it’s too perfectly contrived; it doesn’t have enough of a sense of irresolution or ambiguity about it to let it develop of it’s own. Miller’s presence is stifling to the point of being limiting.
I know that I'm being harsh, but it’s important to consider it in terms of its viability as a candidate for the Booker. As a first time novelist Miller certainly has potential, and the novel would be better from a good edit alone. In fact, you can actually see him developing as a novelist as the book progresses; it literally improves as you read it. But then that’s not really what you want in a novel that is supposed to be among the very best that the Commonwealth has to offer. I personally find it hard to believe that this can really compete with works this year from the likes of Alan Hollinghurst and Julian Barnes. A.D. Miller is certainly one to watch, but for me this one was a mistake.
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