The winner of the Man Booker International Prize 2016 was announced on Monday 16 May as The Vegetarian by Han Kang, translated by Deborah Smith. Find out more about the winning book.
During the shortlist period, six of our wonderful reading groups shadowed the Prize, each group reading one of the titles. We would like to share their experiences with you.
Take a look at the six shortlisted titles.
A General Theory of Oblivion (Angola) by José Eduardo Agualusa, translated by Daniel Hahn (Harvill Secker)
Peterborough Book Club for Unfresh Graduates read A General Theory of Oblivion:
“Overall it was a good discussion with a lot of the members giving the book 8 or 9 out of 10. We particularly enjoyed its patchwork nature and how all the individual narratives tied together at the end. We very much enjoyed the story of Ludo and how animals were used as a characteristic Spanish literary technique for conveying a metaphor or idea within a story. We also discussed the issues of translating the novel and whether the lack of description and embellishments is due to the domestic audience it was created for, as well as the idea that this book was originally a screenplay and how this impacted the story. We all agreed and it’s not a book we would normally pick up so we’re very grateful for having the opportunity to review it.”
The Story of the Lost Child (Italy) by Elena Ferrante, translated by Ann Goldstein (Europa Editions)
External Relations Book Group read The Story of the Lost Child:
“Dundee pretended it was Italy for the day (though still a little too breezy to enjoy our Italian snacks outside), a happy setting in which to discuss the final novel in Ferrante’s mythic, and much-hyped, Neapolitan quartet.
We were all new to the Ferrante party, and this dominated our response to the book and our conversation: ‘maybe if we’d read the other three we’d feel more immersed in the world’; ‘I’ve heard she goes into that more in book 2…’; the general consensus was that jumping in in this way was like watching the final episode of The Good Wife without knowing who anyone was; the index of characters is useful, but disrupts the spell of reading when trying to separate your Antonios from your Alfonsos and your Linas from your Lenùs.
We talked about Naples and Italy and community and friendships and politics and motherhood and pressures on women. We wondered if big books build higher expectations: if time invested is directly proportional to height of expectation. We picked our favourite fights, best set pieces and best frenemy. We discussed the mystery of Ferrante, and translation and the language of the neighbourhood vs. Italian, and speculated on how her desire for privacy must impact on the translation process with Ann Goldstein. We chewed over the lack of descriptions and whether that leaves more space for the reader or whether we would really like to have had a bit more. We didn’t mention Knausgård once. We were still talking when it was really time to go back to work.
But we kept returning again and again to the frame of reference we lacked, and the frustration that created, which led us to chat about how difficult it was for us as readers to judge it on its own terms, isolated from its three predecessors. We concluded that it was wonderful to be involved, but that we don’t envy the judges their task, and we’re looking forward to hearing who will take the spoils on Monday 16th May! Our money’s on Han Kang and Deborah Smith…”
The Vegetarian (South Korea) by Han Kang, translated by Deborah Smith (Granta)
Whitegrove Library Book Club read The Vegetarian:
“There has been such a buzz among our book group, since being chosen to shadow a Man Booker International shortlisted title that we all looked forward to our meeting – five days before the winning announcement! The content of the book is one of the darker and more desolate books we’ve had in our ten year existence. This was reflected in our discussion; we are wise and experienced enough to have realised that not all books are light and have happy conclusions. Yet the power of this book left some feeling forlorn and some bereft that they may have missed some deeper meaning in the brutality of the book. It was interesting that some saw the ending as a sign of hope.
We spoke at length about cultural differences and gender roles in Korea, attitudes to vegetarianism, mental health and freedom. To lighten the tone, we did make some jokes about becoming a tree and the benefits of being painted with flowers, even if your brother-in-law might not be the right choice to do the honours at the next family reunion.
Universally, we applauded Deborah Smith’s translation of the novel. We speculated what words and cultural references may have been changed to make the book flow. It was commented that the words were crafted so well that it was as if it had originally been written in English. The darkness of the novella left some not satisfied but others predicted that we would long think back on the themes and images of the book. Therefore, Han Kang’s harrowing novel provided us with a deep and fluid discussion and a further interest in Korea and her literature."
The Four Books (China) by Yan Lianke, translated by Carlos Rojas (Chatto & Windus)
Portobello Library Reading Group read The Four Books:
“We certainly had mixed feelings about The Four Books although we all agreed that we thought it was a great book for a book group because of this. We all found the book a challenging read with relentless repetitive depictions of frenetic work, intense suffering, and the bestowing of meaningless rewards. The book is set in a re-education camp for intellectuals during the Great Leap Forward and subsequent famine and we all appreciated the historical setting that gave plenty of context for the suffering and dark humour of the book. We also appreciated the courage and honesty of the author in writing on this subject.
Some of us found the book a challenging but ultimately rewarding attempt to use social satire, allegory and religious imagery, to explore a particularly horrific instance of human suffering. Others found the books style frustrating, tedious and oblique. Overall, a memorable book that led to a fascinating discussion.”
A Strangeness in My Mind (Turkey) by Orhan Pamuk, translated by Ekin Oklap (Faber & Faber)
Warwickshire Super Readers read A Strangeness in My Mind:
“Warwickshire Super Reader’s Group met at Kenilworth Library to discuss Orhan Pamuk’s A Strangeness in my Mind. We all think it is an amazing achievement on behalf of Pamuk, and we greatly admire his writing and intellect, and his love for Turkey and Istanbul in particular, which shines through the book.
The book is rich in scene-setting, and is affectionate without being sentimental. There is such depth there, so many layers historical, political and philosophical, which immerse the readers and their senses. For those of us who have visited Istanbul, the atmosphere of the city brought back many memories, – in fact the city becomes a character in the book – and we were overwhelmed with its sights, noises and smells.
The character of Mevlut is well-drawn, depicting a man in his time, trying to eke a living for his family and stay out of trouble (not always easy), a man steeped in tradition, yet at the same time, a liberal and moral man within the constraints of a repressive and corrupt society. We follow him as he roams the city, selling his boza, and meeting his customers and packs of stray dogs…The dogs are a very real menace in Istanbul, even today. The book is very detailed, and some found this rather tedious, particularly when Pamuk describes how boza is prepared. The pace of the book is slow, and these details reflect that.
Some characters in the book were not easy to relate to, (e.g. Bozkurt) but certainly Samiha and Rayiha are sympathetic and warmly drawn. In fact all the women in the book are independently-minded, although they are living in a patriarchal society. The section where Vediha vents her fury at all the injustices thrown upon her, is quietly uplifting. The book is essentially a love story, in the tradition of the sweeping Asian family sagas spanning decades, and turns about completely at the end, coming full circle. We liked the technique of the characters putting their own viewpoint to a particular event, finding their voice.
We discussed the difficulties of works in translation, and with Turkish a language so different from English, we wondered how much the translator had to re-write from the original. We noticed that there was some Americanisation of phrases and words…which did not detract from the whole work."
A Whole Life (Austria) by Robert Seethaler, translated by Charlotte Collins (Picador)
Make and Break read A Whole Life:
“We found A Whole Life deceptive in its simplicity. It has received obvious comparisons with Stoner with its pared down description of the life of a single, fairly solitary man, and the comparative inanity of his life; I think it could equally be compared to Hemingway, not only for its sparse language, but its gritty, old fashioned portrayal of masculinity. Andreas Egger is definitely someone you would want on your side: strong, dependable, not drawn from his path by shallow (sinful?) distractions. As such, Seethaler draws attention to the kind of labour that is often unrecognised. Egger helps to build and maintain the cable car that arrives in his village, providing a service for the influx of tourists, this work also drawing attention to the easily forgotten suffering of the workers, epitomised by one labourer losing his arm in an accident. Egger is also clearly a man of conscience, demonstrated by his romantic proposal to his future wife, and his attempted rescue of the old man at the start. He seems content with the life he has made for himself, literally moving hermit-like through various homes around the valley, without disturbing anyone.
This simplicity is often frustrating, however. Called up to fight in the Second World War, Egger offers no real commentary on the conflict, something I would have found especially interesting from a German author. In fact, the war, and Egger’s confinement, is brushed over relatively quickly; there is no indication that Egger feels any injustice at being kept prisoner long after the cessation of hostilities. Although this is arguably exemplary of Egger’s quiet dignity, it is perhaps reflective more of a suppression of emotion, which he is unable to comprehend the suffering he has witnessed outside of his own village. We’re not sure what Egger thinks about most things – perhaps he thinks nothing, perhaps he doesn’t even know about them. Indeed, the fact that Egger only leaves the village one other time in his entire life seems to suggest an isolated, enclosed existence, one that which few would aspire, despite Egger’s numerous characteristics that are undoubtedly admirable. This makes his watching of the moon landings doubly poignant, reminiscent of science-fiction.
Seethaler seems to point towards the overall simplicity and insignificance of the life of an individual, someone who may not have altered the course of history, but undoubtedly lived a life, existed. The portrayal of Egger’s life in the Alps balances the influence of humankind with the unstoppable constancy of nature, that no matter how far we may advance technologically, some things will never change. We are reminded, however, of what Egger misses out on, not only after he has died, but even during his own lifetime.”
Get involved
Find out more about the Man Booker International Prize shortlist.
Download reading notes and supporting booklists for all six shortlisted titles.
Join the conversation @ManBookerPrize with #MBI2016 and #FinestFiction.
