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The Many
On the surface, his move to the isolated village on the coast makes perfect sense. But the experience is an increasingly unsettling one for Timothy Bucchanan. A dead man no one will discuss. Wasted fish hauled from a contaminated sea. The dream of faceless men. Questions that lead to further questions. What truth are the villagers withholding? What fuels their interest and animosity towards him? And what pushes Timothy to dig deeper?
143 pages, Paperback
First published June 15, 2016
About the author
Wyl Menmuir
9 books64 followersWyl Menmuir is an award-winning author based in Cornwall. His 2016 debut novel, The Many was longlisted for the Man-Booker Award and was an Observer Best Fiction of the year pick. His second novel Fox Fires was published in 2021 and his short fiction has been published by Nightjar Press, Kneehigh Theatre and National Trust Books and appeared in Best British Short Stories. Wyl's first full-length non fiction book, The Draw of the Sea, won the Roger Deakin Award from the Society of Authors and is published in 2022. A former journalist, Wyl has written for Radio 4’s Open Book, The Guardian and The Observer, and the journal Elementum. He is co-creator of the Cornish writing centre, The Writers’ Block and lectures in creative writing at Falmouth University.
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 256 reviews
February 23, 2022
(Review originally published on my blog, July 2016)
The Many takes place in a seaside town gone to seed, a half-derelict place in which bountiful catches have become the stuff of legend. Most fishermen have abandoned their boats; those who do still venture out either return empty-handed, or bring back meagre hauls of lean, deformed fish. Newcomer Timothy Buchannan has moved into the house previously occupied by Perran, who died in an accident at sea some years ago. The house has been in disrepair ever since, but the locals don't take kindly to Timothy's arrival, and so insistently refer to the place as 'Perran's' that soon even Timothy finds himself doing the same.
Why has Timothy chosen to come to this decrepit town? The answer is found in a series of flashbacks: to Timothy's past (we discover he has been to the town before, with his partner Lauren, now inexplicably absent and perpetually about to 'join' him there) and to the memories of Ethan, a fisherman whose grief for Perran is still raw. Ethan acts as a second main character, his sadness and anger initially providing more solid foundations for the plot than the ambiguity around Timothy.
This is a slippery kind of story belonging to the same emergent trend as Andrew Michael Hurley's The Loney. It's tempting to categorise it as horror, but I don't know whether that would strictly be correct. There is certainly a folk-horror influence, with echoes of The Wicker Man in the townspeople's combination of mistrust of and interest in Timothy; the atmosphere, with its gloomy horizons, just-out-of-reach dread, and of course the sinister house, is suggestive of gothic fiction; the misshapen fish, polluted waters ('the chems') and mysterious visitors from the 'Department of Fisheries and Aquaculture' lend it a sci-fi edge. (Though I'm thinking of low-budget British TV sci-fi rather than the box-office-blockbuster/space opera kind.) Yet the story is too opaque to fit into the codes of any one genre, and few, if any, conclusions can be drawn about what it all means. It's a book in which everything seems to represent something else, but those meanings are not spelled out.
The Many unfolds like an unsettling dream, shifting illogically, asking the reader to accept leaps from reality to what seems like it may be fantasy (or may be a matter of perception). But it's not just a strange fable, there is humanity in it too: Ethan's palpable grief for Perran; the locals' struggle to adapt to a world in which their former livelihoods have become obsolete; the touches of tenderness in Timothy and Lauren's scenes together. Its portrayal of a community left behind by technology and bureaucracy, suspicious of the threat represented by 'outsiders', is recognisable and timely – perhaps even more so now than the author may have intended.
The Many takes place in a seaside town gone to seed, a half-derelict place in which bountiful catches have become the stuff of legend. Most fishermen have abandoned their boats; those who do still venture out either return empty-handed, or bring back meagre hauls of lean, deformed fish. Newcomer Timothy Buchannan has moved into the house previously occupied by Perran, who died in an accident at sea some years ago. The house has been in disrepair ever since, but the locals don't take kindly to Timothy's arrival, and so insistently refer to the place as 'Perran's' that soon even Timothy finds himself doing the same.
Why has Timothy chosen to come to this decrepit town? The answer is found in a series of flashbacks: to Timothy's past (we discover he has been to the town before, with his partner Lauren, now inexplicably absent and perpetually about to 'join' him there) and to the memories of Ethan, a fisherman whose grief for Perran is still raw. Ethan acts as a second main character, his sadness and anger initially providing more solid foundations for the plot than the ambiguity around Timothy.
This is a slippery kind of story belonging to the same emergent trend as Andrew Michael Hurley's The Loney. It's tempting to categorise it as horror, but I don't know whether that would strictly be correct. There is certainly a folk-horror influence, with echoes of The Wicker Man in the townspeople's combination of mistrust of and interest in Timothy; the atmosphere, with its gloomy horizons, just-out-of-reach dread, and of course the sinister house, is suggestive of gothic fiction; the misshapen fish, polluted waters ('the chems') and mysterious visitors from the 'Department of Fisheries and Aquaculture' lend it a sci-fi edge. (Though I'm thinking of low-budget British TV sci-fi rather than the box-office-blockbuster/space opera kind.) Yet the story is too opaque to fit into the codes of any one genre, and few, if any, conclusions can be drawn about what it all means. It's a book in which everything seems to represent something else, but those meanings are not spelled out.
The Many unfolds like an unsettling dream, shifting illogically, asking the reader to accept leaps from reality to what seems like it may be fantasy (or may be a matter of perception). But it's not just a strange fable, there is humanity in it too: Ethan's palpable grief for Perran; the locals' struggle to adapt to a world in which their former livelihoods have become obsolete; the touches of tenderness in Timothy and Lauren's scenes together. Its portrayal of a community left behind by technology and bureaucracy, suspicious of the threat represented by 'outsiders', is recognisable and timely – perhaps even more so now than the author may have intended.
September 30, 2016
This is a surprisingly effective novella . For most of the book we are caught up in a nightmarish and frankly implausible story of a polluted Cornish fishing village in conflict with an outsider (or emmet to use the local term) who has bought and moved into a dead young man's house. This part of the book is atmospheric, but I struggled to make sense of it until a key revelation that I can't say more about without spoiling, but for me the last part more than made up for the reservations I had about the rest, and I was left feeling that Menmuir is a talented writer, and I can understand why it impressed the Booker jury.
August 11, 2016
[3.5] I agree with everything in Blair's review of The Many, though I found a few more faults with the book. The combination of folk horror, and the book's relevance to the EU referendum as mentioned in another review, had me intrigued - but at first I found myself in déjà vu: a Booker-listed British novel, a dystopian low-tech vision of the West Country, a lowering, claustrophobic silence about something from the past? Thankfully I found The Many more enjoyable and resonant than Howard Jacobson's J (2014), it's significantly shorter, and the writing more atmospheric.
It's unclear why Londoner Timothy bought a dilapidated house in this unnamed Cornish village of all places - it's not as if his prior experiences on holiday in the area with his wife didn't indicate it was all rather Royston Vasey. This odd bit of illogic served to get him there, at any rate, and then produce a story with some interesting layers - although ones which, I'm wondering on the basis of a very small sample of three, may be less apparent and/or less interesting to readers outside the UK.
For much of the novella I found the portrayal of the locals, especially the men, somewhat uncomfortable. Most books about moving to the country treat it as a bit of a caper, and urban authors who write about their adopted rural homes tend to be positive - but occasionally others turn up showing darker sides; Andrzej Stasiuk's Tales from Galicia was the last I read. There, and here, I think a postcolonial reading is useful, with the long-term rural population in subaltern status relative to urban middle class incomers. (Which can equally be applied to the real life 'Divided Britain' highlighted by the referendum.)
In The Many, there is arguably too much of that 'just walked into The Slaughtered Lamb' stereotype, and seeing ageing fisherman Ethan give so much thought and attention to Timothy felt like that old bugbear of colonial writing whereby local characters' worlds revolve around a white settler protagonist, and they don't have a great deal else going on in their lives. However, towards the end I felt it resolved into something more complex - and in any case, during the referendum campaign, quite a lot of negative thought was expended in the direction of middle-class liberal Londoners by populations elsewhere who felt despised and misunderstood. There's very occasional comment on the stereotyping within The Many, but rather a lot of the time it just continued unironically. The dilemmas in the book arise because rural working class people (especially older men, to be fair) don't know how to talk about emotions, and this results in long-term illogical behaviour. What do people in Cornwall think of the book? It doesn't show the place in a good light - but then one could also say that about the county's vote to leave the EU despite being more dependent on European funding support than most British regions: an act paralleled by the scene of Clem's solitary destructiveness late in the novella. Political reservations aside, I also found the book cathartic, because to an extent I would fear having experiences similar to Timothy's. Balance is tricky to attain in a novel like this that concentrates on one character, because it's not always positive; some incomers do face hostility despite apparently behaving decently, and the long-term residents' resentment is understandable economically and culturally - but it's allowed to want to move out of an urban area, so can't you at least do it in peace in your home country?
A petty point, the following, but I disliked the main characters' names to the extent it got in the way; they also jarred with the otherwise skilful and nuanced use of implicit British cultural references. I hadn't even heard the name Ethan until my teens or thereabouts, when it belonged to American actors, and I've never heard of a British Ethan who wasn't born after or around that time. Tried to find out if it was a characteristic West Country name but nothing turned up. This choice of name continually made it difficult to visualise the character as a lifelong sea-fisherman in his late fifties or early sixties. Apologies to any Tims or Timothies who see this, but as the name has been used for a number of British comedy characters who were incompetent, passive, or similar, I was surprised whenever Timothy (even more so because he never abbreviated his name) turned out to be self-reliant, did a lot of DIY work alone, went on long runs, helped capably with fishing and so forth. After a while I resorted to imagining him with other names to see how it affected my response to the book and character.
As I said in another recent review, unlike some, I don't mind hearing about people's dreams; they can be quite interesting. The ones in this book were too elaborately symbolic to seem like real dreams, but they did fit perfectly with the dark mood and detail, augmenting the folk- and eco-horror. But there were too damn many of them. In a world where people can't talk about things, perhaps they're dreaming more instead - but another impression was that all these dream sequences were a way of expanding a long short story or novellette into a novella. That strategy may also have been behind a series of mawkish and heavy-handed scenes towards the end of the book, involving Timothy and his wife Lauren (or it was the reason why they weren't cut although they are at odds with the enigmatic tone of the rest of the story).
The Many feels like the flipside to the current wave of British nature writing, with its idealisation of the countryside and its restorative properties, much of it by authors around Menmuir's age. It's an articulation of an old dread of hostility from locals which was rarely discussed by urban downshifters except in the odd forum post, even whilst in many rural areas, incomers continued to push up property prices and therefore push out essential, un-fancy businesses that required lower-paid workers to staff them. The countryside is more complicated than a dreamy refugium, and it bit back in the referendum, as it does here. No matter how much emigrants from London might happen to know about recognising wildlife and growing veg and building a log fire, they don't have that connection to place of those whose families have been in the same rural area for many generations. A connection which they think they crave, but it's a complicated one, because to have been born to it might have involved being someone with values they don't like; there is, like it or not, more casually spoken racism in rural areas, and people are more conservative. Pollution is ignored by much, though by no means all, of that nature writing: here it's ever present in the sea (yet for some reason fishermen still fish, as if ancient currents of tradition can't cease completely). A sense of isolation is magnified in The Many by the apparent absence of most communications except mobile phones (difficult to get a signal) and old government leaflets (the latter evoking a strand of nostalgia about a more paternalist, public-service driven Britain of the post-war decades, also mentioned here - as with the nature writing, Menmuir is showing its dark side). For instance, the idea of going to a public library to look up old newspaper stories about Perran is never mentioned - Timothy is solely reliant on what the locals say just as he might have been hundreds of years ago. There may be a garage "miles away" but he never tries to phone them; he advertises in the village shop for people to do work on the house - charitable but not necessarily likely to get the best quality job. It can seem during the beginning and middle that not much happens in the book - but then, not much happens in small villages. The Many is saying to all those recent paeans to the countryside "hang on, are you sure? isn't there more to it?" The unspoken undercurrents and unsolved mysteries also seem to say we can never really understand as we'd like to, or think we can.
The ambiguity of imagery nearing the end of the book, seems to be saying something about the adverse effects of town on country, and, in Timothy's briefly taking on Perran's mystical attributes - perhaps more tenuously - about urban culture replacing rural traditions and lore, not always intentionally. It's never said whose fault the pollution is that deformed the fish - that wouldn't be in the way of this book to explain so much - traditional binary oppositions see it as an urban attribute, but the trawling nets used by the fishermen indicate exploitation of nature on their part too. The new kind of townie tries to ameliorate the problems [vague spoiler].
I can see why this made it on to the Booker longlist. It could perhaps deal with the urban/rural divide more even-handedly, but the complexity of the ending almost escaped, or at least dialled down, the idealisation/demonisation binary about the rural. It feels perceptive and now prescient about currents in British (English) culture, and subsumes that commentary, usually successfully, into an atmospheric story - though one that may frustrate those who like everything to be revealed at the end, or some who would not have read this type of book - literary mild horror more than literary fiction - were it not for the Booker longlisting.
----
Re. the jellyfish - found this in an article read a couple of weeks after finishing the book:
It is not at all clear how the ocean food chain will react if you pull out the organisms at the bottom."
One likely scenario: the triumph of the jellyfish. Since jellyfish don't build shells, a world with more acidic seas may give them an evolutionary advantage. Roberts says she's already seeing a lot more jellyfish on her research trips. "One of the consequences of burning fossil fuels may be that we're creating an ocean of jellyfish," she says.
It's unclear why Londoner Timothy bought a dilapidated house in this unnamed Cornish village of all places - it's not as if his prior experiences on holiday in the area with his wife didn't indicate it was all rather Royston Vasey. This odd bit of illogic served to get him there, at any rate, and then produce a story with some interesting layers - although ones which, I'm wondering on the basis of a very small sample of three, may be less apparent and/or less interesting to readers outside the UK.
For much of the novella I found the portrayal of the locals, especially the men, somewhat uncomfortable. Most books about moving to the country treat it as a bit of a caper, and urban authors who write about their adopted rural homes tend to be positive - but occasionally others turn up showing darker sides; Andrzej Stasiuk's Tales from Galicia was the last I read. There, and here, I think a postcolonial reading is useful, with the long-term rural population in subaltern status relative to urban middle class incomers. (Which can equally be applied to the real life 'Divided Britain' highlighted by the referendum.)
In The Many, there is arguably too much of that 'just walked into The Slaughtered Lamb' stereotype, and seeing ageing fisherman Ethan give so much thought and attention to Timothy felt like that old bugbear of colonial writing whereby local characters' worlds revolve around a white settler protagonist, and they don't have a great deal else going on in their lives. However, towards the end I felt it resolved into something more complex - and in any case, during the referendum campaign, quite a lot of negative thought was expended in the direction of middle-class liberal Londoners by populations elsewhere who felt despised and misunderstood. There's very occasional comment on the stereotyping within The Many, but rather a lot of the time it just continued unironically. The dilemmas in the book arise because rural working class people (especially older men, to be fair) don't know how to talk about emotions, and this results in long-term illogical behaviour. What do people in Cornwall think of the book? It doesn't show the place in a good light - but then one could also say that about the county's vote to leave the EU despite being more dependent on European funding support than most British regions: an act paralleled by the scene of Clem's solitary destructiveness late in the novella. Political reservations aside, I also found the book cathartic, because to an extent I would fear having experiences similar to Timothy's. Balance is tricky to attain in a novel like this that concentrates on one character, because it's not always positive; some incomers do face hostility despite apparently behaving decently, and the long-term residents' resentment is understandable economically and culturally - but it's allowed to want to move out of an urban area, so can't you at least do it in peace in your home country?
A petty point, the following, but I disliked the main characters' names to the extent it got in the way; they also jarred with the otherwise skilful and nuanced use of implicit British cultural references. I hadn't even heard the name Ethan until my teens or thereabouts, when it belonged to American actors, and I've never heard of a British Ethan who wasn't born after or around that time. Tried to find out if it was a characteristic West Country name but nothing turned up. This choice of name continually made it difficult to visualise the character as a lifelong sea-fisherman in his late fifties or early sixties. Apologies to any Tims or Timothies who see this, but as the name has been used for a number of British comedy characters who were incompetent, passive, or similar, I was surprised whenever Timothy (even more so because he never abbreviated his name) turned out to be self-reliant, did a lot of DIY work alone, went on long runs, helped capably with fishing and so forth. After a while I resorted to imagining him with other names to see how it affected my response to the book and character.
As I said in another recent review, unlike some, I don't mind hearing about people's dreams; they can be quite interesting. The ones in this book were too elaborately symbolic to seem like real dreams, but they did fit perfectly with the dark mood and detail, augmenting the folk- and eco-horror. But there were too damn many of them. In a world where people can't talk about things, perhaps they're dreaming more instead - but another impression was that all these dream sequences were a way of expanding a long short story or novellette into a novella. That strategy may also have been behind a series of mawkish and heavy-handed scenes towards the end of the book, involving Timothy and his wife Lauren (or it was the reason why they weren't cut although they are at odds with the enigmatic tone of the rest of the story).
The Many feels like the flipside to the current wave of British nature writing, with its idealisation of the countryside and its restorative properties, much of it by authors around Menmuir's age. It's an articulation of an old dread of hostility from locals which was rarely discussed by urban downshifters except in the odd forum post, even whilst in many rural areas, incomers continued to push up property prices and therefore push out essential, un-fancy businesses that required lower-paid workers to staff them. The countryside is more complicated than a dreamy refugium, and it bit back in the referendum, as it does here. No matter how much emigrants from London might happen to know about recognising wildlife and growing veg and building a log fire, they don't have that connection to place of those whose families have been in the same rural area for many generations. A connection which they think they crave, but it's a complicated one, because to have been born to it might have involved being someone with values they don't like; there is, like it or not, more casually spoken racism in rural areas, and people are more conservative. Pollution is ignored by much, though by no means all, of that nature writing: here it's ever present in the sea (yet for some reason fishermen still fish, as if ancient currents of tradition can't cease completely). A sense of isolation is magnified in The Many by the apparent absence of most communications except mobile phones (difficult to get a signal) and old government leaflets (the latter evoking a strand of nostalgia about a more paternalist, public-service driven Britain of the post-war decades, also mentioned here - as with the nature writing, Menmuir is showing its dark side). For instance, the idea of going to a public library to look up old newspaper stories about Perran is never mentioned - Timothy is solely reliant on what the locals say just as he might have been hundreds of years ago. There may be a garage "miles away" but he never tries to phone them; he advertises in the village shop for people to do work on the house - charitable but not necessarily likely to get the best quality job. It can seem during the beginning and middle that not much happens in the book - but then, not much happens in small villages. The Many is saying to all those recent paeans to the countryside "hang on, are you sure? isn't there more to it?" The unspoken undercurrents and unsolved mysteries also seem to say we can never really understand as we'd like to, or think we can.
The ambiguity of imagery nearing the end of the book, seems to be saying something about the adverse effects of town on country, and, in Timothy's briefly taking on Perran's mystical attributes - perhaps more tenuously - about urban culture replacing rural traditions and lore, not always intentionally. It's never said whose fault the pollution is that deformed the fish - that wouldn't be in the way of this book to explain so much - traditional binary oppositions see it as an urban attribute, but the trawling nets used by the fishermen indicate exploitation of nature on their part too. The new kind of townie tries to ameliorate the problems [vague spoiler].
I can see why this made it on to the Booker longlist. It could perhaps deal with the urban/rural divide more even-handedly, but the complexity of the ending almost escaped, or at least dialled down, the idealisation/demonisation binary about the rural. It feels perceptive and now prescient about currents in British (English) culture, and subsumes that commentary, usually successfully, into an atmospheric story - though one that may frustrate those who like everything to be revealed at the end, or some who would not have read this type of book - literary mild horror more than literary fiction - were it not for the Booker longlisting.
----
Re. the jellyfish - found this in an article read a couple of weeks after finishing the book:
It is not at all clear how the ocean food chain will react if you pull out the organisms at the bottom."
One likely scenario: the triumph of the jellyfish. Since jellyfish don't build shells, a world with more acidic seas may give them an evolutionary advantage. Roberts says she's already seeing a lot more jellyfish on her research trips. "One of the consequences of burning fossil fuels may be that we're creating an ocean of jellyfish," she says.
August 31, 2016
This is more of a novella, a first novel and also longlisted for the Man Booker Prize. Within a list of struggle for my reading, this one surprised me. But not at first. I read the first 100 pages last night and finished it off this morning. It was only in discussion with others that I felt it click into place. I can't say much about it at all because the reading journey is so important, but I can say that all I could see were black, white, and grey (e because the author is English) as I was reading. The world he describes is a dingy, sad, mysterious, colorless place. I don't know how the people living inside of it survive.
This is one of two so far I'd keep for the shortlist, but I'm going to keep trying.
This is one of two so far I'd keep for the shortlist, but I'm going to keep trying.
August 18, 2016
(Update a couple of weeks after review posted: changed to 2 stars because I can't help thinking my interpretation hidden behind the spoiler below is right which I find a disappointing story line. Even if I am wrong, I can't get that take on the book out of my head which means it's only a 2-star read for me).
If this book is what I think it is, I would actually only give it two stars. In the hope that it is more than I think it is, I am giving it 3 and waiting for someone to clarify what it is about. I will put my theory about it in a hidden spoiler at the end of this review.
It's a unsettling tale set in a fishing village where an "incomer" buys a property with a view to renovating before his wife moves in. The village is on a downward spiral because of the poor fishing and there are mystery container ships on the horizon that form a sort of boundary. Timothy, our "incomer" gradually builds a relationship with Ethan, a villager. But there is a mystery about the previous owner of the house Timothy has bought - what happened to Perran and who was he?
So, it's an interesting enough read and for a while it keeps you guessing. But I got bored and I was glad it was only 160 pages long. I don't understand what it is doing on the Man Booker long list. But, as I say, I may be mis-reading it and it is actually something way more than I think.
If this book is what I think it is, I would actually only give it two stars. In the hope that it is more than I think it is, I am giving it 3 and waiting for someone to clarify what it is about. I will put my theory about it in a hidden spoiler at the end of this review.
It's a unsettling tale set in a fishing village where an "incomer" buys a property with a view to renovating before his wife moves in. The village is on a downward spiral because of the poor fishing and there are mystery container ships on the horizon that form a sort of boundary. Timothy, our "incomer" gradually builds a relationship with Ethan, a villager. But there is a mystery about the previous owner of the house Timothy has bought - what happened to Perran and who was he?
So, it's an interesting enough read and for a while it keeps you guessing. But I got bored and I was glad it was only 160 pages long. I don't understand what it is doing on the Man Booker long list. But, as I say, I may be mis-reading it and it is actually something way more than I think.
May 24, 2021
The book is set in an unnamed remote and tiny Cornish fishing village – one of the four remaining fishermen Ethan is out at sea when he spots smoke coming from the chimney of the hours where Perran (previously the person who helped drag the ships up and down the beach but who know has some form of psychological hold on the village) lived ten year previously but which has since then been unoccupied. We then switch to the new occupant – Timothy, an income from London who has bought the property cheaply, something he realises immediately is a mistake. The book alternates between third party chapters written from Ethan and Timothy’s viewpoint – with little change in style which seems deliberate as the two characters are both drawn to each other and Timothy starts going out on Ethan’s boat.
Atmospheric and claustrophobic novella – the book is an odd and uneasy mix of: Royston-Valley/Wicker Man/Magnus Mills (although with much less sparse writing) lone town dweller is trapped in a sinister rural village; imagery and allegory – with the loss of Timothy’s son and his grieving placed alongside the loss of the villagers fishing fleets; clear possible political references (to EU quotas and to the loss of rural identity); narrative and dream (which are interweaved in the story explicitly but also implicitly as it increasingly becomes clear that even the awake moments may well be imagined). At times the layers of allegory and possible explanation are laid on each other like layers of paint, but before any of the layers have time to dry so that you end up with a messy indeterminate brown splodge. Overall though the book is memorable and haunting albeit flawed in execution.
Atmospheric and claustrophobic novella – the book is an odd and uneasy mix of: Royston-Valley/Wicker Man/Magnus Mills (although with much less sparse writing) lone town dweller is trapped in a sinister rural village; imagery and allegory – with the loss of Timothy’s son and his grieving placed alongside the loss of the villagers fishing fleets; clear possible political references (to EU quotas and to the loss of rural identity); narrative and dream (which are interweaved in the story explicitly but also implicitly as it increasingly becomes clear that even the awake moments may well be imagined). At times the layers of allegory and possible explanation are laid on each other like layers of paint, but before any of the layers have time to dry so that you end up with a messy indeterminate brown splodge. Overall though the book is memorable and haunting albeit flawed in execution.
August 17, 2016
Who Was Perran?
Before I say anything else about this eerie novella that has just appeared on the 2016 Man Booker longlist, let me confess: I have no idea what the title means, even after finishing the book. But I have not much idea what the rest of it means either. It started simply enough, when a young man, Timothy, comes to take an abandoned cottage in a run-down fishing village, hoping to fix it up before being joined by his girlfriend. There are strong hints of Gothic, in the inhospitable nature of the place, and the Straw Dogs way the locals form up against the incomer. Or of environmental dystopia, as it becomes clear that the waters are poisoned, the rare catches are confined to strange mutated fish and jellies, and a cordon of empty container ships marks off a no-go zone offshore.
But as the story progresses—slowly at first, very slowly—other elements come in. Timothy's cottage is known locally as Perran's, even though this Perran has been dead ten years. Try as he might, Timothy can find very little out about him. Was he old or young, a village leader or a preternaturally wise child? What was his special relationship with Ethan, a local fisherman who acts almost as though he has lost a son or lover, and blames himself for Perran's death. Is there hatred, envy, or grudging kinship in Ethan's relationship with Timothy, on those occasions when he takes him out his boat? Who is the woman in gray, who appears with her henchmen whenever a catch is brought in?
I tend not to like the use of dreams in novels, and there are a lot of them here. There are also long flashback sections in italics. At least they seem like flashbacks, but as you read on you discover that the relationship of the various time-periods is not always what you assumed—and further that the distinction between dream and straight narrative is not so clear either. Eventually, Menmuir will bring in some episodes that seem to have a different kind of reality, leading perhaps to other theories of what the book was about. I don't imagine that any two readers will entirely agree, but at the end I personally found it very moving indeed.
But I still cannot explain the title.
Before I say anything else about this eerie novella that has just appeared on the 2016 Man Booker longlist, let me confess: I have no idea what the title means, even after finishing the book. But I have not much idea what the rest of it means either. It started simply enough, when a young man, Timothy, comes to take an abandoned cottage in a run-down fishing village, hoping to fix it up before being joined by his girlfriend. There are strong hints of Gothic, in the inhospitable nature of the place, and the Straw Dogs way the locals form up against the incomer. Or of environmental dystopia, as it becomes clear that the waters are poisoned, the rare catches are confined to strange mutated fish and jellies, and a cordon of empty container ships marks off a no-go zone offshore.
But as the story progresses—slowly at first, very slowly—other elements come in. Timothy's cottage is known locally as Perran's, even though this Perran has been dead ten years. Try as he might, Timothy can find very little out about him. Was he old or young, a village leader or a preternaturally wise child? What was his special relationship with Ethan, a local fisherman who acts almost as though he has lost a son or lover, and blames himself for Perran's death. Is there hatred, envy, or grudging kinship in Ethan's relationship with Timothy, on those occasions when he takes him out his boat? Who is the woman in gray, who appears with her henchmen whenever a catch is brought in?
I tend not to like the use of dreams in novels, and there are a lot of them here. There are also long flashback sections in italics. At least they seem like flashbacks, but as you read on you discover that the relationship of the various time-periods is not always what you assumed—and further that the distinction between dream and straight narrative is not so clear either. Eventually, Menmuir will bring in some episodes that seem to have a different kind of reality, leading perhaps to other theories of what the book was about. I don't imagine that any two readers will entirely agree, but at the end I personally found it very moving indeed.
But I still cannot explain the title.
October 19, 2016
(3.5) A short work of muted horror, all about atmosphere and the unexplained. Set in a Cornish fishing village, it sees newcomer Timothy Buchannan trying to figure out what happened to Perran, the man who occupied this rundown cottage until his death 10 years ago, and why everyone refuses to talk about him. Flashbacks in italics give glimpses into Timothy’s life with his wife, Lauren, who is meant to join him when he finishes the renovations; and into the fisherman Ethan’s past.
I enjoyed the unsettling mood and the language used to describe the setting and Timothy’s dreams: “The fish appear at first as a lightening of the sea beneath the boat as of a cloud scudding beneath the waves, their scales catching the moonlight” and “He dreams of the vents where life still clings on to the hydrothermal streams that escape the earth’s core, of the shrimps, the crabs, the biosludge that survived the great oceanic apocalypse, and feels the heat of the vents sear the skin on his sunken face as he leans in closer to look.”
Ultimately I’m not sure I fully understood the book, especially whether the late turns of the plot are to be viewed literally or allegorically. What I take away from it, and this is perhaps too simplistic of me, is an assertion that we are all joined in our losses. A quick, creepy read – you could do worse than pick it up this Halloween.
I enjoyed the unsettling mood and the language used to describe the setting and Timothy’s dreams: “The fish appear at first as a lightening of the sea beneath the boat as of a cloud scudding beneath the waves, their scales catching the moonlight” and “He dreams of the vents where life still clings on to the hydrothermal streams that escape the earth’s core, of the shrimps, the crabs, the biosludge that survived the great oceanic apocalypse, and feels the heat of the vents sear the skin on his sunken face as he leans in closer to look.”
Ultimately I’m not sure I fully understood the book, especially whether the late turns of the plot are to be viewed literally or allegorically. What I take away from it, and this is perhaps too simplistic of me, is an assertion that we are all joined in our losses. A quick, creepy read – you could do worse than pick it up this Halloween.
September 11, 2016
Bleak, unsettling and full of unanswered mysteries. I'm not quite sure what to make of this.
August 5, 2016
I’d just like to start off with a little epiphany I had while reading Wyl Menmuir’s The Many: I love short novels and novellas. Being able to sit down and devour a book in a sitting or two is immersive, and the novels rarely overstay their welcome. It is easy to commit to a reading of a novel that is 150 pages, while 700+ page epics are often daunting. Long novels require me to commit many hours to a story, while the short novel offers me accessibility and a quick return on my time. While the long, serious, literary novel will always be my true love in literature, I do think that not enough love is given to its diminutive relative.
But let’s get down to business: The Many is a weird book and I don’t quite know what to make of it.
The Hook
Roger’s excellent review of this novel had me quite interested, I suggest that you check it out. I was also enticed by this novel’s inclusion on the Man Booker Prize Longlist for 2016. It comes from a small press and a relatively unknown author, so it may just end up being a polite nod. With that said, I think it is a little unfair that I’ve followed the Booker winners over the past few years, and ignored the other nominees. So, this one was for the underdog in the fight!
I was also excited by the novel's setting and story. I tend to read a pretty healthy variety of literature, but this one seemed like a nice diversion from what I've been reading lately. Indeed, it was pretty different from most of the books I've read this year.
The Line
The creepy, desolate setting, and the ominous nature of the story pulled me along through my reading. The remote fishing village fallen on hard times has been a reality for many of the places I’ve lived in my life, and I think Menmuir does the setting justice. I kept expecting this to veer into the supernatural. Perhaps I am biased by my recent obsession with Netflix’s excellent Stranger Things, but the translucent fish and the dream sequences kept hinting at something more sinister, more otherworldly.
Not that I expected Cthulu to rise from the sea, but I thought maybe a cult made up of the villages populace, or an it was all a fever dream type story would pop up at any moment. In that way, I suppose this is a bit of a psychological thriller. I wasn’t much for all the dream sequences, but they do seem to hint at some great revelation that never arrives. Ethan and Timothy, the story’s central characters, are interesting enough, though I wish I understood them a bit better.
I suppose that there’s a central mystery hanging this whole story together. Who was Perran? That mystery is never really solved, instead you get the type of thing that Heath Ledger’s Joker did in The Dark Knight: multiple conflicting stories.
The Sinker
Well, as much as I enjoyed the bleak and oppressive grimness of rural England, the whole book is a bit of a drag. Though (I think) we receive a revelation about Timothy’s motivations towards the end of the book, I didn’t feel satisfied by the book’s conclusion. If Perran is supposed to be a metaphor for the exclusion of the other and the inclusive nature of remote communities, then I’m just sort of ho-hum in my reaction to the book.
The other thing: the murky, shifting nature of the story between present, past (?) and dream sequences make for a fine atmosphere, but detract a bit from a through-line of the story. I left the book with more questions than answers, but perhaps this is a novel better suited to contemplation and evaluation rather than a quick read.
With all that said, this was a nice break from some of the other stuff I’ve been reading, and a fine recommendation. It was fun to pick up something I could take down in a few evenings, and I did enjoy Menmuir’s writing, dour though it was.
But let’s get down to business: The Many is a weird book and I don’t quite know what to make of it.
The Hook
Roger’s excellent review of this novel had me quite interested, I suggest that you check it out. I was also enticed by this novel’s inclusion on the Man Booker Prize Longlist for 2016. It comes from a small press and a relatively unknown author, so it may just end up being a polite nod. With that said, I think it is a little unfair that I’ve followed the Booker winners over the past few years, and ignored the other nominees. So, this one was for the underdog in the fight!
I was also excited by the novel's setting and story. I tend to read a pretty healthy variety of literature, but this one seemed like a nice diversion from what I've been reading lately. Indeed, it was pretty different from most of the books I've read this year.
The Line
The creepy, desolate setting, and the ominous nature of the story pulled me along through my reading. The remote fishing village fallen on hard times has been a reality for many of the places I’ve lived in my life, and I think Menmuir does the setting justice. I kept expecting this to veer into the supernatural. Perhaps I am biased by my recent obsession with Netflix’s excellent Stranger Things, but the translucent fish and the dream sequences kept hinting at something more sinister, more otherworldly.
Not that I expected Cthulu to rise from the sea, but I thought maybe a cult made up of the villages populace, or an it was all a fever dream type story would pop up at any moment. In that way, I suppose this is a bit of a psychological thriller. I wasn’t much for all the dream sequences, but they do seem to hint at some great revelation that never arrives. Ethan and Timothy, the story’s central characters, are interesting enough, though I wish I understood them a bit better.
I suppose that there’s a central mystery hanging this whole story together. Who was Perran? That mystery is never really solved, instead you get the type of thing that Heath Ledger’s Joker did in The Dark Knight: multiple conflicting stories.
The Sinker
Well, as much as I enjoyed the bleak and oppressive grimness of rural England, the whole book is a bit of a drag. Though (I think) we receive a revelation about Timothy’s motivations towards the end of the book, I didn’t feel satisfied by the book’s conclusion. If Perran is supposed to be a metaphor for the exclusion of the other and the inclusive nature of remote communities, then I’m just sort of ho-hum in my reaction to the book.
The other thing: the murky, shifting nature of the story between present, past (?) and dream sequences make for a fine atmosphere, but detract a bit from a through-line of the story. I left the book with more questions than answers, but perhaps this is a novel better suited to contemplation and evaluation rather than a quick read.
With all that said, this was a nice break from some of the other stuff I’ve been reading, and a fine recommendation. It was fun to pick up something I could take down in a few evenings, and I did enjoy Menmuir’s writing, dour though it was.
Read
August 18, 2016I liked this book. It took me two readings before I felt like I was getting somewhere with it -- the first time around I was puzzled enough to keep turning pages, and it wasn't until the ending when I realized a) that all is not as it seems on the surface here and b) I absolutely needed to read it again. This one appealed, and is still haunting me right now while I'm thinking about it.
The Many is certainly a cryptic novel which can be extremely frustrating, and given its size, it probably shouldn't take two readings for most people. In my case, the second read helped a lot, since there is not much that is said here by way of explanation, and there is much that a reader has to pick up through an examination of dreams and flashbacks and through drawing parallels. I often felt like the characters in this book -- "hemmed in", since there's a tense, claustrophobic feel to this story. It also had the effect of keeping me knocked off kilter the entire time. In spite of the fact that it was so enigmatic (and really, some of it is just plain strange at times), I found it a dark, sad and haunting book that I won't be forgetting any time soon. That's a good thing.
I think this one's going on the real-world book group list, and it's probably best suited for very, very patient readers since it's a bit slow going. Then again, it's definitely not a book you want to rush through.
... more with no spoilers at my reading journal page.
The Many is certainly a cryptic novel which can be extremely frustrating, and given its size, it probably shouldn't take two readings for most people. In my case, the second read helped a lot, since there is not much that is said here by way of explanation, and there is much that a reader has to pick up through an examination of dreams and flashbacks and through drawing parallels. I often felt like the characters in this book -- "hemmed in", since there's a tense, claustrophobic feel to this story. It also had the effect of keeping me knocked off kilter the entire time. In spite of the fact that it was so enigmatic (and really, some of it is just plain strange at times), I found it a dark, sad and haunting book that I won't be forgetting any time soon. That's a good thing.
I think this one's going on the real-world book group list, and it's probably best suited for very, very patient readers since it's a bit slow going. Then again, it's definitely not a book you want to rush through.
... more with no spoilers at my reading journal page.
September 11, 2016
I was unprepared for the conclusion of this strange, atmospheric book, and am thinking now that I’ve read a rather brilliant parable of grief and loss. I find myself picking up the book and re-reading passages from the first two thirds with a second appreciation as well as discovering again the evocative beauty of the writing. The book remains a puzzle in many ways, but, for me at least, an engrossing and effective one. Somber and mystifying.
September 16, 2016
Is it possible to enjoy a book and appreciate the skill that went into creation and yet finish it not being entirely convinced I understood everything that was contained within its pages? That was my experience with The Many by Wyl Menmuir, long listed for the Man Booker Prize in 2016. It’s a slim novel but one that contains such a multiplicity of symbols and ideas that makes a second reading a necessity.
For a novel that has Gothic overtones, the beginning is appropriately an omen in the form of smoke seen rising from an abandoned clifftop dwelling. The house which overlooks the harbour of a small, unnamed fishing village in Cornwall has been empty for 10 years following the death of its owner, Perran, a man who it appears still casts a powerful influence over the village. Now the house has been bought by an outsider (an ’emmet’ in local parlance) and the villagers doubt he will last long. They’re not exactly welcoming to the stranger, perhaps seeing him as yet another city dweller buying homes along the coast as weekend cottages to the detriment of locals who can’t afford those prices.
The newcomer is Timothy Buchanan, a Londoner, who bought the derelict property sight unseen and now plans to make it habitable so his wife can join him. It’s a bizarre choice because the house is clearly in a very bad way, with stained curtains, peeling paint, no heating and the smell of dampness. Timothy doesn’t seem to have the means to pay workmen to get the house in order but he doesn’t have the skill or inclination to the do the work himself either. It’s not even as though this is an idyllic spot – an early morning swim on his first day in residence finds him fighting for breath at the unexpected icy temperature and the force of the waves. The following day he learns there is something even more sinister in the water. “If the tide doesn’t get you, the chems will. You want to stay healthy past forty, alive past fifty, you’ll remember to stay well out of the water, ” advises Ethan, one of the local fishermen.
The relationship between Ethan and Timothy develops over time though its not one that is easily fathomed. Ethan is still grieving for Perran, and suffering over what he could have done to prevent his death. Though he steadfastly refuses to answer Timothy’s pushy questions about what happened to the Perran, he thaws enough to invite the visitor onto his boat for a fishing trip and to break the cordon. The ‘chems’ are every present though in the form of heavy pollution by “biological agents and contaminants” that has impacted the fishing grounds and the villagers’ livelihoods. Instead of healthy specimens the nets catch malformed creatures:
The dogfish look burned, as though with acid, their eye sockets elongated and deep, showing through to the bone at the ends and there are white lesions down the side of each body. Their rough black skin is dull and flaked away in patches, the fins thin and ragged where there should be muscle …
A later expedition brings in fish that are:
… colourless and long, and their scales …. are translucent… Beneath the skin, the outlines of organs are visible, shadows in the pale flesh…. in some of them bunches of roe shine through the distended skin of their underbellies.
This is a community that is trapped, isolated and it seems on the verge of disaster. Large container ships loom on the horizon, forming a cordon beyond which the fishermen are ordered by the Department of Fisheries and Aquaculture not to sail. Nor can they sell their catches on the open market. Instead men in suits carrying large wads of cash are there to great them and take the stock every time the fleet arrives back in the harbour. Overseeing their transaction is a woman in a grey coat.
The woman in grey is just one of the unsettling and unexplained elements of this book. She never utters a word, she simply stands on the cliff like some spectral figure. Timothy initially thinks of her like a lighthouse beam that periodically illuminates the sea on a dark night. Later he comes to wonder if she is some kind of guardian angel watching over the village. The mystery woman becomes even more mysterious towards the end of the book when Timothy discovers her on her knees as if in prayer, tracing patterns on a road with her fingertips.
But by then Menmuir has built such a web of hallucinatory experiences that it’s not clear whether there really is a woman in grey or she is a figment of Timothy’s imagination, fuelled by a fever that bests him? Is it the aftermath of a traumatic event in his past or a traumatic event that might happen in the future? Does Ethan really see cracks appear suddenly in the protective harbour wall and run down the beach, early warning signs of a disaster to come that will wipe out not only the houses, but the villagers across whose faces and bodies he sees scars appear?
Questions abound within this novel. Reading it feels like being constantly on the edge of things, being allowed to peek in but denied access to the core of its meaning. One thing I was certain of, this is not a novel that has a happily resolved ending. Throughout the atmosphere is of impending doom not simply for this one village but for all communities dependent on natural resources for their living. Is Mynmuir giving us a taste of the future or of the present? Yet another of the unresolved questions buzzing around my head long after I got to the final page.
For a novel that has Gothic overtones, the beginning is appropriately an omen in the form of smoke seen rising from an abandoned clifftop dwelling. The house which overlooks the harbour of a small, unnamed fishing village in Cornwall has been empty for 10 years following the death of its owner, Perran, a man who it appears still casts a powerful influence over the village. Now the house has been bought by an outsider (an ’emmet’ in local parlance) and the villagers doubt he will last long. They’re not exactly welcoming to the stranger, perhaps seeing him as yet another city dweller buying homes along the coast as weekend cottages to the detriment of locals who can’t afford those prices.
The newcomer is Timothy Buchanan, a Londoner, who bought the derelict property sight unseen and now plans to make it habitable so his wife can join him. It’s a bizarre choice because the house is clearly in a very bad way, with stained curtains, peeling paint, no heating and the smell of dampness. Timothy doesn’t seem to have the means to pay workmen to get the house in order but he doesn’t have the skill or inclination to the do the work himself either. It’s not even as though this is an idyllic spot – an early morning swim on his first day in residence finds him fighting for breath at the unexpected icy temperature and the force of the waves. The following day he learns there is something even more sinister in the water. “If the tide doesn’t get you, the chems will. You want to stay healthy past forty, alive past fifty, you’ll remember to stay well out of the water, ” advises Ethan, one of the local fishermen.
The relationship between Ethan and Timothy develops over time though its not one that is easily fathomed. Ethan is still grieving for Perran, and suffering over what he could have done to prevent his death. Though he steadfastly refuses to answer Timothy’s pushy questions about what happened to the Perran, he thaws enough to invite the visitor onto his boat for a fishing trip and to break the cordon. The ‘chems’ are every present though in the form of heavy pollution by “biological agents and contaminants” that has impacted the fishing grounds and the villagers’ livelihoods. Instead of healthy specimens the nets catch malformed creatures:
The dogfish look burned, as though with acid, their eye sockets elongated and deep, showing through to the bone at the ends and there are white lesions down the side of each body. Their rough black skin is dull and flaked away in patches, the fins thin and ragged where there should be muscle …
A later expedition brings in fish that are:
… colourless and long, and their scales …. are translucent… Beneath the skin, the outlines of organs are visible, shadows in the pale flesh…. in some of them bunches of roe shine through the distended skin of their underbellies.
This is a community that is trapped, isolated and it seems on the verge of disaster. Large container ships loom on the horizon, forming a cordon beyond which the fishermen are ordered by the Department of Fisheries and Aquaculture not to sail. Nor can they sell their catches on the open market. Instead men in suits carrying large wads of cash are there to great them and take the stock every time the fleet arrives back in the harbour. Overseeing their transaction is a woman in a grey coat.
The woman in grey is just one of the unsettling and unexplained elements of this book. She never utters a word, she simply stands on the cliff like some spectral figure. Timothy initially thinks of her like a lighthouse beam that periodically illuminates the sea on a dark night. Later he comes to wonder if she is some kind of guardian angel watching over the village. The mystery woman becomes even more mysterious towards the end of the book when Timothy discovers her on her knees as if in prayer, tracing patterns on a road with her fingertips.
But by then Menmuir has built such a web of hallucinatory experiences that it’s not clear whether there really is a woman in grey or she is a figment of Timothy’s imagination, fuelled by a fever that bests him? Is it the aftermath of a traumatic event in his past or a traumatic event that might happen in the future? Does Ethan really see cracks appear suddenly in the protective harbour wall and run down the beach, early warning signs of a disaster to come that will wipe out not only the houses, but the villagers across whose faces and bodies he sees scars appear?
Questions abound within this novel. Reading it feels like being constantly on the edge of things, being allowed to peek in but denied access to the core of its meaning. One thing I was certain of, this is not a novel that has a happily resolved ending. Throughout the atmosphere is of impending doom not simply for this one village but for all communities dependent on natural resources for their living. Is Mynmuir giving us a taste of the future or of the present? Yet another of the unresolved questions buzzing around my head long after I got to the final page.
August 2, 2016
A great pleasure of following the Man Booker Prize longlist is coming across books that I probably wouldn't encounter otherwise – including Menmuir’s debut novel “The Many”. It was a joy to plunge right into reading this without knowing anything about it and I was immediately struck by how atmospheric it is as the story is set in a strange fishing village. Life is hard in this murky, remote corner of the world and it’s becoming even harder. The bay seems to have been polluted because the fish caught in the sea appear disturbingly malformed and the only buyer of these hauls is a sinister woman dressed in grey who is accompanied by a couple of cronies. There is something deeply unsettling and strange going on in this village. The story goes somewhere completely unexpected which left me completely gripped and moved when reading the final quarter of the book.
Read my full review of The Many by Wyl Menmuir on LonesomeReader
Read my full review of The Many by Wyl Menmuir on LonesomeReader
August 18, 2016
Up until the last 30 pages or so (roughly the last quarter of this slim volume), I was intrigued and stimulated by both the story and the way it was being told. I had several possible scenarios in mind as to what it all meant, and was looking forward to a crackling climax and denouement. And then ... fizzle! Unlike others, I'm glad that the author WASN'T more explicit in piecing the various threads together, but what remained I thought much too heavy on the symbolism . This is now the 7th of the Booker longlist I have read, and I must say, this year's panel of judges have done an outstanding job - of unearthing mediocre nominees and ignoring many, MANY more worthy tomes.
August 18, 2016
My first book from the Man Booker 2016 longlist - and one about which I have mixed views.
The first two thirds of the novel, the set-up, was very effective.
We have Timothy, "an emmet" (pejorative Cornish slang for an incomer), moving into a fishing village, and in particular into Perran's house "where no smoke has risen for ten years now." Perran seemingly drowned, at least according to flashbacks from one of four remaining fishing skippers, Ethan, but we are unclear why Ethan feels so much guilt about it, why no one wants to talk about what happened or indeed even "who was Perran?" (a question Timothy keeps asking, which gets a very hostile response).
Timothy's slight previous connection to the village, is explained, but given it was a trip with his partner Lauren that didn't turn out at all well, despite Timothy's frequent pleas to "trust me", it rather begs the question of why he would want to buy a house there, particularly given she doesn't seem willing or able to join him.
And the fishing community has it's own very striking oddities - the fishermen usually hunt in vain, due to "a profusion of biological agents and contaminants" that means even the meagre catches they do occasionally land are half-dead and deformed. Despite that these fish are eagerly bought up by a rather sinister lady in grey and her two henchmen, who insist their offer is for 100% of the catch and the fishermen can't keep even one fish. And their fishing area is hemmed in, seemingly by order of the Department of Fisheries and Agriculture, by a line of empty container ships, which the locals dare not venture beyond (an unwritten rule, "Just as not moving into Perrin's is a rule").
This part effectively establishes an air of mystery and menace. There is a Wicker Man - even Royston Vasey (a barman tells Timothy and Lauren "you'll find no food here" - vibe which makes the reader fear for Timothy but if anything the locals fear his arrival and what it means even more:
"He has come to resurrect Perrin. He has come to destroy Perran's house, to erase his memory. He's come because that's what upcountry folk do, to replace the drudgery of the city with that of the coast. He has come to save them from themselves, or to hold up a mirror to them and they will see themselves reflected back in all their faults and backwardness. He has come to change them, to lead them or to fade into their shadows."
There are two very different ways an author can then take a book like this. Provide an "aha" revelation that explains (*) the various mysteries (Menmuir cites the most useful advice he ever received as "finish what you start"), or leave the tale entirely ambiguous and leave the reader to fill in the explanations.
My issue was that Menmuir chooses what to me seemed an unsatisfactory middle ground where one particular, and rather unsatisfying, interpretation is hinted at.
I may be being ungenerous here - other reviewers who I respect have seen more constructive ambiguity (that wonderful Kissinger phrase) in the novel - is the story even real or imagined - dreams feature heavily in the text and things become increasingly surreal in the last quarter, is it about grief or about relationships between countryside and town, does it even relate to Brexit (Cornwall was noticeably Eurosceptic and London overwhelmingly for Remain)?
But for me - 3 stars and a borderline case for the shortlist, at least if the rest of the longlist is at usual Booker levels.
[* The author can also choose between a rationale explanation for supernatural events - what the literary critic Todorov calls "the uncanny" and a supernatural explanation - what he calls the "marvellous" (and most would call fantasy). He highlights a particular middle ground - the fantastic - “The fantastic occupies the duration of this uncertainty. Once we choose one answer or the other, we leave the fantastic for a neighbouring genre, the uncanny or the marvellous. The fantastic is that hesitation experienced by a person who knows only the laws of nature, confronting an apparently supernatural event”, which I think is what Menmuir wants to achieve but then to me rather ruins as explained in the spoiler]
The first two thirds of the novel, the set-up, was very effective.
We have Timothy, "an emmet" (pejorative Cornish slang for an incomer), moving into a fishing village, and in particular into Perran's house "where no smoke has risen for ten years now." Perran seemingly drowned, at least according to flashbacks from one of four remaining fishing skippers, Ethan, but we are unclear why Ethan feels so much guilt about it, why no one wants to talk about what happened or indeed even "who was Perran?" (a question Timothy keeps asking, which gets a very hostile response).
Timothy's slight previous connection to the village, is explained, but given it was a trip with his partner Lauren that didn't turn out at all well, despite Timothy's frequent pleas to "trust me", it rather begs the question of why he would want to buy a house there, particularly given she doesn't seem willing or able to join him.
And the fishing community has it's own very striking oddities - the fishermen usually hunt in vain, due to "a profusion of biological agents and contaminants" that means even the meagre catches they do occasionally land are half-dead and deformed. Despite that these fish are eagerly bought up by a rather sinister lady in grey and her two henchmen, who insist their offer is for 100% of the catch and the fishermen can't keep even one fish. And their fishing area is hemmed in, seemingly by order of the Department of Fisheries and Agriculture, by a line of empty container ships, which the locals dare not venture beyond (an unwritten rule, "Just as not moving into Perrin's is a rule").
This part effectively establishes an air of mystery and menace. There is a Wicker Man - even Royston Vasey (a barman tells Timothy and Lauren "you'll find no food here" - vibe which makes the reader fear for Timothy but if anything the locals fear his arrival and what it means even more:
"He has come to resurrect Perrin. He has come to destroy Perran's house, to erase his memory. He's come because that's what upcountry folk do, to replace the drudgery of the city with that of the coast. He has come to save them from themselves, or to hold up a mirror to them and they will see themselves reflected back in all their faults and backwardness. He has come to change them, to lead them or to fade into their shadows."
There are two very different ways an author can then take a book like this. Provide an "aha" revelation that explains (*) the various mysteries (Menmuir cites the most useful advice he ever received as "finish what you start"), or leave the tale entirely ambiguous and leave the reader to fill in the explanations.
My issue was that Menmuir chooses what to me seemed an unsatisfactory middle ground where one particular, and rather unsatisfying, interpretation is hinted at.
I may be being ungenerous here - other reviewers who I respect have seen more constructive ambiguity (that wonderful Kissinger phrase) in the novel - is the story even real or imagined - dreams feature heavily in the text and things become increasingly surreal in the last quarter, is it about grief or about relationships between countryside and town, does it even relate to Brexit (Cornwall was noticeably Eurosceptic and London overwhelmingly for Remain)?
But for me - 3 stars and a borderline case for the shortlist, at least if the rest of the longlist is at usual Booker levels.
[* The author can also choose between a rationale explanation for supernatural events - what the literary critic Todorov calls "the uncanny" and a supernatural explanation - what he calls the "marvellous" (and most would call fantasy). He highlights a particular middle ground - the fantastic - “The fantastic occupies the duration of this uncertainty. Once we choose one answer or the other, we leave the fantastic for a neighbouring genre, the uncanny or the marvellous. The fantastic is that hesitation experienced by a person who knows only the laws of nature, confronting an apparently supernatural event”, which I think is what Menmuir wants to achieve but then to me rather ruins as explained in the spoiler]
August 5, 2016
A remote fishing village in Cornwall, a derelict house, abondoned since the occupant (Perran) had died 10 years ago, and two man, Ethan and Timothy. Ethan is a fisherman who has lived in the village all his life, still mourning the death of his friend Perran. Timothy, an 'emmet' from London, bought Perran's house to fix up for him and his wife Lauren.
The first 2/3 of the short debut novel is dreamy, a bit weird and mainly deals with fixing up the house, going fishing (and some strange fish they catch!), and the beginning of a reluctant friendship between Ethan and Timothy. And then, all of a sudden - almost in a by the way-sentence - there is a twist in the story, and everything you might think you know about what happened so far is turned upside down.
A beautiful, fairy tale-like book. Strange and mysterious. And it will keep you thinking long after you've finished it.
4.5*
The first 2/3 of the short debut novel is dreamy, a bit weird and mainly deals with fixing up the house, going fishing (and some strange fish they catch!), and the beginning of a reluctant friendship between Ethan and Timothy. And then, all of a sudden - almost in a by the way-sentence - there is a twist in the story, and everything you might think you know about what happened so far is turned upside down.
A beautiful, fairy tale-like book. Strange and mysterious. And it will keep you thinking long after you've finished it.
4.5*
September 3, 2016
Well it's short. And the atmosphere is well built up - very Wicker Man/Aging Fishermen of the Corn. There are even mysterious barrows. That this mixes with a familiar near-future dystopia of environmental disaster and menacing omnipotent "Ministries" is at first intriguing. But all this is in the service of a few too many dream sequences and characterizations that make no sense until the final twist which functions as a general "get out of jail free" card for all that came before. Either that or the book actually makes no sense. I admit to being not entirely sure.
Some other reviews have said this book is much better if you are British. It may be. Unfortunately I am not.
Some other reviews have said this book is much better if you are British. It may be. Unfortunately I am not.
December 14, 2023
This book is set in an isolated Cornish village, where a young villager, Perran, dies under unusual circumstances. Ethan is one of four remaining local fishermen and catches have become rare. He knew and liked Perran. Timothy is an outsider who, ten years later, purchases Perran’s dilapidated house in the village and plans to renovate it. As Timothy tries to integrate into the community, he discovers that the villagers are still haunted by the death of Perran. The atmosphere in the village is tense, and the villagers are secretive, making Timothy's attempts at connection challenging. Timothy is curious. He wants to know more about Perran and keeps asking unwanted questions.
The novel delves into themes of memory, guilt, loss, and the impact of environmental degradation. The atmosphere is eerie, and the story unfolds with a sense of foreboding. It is tinged with elements of folk horror and the supernatural. There are some events near the end where the real blends with the surreal, and an unanticipated event clarifies and changes the reader’s understanding of the storyline. I tend not to like “twists” like this that change everything that came before it. I ultimately found it strange and unsettling. Having said that, I would read another book by this author.
The novel delves into themes of memory, guilt, loss, and the impact of environmental degradation. The atmosphere is eerie, and the story unfolds with a sense of foreboding. It is tinged with elements of folk horror and the supernatural. There are some events near the end where the real blends with the surreal, and an unanticipated event clarifies and changes the reader’s understanding of the storyline. I tend not to like “twists” like this that change everything that came before it. I ultimately found it strange and unsettling. Having said that, I would read another book by this author.
September 7, 2016
I've now read lots of reviews and am none the wiser, though I did lie awake early this morning thinking it all through, and became frustrated. While the unanswered questions might be a positive with some novels, pointing to ineffable mystery and profound meaning (or something), I think my questions just expose holes in the plot and failures in the execution. That's my opinion, of course. But I notice that no other readers can really answer these questions either, to my or sometimes their own satisfaction. Some are okay with that; I guess I'm not. So some random thoughts while it's fresh:
Read as cli-fi: This is how I wanted to read it. The container ships, the polluted waters, the mysterious translucent fish, the flooding of the harbor ...But ...
- what do the container ships signify?
- Is the woman in grey part of this plot and if so what does she represent?
- What do the cracks/lines that Ethan sees mean?
- And why is the ecological disaster theme (if that's what it is) supplanted by the domestic tragedy? if they are linked then how?
Read as a spooky tale, ghost story: Who was Perran? What is in the barrows? What do these villagers know and why are they so suspicious of of Timothy? What is in the water? Who is the woman in grey?
- None of these questions are answered. It's seems atmospheric until you read it closely. The reader is supplying most of the atmospherics.
Read as a country vs. city allegory (and Breixit!? as Autonomasia suggested):
- how plausible is it that an experienced fisherman in his home waters doesn't know what fish he's hauled in, but that everyone wants to buy this ghostly alien fish?
- why is Timothy so thick as to keep asking them about Perran when they clearly don't want to explain anything to this interloper?
- what does the tragic side story with Timothy and his wife represent in this?
- who is Ethan? (This is a question I keep coming back to, more than 'who is Perran?' Clem sort of makes sense, but Ethan less so)
Read as a psychological tale - it's all a DREAM: The "flood" of Perrans (the many?), the encroaching lines/cracks, Timothy's hallucinatory sickness, the magical reversal of the vandalism in the house, the fact that nothing makes sense and things keep shifting ....
-- then why so many dreams within the dream? how does that work?
-- if Timothy is the dreamer then who is Ethan?
-- Are all the italicized sections "not dream'? - if so that doesn't hold up. Is the tragic event in the life of Timothy and Lauren NOT a dream, but Ethan's memories ARE?
So I don't understand how it can be any of these fully, satisfyingly. And then, if the reader decides on one, or a combination of them, then she still has questions.
So my guess is this: that Menmuir maybe wrote something long and shaggy - he had grand ambitions but couldn't quite execute them, and was left with a monster of a book. So he started cutting, removing the scaffolding, leaving gaps in the transitions, because it's commonly assumed that readers of literary fiction like to work, that they possess that "negative capability" and feel wise when they apply it, that it's better to let the reader fill in the gaps..... Hey that's what makes it literary, right? (says those skeptical of this characteristic of so-called literary novels). Perhaps like the writers-producers of NBC's Lost, Menmuir doesn't know what it all means, either - let the reader READ meaning into it (also like Lost: the "it's all a dream" escape clause). And we're doing it, clearly we readers are doing it, and so did the Booker judges.
But .... my last problem and why I'm surprised it's on the long list: the writing left a lot to be desired. It was not very specific, it was vague, with repetitions within scenes that do not add anything. And all the present-tense feelings!:: e.g.,
he feels a strong emotion rise up within him (alt.: a thought rises in him)
he begins feeling an emotion start to pass over him
he feels the need...
he feels the muscles in his chest contract
he feels he is observed through the windows
he feels a wave of anger cross him
he feels anger rise up within in
he has a strong feeling
the intensity of this feeling grows
the feeling of oppression stays with him ... The feeling of oppression, he realises, had been there before the dream (that's one of the repetitions I'm talking about)
his feeling of unease grows
he feels a new sensation, one he can't explain to himself
the boat feels small
Timothy cannot shake the feeling
Okay I'll stop. I'm only skipping around in the book and could find many more "feelings.". My point is this: if we're already in his mind, then we already know that he FEELS these things.
So I'm not won over by the novel. Still perplexed but not in a pleasing way! I wonder how I will think of it a year or two from now, and what the lasting critical response might be?
Read as cli-fi: This is how I wanted to read it. The container ships, the polluted waters, the mysterious translucent fish, the flooding of the harbor ...But ...
- what do the container ships signify?
- Is the woman in grey part of this plot and if so what does she represent?
- What do the cracks/lines that Ethan sees mean?
- And why is the ecological disaster theme (if that's what it is) supplanted by the domestic tragedy? if they are linked then how?
Read as a spooky tale, ghost story: Who was Perran? What is in the barrows? What do these villagers know and why are they so suspicious of of Timothy? What is in the water? Who is the woman in grey?
- None of these questions are answered. It's seems atmospheric until you read it closely. The reader is supplying most of the atmospherics.
Read as a country vs. city allegory (and Breixit!? as Autonomasia suggested):
- how plausible is it that an experienced fisherman in his home waters doesn't know what fish he's hauled in, but that everyone wants to buy this ghostly alien fish?
- why is Timothy so thick as to keep asking them about Perran when they clearly don't want to explain anything to this interloper?
- what does the tragic side story with Timothy and his wife represent in this?
- who is Ethan? (This is a question I keep coming back to, more than 'who is Perran?' Clem sort of makes sense, but Ethan less so)
Read as a psychological tale - it's all a DREAM: The "flood" of Perrans (the many?), the encroaching lines/cracks, Timothy's hallucinatory sickness, the magical reversal of the vandalism in the house, the fact that nothing makes sense and things keep shifting ....
-- then why so many dreams within the dream? how does that work?
-- if Timothy is the dreamer then who is Ethan?
-- Are all the italicized sections "not dream'? - if so that doesn't hold up. Is the tragic event in the life of Timothy and Lauren NOT a dream, but Ethan's memories ARE?
So I don't understand how it can be any of these fully, satisfyingly. And then, if the reader decides on one, or a combination of them, then she still has questions.
So my guess is this: that Menmuir maybe wrote something long and shaggy - he had grand ambitions but couldn't quite execute them, and was left with a monster of a book. So he started cutting, removing the scaffolding, leaving gaps in the transitions, because it's commonly assumed that readers of literary fiction like to work, that they possess that "negative capability" and feel wise when they apply it, that it's better to let the reader fill in the gaps..... Hey that's what makes it literary, right? (says those skeptical of this characteristic of so-called literary novels). Perhaps like the writers-producers of NBC's Lost, Menmuir doesn't know what it all means, either - let the reader READ meaning into it (also like Lost: the "it's all a dream" escape clause). And we're doing it, clearly we readers are doing it, and so did the Booker judges.
But .... my last problem and why I'm surprised it's on the long list: the writing left a lot to be desired. It was not very specific, it was vague, with repetitions within scenes that do not add anything. And all the present-tense feelings!:: e.g.,
he feels a strong emotion rise up within him (alt.: a thought rises in him)
he begins feeling an emotion start to pass over him
he feels the need...
he feels the muscles in his chest contract
he feels he is observed through the windows
he feels a wave of anger cross him
he feels anger rise up within in
he has a strong feeling
the intensity of this feeling grows
the feeling of oppression stays with him ... The feeling of oppression, he realises, had been there before the dream (that's one of the repetitions I'm talking about)
his feeling of unease grows
he feels a new sensation, one he can't explain to himself
the boat feels small
Timothy cannot shake the feeling
Okay I'll stop. I'm only skipping around in the book and could find many more "feelings.". My point is this: if we're already in his mind, then we already know that he FEELS these things.
So I'm not won over by the novel. Still perplexed but not in a pleasing way! I wonder how I will think of it a year or two from now, and what the lasting critical response might be?
June 15, 2016
This book is powerfully written and haunting. Always teetering on the edge of the gothic, Menmuir describes a coastal community that is dreamlike, slightly out of focus, with its own rules that Timothy never grasps. At the same time, it is rooted in the real world: remote bureaucracy, plummeting fish stocks and maritime pollution have blighted the lives of the fishermen.
What are the mysterious ships moored out at sea, setting a limit to how far the village fishermen may go? Why are the fish absent, or when caught, strange, malformed and suffering? Who are the smartly dressed business types with the new van who buy up all of the catch (but who must have every last fish)? What is the source of the contaminants that make the seawater unsafe for swimming?
Many questions, few answers. The most central mystery: - who was Perran, owner of the house Timothy has bought? He had a mysterious background but seems to have been a dominating presence in village life, judging by the villagers' reactions when Timothy begins to ask questions. With more than a whiff of the Wicker Man, and hints of strange rituals up on the headland, one feels this village (never named) is the sort of place it's best to get out of quickly. But Timothy seems to have a reason for staying. We never learn much about him either but there's no sense, for example, that he's keen to get back to his wife Lauren (nor her to join him).
He does, though, seem fixated on the dead Perran. And in turn, the villagers seem fixated on him, something Menmuir conveys in uneasy prose:
"Timothy's car disappears sometimes for days at a time and the village counts the hours until it returns, usually late at night. sometimes with lengths of wood strapped to the roof, with boxes in the boot, and always fuller than when it left."
Can't you sense the curtains twitching, the pub gossip? "He's got a trailer this time. Brought himself a table, wardrobes, a bookcase, the lot."
There's a tension here, a feeling of inevitable confrontation with the village. In some ways it's not a new thing. In a flashback, we gather that Lauren did in fact visit the village with Timothy ten years earlier: they came for a holiday but, even then, ran into the mystery of the place when the owner of the local pub only let them have a room on condition they would sneak in - nobody must know they are staying. Why, or what might happen if they did, is never explained. "They are trespassers in a strange place".
It went through my mind at one point that all of this was somehow Timothy's dream, but we do also see things from the point of view of Ethan, one of the fishermen (only 4 boats still work out of the village). He, too, seems to have had some affinity with Perran and recalls the latter's death, but Ethan also remains mysterious - at the start of the book he has quarrelled with his "wheelman": we never learn why, or much else.
In fact, we don't "learn" a great deal. Much is left unsaid, scarcely even implied. Yet as the prose flows in like a rising tide, it has its effect, gently, but increasingly, disturbing things, shifting them around, reaching places you thought were going to be safe and dry, leaving the reader, like Timothy and Lauren, wondering just how far the water will come.
While a short book, this is not one to be read in a hurry. The prose is twisty and rich and it needs to be savoured and thought about. There are secrets here, and perhaps answers, but they don't come easily and you - perhaps - need to break the rules to find them.
A deeply satisfying read and strongly recommended (though not, perhaps, one to take on a visit to a remote fishing village...)
What are the mysterious ships moored out at sea, setting a limit to how far the village fishermen may go? Why are the fish absent, or when caught, strange, malformed and suffering? Who are the smartly dressed business types with the new van who buy up all of the catch (but who must have every last fish)? What is the source of the contaminants that make the seawater unsafe for swimming?
Many questions, few answers. The most central mystery: - who was Perran, owner of the house Timothy has bought? He had a mysterious background but seems to have been a dominating presence in village life, judging by the villagers' reactions when Timothy begins to ask questions. With more than a whiff of the Wicker Man, and hints of strange rituals up on the headland, one feels this village (never named) is the sort of place it's best to get out of quickly. But Timothy seems to have a reason for staying. We never learn much about him either but there's no sense, for example, that he's keen to get back to his wife Lauren (nor her to join him).
He does, though, seem fixated on the dead Perran. And in turn, the villagers seem fixated on him, something Menmuir conveys in uneasy prose:
"Timothy's car disappears sometimes for days at a time and the village counts the hours until it returns, usually late at night. sometimes with lengths of wood strapped to the roof, with boxes in the boot, and always fuller than when it left."
Can't you sense the curtains twitching, the pub gossip? "He's got a trailer this time. Brought himself a table, wardrobes, a bookcase, the lot."
There's a tension here, a feeling of inevitable confrontation with the village. In some ways it's not a new thing. In a flashback, we gather that Lauren did in fact visit the village with Timothy ten years earlier: they came for a holiday but, even then, ran into the mystery of the place when the owner of the local pub only let them have a room on condition they would sneak in - nobody must know they are staying. Why, or what might happen if they did, is never explained. "They are trespassers in a strange place".
It went through my mind at one point that all of this was somehow Timothy's dream, but we do also see things from the point of view of Ethan, one of the fishermen (only 4 boats still work out of the village). He, too, seems to have had some affinity with Perran and recalls the latter's death, but Ethan also remains mysterious - at the start of the book he has quarrelled with his "wheelman": we never learn why, or much else.
In fact, we don't "learn" a great deal. Much is left unsaid, scarcely even implied. Yet as the prose flows in like a rising tide, it has its effect, gently, but increasingly, disturbing things, shifting them around, reaching places you thought were going to be safe and dry, leaving the reader, like Timothy and Lauren, wondering just how far the water will come.
While a short book, this is not one to be read in a hurry. The prose is twisty and rich and it needs to be savoured and thought about. There are secrets here, and perhaps answers, but they don't come easily and you - perhaps - need to break the rules to find them.
A deeply satisfying read and strongly recommended (though not, perhaps, one to take on a visit to a remote fishing village...)
August 19, 2016
this book i enjoyed as it shows isolation and being an outsider but at same time shows a community which is insular but many human emotions flowed in this book as you looked at the death of perran and all the double meanings in responses as timothy tries to find himself. the book itself will have mixed reviews as people try to work out the book but enjoyed the prose and look forward to this authors next book.
October 13, 2016
Despite (1) not knowing what was going on a lot of the time, (2) the annoying pages-long recountings of dreams, (3) the clunky use of flashbacks, I quite enjoyed this brooding, atmospheric tale of grief and mystery in a Cornish fishing village. The novel's flaws were perhaps forgivable in a first novel; by the same token, its many strengths were all the more impressive.
February 13, 2017
Ethan's is the first boat back and the others will limp in throughout the morning, all holds empty, he's sure of that. There's been no talk from the small fleet above the radio static. No talk until a catch is made. It's a rule. Sure as not setting sail on a Friday is a rule, sure as talking low when you spot a petrel close in is a rule, sure as not moving into Perran's is a rule.
The Many, longlisted for the 2016 Man Booker Prize, is from such a small press that I had to order it direct from Britain as it still isn't available to purchase locally; if it ever will be. What a nice surprise, therefore, the nomination must have been for Salt and author Wyl Menmuir; and as brief as this book is, I surprised myself by liking it so well. Tense and claustrophobic, I was aware of the frown lines between my eyebrows the entire time I was reading, and as ever, I appreciate any book that can make me feel anything – even discomfort.
The Many is a book that deserves to be read without prior information about the plot, so I aim to be spoiler-free. Set in a tiny fishing village on the Cornish coast, Timothy from away – an incomer or emmet in local lingo – buys an abandoned, derelict home to fix up; much to the dismay of the locals who still mourn its former owner, the mysterious Perran. Told in shifting first person narratives from the perspectives of Timothy and Ethan – a gruff fisherman who both befriends Timothy and refuses to answer any of his questions about the village or this Perran fellow – the more information that's doled out, the less the reader understands. Why is there a ring of abandoned container ships outside the cove marking the government-enforced fishing limits? Why is the meager local catch half-dead and deformed? Who are the men in black (and the woman in grey) who appear out of nowhere to buy all the fish that's caught? Who is Perran?
This book is all atmosphere, engagingly so, and the reader's confoundment is like a character in the plot. It almost feels like a poem expanded into novella-length prose.
No fish, no fish, no crabs, no shrimp nor shark, just jellies. Jellies tangled in the nets, that burn and sting and leave criss-cross patterns on arms and hands, long white welts from fronds that stick and burn and scar.
I don't know if the ending, and what little it explains, was the perfect payoff, but I so enjoyed the journey that I'm rounding up to four stars.
March 10, 2018
Looking to buy a second home in Cornwall, Timothy finds a house in a fishing village. The first time the rest of the village realise that there is someone present in the house is when smoke drifts from the chimney. The previous owner, Perran, died mysteriously 10 years earlier and the house has sat empty ever since, but his dominant character still haunts the village.
Quite why Timothy has bought the house in this village is not clear; it is far from a welcoming place and the sea is heavily polluted as he finds out one day after emerging after a swim. More sinister though is the barrier of huge container ships that stop the fishermen from venturing too far out., and the grey-suited officials that buy the meagre catch from the fishermen of the village.
The fragile equilibrium that has existed since the death of Perran is under threat though as Timothy has lots of questions. He wants to take a trip out in the boats to see what they catch, to head to the ships that crowd the horizon to see why they are there and to find out what happened to Perran. These are questions that no one in the village wants asked, and they really don't want a stranger asking them.
Menmuir has taken a county normally associated with holidays, sunshine and cream teas and dropped a disconcerting and unsettling novel on it. This dystopian future of a coastal setting is quite disturbing, there is the environmental catastrophe, the Orwellian overtones and a secret that the villagers will not speak of. The tension between Timothy and the villagers is palpable, how can an outsider come and demand answers to questions that they have no wish to talk about. Menmuir's writing is quite special, the prose taught and sparse, but for me, it left many questions unanswered as the narrative swirled between reality and the flashbacks. I did like it, but I felt that the I wasn't always sure what is going on. One to read again as I am sure there are hidden depths within.
Quite why Timothy has bought the house in this village is not clear; it is far from a welcoming place and the sea is heavily polluted as he finds out one day after emerging after a swim. More sinister though is the barrier of huge container ships that stop the fishermen from venturing too far out., and the grey-suited officials that buy the meagre catch from the fishermen of the village.
The fragile equilibrium that has existed since the death of Perran is under threat though as Timothy has lots of questions. He wants to take a trip out in the boats to see what they catch, to head to the ships that crowd the horizon to see why they are there and to find out what happened to Perran. These are questions that no one in the village wants asked, and they really don't want a stranger asking them.
Menmuir has taken a county normally associated with holidays, sunshine and cream teas and dropped a disconcerting and unsettling novel on it. This dystopian future of a coastal setting is quite disturbing, there is the environmental catastrophe, the Orwellian overtones and a secret that the villagers will not speak of. The tension between Timothy and the villagers is palpable, how can an outsider come and demand answers to questions that they have no wish to talk about. Menmuir's writing is quite special, the prose taught and sparse, but for me, it left many questions unanswered as the narrative swirled between reality and the flashbacks. I did like it, but I felt that the I wasn't always sure what is going on. One to read again as I am sure there are hidden depths within.
August 25, 2016
At first, it may seem that the real drive for the story is understanding who Perran was and why no one talks about him in the village when Timothy arrives. But the novel itself isn't so much about the person, but about the ongoing sense of grief that burdens those who stay behind and have to bear it.
This is a short read but I found it tiresome and really difficult to get into. It alternates between two main characters' perspectives: Timothy, the newcomer, and Ethan, the villager who's still grieving after 10 (I think) years. The shifting perspectives also included flashbacks, offering vignettes of the past that as a reader you're trying to piece together while also trying to get a sense of who these two characters are and why they need to be in opposition. After the 140 pages, I still can't say that I like either Ethan or Timothy, or that I actually feel connected or invested in them in any way. The writing kept me at a distance and was clinical, and for the life of me I couldn't understand who the woman in the suit was, or why anyone would buy a derelict / abandoned house without first viewing it. If someone has the answer, please bring it forward.
This is a short read but I found it tiresome and really difficult to get into. It alternates between two main characters' perspectives: Timothy, the newcomer, and Ethan, the villager who's still grieving after 10 (I think) years. The shifting perspectives also included flashbacks, offering vignettes of the past that as a reader you're trying to piece together while also trying to get a sense of who these two characters are and why they need to be in opposition. After the 140 pages, I still can't say that I like either Ethan or Timothy, or that I actually feel connected or invested in them in any way. The writing kept me at a distance and was clinical, and for the life of me I couldn't understand who the woman in the suit was, or why anyone would buy a derelict / abandoned house without first viewing it. If someone has the answer, please bring it forward.
August 15, 2016
Undeniably atmospheric and brooding, with some satisfying elements of mild horror about it. Wicker Man by the Sea at times, perhaps. The container ships and toxic catches make the setting feel quite dystopian; there were various nightmare sequences (like the cracking up of the sea front and the semi-Biblical flood) that I found very evocative.
Elsewhere, I found it a wee bit patchy and confusing. I'm a bit tin-eared sometimes, frankly; I'm assuming that the whole episode, as we learn, was a projected reaction to the trauma of fathering a stillborn child (he's run off to a Cornish village in a fit of depression). That there was no Perran the fisherman - that this was all imagined. But I'm not sure. If this is what happened, it's rather clever, but could have done with a few more pointers amid the realism.
If it wasn't, I found myself wondering what the foreboding fuss was all about? Sure, a chap died a few years ago. Does anyone carry that Biblical collective grief around? I found it hard to fully buy into - a community silent and brooding, as if it'd been the site of a WW2 reprisal massacre (rather than a lad falling off some rocks). Again, probably my tin ear. I also found a few of the Lauren-Timothy cutaways a bit Archers or Boden catalogue. The dialogue was a bit stock 'couple in happier times'. I dunno.
I struggle with dream sequences in literature too. If you have to have them: use sparingly. I find them more tedious than hearing people's dreams in real life. I think they're up there with James Woods' pet-hate, the 'narrator describes a photograph' device. They're a bit of a cheat. They're a novelist's way of going: 'look, some really deep stuff lies behind what you've seen, right. Can't you see that the dragon on a skateboard eating the squirrel is sign, you fool?'.
Still, great to see a Salt novelist getting this kind of acclaim. For all the gripes, it's strong work and nicely eery.
Elsewhere, I found it a wee bit patchy and confusing. I'm a bit tin-eared sometimes, frankly; I'm assuming that the whole episode, as we learn, was a projected reaction to the trauma of fathering a stillborn child (he's run off to a Cornish village in a fit of depression). That there was no Perran the fisherman - that this was all imagined. But I'm not sure. If this is what happened, it's rather clever, but could have done with a few more pointers amid the realism.
If it wasn't, I found myself wondering what the foreboding fuss was all about? Sure, a chap died a few years ago. Does anyone carry that Biblical collective grief around? I found it hard to fully buy into - a community silent and brooding, as if it'd been the site of a WW2 reprisal massacre (rather than a lad falling off some rocks). Again, probably my tin ear. I also found a few of the Lauren-Timothy cutaways a bit Archers or Boden catalogue. The dialogue was a bit stock 'couple in happier times'. I dunno.
I struggle with dream sequences in literature too. If you have to have them: use sparingly. I find them more tedious than hearing people's dreams in real life. I think they're up there with James Woods' pet-hate, the 'narrator describes a photograph' device. They're a bit of a cheat. They're a novelist's way of going: 'look, some really deep stuff lies behind what you've seen, right. Can't you see that the dragon on a skateboard eating the squirrel is sign, you fool?'.
Still, great to see a Salt novelist getting this kind of acclaim. For all the gripes, it's strong work and nicely eery.
This entire review has been hidden because of spoilers.
June 23, 2016
It's not so much what's said, as what isn't in this wonderful debut novel by Wyl Menmuir. It's the gaps. It's what you can't quite work out, and then you do, or think you do. It's the flow of the narrative. It's the underlying feeling of dread, of grief and loss felt by the protagonist, Timothy. All of that makes this such a powerful narrative. It's rare that one can read something and think 'Yes, that's exactly what I'm thinking.' It only happens very rarely, but here, in The Many, Menmuir's prose, gently disturbing and shifting, does exactly that. To describe it as bordering on horror, or even gothic, is to do it a disservice, because it slips between those and is better by far. It's the effect of the narrative, of Timothy's backstory, of the structure of this novel that gives it such impact. Descriptions of everything decaying: the fish, the land, the house, Timothy and Lauren's life are beautifully executed. I know I'll read this novel again, because the experience of it is edging on surreal. As others have said: a deeply satisfying novel that, personally, will stay with me for a long time.
August 27, 2016
Eerie, bleak, and mysterious, The Many completely swept me into another realm. Those who enjoy rainy weather, vague science fiction, and small town mystery will find something here. There are many layers to this little book, and it didn't disappoint. I never would have discovered this one were it not for the Man Booker!
March 28, 2017
Not quite sure what I read. perhaps another read and in one sitting may help? Unsettling is a good way to describe it I guess.
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