British writer. In his new novel, One Boat, Teresa
returns to a Greek coastal town to mourn her
father. The locals she meets — like the mechanic
Petros — all carry their own longings and regrets.
SP
Sorry for this maybe somewhat difficult question, but it was provoked by the unique tone of your writing: could you maybe describe your writing style for me?
JB
A difficult question indeed. Most of my novels are first-person narratives, and I would hope that the voice of One Boat is distinguishable from that of Tell, and that both are different from the voice of The Great Concert of the Night. But none of them are ostentatiously « literary » — might that be some kind of familial resemblance?
SP
Each voice a different tone yes, and can some-
thing be said about the tone of voice of the narra-
tor in One Boat?
JB
I’d say her usual tone is cool and analytical, but with outbreaks of the rhapsodic or even the ecstatic. A legalistic mind allied to a poetical soul, perhaps.
SP
Did the book start with her, or did she take shape after an earlier idea that formed the basis of this book?
JB
It began with the setting and the calamity that underpins the book. From those elements arose the need to have an observer-narrator of a particular cast of mind. Once she had taken shape, her various relationships began to form. The singular boat of the title is an image that was there from the start, but only later did I come to see how that image might function. The title is one of the very few parts of the text that remained constant through every revision.
SP
Were you describing what I call, for lack of a better expression « the magic at the writers desk »? In your novel, for example, a Kevin appears without introduction, and after 2 pages is not mentioned again. Was he a consciously made up vehicle for your story? Or can a character suddenly pop up, unexpected?
JB
The character of Kevin can be seen as an off-shoot of Petros, who is a central figure in the book — he signifies a new direction that the narrator’s life has taken, possibly as a consequence of her engagement with Petros. It’s possible to read the book as a provisional text, an inchoate novel. In a hypothetical revised form, details such as Kevin might be amplified or excised.
SP
As a reader, every interesting book automatically becomes a provisional text, or an inchoate novel for me. Did this character suddenly enter the story while you were sitting at your writing desk? In other words: were you consciously looking for an embodiment of that new direction or consequence, or does such a storyline suddenly impose itself?
JB
Five or six different versions of One Boat preceded the definitively inchoate version that you’ve read, and in most of them an individual equivalent to Kevin occupied rather more space than Kevin does. In that sense, he’s more a remnant than a sudden apparition. For me, self-editing always results in a shortening of the text — sometimes a drastic shortening. Which perhaps brings us back to your opening question, about tone. I tend to favour economy and precision.
SP
I favor economy and precision and then, suddenly, the juxtaposition: an untidy outburst of ecstasy, anxiety, futile restraining of rage; and then the return. Your use of italics comes to mind. Why are many words and sentences put in italics?
JB
There are several episodes in which the narrator engages with the voice of her earlier self, as recorded in notes that she wrote several years earlier, when first visiting the small town in which the action takes place. Italics differentiate her earlier voice from the voice of the present day.
SP
Did you use a schedule while working on this book? Did you know where you wanted to end up?
JB
I had clear chronologies for the main incidents in the book and the biographies of the principal characters. In the writing of the novel those chronologies underwent some modification, however. This is what generally happens with my books. There’s a plan, but the plan always changes. That said, the book’s destination usually remains constant. In the case of One Boat, the last pages were fixed quite early in the process.
SP
How did you learn to write?
JB
I’m not sure how I learned to write. I’ve been writing since my teenage years, and benefitted greatly from coming into contact, at university, with lecturers who were also significant creative figures — Andrew Crozier and Gabriel Josipovici, most notably.
SP
What did you learn from these two?
JB
Both of them widened the scope of my reading hugely. And I much admired the rigour of their writing, their refusal of dramatic effects.
SP
« Their refusal of dramatic effects »: some English writers seem to strive to produce the most understated understatement ever — to me your writing is fresh because it is very precise and clear yet without the kind of showy understatement.
JB
I know what you mean by ostentatious understatement, and it’s gratifying to hear that you don’t see me as one of the offenders.
