So, the Man Booker Prize has been won by a woman… da, da, daaaaa… and a New Zealand woman at that… da, da, daaaaa… I don’t know why these factors are so shocking but every article I’ve read has concentrated on them. Oh, I forgot that she’s also the youngest winner as well… da, da… oh, forget it.
Eleanor Catton is the young lady in question and, by all accounts, we need to remember her name. She’s come up with a masterpiece at the first time of asking and pulled it off. Well done.
I haven’t read the book yet but for once I’m actually interested in the synopsis. It’s going on my “To Read ” list. Usually Booker Prize nominees appear so highbrow that the use of language and cleverness detracts from the story, for me. I’m sure this says more about me, by the way, before anyone comments on my philistine nature.
It is, however, an 832-page tome which breaks all records for the largest book to win the award, it breaks the publishing budget for printing the thing, and it breaks a reader’s arms when holding the thing. It’s almost three books-in-one… is that not cheating? I guess the nights are lonely in New Zealand.
Despite my Englishness in picking faults with anyone who wins anything, I’m actually over the moon for her. She appears to be a nice, normal looking girl who is clever to boot and I’m sure she’ll do very well in the future and, let’s be honest, at least she’s not Hilary Mantel.