I read my way through the 2012 Booker shortlist, saving Umbrella, which frankly seemed like it would require by far the most effort, until last. Actually I was pleasantly surprised, for although the style in which it's written demands a certain amount of attention (the stream-of-consciousness narrative flits from one character to another without warning, as well as jumping forwards and backwards in time) Will Self writes so fluently and brilliantly that this is, in fact, a page-turner. It's not really a novel to lose yourself in, it's too self-conscious for that. I had the sense when reading it of constant tension between author and reader; Self doesn't spell things out, to make sense of it you have to make an effort. I found the effort rewarding, though, and think ultimately the reader is both alienated by the style and more deeply engaged.
Writing for the FT Self mentions the unknowability of the past; he suggests his readers will resort to online research to fill in the gaps. He's right in that I did find myself searching to find out more about the tunnel towns, hidden deep below the battlefields of Flanders during World War 1. (In the novel one of the characters finds respite in one such secret community under the earth.) Also to look up images of the old Friern Barnet mental hospital, vividly recreated by Self. I particularly liked the images of long, long corridors that it seems existed in real life.
Hilary Mantel and Will Self were both favourites to win the Booker, but ultimately Mantel's Bring Up the Bodies was successful. Should Umbrella have won? Both are extensively researched novels that explore the past and bring it to life in very different ways. It seems to me that Mantel appeals to her readers' hearts, invoking a strong sense of empathy as she explores the emotional life of her protagonist, Cromwell, and the historical events he lived through. Self appeals to the intellect, offering a complex (but never chaotic) tapestry of words, sounds, images, all filtered through the inner eyes of his cast of characters relying on the reader's intelligence to make sense of it all. The language is vivid and rich, there are flashes of beauty, humour, horror, despair, resignation – so many fragmented moments that build a comprehensive portrait of human existence spanning different periods of time. It is a novel that is as brilliant as it is ambitious, and yet, somehow I needed it to engage my heart, and this it failed to do. Perhaps the Booker judges felt the same way. (I found it frustrating, also, that the whole thing is unhelpfully overshadowed by Oliver Sack's Awakenings.) Nonetheless, I respected it enormously, as I read it. I enjoyed it, too. I'm not quite sure what defines a great novel – in the sense of an important addition to the canon of English literature – but I think this might be one, and just as I studied Virginia Woolf's Mrs Dalloway in school, I can easily imagine future generations studying Umbrella.