Colum McCann, photographed by Seamus Kearney, and Colm Tóibín, photographed by Larry D. Moore,
used under a Creative Commons Share Alike License.
Even before they'd opened their mouths, it was clear Irish writer Colum McCann was going to be the chalk to his fellow compatriot Colm Tóibín's cheese. One is suave, handsome, writerly, with a scarf thrown casually around his neck in a kind of nod to American collegiate life; the other, taller and older, has a kind of dishevelled air about him, as if you've just interrupted him midway through a long session at his writing desk, and he's had to abandon everything to come and talk to you. Together they make a formidable pair, and they were the only people on this year's Cheltenham Literature Festival bill that I really wanted to see.
That their gig was going to be held late on a Tuesday night, a two-hour train journey out of London, didn't deter me. I simply booked a few days off work, decamped to a lovely hotel down the road and spent a night, well, okay, 75 minutes, in their company.
Sadly, the event wasn't a sell out. If ever two writers deserve attention and acclaim, it is these two, and yet, there were just 50 or so people in the audience. (I wonder if it might have been different if Colm Tóibín's Brooklyn had made the Booker shortlist?) The event was moderated by Ramona Koval, from the ABC in Australia, so I felt very much at home, listening to a strong Aussie accent and two Irish ones. (Mind you, Tóibín has an odd "affected" accent that often drifts into a slow Texas drawl. It wasn't what I expected.)
I didn't take notes, so this is by no means a comprehensive account of what they said. But it was interesting to hear their vastly different views on writing and reading. Tóibín is a huge fan of the 19th century novel and lists Henry James and Jane Austen as his major influences; McCann says he would "die of boredom" if he had to read 19th century novels, he loves the more modern stuff and name-checked James Joyce's Ulysses (which he reread earlier this year during a stint in hospital) and Don DeLillo.
McCann loves to write, he enjoys the whole craft and experience of it, saying it is what he lives for; Tóibín hates it -- with a passion. The audience laughed their heads off at this admission; granted it was said in a rather theatrical manner, with a shaking of the head and wringing of the hands! (I'd love to attend one of Tóibín's lectures; I imagine he's rather prone to hamming it up and playing the woe-is-me card at any opportunity. It would be hugely entertaining.) Ramona was obviously shocked by this and kept insisting he was joking, but he kept insisting he wasn't. He mentioned John McGahern's admission that McGahern never wanted a new idea for a story to arrive before Christmas because that would ruin the entire festive season; Tóibín feels the same way.
The one thing both writers did agree on was the importance of authentic detail to their work. Tóibín said you just needed one true piece of detail (in a sentence), two was overkill and demonstrated you were trying too hard. It must look effortless.
McCann concurred and said it was no use doing loads and loads of research because you then felt compelled to include it all in the story; it was much better to find out a few fascinating facts from firsthand accounts because these were more authentic. You can always go back and fix any glaring errors up later. He explained that when he wrote Dancer, his 2003 novel about Rudolf Nureyev, he spoke to a few ballet dancers and learnt that they hate that bit in Swan Lake when all the snow falls around them. This is because the snow, reused over and over again night after night, often contains bits of dust or dirt or the back of someone's earring and therefore poses a danger to them as they dance over the top of it. That kind of detail, he explained, is so authentic you would never find it in a reference book and that's the kind of stuff that works best in a novel to give your story a true flavour.
Both writers read sections from their latest books. McCann read the bit from Let The Great World Spin (which I plan on reviewing shortly) about a Park Lane housewife, whose son has died in Vietnam, hosting a tea party for her grief group. Interestingly Tóibín chose the gruesome bit from Brooklyn, where Eilis is on the ship from Liverpool to New York and does a lot of vomiting. He said it was based on personal experience, a time when more peas came out of his mouth than went in! *Shudder*
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