WORDS: Eavan Gaffney
Jim Crace’s novel is a vertical plunge into a deep pool. At 224 pages it is the second shortest work on the Man Booker Prize shortlist (after Colm Tóibín’s 104 page The Testament of Mary), however, Harvest, through its elegiac prose and microcosmic setting reaches far beyond the span of its word count, as it brings the expansive themes of progress, community and humanity to bear on a small, nameless, farming village.
The date and location remain unspecified in Walter Thirsk’s telling of the break down of his community. The story begins as change arrives at the gates of ‘The Village’ in two threatening forms: a trio of unknown outsiders who have come to camp in the woods, and a new landlord, determined to modernise his newly inherited estate. As the outside world encroaches and their age old way of life comes under threat the villagers close ranks; suspicion and fear driving them to cling to the community that has constituted their entire world, while simultaneously setting off a chain of violent events that can only lead to its disintegration.
What is perhaps Harvest’s most remarkable accomplishment is the complicated picture of humanity that it paints. The villagers appear as both mob and alliance; at once mindless and conscious, brutal and ashamed. Their, at times, rash and shocking actions seem to be underscored both by a throbbing pulse of desperate fear and a deep awareness of the consequences that they will have. This is most likely effected through the heavy-hearted narrator, Thirsk, whose position as both insider and outsider to the village allows him to recount the story with more empathy than judgement. What results is an unsettling exploration of how easily peaceful communities can become violent gangs; how quickly humanity can be derailed. Evil intent is not the vital ingredient, but fear and suspicion. It’s not difficult to see how such a premise resonates in every conceivable age and culture, not least our own. In a narrative that sees outsiders being made martyrs to the unravelling ties of blood and tradition, any number of contemporary allegories can, and should be deduced.
Of course, this is not to say that the story is completely devoid of its own context. It is clear that the action happens somewhere in rural England, sometime around the onset of the Industrial Revolution. However, the setting seems to serve more aesthetically than historically, with lots of rich, effective imagery and metaphor coming from the ideas of the relationship between the people and the land, forced enclosure, mapping the terrain. This is an ideal place to watch the notions of inevitable progress and enduring human nature collide.
The prose itself is heavy with intent, but still fluid and easy to read. While Crace fills each sentence with a kind of searching melancholy, he does so with enough skill to keep the pages turning at an encouraging rate. This in turn keeps the plot moving and, although it starts to stick a bit towards the end, the pull of the prose is enough to hold the reader’s attention until the last page. This is the kind of novel that draws you in at the beginning, and doesn’t let you go until well after you’ve finished reading it. Indeed, the actual reading of it could potentially be done in one sitting, if you’re dedicated enough.
This is an ideal choice for anyone who is looking to get in on a bit of the Man Booker action but doesn’t have the time to commit to one of the longer works. Unsurprisingly, it’s also being backed by many as the likely winner of this year’s prize. A novel that moves beyond time and context to show humanity in the face of a changing world, Harvest is absorbing, memorable, and ultimately somewhat devastating.
