They've held the first Daphne Awards -- a great idea, reassessing the best books of 50 years ago (1963, for this first go) -- and they've now announced the winners.
The fiction prize went to the eminently worthy The Ice Palace, by Tarjei Vesaas -- yes, a (very rare) top-rated book hereabouts.
Much as I love it (and I do, it's a beautiful book), however, I think that fifty years on it's hard to put it ahead of Julio Cortázar's (equally highly rated, hereabouts) Hopscotch which, I'd argue, is probably one of maybe the dozen most influential (and 'significant') works of fiction written in the second half of the twentieth century. Mind you, I'm talking influence, which isn't the same as quality, but in this case it comes on top of it being just a great work. Yes, nice that Vesaas' much quieter work gets some recognition (it's in print, but doesn't get nearly the attention/love it should), but Hopscotch was the book of the year.
(I'm talking fiction here because ... well, what else is worth talking about ? But they did award prizes in several other categories as well -- Akhmatova. Primo Levi, sure, good stuff too).
Jessa Crispin, whose conceived the awards, also comments at Bookslut -- though I have to admit I really don't get where she's coming from in claiming about the "post-1945 era in literature", that:
(Also: how relevant is this in this context ? By 1963 Roth had published all of two novels, and Updike three (and surely neither had really entered their full 'macho pose'-phases yet (long though those then extended ...); they had barely made any impact on even just the American world of letters, much less the larger, lasting one.)
Besides, I'd worry about (or rather, simply ignore) anyone who thinks the novel -- even in a specific period or era -- "is supposed to be" any particular way or thing. That's the wonderful thing about fiction: anything goes, and any way can be the right way (even, occasionally, Roth's and Updike's (yeah, even I have my doubts about Mailer)).
The fiction prize went to the eminently worthy The Ice Palace, by Tarjei Vesaas -- yes, a (very rare) top-rated book hereabouts.
Much as I love it (and I do, it's a beautiful book), however, I think that fifty years on it's hard to put it ahead of Julio Cortázar's (equally highly rated, hereabouts) Hopscotch which, I'd argue, is probably one of maybe the dozen most influential (and 'significant') works of fiction written in the second half of the twentieth century. Mind you, I'm talking influence, which isn't the same as quality, but in this case it comes on top of it being just a great work. Yes, nice that Vesaas' much quieter work gets some recognition (it's in print, but doesn't get nearly the attention/love it should), but Hopscotch was the book of the year.
(I'm talking fiction here because ... well, what else is worth talking about ? But they did award prizes in several other categories as well -- Akhmatova. Primo Levi, sure, good stuff too).
Jessa Crispin, whose conceived the awards, also comments at Bookslut -- though I have to admit I really don't get where she's coming from in claiming about the "post-1945 era in literature", that:
The names that we associate most strongly with that era -- Mailer, Roth, Updike, etc -- are all of this macho pose, this high masculinity. They dominate our view of what the post-war novel is supposed to be, and everything else kind of hides in their shadow.Admittedly, I'm not very worldly, but: not in any world I know. (Though I suppose there might be some university seminars where this is the prevailing wisdom/party line.)
(Also: how relevant is this in this context ? By 1963 Roth had published all of two novels, and Updike three (and surely neither had really entered their full 'macho pose'-phases yet (long though those then extended ...); they had barely made any impact on even just the American world of letters, much less the larger, lasting one.)
Besides, I'd worry about (or rather, simply ignore) anyone who thinks the novel -- even in a specific period or era -- "is supposed to be" any particular way or thing. That's the wonderful thing about fiction: anything goes, and any way can be the right way (even, occasionally, Roth's and Updike's (yeah, even I have my doubts about Mailer)).