All is Song

It is late summer in London. Leonard Deppling returns to the capital from Scotland, where he has spent the past year nursing his dying father. Missing from the funeral was his older brother William, who lives in the north of the city with his wife and three young sons. Leonard is alone and rootless – separated from his partner and on a sabbatical from work. He moves in with William, hoping to renew their friendship, and to unite their now diminished family.

William is a former lecturer and activist who now runs informal meetings with ex-students. Defiantly unworldly and forever questioning, he is a man who believes that happiness and freedom come only from knowing oneself, and who spends his life examining the extent of his ignorance. Yet for all Leonard’s attempts at closeness with his brother, he comes to share his late father’s anxieties about the eccentricities of William’s behaviour.

But it seems William has already set his own fate in motion, when news comes of a young student who has followed one of his arguments to a shocking conclusion. Rather than submit, William embraces the danger in the only way he knows how – a decision which threatens to consume not only himself, but his entire family.

Set against the backdrop of tabloid frenzies and an escalating national crisis, All Is Song is a novel about filial and moral duty, and about the choice of questioning above conforming. It is a work of remarkable perception, intensity and resonance from one of Britain’s most promising young writers.

‘Profound, beautiful, cathartic writing.’ THE TELEGRAPH
‘Harvey’s prose is graceful and unhurried, full of sharp observation and moments of subtly understated pathos.’ THE GUARDIAN
‘This beautiful composition does that rare thing, of provoking free thought while scrutinising the far-reaching repercussions of such rebellious activity.’ – THE INDEPENDENT
‘Harvey’s slow, intense thoughtfulness feels positively Woolfean at times. She thinks deeply, and writes beautifully about these thoughts.’ THE SUNDAY TIMES
‘Intense, rewarding, and bracingly serious.’ FINANCIAL TIMES

We call upon the author to explain
When we discuss what novels are about, I think it’s sometimes true that the author’s answer will be different to the reader’s. This is the case for All Is Song, which is, to me, a book that tries to re-imagine and reinterpret the life of Socrates in the modern western world. I’m sure that this isn’t what the book appeared to be about for most readers, especially those who know nothing about Socrates. I can’t anticipate what it might be about for others. Each and every reader response is definitive. So all I attempt to do here in this very short space is say what motivated me to write it, and what I wanted to say. William is a very loose refashioning of Socrates, with a biography largely borrowed from him. I have referenced events and aspects of Socrates’ life continually for those who would know to look out for it, but want at no point for the uninitiated reader to feel lost or excluded from a private joke. I wrote about Socrates because I wanted to explore how the deeply questioning mind is tolerated in modern society. If we look back on Socrates now at all, we tend to do so with fondness, respect and a tacit disapproval of the society that put him to death. Those feckless ancients! And yet, are we any better? So often I feel that in the centuries of astonishing progress since Socrates’ death, the one area in which we’ve shown little progress is in our willingness to look honestly at ourselves, as individuals, and be prepared to question the validity of the things we believe, even where this means letting go of views we’ve come to identify with. Would we be any more tolerant towards a person who insisted, absolutely insisted, on doing this now? All Is Song is an open-ended exploration of this question, and from this basic starting point the figure of Socrates himself fades away and those of William and Leonard come into being. Then the novel is wrested away from Socrates and becomes, absolutely, theirs.
All is Song

The Wilderness

Jake Jameson is a sixty-five-year-old architect who is on the cusp of retirement. One evening he’s sitting alone in the office, staring down at an architectural drawing. He can’t quite figure out what he’s supposed to do with it. Suddenly he remembers a word, one for which he has been trying for days to recall; entropy – for him the single most interesting theory that exists, a theory that says everything loses, rather than gains, order.

This idea underlies this riveting tale of a man whose memories are slowly eroding. As Alzheimer’s begins to wear away his sense of identity, Jake builds stories around his life that inform his feelings of blame and responsibility – only to have the stories disintegrate faster than he can capture them. As the plot keeps shifting and the facts unravel, little mysteries start to form: What was the problem with the missing letter “e”? What was behind the mythologies that his Jewish mother told him as a child? Where is his daughter Alice? What happened to her? Eventually we realise that even Jake’s clearest memories may not be true. He is the flawed witness to his own past, the ultimate unreliable narrator. Yet in the end we are left with a clear and moving portrait not only of a sympathetic man but also of a heartrending disease as seen from the inside out.

Arrestingly understated and wise, The Wilderness is a memorable first novel by an extraordinarily gifted new writer.

‘Brave and intelligent – a mesmerising work.’ THE INDEPENDENT
‘Harvey shows her remarkable powers of empathy and her no less remarkable literary skill . . . from start to finish her control is absolute. I can think of few more distinguished literary debuts in recent years.’ LITERARY REVIEW
‘Deeply original and captivating . . . Full of urgent life that it rouses even as it terrifies.’ OBSERVER

 We call upon the author to explain
Czeslaw Milosz, ‘The Past’:
‘The past is inaccurate. Whoever lives long enough knows how much what he had seen with his own eyes becomes overgrown with rumor, legend, a magnifying or belittling hearsay. “It was not like that at all!” – he would like to exclaim, but will not, for they would have seen only his moving lips without hearing his voice.’

I found this short passage long after I finished writing The Wilderness, but it sums the novel up for me. The past is inaccurate, Milosz says, and I love the stress on the last word. Never was there a more inaccurate thing; it’s a fiction that we are driven to invent around a few (ever diminishing) known facts, in the attempt to define who we are. But our past selves, too, are fictional. The self I was this morning, or thirty years ago, is a fictional character. And, for me, The Wilderness is about this: Jake is a man who, in the disintegration of his memories through dementia, is trying not to become fictional to himself.

He fails, though, because he is bound to fail. I wanted to question in the novel whether this failure matters. The rumour and legend he builds around his own past become half-satisfying to him, perhaps more so than the reality of past events as they happened, and I think we all do this in our own ways – reinvent the past so that it is more acceptable to us. At the end of the novel Jake is left with a whittled universe, but one in which he is still the agent and hero of his own life in whatever limited way.

Maybe this leaves him with something broadly inaccurate but fundamentally true, some adamance that he is more than this sum of forgotten things. Milosz again, speaking about ‘old people’:

‘They were betrayed by their bodies, once beautiful and ready to dance. Yet in every one a lamp of consciousness is burning, hence their wonder: “Is this me? But it can’t be so!”’
Jake also thinks this. Is this me? I wanted him to refuse to accept, in whatever way still available to him, that it is. But I don’t know if this is an insight I was trying to express, or just my own vague hope.

(The Milosz quotations are from Road-side Dog; the sub-heading is from Nick Cave.)

The Wilderness
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