Edinburgh International Book Festival: Alasdair Gray
Predictably, the newspaper coverage of Alasdair Gray's talk at Edinburgh International Book Festival focuses on just a single word in a far-reaching and very balanced discussion of the whole 'settlers vs. colonists' debate, kicked off by Gray's essay on Scottish independence and the influence of English arts coordinators earlier this year. At one point, Gray makes the assertion that the predominance of senior English figures in the Scottish arts funding and commissioning community shows a “Scotophobic” tendency. Taken out of context, this term may seem excessively strident, but compare it with another of his statements from today's talk. Gray defines a Scot as “anyone with voting rights who lives here,” and speaks of the tendency for Scotland to lose its newest and brightest voices to England and other territories: “Scotland tends to export people very rapidly.”
Far from the rabidly anti-English sentiments which have been attributed to him, his approach to the issue is thoughtful and nuanced; his definition of settlers and colonists more pliable than broadsheet journalists would have us believe. The original essay was, as Gray intended, and as the event's chair, festival director Nick Barley commented, “incendiary”, but it was far from inaccurate. Gray has been pilloried for perceived cultural bias, when really, all he has done is draw attention to some little-discussed facts about Scottish cultural life.
Moving on from the controversial essay, Barley and Gray discuss independence in general, with Gray lamenting the binary nature of the debate. Post-independence, Gray says he “would like to see a parliament which was not just divided into a yes or no team,” but allowed instead for a cross-party, cross-political discussion of the important issues of the day. Gray is strongly in favour of proportional representation, and dead set against the concept of party whips. He is a dyed-in-the-wool supporter of democracy and social responsibility, so to paint him as a foaming-at-the-mouth, anti-English polemicist is wildly inacurate. With his high, reedy laugh and frequent self-deprecating jokes, Gray is far from the villain some have him play.
It has been 33 years since the release of his magnum opus, Lanark, and in the last few years Gray has concentrated on visual art. He describes his collaboration with Nichol Wheatley on the ceramic mural at Glasgow's Hillhead subway station with relish, commenting on its inspiration: “Everybody should use the place in which they live.” His last book, Every Short Story, is described by Barley as “an incredible achievement,” showing Gray's evolution through a very Scottish form of magical realism to an increasingly grounded, realistic prose style.
Ten months ago, Gray began work on a translation of Dante's Inferno, spurred on by what he describes as “a mix of vanity and what Yeats called 'the fascination of what's difficult.'” Undeterred by the fact he doesn't speak Italian or Latin, he is instead juxtaposing key translations in order to find his own route through the circumambulating tunnels of Hell. He reads from the work in progress, which is packed with flashes of West Coast banter, including demons named Stinkytail and Clartyclaw. Vital and humorous, it bleeds energy and vigour.
Going back to the audience for questions, Gray comments on the ban on independence-themed plays at the 2014 Edinburgh International Festival (“it's hard to think of any dramatist who doesn't have an opinion on the politics of the country they live in,” he offers sceptically); the Commonwealth Games (the city's Labour Council have been “cutting social services in order to bring the Games to Glasgow,” he believes); and states for once and for all that to his mind, one can be both Scottish and British, even under independence, just as Danes can be both Danish and Scandinavian. Maligned, misunderstood, but dearly beloved by his native land, Gray is too precious, too essential to be called a national treasure – he should be recognised as a national hero.