The literary world is notorously rowdy. Words being the medium, battle is often engaged over the slightest, most trivial event, whether in matters of style or political intent.
Musicians don't tend to spend years denouncing one another's work... too busy getting stoned or touring the world. Visual artists and photographers, so wrapped up in their medium as to be almost inaccessible, tend to plough lone furrows and often actually help one another.
Not the writers...
They need agents, editors, help-meets, moppers-up and a plague of readers and reviewers to get up and running.
After many years, I now remember more about the arguments between D H Lawrence and Kathering Mansfield than I do about their themes and litarary preoccupations. The living people seem more real.
But it's all worth it in the end.
The literary prizes bring a sparkle to everybody's day and allow for the world and his wife to discuss whether or not the winner deserves to win.
The
Orwell Prize long list is out.
Worth a look?
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