Stories from an unknown continent - but it might as well be Africa, or Borneo, or Brazil, or anywhere hot and humid with wilder reaches, largely unknown to the West. The conceit of this book is that the places in the stories, exist in a new continent and the world it purports to describe is meant to be `not ours'. Yet it so clearly is.
The momentary puzzlement is chiefly in why there is a need to invent a new continent, when we quickly grasp that these are old stories. They describe tribes discovered, peculiarities of tradition and ritual; they describe a calligraphic art desecrated by greedy politicians; they describe a young man travelling to America and back to his father's farm in the distant hills, replete with contempt for the old superstitions by which his people live. The stories, in fact, parallel the stories of colonialism, corruption and patronisation with which we, here in this world, are all too familiar.
I am hugely admiring of Jim Crace for his refusal to be bound by literary realism's conventions. I loved Quarantine, Six, The Gift of Stones, Being Dead, The Devil's Larder, and most of all The Pesthouse and Signals of Distress, for me his two masterpieces.
Continent is beautifully written, since Crace cannot write a bad sentence, but this is an early book and much that came after it is superior in story-telling. Any of the novels listed above have in abundance Crace's true gift of compelling literary genius. This one, for me, is only slightly marred by the conceit of its setting.