"The Drowning People" runs to 367 pages in my edition and I have to confess I had to finish it, as I couldn't believe anything this bad could have been published by Penguin and raved over by critics from reputable newspapers. True, it shows occasional flashes of literary technique and promise, but these are swamped by a relentlessly dreary, meandering narrative supposedly delivered by the central character, James Farrell, with as much soul-searching, hand-wringing, introspective flannel as any reader could possibly be subjected to in one book without losing his sanity. (Did anyone count the number of times he used the expression "you see"?)
The sense of time is totally distorted. Don't ask me why, but I infer from the early pages of the book that the initial events took place in 1995, when Farrell was in his twenties, but he is talking as a 70 year old man, which places his narrative in the middle of our current century. The surrounding characters seem to have wandered out of Oscar Wilde's plays, or in the case of the two callous cousins Sarah and Ella, Hitchcock's films from the 1960's. Evelyn Waugh is in there somewhere too, but he'd probably turn in his grave to hear himself associated with this ham-fisted mess. And there is something comical about the way in which, after about 300 pages with never a mention of anything remotely twentieth-century, our hero disappears into the London Underground! Later on, a mobile phone is introduced, but the character using it is one of the Oscar Wilde refugees and the message she uses it to deliver is out of the same period.
The tragedy, if there is one, is that the 20-year-old author Mason, was not counselled by older, wiser heads and persuaded to edit this down to a quarter of its length, revise the story to take some note of how people interact in the real world, and produce a half-decent first novel. What seems to have happened, and God knows why, is that a novel needing several rewrites and a hatchet-job done on its dreary longueurs, was published in full and apparently acclaimed by the literary world. This can only be viewed as crass and dishonest.
It would be nice to think that Mason has honed his talents since this was published in the late nineties. Unfortunately the only recommendation I can make on his first outing, is to any aspiring writer, to read this as an object lesson in how not to write a novel.