Your first novel, In Memoriam, received the accolade of Waterstones Debut Fiction Prize and also their Novel of the Year Award. Could you share the premise of the story and what drove you to compose it?
Ironically, despite my resistance to penning a novel, ‘In Memoriam’ was the end result of that begrudging endeavour. Once I graduated, I had resolved to author a novel annually until I managed to produce a compelling one. Despite churning out three back-to-back, they weren’t up to the mark and I nearly relinquished my pursuit. However, during this timeframe, I accidentally discovered student newspapers from my previous boarding school. Reminiscing about war poet Siegfried Sassoon – a former pupil there, triggered the inclination to dig into these old journals, expecting traces of him. However, the school was not his favourite place and there was hardly any mention of him.
The intensity and brutality of these newspapers are challenging to articulate. They drew me in to the extent that I devoured every issue from 1913 to 1919. Authored by the students, they primarily reflect the viewpoint of the students. The declaration of the war lit up a fire in these boys – they enlisted in huge numbers, even sharing their delight through letters about the lack of necessity to bathe. It was only later that they realised the real cost, deaths began.
Initially, the In Memoriams – often composed by young boys for their elder brothers and buddies – were flooded with excessive patriotism. There’s an obituary which illustrates the death of a 25-year-old recent groom, shot in his stomach and left in a trench for over 12 hours, only to die in a makeshift hospital cave. “His bravery was beyond our imagination. It was extraordinary…” continues the In Memoriam for this gallant soldier.
However, the narrative began to shift as the war progressed. Some prose became such raw distillations of suffering that reading them transfixes you with pain. How does one process the crushing, sentimental poetry written by a teenage boy mourning the death of his friend, only for that poet to meet his own demise a few months later?
I experienced an overwhelming sense of desperation to share the sorrow contained in the pages I was reading. Their solace lay in the belief that their tragedies would always be remembered. The authors from the First World War writings were gripped with the need for their sorrow to be a lesson for future generations. My attempt to express myself about newspapers was met with incomprehension, with some presuming it was mundane and macabre. The inspiration for penning down my novel was the solitude I felt rooted in a bygone era’s grief. I had a longing for others to resonate with my emotions.
I was embraced into life by American parents in Paris but had my academic nurture privately in England. Does the status of an insider outsider assist your writing career?
I identify with Irish American roots, a claim that might exhaust actual Irish natives! I deeply value my Irish citizenry, reminiscing about my stay in Ireland – hats off to Spleodar, the Irish language immersion camp in Connemara that I attended during my teenage years.
My book encapsulates two protagonists — one having German roots and another from Jewish ancestry. They struggle with their conditional identities as they are pigeon-holed by societal norms. I personally relate to this as my childhood was defined by numerous relocations, which often left me dazed when asked about my roots. My anxiety about the dilemma eased when a friend suggested its insignificance and recommended I let it go. Despite the blunt feedback, I found it quite enlightening. Yet, I find myself frequently penning down tales about outsiders yearning to assimilate.
[Rebecca Ivory: ‘I might not have been a writer if destiny had a different family planned for me’]
You’ve illustrated British troops’ discrimination against French. Did you discover any bias against the Irish?
Sassoon accounted for an affable old captain’s vehemently anti-Irish sentiment: “‘In my view,’ he murmured resentfully, ‘I assume those cursed Irish are somehow involved in Kitchener’s drowning. How satisfying it would be to see their pompous island submerged underwater.’ Barton harboured unreasonable animosity towards the Irish, quick to blame them if plausible. [. . .] Post the Easter Rebellion in Dublin, even sight of an Irish whiskey bottle would put him on edge.””
“Robert Graves, of Irish descent, shared a family tale about his predecessor, Moira O’Brien, who was compelled to become the spouse of Cromwell’s accomplice and even assassinated him. Graves empathised with the Irish folk, but when he was based in Limerick post-war, he did all he could to flee, detailing it as resembling a ‘battle-damaged borough’, and was particularly apprehensive of residing in an Irish infirmary, due to his struggle with Spanish influenza.
Among the wartime authors I’ve explored, there’s a surprising lack of commentary on Irish political matters. It becomes challenging to discern their viewpoints on the Easter Rising, owing to their brief and infrequent references.
When asked about the finest piece of writing guidance I’ve encountered, there is an abundance of fantastic suggestions. Yet, the insights of Thomas Morris regarding titles resonates with me – questioning whether your title broadens the scope of the story or whether it actually diminishes it.
You can find the book ‘In Memoriam’ within Penguin’s publishing range.”