Who can resist a story about a literary editor chancing upon a copy of a novel that's been out of print for over three decades and hails it as a lost dystopian classic? That's the seductive tale which accompanies the recent republication of “They”, a 1977 novel by a notorious figure from the 20th century literary scene. Though Kay Dick is barely remembered now, an obituary written for The Guardian in 2001 by Michael De-la-Noy makes her sound infamously unreliable, cash-strapped and vindictive. It's an ignominious end for a woman who was once George Orwell's editor and is called by Carmen Maria Machado “a trailblazing queer author.” This new edition of the novel is also covered with a string of endorsements from Margaret Atwood, Eimear Mcbride and Claire-Louise Bennett. If I'm focusing more on the author's reputation it's because I found myself more interested in the author herself than the content of her novel.
By Machado's account, “They” is an unusual volume amongst Dicks' slender oeuvre as its cryptic stories describe a series of artistic individuals being intimidated by an unnamed group who are watchful, destructive and intensely creepy. The painters, sculptors, musicians and writers who populate this novel revel in nature, thrive in having intellectual exchanges and delight in friendship. However, their individuality and desire to express themselves makes them a target for the menacing figures who hover in the distance. These figures don't seem to belong to any one organization, but represent a homogenized bullying group. The artists realise that “We represent danger. Non-conformity is an illness.” They endeavour to find ways to cultivate their individual expression and exist on the margins of this repressive society even if some of them are punished, pillaged and have their memories wiped.
Though I appreciated the creepy tone to these stories and the eerie sense of being hemmed in, it was difficult to become emotionally invested in any of the characters because so few details are given about them or the nameless narrator(s). Instead we're just given snapshots of their behaviour wandering through the countryside walking their dogs or holing up together in places of refuge. The artists resent the figures in the distance not only for the way they terrorize them, but for their conformity in watching television and listening to pop music: “I could not endure the 90 dB intensity of pop music that street megaphones related at such times.” Equally, children generally rove around in marauding groups to torture animals. From reading about the author's life and the way in which the society outside this civilized circle of friends is represented makes me feel that this perception is coming more from a curmudgeonly author's point of view rather than an invented character's. Perhaps that's an unfair assumption, but I came to feel as critical of the pretensions of the artists as I did about the vicious figures that intimidated them.
I think reviews which came out when this novel was first published describe this book as a fever dream. That feels like a much more apt description than calling it a dystopian novel. Perhaps because I came to it with that expectation I was more disappointed because it felt quite different from any dystopian story I've read before. Perhaps that's a good thing and perhaps the dystopian novel now comes with expectations which are too limited. Nevertheless, the style of “They” left me with little to grasp onto or remember. There are some lovely evocative descriptions: “The damp sharp smell of newly mown grass stirred areas of childhood memories.” I admired the writing but it didn't build to a satisfying whole. The story could certainly be interpreted in many ways, but it felt too cryptic for me to feel impacted by it. Overall, I was left longing to read more about the author's life than to read more of her fiction.
