‘To be alive is to be narrating to oneself a perpetual story’

Your work is defined by people struggling against an often cruel universe — you’ve even written an essay about authors whose engagement with the ‘cosmic’ you admire. What do you find so enriching about this particular mode of fiction, and do you think it’s something that is lacking in today’s literary landscape across the board?

So many of today’s fiction writers are narrowly focused on the socio-political and do so in the belief that society can provide the answers to all our problems. This is a strange assumption, it seems to me, because there are metaphysical questions to do with our meaning and our place in the universe that lie outside of society.

If you are without faith, as so many of us are, how are you to define yourself in a silent world without God? How can you arrive at meaning? So many of us are spiritual in that we have no religion but still feel deeply connected to life, to wonder and a sense of the good. What are we to do with this when it is no longer captured by religion?

Serious fiction used to speak to such problems and for much of the 20th century, writers and thinkers grappled with the problem of meaning with great sincerity. Today, such questions play little role in public conversation. We are no longer alienated in the world, as the existentialists once put it, but are now alienated from ourselves. Technology has shattered our attention and disconnected us from the more authentic, spiritual aspects of mind. We have exchanged wisdom for an endless stream of information and brushed the problems of meaning under the rug. But at what cost? I believe there are serious ramifications for modern societies.   

How have your preoccupations as a writer evolved over time? Looking back at some of your earliest attempts at writing fiction, can you identify any recurring themes and stylistic gestures, or was there a point where your work simply took a sharp turn, for whatever reason?

When I look back at my younger self, I can see a writer trying to push language to its limits in an effort to capture some of the more ineffable aspects of life. My novels have always been plot driven, but those early novels were written in a dense, poetic style influenced by writers such as Faulkner, Melville and McCarthy and poets such as Heaney, Eliot and Gerard Manley Hopkins. I wanted to take the reader down to the heartbeat of the moment and capture it in all its strangeness, wonder and beauty. Today, my writing is less ornate and largely that is because I have found new ways to express such matters in a more refined style. You often see this with other writers. Over time, the writer gains a certain mastery over the language (never a true mastery) that allows one to express greater complexity in simpler forms. It is something that can only be arrived at after years of work.

You’ve previously worked as a journalist — notably, as a film critic. Would you say this has impacted your fiction, subsequently, and if so how?

I reviewed over 1,000 films for the now sadly defunct Sunday Tribune in Ireland and what I learned during that time was the power of story. Even the most fractured arthouse movies are still telling a story. The human brain is wired for stories and at a very fundamental level, as neuroscience will show you, the brain is always narrating reality. To be alive is to be narrating to oneself a perpetual story. And so all of us are born storytellers, and perhaps this explains why stories are so attractive to us — they are like cheesecake for the brain. And so I take storytelling very seriously. I learned also from cinema the power of the image. It is so important to demonstrate your characters (and your ideas). A single image placed in the mind of the reader has ten times more power than a sentence without imagery. And behind the image, of course, resides the symbolic.

Prophet Song has undoubtedly connected you with a wide swathe of global readers that you may not have had access to previously, some of which you will now be meeting ahead of your participation at the Malta Book Festival. How do you experience this surge of attention as a writer (notably a solitary profession) and do you envisioning changing the way you think and work in any way?

When you make a decision to be a writer, you sign up to a life of spiritual pursuit and silent process. It’s just you in a room battling language day after day. Of course, you dream of success — who doesn’t? A writer is nothing without readers and poverty is ruinous for health and relationships. But what you can’t envisage is the cost of winning a prize of such scale as the Booker or the Nobel. The secluded writer finds themselves thrust instantly onto the world stage. You become a public figure with a global readership and the demands on your time are enormous. It’s been a huge adjustment for me, deeply exhausting and a great challenge as I am a co-parent to two kids who are the centre of my world. But what a privilege to be in this position and to meet so many readers. Only a fool would take it for granted.

Are you looking forward to the Malta Book Festival?

Can you believe I’ve never been to Malta? It has been in my thoughts often over the years and I don’t quite understand how it is that I’ve never visited. I am greatly looking forward to seeing what I have been missing out on.

Paul Lynch will be participating at the Malta Book Festival 2024, organised by the National Book Council (Malta) and taking place at the MFCC, Ta’ Qali on 6-10 November. Lynch will be participating in ‘Prophet Song: Booker Prize-Winning Author Paul Lynch in Conversation’ on 8 November 8pm, where he will be interviewed by journalist Emma Mattei. Entrance to the event is free of charge. For more information, visit — ktieb.org.mt. Paul Lynch’s participation was made possible with the support of the Embassy of Ireland in Malta.