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The 100 Best Novels Written in English: The Full List: Mon 17 Aug 2015 10.11 BST
The 100 Best Novels Written in English: The Full List: Mon 17 Aug 2015 10.11 BST
Ten of the best ... Some of the titles in Robert McCrum’s list.
Mon 17 Aug 2015 10.11 BST
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4. Clarissa by Samuel Richardson (1748)
Clarissa is a tragic heroine, pressured by her unscrupulous nouveau-
riche family to marry a wealthy man she detests, in the book that
Samuel Johnson described as “the first book in the world for the
knowledge it displays of the human heart.”
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16. The Scarlet Letter by Nathaniel Hawthorne (1850)
Nathaniel Hawthorne’s astounding book is full of intense symbolism
and as haunting as anything by Edgar Allan Poe.
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26. The Sign of Four by Arthur Conan Doyle (1890)
Sherlock Holmes’s second outing sees Conan Doyle’s brilliant sleuth –
and his bluff sidekick Watson – come into their own.
Helmut Berger and Richard Todd in the 1970 adaptation of The Picture of
Dorian Gray.
27. The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde (1891)
Wilde’s brilliantly allusive moral tale of youth, beauty and corruption
was greeted with howls of protest on publication.
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33. Sister Carrie by Theodore Dreiser (1900)
Theodore Dreiser was no stylist, but there’s a terrific momentum to his
unflinching novel about a country girl’s American dream.
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43. The Rainbow by DH Lawrence (1915)
The Rainbow is perhaps DH Lawrence’s finest work, showing him for
the radical, protean, thoroughly modern writer he was.
Carey Mulligan and Leonardo DiCaprio in The Great Gatsby’s film adaptation
by Baz Luhrmann.
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51. The Great Gatsby by F Scott Fitzgerald (1925)
Fitzgerald’s jazz age masterpiece has become a tantalising metaphor
for the eternal mystery of art.
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68. Under the Volcano by Malcolm Lowry (1947)
Malcolm Lowry’s masterpiece about the last hours of an alcoholic ex-
diplomat in Mexico is set to the drumbeat of coming conflict.
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75. Lolita by Vladimir Nabokov (1955)
Nabokov’s tragicomic tour de force crosses the boundaries of good
taste with glee.
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97. Amongst Women by John McGahern (1990)
This modern Irish masterpiece is both a study of the faultlines of Irish
patriarchy and an elegy for a lost world.
Rachel Cooke
@msrachelcooke
Sun 16 Aug 2015 09.00 BST
681
“B est of” lists are strange and silly things, particularly
in the realm of books: as prize shortlists prove time and time again,
fiction is a most subjective art. But still, what fun they can be, and how
unwittingly revealing. Of Robert McCrum’s 100 Greatest Novels, just
21 are by women. Even allowing for the fact that his list takes in the
17th, 18th and 19th centuries, when women writers were relatively rare,
this seems extraordinary to me. Sixty-seven of his titles belong to the
20th century – his final book is Peter Carey’s True History of the Kelly
Gang, which was published in 2000 – and yet, only 15 of these are by
women. How can this be? The last century offers up an embarrassment
of riches when it comes to the female imagination. Is it that Robert
thinks men write better, more important novels than women? Or is it
simply that he is less familiar with the female canon? I’m not sure.
Either way, here I am, eager to help. Let the reprogramming begin.
To take it from the top, I can’t disagree: Jane Austen’s Emma and Mary
Shelley’s Frankenstein are masterpieces; so is Jane Eyre by Charlotte
Brontë, Wuthering Heights by her sister, Emily, and Middlemarch by
George Eliot. But to this quintet I might add Elizabeth Gaskell’s Mary
Barton (1848), whose cast of working-class characters was then such an
innovation (Dickens was an admirer). Robert has included Mark
Twain’s The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. It’s a wonderful book, but
his neighbour Harriet Beecher Stowe’s Uncle Tom’s Cabin (1852)
perhaps deserves to join it. A faulty novel, with a preposterous end, its
anti-slavery message nevertheless stirred up great public feeling; its
power should not be discounted.
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We now reach the 20th century. What strikes me first is how many
American writers Robert has chosen (28 of 67), and yet while Edith
Wharton, Harper Lee and even Anne Tyler are among their number, he
has no space for Eudora Welty, Carson McCullers or Willa Cather. The
panting Henry Miller over McCullers or Cather? I don’t think so. So far
as British authors go, he gives us no Ivy Compton-Burnett, no Olivia
Manning or Antonia White. Surely these writers are more deserving of
special attention than, say, stodgy old HG Wells? The two trilogies that
constitute Manning’s Fortunes of War series would certainly be on my
list, as would White’s autobiographical novel of convent school
life, Frost in May (1933). It also seems odd to include Sylvia Townsend
Warner’s witchy feminist tale Lolly Willowes (1926) – a good book, but
not a great one – and yet to exclude, say, Margaret Kennedy’s The
Constant Nymph, the bestseller of 1924, and an exquisite study of
jealousy. Naturally, I approve to the very toes of my blue stockings of
the fact that Virginia Woolf’s Mrs Dalloway makes his list. But I think a
case might also be made for Mollie Panter-Downes’s One Fine
Day (1947), in which, over the course of 24 hours, a woman comes to
terms with the changes the second world war has brought to her world.
It’s a less formally experimental novel than Mrs Dalloway, but the
writing, crystalline and true, is just as fine.
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Robert has John Buchan’s The Thirty-Nine Steps on his list, a novel I can
imagine very few women holding in such high regard. Patricia
Highsmith’s The Talented Mr Ripley (1955) is better written and far more
thrilling, if we are to include a page turner, and has been more
influential to boot. Similarly, I favour Nancy Mitford’s The Pursuit of
Love (1945) or even EM Delafield’s The Diary of a Provincial Lady (1932)
over PG Wodehouse’s Joy in the Morning. Both, to me, are just as funny.
A children’s novel? He goes for Kenneth Grahame’s The Wind in the
Willows. I love it, too, and wouldn’t want to dislodge Ratty, Toad and
the others from their perch. But perhaps it could keep company
with The Secret Garden (1911) by Frances Hodgson Burnett, in which the
healing power of nature saves a family from self-destruction. Mary
Lennox, spoilt and troubled, was the first heroine who really spoke to
me.
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In the second half of the century, I second Robert’s inclusion of Doris
Lessing’s The Golden Notebook and Marilynne Robinson’s Housekeeping;
ditto The Heat of the Day by Elizabeth Bowen – one of the very finest
evocations of wartime London – and Mrs Palfrey at the Claremont by
Elizabeth Taylor, a brilliant novelist whose work is still too little known
(though I might have favoured Angel or A Game of Hide and Seek).
But Erica Jong’s sexual adventure Fear of Flying (1973) strikes me as a
glaring omission. As does Margaret Atwood’s (horribly prescient)
dystopian fable of 1985, The Handmaid’s Tale, for which Huxley’s Brave
New World or Anthony Burgess’s A Clockwork Orange could easily make
way (a bit much to have those and Orwell’s Nineteen Eighty-Four).
Others notable by their absence include Pat Barker, Angela Carter and
Carol Shields. Carter’s influence cannot be overstated: her allegorical,
taboo-breaking narratives have been genuinely influential. Barker and
Shields, meanwhile, have given us triumphantly good books in the
form of the Regeneration trilogy and the Pulitzer prize-winning The
Stone Diaries respectively.
What else? Two other names occur to me – only they belong to men. In
the end, I read as a human being, not as a woman, which is why close
to half of the books on Robert’s list would also be on mine. Next to Alan
Hollinghurst’s 1994 sensationally good The Folding Star, a story of
obsessional and rejected love and of the cruelty of beauty, most late
20th-century novels seem flimsy indeed, mere deckchairs to his
polished Chesterfield. And then there is JG Farrell, whose 1970
novel Troubles is, to me, perfection between soft covers: funny, tender
and wise. Set in a crumbling hotel in Ireland just after the first world
war, it is, as I’m always telling people, Fawlty Towers as written by
Evelyn Waugh.
Gender is important; we need to pay attention to it. But it’s not
everything. A great writer can take you anywhere, irrespective of his
sex – or, for that matter, of yours.
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