Political statements by writers are so common as to practically come with the job description and, no matter how sincerely delivered, often seem timed to ignite interest in a book. Rarer is the writer who takes a stand in total opposition to their commercial interests. On Monday, however, that’s what Elizabeth Gilbert, the novelist and self-help guru, did when she posted a video to social media, outlining her decision to withhold publication of her new novel indefinitely in deference to sensitivities around the war in Ukraine. The statement triggered an avalanche of inflamed commentary and scorn, and a reboot of a discussion that has continued, on and off, for decades about Gilbert and what exactly her deal is.
Gilbert’s novel is set in Russia but has nothing to do with Vladimir Putin. Instead, The Snow Forest follows the fortunes of a family in 1930s Siberia trying to escape the reach of the Soviet government. It also has an environmental theme, highlighting the destruction of the natural world by industrialisation. Nonetheless, as Gilbert outlines in the video, she has received an “enormous, massive outpouring” from her readers in Ukraine, expressing “anger, sorrow, disappointment and pain” at her decision to set a novel in the land of the oppressor. On that basis, she is making a “course correction” and “removing the book from its publication schedule”.
My first response after watching this video on Monday was: wow, her publishers must be thrilled by this last-minute turn of events. (In her note on Instagram, Gilbert promised a full refund to all those who had preordered the book.) Then, I had to marvel at Gilbert’s cast-iron ability to annoy vast numbers of people in different ways to those in which she’d annoyed them before. In the wake of the video post, negative reaction focused on the tenuousness of the connection between the subject matter of the novel and the situation in Ukraine, and suggested it offered slim pretext for a boycott. By that reasoning, it was pointed out, no piece of fiction might be set anywhere in the world with fraught or undemocratic politics, on the understanding that it acts as a tacit endorsement.
I can see the merits of this argument. It was a fantastically grand gesture on the part of Gilbert, who, since the success of Eat, Pray, Love almost 20 years ago, has developed a persona so lofty that it is almost up there with Edith Sitwell’s. (The poet, famously, used to regard her enemies through a pair of lorgnettes, an effect almost pulled off by Gilbert’s massive glasses.) Gilbert addresses her readers as “dear ones”, with the kind of airy manner one suspects is undergirded with steel. And, clearly, she believes that the withdrawal of a piece of fiction might be considered meaningful in the context of a people surviving a war.
To my surprise, however, my final response to Gilbert’s gesture was one of admiration. It had an eccentricity to it that, politics aside, seemed to me impossible not to find broadly pleasing. With her racket-sized glasses and solemn delivery, she appeared entirely invulnerable to charges of ridiculousness. There were no hedges or caveats, none of the kneejerk female instinct to apologise for causing a disturbance. A strand of criticism about Gilbert going back to the success of her memoir is that, under the guise of a hippyish outlook, she pushed through a cynical, market-savvy piece of writing. But it seems to me that one indisputable fact about her is that she absolutely believes, with a fervour that in more irony-clad minds seems distasteful, in whatever the project to hand is.
And looking back, much of the criticism of Eat, Pray, Love appears off the mark. The memoir was published in 2006 and told the story of a year in Gilbert’s life in which she travelled – to Italy, India and Indonesia – in an effort to fix herself after her divorce. It wasn’t marketed as self-help but that’s how the book landed and, 12 million copies later, Gilbert was accused in some quarters of pre-cooking her revelations, on the basis that she sold the book before setting out on the journey.
There are valid criticisms of the book – the tone frequently tips towards a winsomeness that’s not to everyone’s taste – but the fervour of the backlash seemed an inevitable result of the sour grapes that attend a spectacular success in a field where most projects abjectly tank. The charge that she was not only insufferable but disingenuous doesn’t stand up, either, given the work that came later. Whether it’s your cup of tea or not, Gilbert’s style, which might be broadly characterised as a sort of disciplined gushing, has been consistent across the nonfiction titles. (Also: her book about creativity, Big Magic, is genuinely useful and sensible.)
These days, I tend to think that Gilbert is more interesting than she is given credit for. I’ll never get fully on board with “dear ones”, but I think in a social media landscape in which meekness and conformity and throwing everything between quote marks is encouraged, this kind of earnestness is bold and refreshing.
Emma Brockes is a Guardian columnist
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