Eerie Omens and Village Life
Sitting stoned on a hill above his village, a young man reflects on his place in the world. Connor takes pride in having fenced pastures while his friends have been away at university. Yet, he finds it overwhelming to consider that all their lives are equally real and urgent. He wonders whether they are part of the same story or separate ones. A phrase from a book he disliked at school surfaces in his mind: something about
“the roar on the other side of silence”. In this nuanced, subtle, and unusual novel by Melissa Harrison, one of the most insightful contemporary writers on rural life, this reference to George Eliot is given to an anxious and ecstatic labourer clutching a can of Fanta.
The Given World follows the residents of a single village in a river valley, a place described as
“as old as anywhere”, over six months spanning the equinoxes of a year. The setting is either the present or a near future where the seasons seem to have
“ceased their metronome”. Initially, the central figure appears to be Clare, who intimately knows every flagstone of the ancient priory that has defined her life. These six months mark her final days, from diagnosis to her last thoughts. However, in a manner that honors Clare’s solitary understanding of interconnectedness, the narrative expands beyond the priory to trace a web of lives. In the breezeblock bungalow next door, a desperate farmer listens at dawn to American evangelists on the radio. Like Saj the postman, the story visits addresses where literary fiction rarely ventures.
Group Portraiture and Historical Context
Readers familiar with Harrison’s previous work will recognize her dedication to diverse group portraiture. Her 2018 novel All Among the Barley immersed readers in 1930s East Anglia, observing every member of an agricultural community through the heightened perceptions of an adolescent girl. Private experiences were interwoven with public politics and international historical currents.
The Given World presents another microcosm. The minute details of daily work are imbued with a sense of cosmic change. This novel is deliberately crafted for an era of ecological crisis. Illegible omens illuminate the sky; sleepers endure
“vast unsettled dreams”. Summer brings a
“strangled stasis”. Readers witness an enigmatic departure as a lone woman, reminiscent of a late-walking ghost of Eliot on the Floss, gazes down from a footbridge into the stream. The River Welm
“sets about its final work”. With its omens and warnings, the novel approaches a portentous tone true to contemporary anxieties, though at times this can feel somewhat flattening. Idiosyncratically wry moments provide relief, such as when a last badger leaves the valley, its
“grey rump bouncing like a departing burglar captured on CCTV”.
Parallel Endings and Community Response
The parallel between Clare’s dying and the world’s decline is handled with restraint, yet there is a congruity in how the village’s capable women respond to these endings. Faye, the death doula, measures palliative drugs with expert hands. The presence of women gathered to support each other is signaled with economy by five teas left on the worktop.
Portrayal of Working Men
It is a testament to Harrison’s skill that this novel, with its strong feminist perspective, offers some of the most acute portrayals of working men in recent fiction. Roy, a builder, suffers vertigo while working on a roof. He mentions this to his builder’s mate of 20 years, but the mate is deceased, leaving Roy to talk it over with himself. Having BBC Radio 5 Live on the truck radio provides some semblance of company. He wonders if he can no longer perform his job:
“Maybe this is it … Call it a day.”
Rural Sentimentality and Realism
Harrison has long been interested in exposing what goes wrong when rural life is sentimentalized. The self-appointed
“countryside correspondent”in All Among the Barley portrayed the community she claimed to revere through honeyed prose about strong harvesters engaged in work
“that purifies the spirit”. That 2015 novel included an amateur artist creating versions of the picturesque. Harrison’s breakthrough came by looking closely at what and who was truly present. She observed the resilient green spirit of an itinerant worker traveling between farms.
Respect for Ancient Lore and Environmental Change
The Given World opens with an epigraph from painter and art critic Christopher Neve, a powerful interpreter of
“unquiet” landscapes:
“The notion of country lends itself easily to sentimentality. In fact, it is never to be trifled with.”Harrison urges readers to avoid trifling or generalizing. Strikingly, she treats ancient lores and superstitions with seriousness. These traditions descend from people literate in the earth’s signs and attuned to forces beyond immediate understanding. Harrison has deeply engaged with the culture of the rural eerie, and the novel sensitively explores the uncanny effects of environmental change.
Ecological Seriousness and Narrative Structure
For the reviewer, the novel’s ecological gravity is less about eeriness and more about distributing narrative weight across many lives. No single character dominates; only the community’s most arrogant figure would desire such primacy. This is a bold choice in a market eager for redemptive plotlines, emotional journeys, and standout characters. By refusing to prioritize any one inhabitant’s story, Harrison moves toward a communal narrative form. The novel is composed of distinctive personal idioms but strives for a voice that is composite or impersonal. There is no Greek chorus guiding readers to a predetermined conclusion. Instead, the narrative captures indefinable tensions, quiet griefs, and makeshift tributes. The focus shifts from the rising river, to a marriage breaking, to a man reading in a static caravan. This communal approach constitutes the novel’s ethical core and its power. As described:
“Lit by chance” in a moment’s sun, a caterpillar bends itself into a series of hieroglyphic shapes, their meaning impossible to ascertain.
