A Conversation with Hugo Rifkind
Just to start, I wanted to ask you about your writing process and the differences between writing articles as a journalist and writing fiction. How did your approach differ between the two?
I guess the big difference is that no one’s reading it. With my journalism, I write quite a lot and I generally write on the day for the next day, or sometimes even for that day. I generally write with the expectation that it’s going to be read imminently by somebody. So, being elbows deep in a book for a couple of years without anyone really reading a word is quite odd. It’s like it’s all happening inside your head, like you’re imagining it – it’s almost like you’re not really sure you’re really working at all.
Also, because of the kind of journalism I do, there’s a very tight word limit, so it can be a bit dangerous writing fiction because there’s like no limit; you can get a bit carried away and you can be a bit too self-indulgent with the prose. And while it’s lovely doing that, I really had to rein it in.
How did you do that? Did you show it to other people for feedback or did you have to figure out when to edit yourself down?
It’s funny, in terms of being edited, I’ve got huge respect for other people’s view of plot and character and meaning, but I think I’m a bit smug when it comes to words and sentences. I don’t really care what anybody else thinks – I think I’m right about that. It’s the one aspect that I’m really confident with. You know, someone might say this character’s nonsense, or this plot doesn’t work, and I’ll think, you’re probably right. But I’m pretty happy with the sentences.
Just on plot, how did you approach that? Are there any writers that inspired your style in terms of how the story is structured?
Yes, the first draft of the novel was much more of a thriller, so I read quite a few thrillers and took inspiration from those, particularly how someone like Donna Tartt manages to write really literary thrillers. I also read quite a lot of crime writers as well – I’m a big fan of Dennis Lehane and Ian Rankin as well. But, in retrospect, it was kind of useless because it turned out to not be that kind of book at all – I basically wrote it as a thriller and then realised that a lot of the reasons why it wasn’t quite working was because it wasn’t a thriller, so I pretty much entirely rewrote the last third of the book. I keep meaning to go back and read the first draft and I know I’ll probably be like, why the fuck why did I do that?
There’s quite a strong tone of voice in Rabbits, as you’re writing from the point of view of a teenager. How did you translate that character into a writing style? I imagine it can be quite difficult to make younger voices feel sincere…
I found the difficulty wasn’t actually making it feel sincere, the difficulty was making it feel not too nasty because teenagers are pretty incoherent, right? And particularly teenage boys are, you know, violent, compulsive, and sexist in a way that’s just not okay – I think if you’re honest about the sexism of teenage boys, it’s not very winning on the page, you know? And particularly you’re not quite sure whether that comes from the narrator or the author, so that kind of thing was quite hard to keep true life without being too teenage boy. Also, I suppose, he’s actually in his early 20s when the story’s being told, and he’s remembering being a teenager.
In terms of finding the voice to write in, it’s always tricky, but I just threw it on the page to see what worked. And by the time I was around 1000 words in, I could hear his voice. I mean, his voice isn’t that dissimilar from my natural writing voice. He’s a bit more introspective than I am – I suppose that’s a self-defeating sentence, but you know what I mean.
Onto the plot, you’ve mentioned that Rabbits is very specifically about a certain type of person – a ‘Rural Scottish posh’ person. I always like asking authors about how they feel their specific stories and characters will resonate with readers who are very far removed from this group of society. Especially as, sometimes, it’s the most specific stories that actually have the biggest impact. So, what uniting elements do you think Rabbits might have for readers?
Well, teenagers are teenagers. And I think that teenagers tend to react to the circumstances they’re in in much the same way, whatever those circumstances are. So, I’d hope that aspect of the book is a bit universal. There’s also quite a lot of death and loss, which is pretty universal. There’s also an uncertainty and nervousness of being young. Also, just the joy of being shit faced. All of that stuff is universal, I think, whatever sort of background you have. It was important to me that, although the world around them is weird, the narrator is not too weird. He’s not quite enough outside the world to be on the side of the reader, but he’s not far off. He very much had to be a, ‘this is how you’d feel if this was happening to you’ kind of voice.
I was just going to say, Tommo does appear to be on the edge or boundary of that world. Did you always know that you needed someone to be looking into a certain group of people from an outside perspective? And why do you think that helped the style and plot?
It’s true. I don’t know if it’s something I did consciously, but I do think that every writer instinctively gravitates to an outsider’s perspective. Also, it’s easier to write a universal character rather than, you know, really getting deep into an unfamiliar character type – I mean, it’s a hell of an achievement when people can do that, but I’m not sure I could do it in quite the same way. It’s also quite Donna Tartt-y as in The Secret History, the character Richard is a bit like that. Another book that really informed Rabbits was, The Great Gatsby. And that’s the classic outsider in high society tale. I’m not sure you’d necessarily see from the book that The Great Gatsby informed it, but it did. I hadn’t thought about it in that way, but I think there’s some truth in that.
Without giving away the plot, violence and death very much runs through this book in a few different guises. You’ve also talked about how public school boys are, in some ways, being raised for a war that - hopefully in 2024 - they won’t be fighting in. One of my favourite lines was: ‘What happens though, when there are no trenches? Where does it all go?’ Could you talk more about your exploration of violence and the different roles it plays in your writing?
I do think that teenage boys are brutal. Boys are sociopathic. So, I did want to capture that, but there’s also something about the specific boarding school environment where kids are separated from their parents, where there’s a Lord of the Flies thing going on. Maybe not quite to that extent, but the parental rules aren’t there, so people find their own rules and they’re quite savage places. I was really interested in the relationship between the savagery of all these people when they’re kids and the fact that they grow up and then, the main thing they enjoy is killing stuff. The link is never consciously made because they are formalised shoots for pheasant and grouse and they’re not violent – well, hundreds of animals are getting killed – but they’re not savage. But still, there’s something there in the sense of learning violence when young, and then the using of violence when old, but in a way that is sort of suppressed and without quite admitting that’s what’s going on.
Also, as there’s familial death in the book, I was really interested in the idea that you can be surrounded by death all the time – in terms of hunting animals – and yet it can somehow not relate at all to the experience of human death and how confusing that is, particularly if you’re a teenager. Does that make any sense?
I think so! That also links back to how the ritual of hunting would be quite alien for a lot of people.
Well, it’s particularly weird in Britain. I mean, it’s not a book that’s all about hunting, but Britain’s quite weird in the way that killing animals is a posh pastime. In America, for example, it’s something Hicks do, you know, you wander around the woods with your gun, and you shoot stuff and eat it. A lot of people eat meat, but they wouldn’t kill the meat they eat. I just find that very strange. So, the fact that, in Britain, hunting is a very class-based thing is interesting because you’ve also got the kind of restraint of the upper classes, and the bloodlust is sort of ironic in a way. You know, it’s all very buttoned up.
You touched on this a little bit about the boarding school and the friendships between the boys, which is another theme that runs through the book, but I couldn’t help thinking that Rabbits would be an entirely different novel if about women. There are so many silences and miscommunications between friends and also between many of the boys and girls. Could you talk a little bit about what you were hoping to explore about friendships between young boys/men and the kind of camaraderie and loyalty they experience, as well as the distance they experience?
I mean, yes, if they were women, the whole story would be over in five minutes because everyone would know what’s going on and there’d be no mystery there. But there’s also something unique in the way that boys communicate; there can be all these unspoken subtexts that somehow don’t get in the way. You know, you can have a friend who you’re spending half the time literally wanting to kill, but you can just park that and go for a drink and have fun for an hour. The subtext is there, but kind of ignored. That’s similar in a way to the sociopath thing, when you put the shutters down and think, I’m not going to think about that.
And I guess that also links back to what you said about the school environment because there’s a very strong sense of camaraderie and loyalty that’s unspoken, but there’s also quite a lot of distance – there’s a lot going on under the surface and it doesn’t seem particularly healthy. I don’t know what you think about that…
No, it’s very unhealthy. It’s sort of loyalty without warmth, you know, nobody hugs, nobody gets to cry, nobody gets to talk about how they feel. These are kids and the relationship you’re supposed to have with your parents is all about talking, hugging, crying and sharing, but these boys are in an environment where that is literally the last thing you ever get to do. And that’s why, I think, it’s also an environment that brims with tension.
Yeah, I understand. And with Tommo, he reflects quite a lot on Johnny’s loyalty, but it’s always spoken about almost in battle terms, like he would die for me – as opposed to, he’s somebody I can really talk to.
Whenever he tries to, Johnny’s either not bothered or doesn’t understand, but there’s still a violent loyalty. It’s an army loyalty. It’s a defensive loyalty.
Yes! I might be wrong about this, and maybe it’s just because of Saltburn that I’m asking this, but there does seem to be a lot of art emerging that takes a look at the absurdities of wealthy, extremely privileged people in a dark but fascinating and comedic way - do you think this is a total coincidence or do you think these stories are having a bit of a moment for a reason?
I mean, I’m all for it. Obviously, it’s good timing. When I was writing the book, it was during and then after lockdown and, while I was deep in the middle of it, there were BLM protests going on. I thought well, no one cares about slightly miserable posh white people in Scotland – this is so, so far away from the zeitgeist. I just thought there would be no interest. But it did make me realise that. what I was writing about was, if not practically then effectively, a minority, as in a community that lived among a wider community that had nothing to do with the rest of the community; that had its own codes, was little understood and often disliked. And so, in a way, that experience of thinking, ‘Why on earth would anybody care about this?’, really helped me to focus on the question of why on earth would anybody care about this, which was actually useful.
There is quite a lot of stuff about the Mad Posh at the moment. Obviously, the book was already written and sold by the time Saltburn came out, and I was really terrified that it would be the same story, but it’s not. The Scottish side of it is different because these aren’t people who are going on to rule the world. You know, these aren’t even people who are, in many cases, going on to be particularly wealthy. You know, they’re brought up to do that, but they’re not going to do it. So, the existential angst of the book is precisely that. Whereas, with Saltburn, that really is a ruling elite, you know, those are the people who have all the money, who have all the power, who strut around as if they own the place. The people in Rabbits aren’t that – they were a few generations ago, but that’s very much gone away. I thought that was interesting, and it’s a very particular Scottish thing.
We just have one last question, which is do you judge a book by its cover?
I hope people judge mine by the cover because the cover is fantastic. I’m really pleased with the cover, and it was a really nice process. There were various ideas for covers and then Edward and Jamie, my editors at Polygon, suggested that one and it was like, ‘Oh fuck yeah, that’s the one’. And I think they fought quite hard for it, so I’m just absolutely delighted. Do I judge a book by its cover? Sometimes. Probably not. I’m sure if you asked me for a bunch of my favourite books, I literally couldn’t tell you what was on the cover, so I think I probably don’t. I would like it if other people did though.
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