3 out of 5

The Wasp Factory is clearly a debut novel. Now, don’t get me wrong: Iain Banks was a brilliant writer, and this is a wildly impressive (and bold) way to have kicked off that career, and is certainly not without touches of genius, but it’s nonetheless clearly a debut.  

Suggestive of the kind of self-checking and restraint that’s perhaps indicative of the deeper narratives Banks would come to construct, WF is interestingly small-scoped, its potentially inflammatory tale purposefully bordered and limited in length so its reach never exceeds its grasp. At the same time, I don’t know if Banks always knew what he was reaching for, except for a very clear endpoint. The book stalls quite a bit as a result – though not unentertainingly – with Banks indulging in some beats and concepts that would feel more at home in a short story, and doesn’t really get further on definition than his lead, Frank, and Frank’s father. 

Rewinding a bit, The Wasp Factory was a thankful random find for me in my early days, book shopping based on title (weird!), book design (rather cryptically garish cover art, on my 90s edition), and of course, back cover blurb, which here just had an excerpt of teenager Frank, casually saying that his murder of three childhood acquaintances was just a phase he was going through, and then a list of quotes alternately praising and condemning the text; this book was made for my sensibilities, and a riffle through the author’s other available works suggested I’d found a new favorite writer as well. 

The writing style of The Wasp Factory very much appealed as well: setting us, via Franks’s narration, in a twisted, obsessive, but also grounded world – you take the fantastic and set it at street level. So Frank lives alone with his father on an island in Scotland; his father demands Frank know the measurements of every odd corner of the house, and can identify foods eaten by the smell of one’s farts; his brother, Eric, was committed some years back after a mental break sent him on a bit of a violent spree, and Eric’s escape and pilgrimage home (told via occasional phone calls) adds a ticking clock to the tale. Frank ritualizes everything; all has a sacred name and some performance around it, including the titular construction. Meanwhile, our 180 pages are primarily Frank bumming around the island and reflecting on his past and future, occasionally drinking with friend Jamie, occasionally fielding calls from Eric. 

The conclusion of The Wasp Factory furthermore appealed, playing with social themes that I still somewhat obsess over. But: I also clearly recall feeling somewhat disappointed by that ending, just as I was occasionally underwhelmed by the writing style. 

Themes of identity, and self-worth, and perception – they’re consistent through out the book, bit also rather applied at a surface level. That the final story reveals required Banks to explain the point for two pages is telling, either of editorial fussing, or a lack of confidence, or just, again, the sign of a debut novel, or any or all of these things. The themes are there, but are not quite strung together, leaving some brilliant concepts bopping about the well-written prose, waiting for a deeper dive. (Without spoiling, I’d been curious how the ending would reread from a modern point of view, and I’d say it reads well – while also making the potential for exploring it more even more obvious.) 

To Banks’ eternal credit – and largely why I still knew this was an author to follow, and why the book is interesting to revisit – the other tactic would have been to go way indulgent with the book’s layers, and be overwrought with the whole thing. …And I would not still be reading and rereading Banks had that been the case. 

All in all, I’m still jealous of this book. It contains so much I wanted to do as a young writer, while leaving room for criticism that doesn’t really destroy the experience, that I still find it quite inspiring… and, yknow, it’s funny and weird and interesting and all that besides.