The Times has described the 2025 Booker Prize shortlist as “revenge of the middle-aged author”“. If the phrase sounds derogatory, it isn’t meant that way: the review also describes the shortlist as "novels for grown-ups”, with the prize privileging “maturity over novelty” and supporting “unpretentious, old-fashioned literary fiction”.
This is reinforced by the Booker Prize website, which highlights the previous winner (Kiran Desai) and two previously shortlisted authors (Andrew Miller and David Szalay) on the list, while noting that all six authors have long-established literary careers.
A book prize should reward novelty, though – and the Booker is, after all, a book prize, not an author prize like the Nobel. But if novelty isn’t obvious from the authors themselves, it can be detected in their books.
Their ages should not be a big surprise. Several literary prizes focus on older writers, including the newly launched Pioneer Prize for female writers over 60, established by Bernardine Evaristo to “acknowledge and celebrate pioneering British women writers” in all genres. Evaristo notes that the prize intends to correct the problem that “older women writers tend to be overlooked” – 91-year-old Maureen Duffy was its first recipient.
Perhaps these prizes and Booker nominations respond in part to society’s emphasis on youth, reflected in publishing initiatives such as Granta’s best young novelists, Penguin’s authors under 35 to watch and previously, The New Yorker’s 20 under 40 list.
It will be interesting to see whether the Booker winner this year reflects the suggested trend of overlooking older women writers, or responds to it. Three of the shortlisted authors are women, and according to my students and the bookies’ odds, Desai’s The Loneliness of Sonia and Sunny and Susan Choi’s Flashlight are likely contenders for the prize, with Ben Markovits’ The Rest of Our Lives behind them.
My students were drawn to the specific historical context of Flashlight, which conveys the lives of several generations of a family beginning in 1940s Japan, then moving through suburban America and North Korea. They valued the less-documented migration story, and suggested the mystery fiction aspect added wide appeal.
Markovits’ The Rest of Our Lives was seen as a typical Booker shortlist by my students, who identified the extra-marital affair, the road trip across America, and the internal-monologue narration of the eloquent and thoughtful university lecturer protagonist as factors which might make the book very popular.
Beyond this, the plot shares with Flashlight a fundamental uncertainty, with characters feeling out of place in their own lives. In The Rest of Our Lives, Tom’s life is gradually unbuttoned when he and his wife decide to stay together until their youngest child leaves home, following her affair. Rather than a dramatic upheaval, the narrator decides to undertake a picturesque road trip.
An extra-marital affair is also at the centre of Miller’s The Land in Winter, in which the harsh winter of 1962-63 in England’s West Country forces two couples to confront their uncomfortable relationship dynamics, when they are forced to stay indoors to avoid the weather.
Disaster looms in the countryside through unpredictable people like Alison Riley, who is “the kind of person who might choose to bring the house down simply to find out what kind of noise it made”.
The uncertainty of individual identity, driven by unconventional and challenging family relationships, is the fundamental connecting factor between all six books, and Katie Kitamura’s Audition expresses this most directly.
Written in two parts, the novel considers the relationship between its protagonist and a younger adult male who may or may not be her son. The novel suggests, as the Booker judges note, that we play roles every day, like the actor protagonist of this novel – who first rejects the suggestion that the young man is her son, then later changes position to live alongside him as if he were.
But perhaps the novel that stands out most to me is Szalay’s Flesh. While this book likewise conveys the unravelling of life into uncertainty and risk, its plot concerns a 15-year-old boy in a relationship with a woman of his mother’s age. Flesh is written in lengthy dialogue, rendering the story sparse and sharp.
Having written about both of Desai’s previous novels as a scholar of post-colonial studies, I am eager to read The Loneliness of Sunny and Sonia, which was published on the day of the Booker shortlist announcement – an auspicious sign perhaps.
Only her third novel in a long career, it is described as a romance. Publishers have recently pointed to an upturn in the popular romance genre fiction, including subgenres like romantasy. This might offer favourable conditions for the book – helped by judge Sarah Jessica Parker’s association with romance, and a new wave of literary romance screen adaptations including Emerald Fennell’s Wuthering Heights and a new Netflix series of Pride and Prejudice in 2026.
The Loneliness of Sunny and Sonia begins with a 55-year-old protagonist whose parents control minute details of her life, but is centrally concerned with the epic and transnational love affair of its two eponymous characters.
The novel maintains Desai’s trend of changing literary direction between novels. Having herself lamented Hullaballoo in the Guava Orchard as “exoticist”, she responds to that accusation in The Loneliness of Sunny and Sonia, where protagonist Sonia is accused of writing “orientalist nonsense”. In a Guardian interview, Desai explained that the character expresses her own concern about how to write about India for a western readership.
Desai’s second novel, The Inheritance of Loss, was set in the aftermath of violence resulting from the claim for a separate state in post-Partition India. It won the Booker Prize in 2006 when Desai was 35, then the youngest woman to win the award – in 2013, it went to an even younger Eleanor Catton. This statistic suggests the Booker winner, at least, tends to be an older author.
The novels in this year’s shortlist all convey the overwhelming impact of uncertainty and change, and privilege introspective responses to disruptions that are sometimes hidden for decades. While (mostly) stories about middle age, they are anything but safe and comfortable.
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Jenni Ramone does not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organisation that would benefit from this article, and has disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.
This article was originally published on The Conversation. Read the original article.
