It seems fitting that Sarah Perry opts to meet on a road called Tombland. The author of The Essex Serpent is attuned to the resonances of the past. She cheerfully states, “My approach to time is that I have never felt the present is particularly important.”
We’re in Norwich, where she resides, at Shiki, a Japanese restaurant opposite the cathedral. Perry has been a regular for years. “They used to have an all-you-can-eat night, I think it was Tuesday,” she recalls with a laugh, “You received a stack of little scraps of paper to tick what you wanted and hand to the waiter. We didn’t come back for ages after that — we were embarrassed by our gluttony. We still keep that pile of papers in my husband’s study as a reminder.”
She orders from memory — a bento box “because I like the little theatre of it,” along with sashimi, tempura, and a jug of warm sake. She mentions she’s hungry after an hour of weight training, her defense against the “tormenting pain” that once immobilized her from ages 34 to 38. “I used to watch people walking,” she reflects, “and it seemed as incredible as flight.” She contends with two conditions: an autoimmune disease, Graves’ disease, somewhat alleviated by medication, and a severe disc rupture in her back, which had a surprisingly positive surgical outcome allowing her to lift 115kg. Now 45, she feels “so lucky” and claims, “I feel like I’ve aged backwards.”
The period of serious illness coincided with her rise as a bestselling novelist and heightened her gothic instincts shaped by a strict, cult-like upbringing in a Calvinist Baptist church in her hometown of Chelmsford, Essex. “For instance,” she notes, “if we were on a delayed train on a Saturday, we’d get off before midnight to not make the train driver work on the Lord’s Day.” These mental habits linger: “Christian thinking is like the vessel into which I’ve been poured,” she explains. “Now, I try to analyze everything from first principles, but there are no first principles. In my writing, I’m perpetually circling around themes of grace and redemption…”
Her works are broadly autobiographical but delve into what she terms her “split consciousness” between faith and doubt, certainty and freedom, leading her to leave the church at 27 and pursue her passion for storytelling, which began in childhood making up tales for her four older sisters.
Throughout lunch, she vividly evokes her younger self as words and stories flow effortlessly. A friend once remarked that she spoke in semi-colons, a sentiment that quickly feels accurate during our time together. Her articulate speech stems from memorizing large portions of the King James Bible early on. Our conversation, akin to her fiction, takes unexpected turns, moving from bento box discussions to her adoration of Alan Gordon Partridge, and then onto theoretical physics’ connection “to experiences of the sublime and the ecstatic and the ghostly.” “There’s nothing ordinary about this room,” she gestures to the restaurant’s minimalist decor, “if you stop to consider what particles are doing.”
This intriguing blend of her conversational rhythm with esoteric topics reflects her duality. She proudly embraces her Essex roots and, in 2020, three years before becoming chancellor of Essex University, authored a vibrant critique of the stereotype of silly blondes from the county, presenting a compelling manifesto “for profane and opinionated women everywhere.”
The same duality permeates her novels, merging the mundane with the otherworldly. Her latest, Enlightenment, centers on a repressed gay man’s late-life fascination with astronomy and a young woman in a Baptist congregation reminiscent of her past. Their interactions over decades intertwine with a Victorian mystery and a lens of quantum mechanics. She suggests that were she a man, her work might be classified as “magical realism,” while being a woman often slots them into the “fantasy” category, a labeling that undermines their depth. She launched Enlightenment — which critically examines the bounds of faith — in the grand gothic cathedral nearby, expressing dread at the thought of reading to just four people, only to find a packed audience instead. The book later earned a Booker prize longlisting.
“The thing about Norwich is you can’t cross the road without encountering a writer,” she notes. The day after her Booker nomination, she recalls feeling a bit dazed and decided to watch Deadpool & Wolverine at the cinema, where she unexpectedly ran into Ferdia Lennon, who had just won the Waterstone’s prize for Glorious Exploits. “Are you escaping here, too?” she asked, and they deliberately sat at opposite ends of the row, immersed in the superhero film.
Her reverence for astrophysics — a stand-in for religion — has roots in her upbringing. Along with being a Calvinist, her father was an avid amateur astronomer. “He grew up in slum conditions in south London,” she shares, “kicked out of school at 14. But he had a neighbor who gave him a vast book titled 1001 Pastimes for the Modern World, where he learned to make a telescope using a rolled-up magazine and old glasses lenses. Ever after, he nurtured a passion for the stars.”
Her father later studied physics and became a materials scientist, often sharing his knowledge of focal lengths and orbits with her, since she was the only child interested in those subjects. “He was formidable, and perhaps our relationship was easier because I engaged with his passions.”
This lasting love for astronomy is reflected in her life; she even has a tattoo of Halley’s comet over her heart. Interestingly, she bought a powerful telescope in February 2020, just before the world shut down, allowing her to observe the night skies, free from air traffic, which renewed her appreciation for celestial beauty. Consequently, Enlightenment turned increasingly into an ode to the stars.
For her, the overarching aspiration has always been, “to sit alone in a room and write sentences that resonate with those on the other side of the wall or in distant parts of the world.” This dream materialized. As chancellor at Essex, she has been outspoken against government ministers aiming to undermine the humanities in favor of solely job-oriented STEM subjects, showcasing how both fields can fuel creativity and innovation.
Throughout our lunch, she frequently expresses a deep-seated disdain for authority figures seeking to constrain that spirit, akin to the church elders of her youth. “Take publishing,” she remarks as we prepare to leave. “It tends to welcome working-class writers, but they’re often pigeonholed into writing gritty tales about overcoming hardship. In reality, authors like Hilary Mantel and Jeanette Winterson, despite their working-class origins, possess boundless imaginative freedom, just like those from upper classes.”
On a day when the government intends to impose a smoking ban in outdoor spaces, she quips about stepping outside for a smoke while I settle the bill.
Enlightenment is published by Jonathan Cape (£20). To support the Guardian and the Observer, you can purchase a copy at guardianbookshop.com. Delivery charges may apply.
