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Aug032013

Book Reviews by Noel Mawer, Randall Mawer and Warren Bull

Out of South Africa

By Noel Mawer

 

To those of us who have lived most of our lives in the twentieth century, the words “South Africa” invariably call up the specter of apartheid—just as the Confederate flag or the strains of “Dixie” call up segregation and even slavery. Apartheid, the South African version of segregation, lasted only forty-three years (1948-91), the result of a political culture dominated by the white 10 percent of the population--three quarters of whom were (are) Afrikaners (Boers), Dutch immigrants or their descendants. Only white citizens could vote, even before the advent of apartheid, which left unrepresented the 90 percent of the population classified as black, colored (mixed race), or Asian (mostly Indian).

Led by the African National Party, the Afrikaners were able to institute a complex and rigid form of segregation, separating the four groups from one another, which contained the seeds of its own destruction. When in mid-twentieth-century America segregation was challenged and then abolished, South Africa was on the way to the same fate. Interestingly, the U.S. was one of the countries that boycotted South Africa because of apartheid, at the same time as Americans were fighting their own battles over segregation. America additionally had (and still has) its regional divide dating from the centuries of slavery before the Civil War.

This bare outline of these two nations’ cultural travails cannot account for the differing literary response to segregation/apartheid in the two countries. To look at most of the best known, most esteemed writers of the American South during the period of segregation is to illuminate a stark contrast with comparable South African writers. William Faulkner, Robert Penn Warren, Tennessee Williams, Carson McCullers, Flannery O’Connor: put them up against Alan Paton, Nadine Gordimer, J.M. Coetzee, Athol Fugard--these are world figures in literature. (Two of them are Nobel laureates.) Paton and Gordimer especially attained international fame as the voice of the small minority of liberal whites (mostly of English ancestry) who were willing to write and speak about their country’s racial situation in spite of the threat of harsh penalties.

America’s most noted commentators on race, Ralph Ellison, James Baldwin, Richard Wright, Toni Morrison, Alice Walker--all are black Americans, living mostly in the North. The sole Southern white voice that I can think of, though not generally as highly esteemed as the writers on the previous list, is Lillian Smith.

Some of the most distinguished Southern writers of the period gathered at Vanderbilt University and called themselves the “Fugitive” or “Agrarian” poets, evoking the plantation past: Warren, Allen Tate, John Crowe Ransom. Of these writers, Lillian Smith writes in her 1949 Killers of the Dream: “No writers in literary history have failed their region so completely as they did.” A few years later, similar sentiments would emerge in Nadine Gordimer’s chastising of J.M. Coetzee for what she perceived as his insufficient attention to the country’s racial problems.

The first South African writer to achieve international fame with his portrayal of his country, Alan Paton, did not devote most of his life to writing. Rather, he was an educator and administrator in Africa’s juvenile prisons, where he strove to achieve humanitarian reforms. Paton (1903-88) published the first of his three novels, Cry, the Beloved Country, in 1948, just as Lillian Smith was excoriating the American South with her works, both fictional and non-fictional. (Her best-known novel, Strange Fruit, referring to lynching as in the Billie Holiday song—was published in 1944. In 1901, the Missourian Mark Twain published “The United States of Lyncherdom.” After Twain, most Southern writers seemed to have lost their nerve.)

Both Paton and the more recent Nadine Gordimer (born 1923) produced works that might be classified as in the Great Tradition, F.R. Leavis’ designation for the linear narrative and realism of Jane Austen, George Eliot, and Joseph Conrad. What made Paton’s work an international phenomenon was not the style but the subject matter. The title is suggestive: the book is a lament for Paton’s native land, torn and disfigured by brutal racism. This searing document, which portrays a black family’s disintegration at the hands of the dominant white culture, was written and published outside South Africa, and, though Paton returned to his home at the time of the legalization of apartheid, he later had his passport confiscated for a ten-year period. Other writers who portrayed their country unfavorably were sometimes imprisoned, sometimes forced into exile.

While the battle against apartheid and racism was central to Paton’s life and writing, he was able to transcend stereotypes in his novels. The dominant Boers were the force behind apartheid. Paton, as with many others among the remaining one quarter of the white population who were of English heritage, helped form the integrated Liberal Party to combat racism. The Afrikaners may have lost the Boer War to the English, but their very numbers assured them legal control and political hegemony.

The cultural divide exacerbated the conflict between the two groups of whites, leading to a general feeling among those of British heritage that the Boers were not only bigoted but also culturally deficient. However, like J.M. Coetzee a half century later, Paton refused to condescend to Afrikaans speakers, but rather to treat all his characters simply as human beings. This is a difficult task for these two writers, as Paton, in the European tradition, is creating real people in a real South Africa, while Coetzee is creating his own sometimes post-modern surrealist vision in which race is often irrelevant. In Paton’s realism, blacks may exploit their race, or try to save it, or be destroyed by the culture, and Boers can see the light and become friends to black citizens. The situation is perilous, but there is hope.

Nadine Gordimer, now in her ninetieth year, is even more in the European tradition. She is sometimes compared to another colonial English writer, the New Zealander Katherine Mansfield, particularly in her short stories. In her introduction to a 1976 collection of her stories from the previous quarter century, Gordimer describes her own development as a writer, using the stories as illustrations. Like Mansfield’s “The Garden Party,” many of Gordimer’s early stories recount the effect on a naïve and privileged young white woman of her first encounter with the “other”—the poor and/or the black from whom she has been sheltered.

Not only her own development but also that of her country is apparent in Gordimer’s stories. In the early story “Is There Nowhere Else We Can Meet” the young protagonist encounters a black youth traveling toward her on the same deserted path. The girl is warmly clad for the weather while “the native” is shabbily, inadequately dressed. The girl, not yet fully socialized to the world of black and white, is shocked when the youth grabs her purse and runs. The girl’s initial fear is followed by regret: she should have just given him her money rather than struggling with him. Her confusion is suggested by the story’s title. The girl wishes for a place where she and the young man would safely meet, but the absence of a “where” emphasizes the depth of the cultural, political, and economic divide of the nation.

“The Train from Rhodesia” continues the theme. Here two white newlyweds on their honeymoon stop at a train station where black Africans are offering trinkets for sale. When the young woman praises a carving offered by an old black man, the husband gets off the train to buy it for her. The young woman, who has been struck by the shabbiness of the old man, seems at first delighted with her new husband’s acquisition, but the young man boasts of his forcefulness in pushing down the price that the old man was asking. He obviously did not see what his wife had seen, and the wife is appalled at his insensitivity. The wife turns away from her husband, and we are left with the implication that something is irretrievably broken between them.

These stories from the 1950’s are followed later by more overtly political writings, culminating in the 1979 novel Burger’s Daughter, about a family whose father is in prison for his anti-apartheid activities. From the 1960’s, Gordimer writes of the collaboration of whites and blacks in the fight against racism. A story from that period, “The Smell of Death and Flowers,” shows another young woman not only becoming aware of the complexity of South African society but starting to take steps to participate in the process of change. Here the protagonist joins a racially integrated group which illegally visit’s a black township. Her initial misgivings give way to an almost euphoric sense of power and purpose. This transformative moment seems to portend a new life for the young woman. The threatened arrest of the protesters seals the young woman’s fate: she is now part of something very big and very important.

Nadine Gordimer received the Nobel Prize in 1991 (the same year in which apartheid was declared illegal). But other writers had taken up the fight. Athol Fugard (born 1933) wrote and staged dramas (The Blood Knot, Master Harold and the Boys) that featured not only racial themes but multi-racial casts. (The English-speaking Fugard, half Afrikaans, half British, cast himself in these dramas along with native blacks.) His international stature was assured when his plays were great successes in London and New York. Breaking with the traditionalism of Paton and Gordimer, Fugard casts his works in the mold of the then-fashionable Theater of the Absurd of Samuel Becket and Eugene Ionesco. He also harks back to Brecht, as in Boesman and Lena (1973), which portrays characters and a situation suggestive of Mother Courage and Her Children. Fugard’s protagonists, bound together by their misery, persevere in a hostile land where unnamed wars rage and they must move from place to place to survive. Fugard acknowledges the influence of Brecht, so the resemblance is no coincidence. The two characters in Fugard’s play are “coloreds” whom society has condemned to rootless poverty.

Fugard portrays oppressed people inevitably turning on one another as the only safe object of their anger and frustration. Boesman mercilessly abuses Lena, and her momentary rebellions subside into her only possible course: acceptance. So too in Fugard’s The Blood Knot (1963), two colored brothers, one virtually white, the other dark, live together in one room. Incessant race baiting leads to the same result as in the later play: the brothers are bound together in misery (consigned to lives of menial labor and poverty) by their “blood knot.” In Fugard’s world, as in that of Camus (an important influence as Fugard acknowledged), in spite of the essential meaninglessness of it all, one goes on. “Other men,” one of the characters says, “get by without a future.”

Fugard made his own future by producing many of his plays outside South Africa (when his passport was suspended). So, too, his wife Sheila Mering Fugard (born 1932), who acted in his theater company while pursuing her own literary career. Sheila Fugard, an immigrant from the UK, in 1983 published her best-known novel, Revolutionary Woman. The “revolution” is of course the protest against, and subversion of, apartheid. The novel concerns race relations not between white and black but between whites and Asian Indians. The profundity of the scourge of apartheid is shown by the legal segregation of these two groups of non-African immigrants.

What seems at first another specimen of traditional realism, becomes, as the story progresses, a sort of fantasy on the theme of cultural revolution. As the narrator attempts to educate a young Indian man, her Boer neighbors become more and more insistent in their demands that she play by the rules and shun the “others.” The protagonist models her revolutionary behavior on that of Gandhi, who once lived in South Africa.

Gandhi, strident Boers, and Indians all come together in an almost surreal conclusion—not a happy ending but a hopeful one. This foray into the surreal is of a piece with other works being produced by South African writers, as the country is imploding under the crushing weight of an apartheid that has made the nation an international pariah.

But, of course, the battle is not yet over, and a writer who seems to think it is—as evidenced by his writing about other things--is still subject to censure. I have mentioned Nadine Gordimer’s criticizing J.M. Coetzee (a native English-speaker, but also a Boer), who was to follow Gordimer as South Africa’s second literary Nobelist in 2004. Unlike his literary predecessors, Coetzee has not only largely eschewed racial themes, but, spending most of his life outside South Africa, has finally taken out citizenship in Australia.

Coetzee collaborated with other Boer writers (Breyten Breytenbach, Andre Brink) registering his disapproval of apartheid. That he would do so--collaborate with Boers--indicates how far outside of the mainstream of South African writers he is. For most South African English speakers, Afrikaans is a second-class language used chiefly by the uneducated or culturally backward. As in other former English colonies, Nigeria and India, English is the language of education and literature. It was common for English speakers to make sport of Boer vocabulary and pronunciation, just as they disdain Boer politics.

Coetzee would have none of that. He has refused to join in the scorn shown toward Boers, just as he has steadfastly followed his own singular literary path. Whether or not he shares the Boer siege mentality is hard to say. His permanently abandoning his nation suggests that he may not have felt at home with any group, English or Afrikaans. Perhaps speaking against Boer politics while also being derided by the esteemed Nadine Gordimer has taken its toll, and he is, as his works reveal, a man of literature who has dedicated his life to his art.

Whatever the mind set of Coetzee, he isn’t saying. He not only has refused to join other English speakers in mocking the Boers, but is clearly in the European literary tradition, so much so that he has taken to rewriting such authors as Kafka, Dostoevsky, and DeFoe. Though born in 1940 and therefore having spent most of his life as a citizen of an apartheid-scarred nation, Coetzee often comes across as an apolitical aesthete, someone from another world than that of Paton, Gordimer, and Fugard. Coetzee’s highly-esteemed 1983 novel The Life and Times of Michael K, like Boesman and Lena, has both surreal touches and a mostly unidentified landscape, though it clearly takes place in South Africa. (It has the place names and perpetual conflict of that country.) And though Michael’s taking up residence in a “location” would identify him as “colored,” Coetzee never explicitly names his protagonist’s race nor does race seem to be Michael’s biggest problem. The novel was published not long after Fugard’s plays achieved international fame and Gordimer had published Burger’s Daughter. Critics both in South Africa and abroad sensed Coetzee’s seeming lack of concern with race, or with creating a realistic portrait of his country.

Nadine Gordimer is so unwilling to accept Coetzee’s creations that she invents a “colored” name for “K.” However, to me the name “K” (and it remains “K” throughout the novel) suggests those other great “K‘s” of literature, the protagonists in Kafka’s The Trial and The Castle. Whether or not Coetzee is evading the duty of the artist as interpreted by Gordimer, he is producing what is recognizably art. His “K” is his rewriting of Kafka--what Kafka’s K would experience in contemporary South Africa. Michael K would never be identified with Coetzee (as Kafka’s K is with Kafka). Michael is somewhat mentally impaired and most certainly deformed by a cleft palate.

What Gordimer calls the “revolutionary gesture” is a principle she denies to her countryman, Coetzee. However, she strangely alters her perception when discussing Samuel Beckett, an Irishman writing in the time of Ireland’s “troubles.” You would never guess Beckett’s background from Waiting for Godot, or the fact that he, like Coetzee, spent most of his life outside his native land. But Gordimer gives Beckett a pass. “Beckett,” she has written, “has chosen to be answerable to the twentieth century condition, which has its camp everywhere and nowhere.” No doubt Beckett’s being Irish rather than South African is one factor here, but it seems rather hard on Coetzee not to be allowed to focus on the human condition without being taken to task by his distinguished countrywoman.

Michael K is no more a real person living in a real world than is Kafka’s K. Coetzee’s world, like Kafka’s, is the world seen through dreams and phantasms, where paranoia and alienation are ubiquitous. Coetzee’s landscape begins where Boesman and Lena began, then becomes increasingly bizarre and threatening. (In Foe we will see Coetzee go to a place that is finally sheer hallucination.)

Michael K’s world is not only threatening and bizarre; it is also beset by endless war, which seems to permeate every facet of life, determining much of the action. Michael K’s behavior, beginning with his acquiescence to his mother’s wish to go to her home town, through innumerable encounters with soldiers and other hostile figures. The journey ends only when Michael goes (literally) underground and starves himself.

Coetzee’s 1986 Foe is named for Daniel DeFoe, who thought, erroneously, to make himself respectable by tarting up the Foe with a “De.” “Cruso” and Friday are joined after many years on their island by a shipwrecked woman who has earned her passage to the island by becoming the captain’s mistress. Though not named “Moll Flanders,” she is recognizably in that mold, and like Moll becomes the narrator of the story. The only allusion to race in Coetzee’s novel is black Friday, who, unlike in DeFoe’s novel, remains mute no matter what is done to him.

Coetzee portrays Cruso as a rigid, unimaginative sort who could never have survived on the island. But he does survive only to be killed off aboard a ship that has rescued the castaways. The Moll character, Susan Barton, sails on (with Friday) to London, where she seeks out the famous Foe with the intent of having him write her and Cruso’s story. Friday behaves as if he were Michael K—uncomprehending. Foe, the character, as profligate and mercurial as the actual DeFoe, eventually moves in with Susan, and they proceed to hold long conversations on the nature of art, particularly fiction.

At the same time, Susan sees (or hallucinates) either her younger self or her lost daughter haunting the halls of DeFoe’s home. The final scenes show Susan returning to the ship that originally stranded her on the island, eventually finding her own bloated, dead self and Friday’s living self. As she had been doing for years, she tries to teach Friday to speak, but nothing emerges from his mouth except a stream of sounds echoing the sound of the island. Susan perceives this as Friday’s home, the hull of the sunken ship, the realm where no language exists. Finally, a “stream” pours from Friday’s mouth on its way to encompassing the whole world.

This is the kind of thing that seems to cry for interpretation. Is it symbolism? Allegory? The mute black man, his tongue cut out by a brutal master, swallows up the world, language, and all other people.

In 1994, Coetzee published The Master of Petersburg, an imagining of Dostoevsky’s trip to St. Petersburg to find the cause of his beloved stepson Pavel’s death. As one might guess, the dead stepson is as enigmatic as Friday or Michael K. (Dostoevsky communes with his spirit.) Everyone who knew Pavel has a theory about his death. Coetzee’s novel is full of characters and scenes which could be called “Dostoevskyan.” But once again, at the heart of the matter, is silence, or at least the absence of language. Coetzee again goes where no writer can go. The character Dostoevsky sees this disintegration in himself: “If he were to look in a mirror he would not be surprised if another face were to loom up, staring back at him.” It is hard not to read Coetzee the novelist in Dostoevsky’s bitter cry questioning his own life and seeing only the writing of “fictions for which he had to give up his soul.”

As the years pass, Coetzee seems more and more detached from life and conflicted about life’s relationship to art, of truth to fiction.

As devastating as was the collapse of the Soviet Union for eastern Europe, the fall of apartheid in 1991 was to South Africa. Everything in society changes, not least the South Africans’ view of themselves. And with the change in writers’ views of their country comes a work such as Achmat Dangor’s 1997 novel Kafka’s Curse, a chronicle of the Indian community after apartheid, a time when one could freely mix with South Africans of other races. The Indian family at the center of the story is immersed in their personal lives; Dangor barely acknowledges the chaos the country is experiencing. Kafka’s Curse, with its focus on domesticity as well as its touches of magic realism, suggests the changing course of South African literature.

The world Dangor portrays is barely recognizable as that of Paton and Gordimer. The “curse” in the novel is that which in an ancient tale is visited upon a gardener who falls in love with a princess. For his transgression he is turned into a tree, as is one of Dangor’s characters. The tree endures, but the new world goes on around it. I won’t hazard even a guess about whether this is symbolic or not. But we see a parallel to the movement of other English-speaking émigrés: from V.S. Naipaul’s all-encompassing world to Zadie Smith’s focus on the family and its fortunes.

South Africa in the twentieth century produced literature that both mirrored and defined its political travails. Obviously the last word has not been written; perhaps it never can be.

 

 Teardown: Memoir of a Vanishing City (by Gordon Young, U. of California Press, 2013)

 By Randall Mawer

 

Aside from having one of the great titles ever, this “memoir” is unusual in several ways. The “city” is Flint, Michigan, the manufacturing town which became the nation’s signature slum when its industrial base, General Motors, walked away; factories became ruins and denuded fields in a matter of mere months before the prosperous, “mixed” neighborhoods around them became checkerboards of the title’s empty houses, erstwhile homes of the unionized “shop-rats” and the small-business owners who served them. These homes were quickly “scrapped” by scavengers stripping away plumbing and wiring. Schools (public and Catholic) closed or shrank. Public and quasi-public social programs likewise vanished. (The recent bankruptcy claim of nearby Detroit reminds us again of Flint’s disaster.)

The vocabulary of the modern city—crime, guns, race, drugs—took over, leaving behind the relatively few home owners who maintained their lawns, talked to their few left-over neighbors, and fought hard for the support of politicians, social workers, and clergy who would listen to them.

Gordon Young is a journalist-turned-academic who grew up in Flint and looks back on his youth-in-prosperity as an ideal time. Struggling to live something like a social life in ultra-modern San Francisco, he wonders whether one of the dirt-cheap shells now on sale in Flint might be bought and more or less self-saved, while his free-lance journalism maintains the operation. He goes “home” (repeatedly) to find out.

The style of Teardown is Rolling-Stone-style journalism, relatively informal, strongly first person, loosely organized. But there is modern history, too, and wide-ranging inquiry into economics and (especially) politics. The strongest narrative interest, though, springs from Gordon’s contacts with Flintites old and new, people doing what he is contemplating. They are attractive, enthusiastic, clearly willing to help Gordon with his project. The heart of the writer’s ambition is not the hypothetical house, effective symbol of the whole--the city, the citizenry--though it may be. This rather is the friendships of the house-holders, who provide one another expertise, save one another cash, and embody the genuine citizenship represented by loyalty to one’s block, one’s lawn, one’s “residence” in the largest sense of the word. The small, locally owned coffee shop, market, and bar are thus extensions of the homes, and the lack of waste ground between them shows quite literally how such residences fuse into real community.

 

Limitations by Scott Turow

Reviewed by Warren Bull

 

Review ratings of Scott Turow’s Limitations on Amazon approximate a bell curve, i.e. they vary tremendously with most falling close to the middle. In some ways this is an unusual book for the author.  The book is relatively short. It started as a magazine article.  Some reviewers obviously wanted more.  On the other hand a number of Turow’s characters who are protagonists in longer novels, appear in “cameo roles,” which gave the reader a look at the characters as seen by others.  I also thought the book was well-written and offered a look at the legal system from the point-of-view of a practicing attorney.

George Murphy, a fifty-nine year old former criminal defense attorney is now an appellate court judge charged with reviewing lower court decisions.  The current case under review involves the conviction of four white men who, while they were in high school, raped a then fifteen–year-old black adolescent and videotaped the assault.  Years later someone saw the tape and told the police about it.  The men were convicted. They are out on bond while the appeal is considered.

One of the three judges reviewing the case wants to consider information not brought out at trial (which is unusual but possible) to support the conviction. Another judge wants to overturn the decision because the statute of limitations passed before the trial began and the tape should not have been admitted as evidence.  Murphy feels guilty about a sexual indiscretion he committed during his college years and wonders if his behavior was any different from that of the convicted men.

Other stresses in Murphy’s life include his wife being treated for cancer and him receiving  a series of anonymous threatening messages, possibly from the leader of a street gang whose conviction Murphy upheld.

Turow provides an inside look at the appellant court and relationships between judges and their staff.  Readers are presented with the task of interpreting a complex legal situation when laws are unclear.  They are offered the opportunity to think about how they would decide the fate of the accused.  I am a fan of Scott Turow and I recommend this novel. 

 

 

 

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