Tuesday, April 03, 2012

Writing about writing about writing

Summertime

By JM Coetzee

Publisher: Harvill Secker
Pages: 266
Price: Rs 1100

'Summertime' is the latest work of South African novelist and literary critic John Maxwell Coetzee, winner of the Nobel Prize for Literature in 2003. It is the third of a series of memoirs following 'Boyhood' and 'Youth', and focuses on Coetzee's life in the years 1972-1977 when he returned to South Africa after receiving his PhD from the US -- and was finding his feet as a writer.

Reading Summertime is more like meditation than entertainment. Coetzee's writing is always intensely personal. He writes with a heightened self-awareness about what he knows and his fiction is usually autobiographical. In the case of this particular book, his autobiography is fictionalised and he confesses to having made up dialogues and incidents to better illustrate what really matters -- the emotions and the impressions left behind.

Coetzee 'fictioneers' his book by writing in the words of a young biographer (Vincent) researching a book he plans to write on the late, Nobel Prize winning writer JM Coetzee. His research is made up of interviews from people referred to in JM Coetzee's notes and the notes themselves. The list of interviewees -- a couple of former mistresses, a cousin, a colleague and a love interest who spurned him -- is rather narrowed down by the fact that along with the author, most of the people close to him are also deceased. What they can offer about the subject is limited. They all seem confused about why anyone would want to write about JM Coetzee who, it turns out, was an unremarkable man with no special sensitivity, "no original insight into the human condition" that one would expect from a famous writer.

The author goes off on many tangents on the lives and stories of the interviewees which serve to highlight the context and how a man exists as a chapter, a paragraph or a sentence in the lives of so many people he interacts with over a lifetime. The asymmetry of the relationships is also interesting -- someone the great writer idolised and even based a character of his book on merely thought him a brief distraction from a distressed marriage. Another with whom he had a much longer relationship was surprised and hurt that she did not feature at all in any of his books.

Coming from the deeply fractured society that is South Africa, Coetzee's writing always features an oppressive cloud of colonialism and apartheid. He isn't political though and this oppressive cloud is always in the backdrop. He feels he was "reluctant to invest too deeply in the country, since sooner or later our ties to it would have to be cut…" He blames the macho Afrikaner culture for stunting him emotionally. This comes out especially strongly in his description of his relationship with his father.

For all the criticism of Afrikaner culture, Coetzee strongly identifies with it. To quote his friend, "he felt there was no way in which he could separate himself off from the Afrikaners while retaining his self-respect, even if that meant being associated with all that the Afrikaners were responsible for, politically."

Through killing himself in the book and his tongue-in-cheek presentation of himself as a writer, Coetzee has taken the chance to review his own body of work that won him the Nobel Prize for Literature in 2003 and give his own pronouncement on his writing career. He describes his former mistress describing him as "asexual" and "barely a man" while suggesting the early loss of his mother as the reason. This is his impression of himself and his writing style -- detached and does not evoke strong emotions. His prose is simple and elegant and a welcome relief from the flowery, overindulgent metaphors and similes that have begun to proliferate in writing nowadays.

Coetzee's concluding opinion on his writings (or his fictionalised opinion) is: "In general I would say that his work lacks ambition… Nowhere do you get the feeling of a writer deforming his medium in order to say what has never been said before, which is to me the mark of great writing. Too cool, too neat, too easy. Too lacking in passion."

He believes he lacks the courage to commit himself wholly to his writing and holds back a little. This is also possibly the reason he spends his life as a teacher, seeking refuge in academia even though he believes he was an unexceptional teacher with not much of a following amongst his students.

The book being what it is -- a biography of a writer and a commentary of his writing -- one needs to be familiar with his work to really get the most out of it. Those looking to sample him for the first time would be better off saving 'Summertime' for later and starting from the beginning with his two Booker Prize winning books 'The Life and Times of Michael K' and 'Disgrace'.

http://jang.com.pk/thenews/may2010-weekly/nos-23-05-2010/lit.htm#1

Tuesday, February 21, 2012

Why I stopped writing

Not your best work,
but it'll do well
critically
so artificial

creativity sells, be creative
be weird, weird is creative
disturb people, disturb is creative
be 'yourself'

use shocking imagery
four-letter words are golden
look at things differently
even if things don't look so different

say something that makes sense
camouflage in nonsense
nest in bullshit
who DARES tell them apart?

kill symmetry
make straight lines crooked
straight lines aren't 'spontaneous'
even when they are

revel in misery
wallow in self pity
introspect deeper than you are
a happy man never makes a good artist

my creativity
makes me
hate
myself

Monday, December 08, 2008

The bark of the trees; how touching the tree trunk gives me a sense
of well-being, of security
I try and picture the tree's roots spreading
into the ground - the source of all life
Freshly dug up loam; minerals, decomposed plants and animals, maybe even some people
The crunching of twigs and dry leaves underfoot
The crispness of the frosty winter air that hits me like a splash of water
I can feel the shape of my lungs as I inhale
The gust, like an invisible animal that runs up and down the path
Visibility - a DVD quality, high-definition world with Surround Sound(tm)
The rustle in the undergrowth; there are a thousand kinds of birds, insects and animals around at any given moment
but you don't notice
until you stop and make an effort to be aware of them
The smell of pine
The gnarled up dead tree with branches like claws
scary at night, but almost comical in the daylight - a bitter old man
Back from the forest, amongst people I do not know and who do not know
me, is when I am really alone

Friday, November 07, 2008

INSEAD

The chicken is tough to swallow
It feels like barbed wire
in my throat and burns its way
into my stomach
I wake up the next morning
it's still there
an indigestible lump
and the next morning
all the way into next week
and today

Sunday, October 12, 2008

The Doors of perception

If the doors of perception were cleansed everything would
appear to man as it is, infinite.

For man has closed himself up, til he sees all things thro' narrow thinks of his cavern.
William Blake

I said to my soul, be still, and wait without hope,
For hope would be hope for the wrong thing: wait without love
for love would be love of the wrong thing; there is yet faith
But the faith and the love and the hope are all in the waiting.
T.S. Eliot

Thursday, August 07, 2008

Peter and Jane

peter and jane
drive me insane
sweet, gorgeous jane
shamsulhaq's bane

peter and jane
are at play
peter kicks the ball
jane's dress makes my day

peter runs to mother
mother, i am hungry
mother gives peter a sandwich
mother gives jane a sandwich

peter and jane
are at the beach
see peter build a sand castle
see jane wear an attractive swimsuit

peter and jane are tired
peter and jane go home
i hate peter
i looooove jane

peter loves dog
peter has affair with dog
please peter, run away with dog
leave me to my jane

Shakespeare's Julius Caesar

Blood and destruction shall be so in use,
And dreadful objects so familiar,
That mothers shall but smile when they behold
Their infants quartered with the hands of war,
All pity choked with custom of fell deeds.

Grass by Carl Sandburg

Pile the bodies high at Austerlitz and Waterloo
Shovel them under and let me work -
I am the grass I cover all.
And pile them high at Gettysburg
And pile them hight at Ypres and Verdun.
Shovel them under and let me work.
Two years, ten years, and passengers ask the conductor:
What place is this?
Where are we now?

I am the grass,
Let me work.

Another one

This one is from Dezful poet Ghaysar Amin Pour during the Iraq-Iran war (1980-88):

I wanted to write a war poem
But I knew it wasn't possible.
I would have to put down my cold pen
And use a sharper weapon.
War poems should be written with the barrels of a gun,
Words turned into bullets...
Here it is always red alert,
The siren never ends its moaning
Over corpses that didn't finish their night's sleep,
Where bat-like jets which hate the light
Bomb the cracks in our blind blackout curtains...
We can't even trust the stars in case they're spies,
We wouldn't be surprised if the moon blows up...

Poem on war

This is an excerpt of the translation of a Persian poem on war by Ali Babchohi:

Hey, look over there!
I can see him with my own blind eyes
Do you see him?
It's old Shir Mohamed from the coast at Nakhlestan
With the glint of the sun on his musket.
...I saw him with my own blind eyes.
And old Shir Mohamed said to me:
'I came to plant my rifle
Instead of wheat and barley
Across my land of dates.'

Wednesday, August 06, 2008

Biodegradable Love

love was strong
it conquered all
but time and the elements
took their toll
love was...it turned out to be
biodegradable

love was in the air
but it oxidized, rusted with despair
we stumbled towards things
that weren't really there
love was...it turned out to be
biodegradable

chorus:

biodegradable love
it lasted long, but not forever
biodegradable love
exposed to doubt and nasty weather
biodegradable love
left out in the rain, hung out to dry

Guitar solo

anaerobic bacteria!
the aerobic ones too!
feasted on our love!
they feasted on our...

chorus:

biodegradable love
it lasted long, but not forever
biodegradable love
exposed to doubt and nasty weather
biodegradable love
left out in the rain, hung out to dry

4 years later

My hair's grayed prematurely
My weight is too much for my legs to carry
I am less loved than I used to be
I lie far more convincingly