Reviewing this book is really just an excuse for me to talk about South Africa. To be more specific, it’s an excuse for me talk about why I write so much about South Africa. First, the book. Then, me. That’s fair, right?
I liked it!
Okay, me.
No, really. Here’s the thing: the topics are kinda inseparable. What I liked about Norman Rush is why I write about South Africa.
Norman Rush, from my minute research (Wikipedia) is an American author who lived in Botswana from 1978 until 1983, which is just north of South Africa. I spent a modicum of time in South Africa (very modicum—I admit this now, lest my expat friends balk), just after Apartheid ended—when Nelson Mandela was president. His fiction is set in Africa, and it’s preoccupied mostly with whites (Whites?)—Expatriates—in Africa.
So, yeah, I read it with bated breath. Part of me does wonder what it would be like to read these stories without having experienced the expat-in-Africa thing. Would they still be compelling? I can’t say, honestly. I didn’t find the prose particularly lush or hypnotizing, but I did find his stories gut-wrenching in the final analysis. In “Near Pala,” his Whites—for that’s what these stories are about, Whites in Africa—find themselves on a road trip in which they’re confronted with Africans nearly dying, literally, for water. Their response—this fleeting moment—is the magic of story, the breathtaking climax, the raison d’ être for writing about Southern Africa. Will they give them water or not?
Norman Rush treats his characters with dignity. He is honest, though. And I appreciated that. The stories are authentic—a writing virtue I especially treasure—and tragic too. I think he captures something true. Many people want to do good for Africa, but the desire is tamed by mind-boggling realities. Inspiration wanes. Resignation sets in. And there’s pride as well—pride in knowing how things really are in Africa. There’s White Nobility. There’s White Inspiration. There’s White Resignation. And there’s White Pride. Am I being overly-simplistic? Probably. But that’s what I like about Norman Rush: he captures the complex whole of the White Man or White Woman in Africa.
I write—or wrote (I think I’m done)—about South Africa because, in this amazing way, so many crazy things are brought together. Try to list your basic polar opposites: good and evil, beauty and ugliness, life and death, black and white, fertile and barren. Then, consider this: The landscape is spectacular. The politics can be gruesome. There’s someone like Desmond Tutu on one end of the spectrum. On another, behavior rivaling Nazism! Christianity has roots there in all kinds of complex ways—with strong Reformed and Calvinist branches, and new-agey mystical cultish veins. But, then, despite the Protestant influence, we’re still talking sangomas, witch doctors, Conrad’s Heart o’ Darkness. (This isn’t even mentioning Muslims who Rush doesn’t mention, and neither did I encounter.) South Africa, at least, was this eddy, this whirlpool, for political, spiritual, geographical, cultural, and philosophical conundrums. (I can’t really say how it is today.) One could climb a mountain capped in rolling clouds and squat in a house made of tin can on the same day. The world there backs the idealistic American against the wall and asks, “Who do you really think you are?”
I don’t want to digress into pure silliness, but I think my own fascination with the Wikileak fiasco has its roots in my interest in Africa. There, too, is a question about good intentions, and what happens in the face of reality. Of course, I have no clue about the intentions of, say, Julian Assange—but I like to fictionalize them. In my imagination, the intentions were noble. End subterfuge, the artifice of diplomacy, the scourge of nationalistic violence. But, well, what about the reality of national sovereignty, of endangering lives? Can idealism survive? When does the ego get in the way? Can ego not get in the way?
Is it like the Whites, who work in the foreign service, who are diplomats, who are philanthropists—who suffer from a measure of pride, who can’t help it because, well, they know how things really are? Am I being harsh?
Allow me to share one of Norman Rush’s weighty jokes. In “Official Americans,” a foreign service official with insomnia thinks up a goofy scenario in which he suggests—with tongue-in-cheek—to the Agency for International Development that the poor should no longer be referred to as poor. Rather, they should be referred to as the pre-rich.
Do you feel the weightiness of this joke?
And, as it should happen, I write—or wrote—a lot of stories set in South Africa. About Whites. They’ll appear in my collection. Let me name them, just for fun: “Advent,” “Free Dive,” “Goodbye, Madagascar,” “Nipples Beads Mealie Pap,” and “Lemon.” I write—or wrote—about South Africa because I aspired to capture the weightiness. Whether or not I succeeded is another story.
Yes, I’m done. I’m pretty sure, anyway. The final South Africa story is set to appear in mid-April 2011 (in Fringe Magazine on-line). It’s called “The Moon Thought Thy World An Angel,” and it’s not slated to appear in my forthcoming book. I do think it will be a chapter, however, in the novel on which I’m currently working. I love it (is that wrong to say?) for those Rush-like aspects: the captured complexities and contradictions. Alas, though, I’m moving on. I’m grateful to have stumbled over that terrain.
And I think Norman Rush offers a riveting picture of the terrain, that vortex of human complexity, at once stunning and at once hideous.