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Scenes from Provincial Life #2
Juventud
En esta evocación en forma de memorias, y continuación de Infancia, J. M. Coetzee revisita su juventud, periodo fundamental de aprendizaje para el autor y narrador de la historia, un estudiante de matemáticas e inglés que quiere ser escritor. Para conseguirlo, se traslada desde Ciudad del Cabo hasta la capital inglesa, huyendo de la situación claustrofóbica y compleja que atraviesa su país y de una serie de circunstancias personales conflictivas. En esta búsqueda de sí mismo, el joven protagonista aparece como un individuo atormentado e inseguro, aterrorizado ante la imposibilidad de encontrar una voz narrativa que dé salida a sus aspiraciones creativas.
208 pages, Mass Market Paperback
First published January 1, 2002
About the author
J.M. Coetzee
186 books5,393 followersJ. M. Coetzee is a South African writer, essayist, and translator, widely regarded as one of the most influential authors of contemporary literature. His works, often characterized by their austere prose and profound moral and philosophical depth, explore themes of colonialism, identity, power, and human suffering. Born and raised in South Africa, he later became an Australian citizen and has lived in Adelaide since 2002.
Coetzee’s breakthrough novel, Waiting for the Barbarians (1980), established him as a major literary voice, while Life & Times of Michael K (1983) won him the first of his two Booker Prizes. His best-known work, Disgrace (1999), a stark and unsettling examination of post-apartheid South Africa, secured his second Booker Prize, making him the first author to win the award twice. His other notable novels include Foe, Age of Iron, The Master of Petersburg, Elizabeth Costello, and The Childhood of Jesus, many of which incorporate allegorical and metafictional elements.
Beyond fiction, Coetzee has written numerous essays and literary critiques, contributing significantly to discussions on literature, ethics, and history. His autobiographical trilogy—Boyhood, Youth, and Summertime—blends memoir with fiction, offering a fragmented yet insightful reflection on his own life. His literary achievements were recognized with the Nobel Prize in Literature in 2003.
A deeply private individual, Coetzee avoids public life and rarely gives interviews, preferring to let his work speak for itself.
Coetzee’s breakthrough novel, Waiting for the Barbarians (1980), established him as a major literary voice, while Life & Times of Michael K (1983) won him the first of his two Booker Prizes. His best-known work, Disgrace (1999), a stark and unsettling examination of post-apartheid South Africa, secured his second Booker Prize, making him the first author to win the award twice. His other notable novels include Foe, Age of Iron, The Master of Petersburg, Elizabeth Costello, and The Childhood of Jesus, many of which incorporate allegorical and metafictional elements.
Beyond fiction, Coetzee has written numerous essays and literary critiques, contributing significantly to discussions on literature, ethics, and history. His autobiographical trilogy—Boyhood, Youth, and Summertime—blends memoir with fiction, offering a fragmented yet insightful reflection on his own life. His literary achievements were recognized with the Nobel Prize in Literature in 2003.
A deeply private individual, Coetzee avoids public life and rarely gives interviews, preferring to let his work speak for itself.
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April 5, 2026
*edited on 28.04.19
Normal people, when they feel badness flare up within them, drink, swear, commit violence. Badness to them like a fever: they want it out of their system, they want to go back to being normal. But artists have to live with their fever, whatever its nature, good or bad. The fever is what makes them artists; the fever must be kept alive. That is why artists can never be wholly present to the world: one eye has always to be turned inward
Is darkness quintessential for a writer to be great? For misery and darkness provide food to the part of consciousness where creative muscles flex them. Is misery necessary to wrench heart of an author so much so that he feels as if insanity takes over him and to get rid of the insanity he needs to express himself and that’s how literature takes birth, one express oneself to get rid of insanity in life. The naïve words must pass through furnace of personal tragedy wherein there are processed to form condensed sentences which are potent to enough to express what the author has to say to his readers. Are all these pretensions, under the sheath of which an abominable, misogynist young man conceals his pompousness? Does an author want to say anything to his reader? Perhaps not. For he is just expressing the turmoil he feels in consciousness, though he may choose different ways to do it- sometimes words are simply used to render the tumult and turbulence he might be going through while sometimes words are deftly used to concoct an escapade which may indirectly covey his thoughts. And that’s how new art movements have taken birth in the realm of literature. Do words exist on their own- their being represents an authentic existence and do not require reference- without the authors? Structuralists might say they do but then post-structuralists might come upon fiercely and repudiate it. Youth is perhaps one of the most important phases of life- for it marks one’s outbreak to the world. The exuberance of youth makes you feel that there is no such thing in life which is not possible; you may conquer the whole world as if you’ve dawned on earth for it.
Misery is his element. He is at home in misery like a fish in water. If misery were to be abolished, he would not know what to do with himself.
There exist a few authors who have masterly fused their personal experiences with elements of fiction to bring up great creations of art built upon tightly woven narrative- Coetzee is one of them. The book has got all traits and logic of fiction - Coetzee creates a believable world and allows autonomous creations to move freely in it. In fact, Youth is less a work of imagination than a stylized memoir, in which Coetzee revisits the humiliation and struggle of his early years as a restless student in London.
John, a young man with lofty literary aspirations through a mathematics degree, a move from a politically unstable South Africa to London where he works towards a Masters degree in literature and begins work as a computer programmer. It is torturous tale which is hallmark of youth- the desire for glory, for greatness, for artistic achievement and admiration without the tedious work of application; as we see normally happens- aspirations of people are built on shallow buildings of disregard, inaction and passivity which is shredded to ruin of wishful cravings as soon as quivering of reality struck.
Coetzee picks up John and the story moves on in third person narrative in present tense which gives it somewhat surreal touch. The reader is being taken up into dark recesses of consciousness which constitutes our hero or rather anti-hero- John; wherein the reader is thrown into the abominable soup of disregard, misogyny, self-obsession, prejudice, out of which a sharp mirror, which tears apart imaginary artistic tarpaulin of John by profound beams of truth, emerges for him to reflect upon his guilt and shame. He has several lovers- or should we say infatuations and he writes an awful lot of verse, scarcely any of which we ever see. Coetzee here maintains a measured distance from the reader in which everything is told and relayed through the thick filter of John’s thoughts. Almost all people, whom John meets, act just as objects for achievement of his poetic greatness, as if all those do not have voice of their own, their existence is endowed upon the mercy of John.
In a perfect world he would sleep only with perfect women, women of perfect femininity yet with a certain darkness at their core that will respond to his own darker self.
Coetzee’s greatness lies in the fact that under the calm veneer of anecdotal narrative of a self- absorbed young man he surreptitiously embark upon a tornedo of turmoil in the background of racism, civil war and guilt. There is the Sharpeville massacre in South Africa, protest marches, the Cold War, and the prelude to the Vietnam war. At one point, John even writes to the Chinese Embassy in London offering to teach English in China in an attempt to engage himself in something, which emanates a feeling from his heart to do something positive. Africa remains pretty much an unhealed wound in the consciousness of John throughout the story- he is being constantly torn between his cravings about money oriented west world and his inability to do something purposeful which gives birth to guilt and shame.
The pass laws to which Africans and Africans alone are subjected are being tightened even further, and protests are breaking out everywhere. In the Transvaal the police fire shots into a crowd, then, in their mad way, go on firing into backs of fleeing men, women and children.
He knows his mother’s opinions. She thinks South Africa is misunderstood by the world. Blacks in South Africa are better off than anywhere else in Africa. The strikes and protests are fomented by communist agitators. As for farm labourers who are paid their wages in the form of mealie-meal and have to dress their children in jute bags against the winter cold, his mother concedes that this is a disgrace. But such things happen only in Transvaal. It is the Afrikaners of the Transvaal, with their sullen hatreds and their hard hearts, who give the country such a bad name.
This is my very first encounter with Coetzee but sufficiently convinced me that he is a writer of deep intelligence which is built upon closely inter woven threads of symbolism and allegory. I find his prose somewhat similar to that of Kafka wherein his characters do not follow any moral standards and there is only thing they follow and this to exist, and perhaps in isolation. As if they are being thrown into this cruel world of purposelessness by the very first crime of the life and which is birth itelf. The prose of Coetzee reminds me of Beckett as his style is built upon concise, condensed sentences (which looks like a perfectly tuned musical note, for if you go slightly lower you may not enjoy it, if you go slightly higher it may sound coarse) formed out of concentrated meditation about the narrative, like minimalism of Beckett. We may say that Coetzee's student, is sustained by immortal longings but for whom truth and beauty are always tantalizingly elsewhere.
4/5
Normal people, when they feel badness flare up within them, drink, swear, commit violence. Badness to them like a fever: they want it out of their system, they want to go back to being normal. But artists have to live with their fever, whatever its nature, good or bad. The fever is what makes them artists; the fever must be kept alive. That is why artists can never be wholly present to the world: one eye has always to be turned inward
Is darkness quintessential for a writer to be great? For misery and darkness provide food to the part of consciousness where creative muscles flex them. Is misery necessary to wrench heart of an author so much so that he feels as if insanity takes over him and to get rid of the insanity he needs to express himself and that’s how literature takes birth, one express oneself to get rid of insanity in life. The naïve words must pass through furnace of personal tragedy wherein there are processed to form condensed sentences which are potent to enough to express what the author has to say to his readers. Are all these pretensions, under the sheath of which an abominable, misogynist young man conceals his pompousness? Does an author want to say anything to his reader? Perhaps not. For he is just expressing the turmoil he feels in consciousness, though he may choose different ways to do it- sometimes words are simply used to render the tumult and turbulence he might be going through while sometimes words are deftly used to concoct an escapade which may indirectly covey his thoughts. And that’s how new art movements have taken birth in the realm of literature. Do words exist on their own- their being represents an authentic existence and do not require reference- without the authors? Structuralists might say they do but then post-structuralists might come upon fiercely and repudiate it. Youth is perhaps one of the most important phases of life- for it marks one’s outbreak to the world. The exuberance of youth makes you feel that there is no such thing in life which is not possible; you may conquer the whole world as if you’ve dawned on earth for it.
Misery is his element. He is at home in misery like a fish in water. If misery were to be abolished, he would not know what to do with himself.
There exist a few authors who have masterly fused their personal experiences with elements of fiction to bring up great creations of art built upon tightly woven narrative- Coetzee is one of them. The book has got all traits and logic of fiction - Coetzee creates a believable world and allows autonomous creations to move freely in it. In fact, Youth is less a work of imagination than a stylized memoir, in which Coetzee revisits the humiliation and struggle of his early years as a restless student in London.
John, a young man with lofty literary aspirations through a mathematics degree, a move from a politically unstable South Africa to London where he works towards a Masters degree in literature and begins work as a computer programmer. It is torturous tale which is hallmark of youth- the desire for glory, for greatness, for artistic achievement and admiration without the tedious work of application; as we see normally happens- aspirations of people are built on shallow buildings of disregard, inaction and passivity which is shredded to ruin of wishful cravings as soon as quivering of reality struck.
Coetzee picks up John and the story moves on in third person narrative in present tense which gives it somewhat surreal touch. The reader is being taken up into dark recesses of consciousness which constitutes our hero or rather anti-hero- John; wherein the reader is thrown into the abominable soup of disregard, misogyny, self-obsession, prejudice, out of which a sharp mirror, which tears apart imaginary artistic tarpaulin of John by profound beams of truth, emerges for him to reflect upon his guilt and shame. He has several lovers- or should we say infatuations and he writes an awful lot of verse, scarcely any of which we ever see. Coetzee here maintains a measured distance from the reader in which everything is told and relayed through the thick filter of John’s thoughts. Almost all people, whom John meets, act just as objects for achievement of his poetic greatness, as if all those do not have voice of their own, their existence is endowed upon the mercy of John.
In a perfect world he would sleep only with perfect women, women of perfect femininity yet with a certain darkness at their core that will respond to his own darker self.
Coetzee’s greatness lies in the fact that under the calm veneer of anecdotal narrative of a self- absorbed young man he surreptitiously embark upon a tornedo of turmoil in the background of racism, civil war and guilt. There is the Sharpeville massacre in South Africa, protest marches, the Cold War, and the prelude to the Vietnam war. At one point, John even writes to the Chinese Embassy in London offering to teach English in China in an attempt to engage himself in something, which emanates a feeling from his heart to do something positive. Africa remains pretty much an unhealed wound in the consciousness of John throughout the story- he is being constantly torn between his cravings about money oriented west world and his inability to do something purposeful which gives birth to guilt and shame.
The pass laws to which Africans and Africans alone are subjected are being tightened even further, and protests are breaking out everywhere. In the Transvaal the police fire shots into a crowd, then, in their mad way, go on firing into backs of fleeing men, women and children.
He knows his mother’s opinions. She thinks South Africa is misunderstood by the world. Blacks in South Africa are better off than anywhere else in Africa. The strikes and protests are fomented by communist agitators. As for farm labourers who are paid their wages in the form of mealie-meal and have to dress their children in jute bags against the winter cold, his mother concedes that this is a disgrace. But such things happen only in Transvaal. It is the Afrikaners of the Transvaal, with their sullen hatreds and their hard hearts, who give the country such a bad name.
This is my very first encounter with Coetzee but sufficiently convinced me that he is a writer of deep intelligence which is built upon closely inter woven threads of symbolism and allegory. I find his prose somewhat similar to that of Kafka wherein his characters do not follow any moral standards and there is only thing they follow and this to exist, and perhaps in isolation. As if they are being thrown into this cruel world of purposelessness by the very first crime of the life and which is birth itelf. The prose of Coetzee reminds me of Beckett as his style is built upon concise, condensed sentences (which looks like a perfectly tuned musical note, for if you go slightly lower you may not enjoy it, if you go slightly higher it may sound coarse) formed out of concentrated meditation about the narrative, like minimalism of Beckett. We may say that Coetzee's student, is sustained by immortal longings but for whom truth and beauty are always tantalizingly elsewhere.
4/5
January 28, 2018
Ehum…
Well…
What can I say? This is the tenth novel (or so, I just made a quick calculation in my head) by Coetzee that I have read, and it leaves me puzzled in a way that the others do not, even though they may be less approachable, more brutal and enigmatic. This one is clear-cut, with simple language and a typical coming-of-age plot. It is very easy to read, and in fact, I finished it in an afternoon. But it has left me agonising over its content in a way I did not anticipate at all.
There are autobiographical elements in the story of the young man who leaves Cape Town in 1962 to start a new life in London. The character is called John, and aspires to become a poet, or writer in general, while trying to fit in by taking a job as a computer programmer. So far, so good. It is the search of the poet for the right modus vivendi to develop his creativity.
Where is the problem?
I absolutely loathed the main character. There is no other way to describe what I felt, page after page, digging deeper into his psyche filled with pretentious nothingness and arrogance. This makes me wonder what the character meant to the author. Does he reflect Coetzee’s own development? If so, there is a huge amount of prejudice and misogyny in his world view, almost painfully evident in every sentence. Or is it a critical analysis of the mindset of the early 1960s, showing the reality of that time ruthlessly in order to make a subtle statement on the era without embracing those attitudes in 2002, when the novel was published?
I don’t know.
Apart from the problematic relationship of 1960s South Africa to the rest of the world, I was appalled by the stereotypical description of women from Provence, London, small towns in England or Sweden.
“Spiritually, he would feel at home in Stockholm, he suspects. But what about Swedish?”
I hate when people assume by hearsay that they know exactly what Sweden is like, and what they can expect of it. There seems to be a consensus in the world how to categorise Swedes, and the general common denominator between the analysts is that they have never lived in Sweden or talked to a Swede, or read a Swedish author. Yet, they “spiritually” identify with Stockholm.
Swedish women, of course, are useful to young poets-in-the-making with patriarchal instincts and ancient attitudes towards women’s roles as muses and sexual objects:
“Because they are creators, artists possess the secret of love. The fire that burns in artists is visible to women, by means of an instinctive faculty. Women themselves do not have the sacred fire (there are exceptions: Sappho, Emily Bronte). It is in quest of the fire they lack, the fire of love, that women pursue artists and give themselves to them.”
Good artists can hope for Swedish or French muses, while boring poets have to take a local girl, a pert little something from the countryside…
Judging by the butcher approach of the main character when it comes to all encounters with women, he does not have the creative spark himself, despite his conviction to the contrary.
He is literally caught between two worlds: the respectable middle class and the bohemian artist life, and he is equally hopeless in both:
“The right thing is boring. So he is at an impasse: he would rather be bad than boring [note from the furious reviewer: he is BOTH!], has no respect for a person who would rather be bad than boring, and no respect either for the cleverness of being able to put his dilemma neatly into words.”
No respect for anything might be a good summary of the character’s mindset. The outside world only exists to deliver what he needs to fulfil his literary destiny. He offers nothing in return.
Leaves me to form a judgment on the novel. Clearly Mr Coetzee himself is spiritually at home in Stockholm, as he received the Nobel Prize in Literature from the Swedish Academy in 2003, shortly after he wrote this novel. Clearly he has a sharp analytical mind and is able to describe an abject character objectively without raising an eyebrow. The story as such is compelling, and most definitely a mirror of what many young men in 1962 would have thought or done.
It does take a master storyteller to create a portrait of such a man and get the reader to feel so strongly against him, and still want to read on.
I will have to reread my Coetzee collection again in order to make a proper evaluation of why I can’t make up my mind about this one.
The jury is still out. Not expected back anytime soon.
Well…
What can I say? This is the tenth novel (or so, I just made a quick calculation in my head) by Coetzee that I have read, and it leaves me puzzled in a way that the others do not, even though they may be less approachable, more brutal and enigmatic. This one is clear-cut, with simple language and a typical coming-of-age plot. It is very easy to read, and in fact, I finished it in an afternoon. But it has left me agonising over its content in a way I did not anticipate at all.
There are autobiographical elements in the story of the young man who leaves Cape Town in 1962 to start a new life in London. The character is called John, and aspires to become a poet, or writer in general, while trying to fit in by taking a job as a computer programmer. So far, so good. It is the search of the poet for the right modus vivendi to develop his creativity.
Where is the problem?
I absolutely loathed the main character. There is no other way to describe what I felt, page after page, digging deeper into his psyche filled with pretentious nothingness and arrogance. This makes me wonder what the character meant to the author. Does he reflect Coetzee’s own development? If so, there is a huge amount of prejudice and misogyny in his world view, almost painfully evident in every sentence. Or is it a critical analysis of the mindset of the early 1960s, showing the reality of that time ruthlessly in order to make a subtle statement on the era without embracing those attitudes in 2002, when the novel was published?
I don’t know.
Apart from the problematic relationship of 1960s South Africa to the rest of the world, I was appalled by the stereotypical description of women from Provence, London, small towns in England or Sweden.
“Spiritually, he would feel at home in Stockholm, he suspects. But what about Swedish?”
I hate when people assume by hearsay that they know exactly what Sweden is like, and what they can expect of it. There seems to be a consensus in the world how to categorise Swedes, and the general common denominator between the analysts is that they have never lived in Sweden or talked to a Swede, or read a Swedish author. Yet, they “spiritually” identify with Stockholm.
Swedish women, of course, are useful to young poets-in-the-making with patriarchal instincts and ancient attitudes towards women’s roles as muses and sexual objects:
“Because they are creators, artists possess the secret of love. The fire that burns in artists is visible to women, by means of an instinctive faculty. Women themselves do not have the sacred fire (there are exceptions: Sappho, Emily Bronte). It is in quest of the fire they lack, the fire of love, that women pursue artists and give themselves to them.”
Good artists can hope for Swedish or French muses, while boring poets have to take a local girl, a pert little something from the countryside…
Judging by the butcher approach of the main character when it comes to all encounters with women, he does not have the creative spark himself, despite his conviction to the contrary.
He is literally caught between two worlds: the respectable middle class and the bohemian artist life, and he is equally hopeless in both:
“The right thing is boring. So he is at an impasse: he would rather be bad than boring [note from the furious reviewer: he is BOTH!], has no respect for a person who would rather be bad than boring, and no respect either for the cleverness of being able to put his dilemma neatly into words.”
No respect for anything might be a good summary of the character’s mindset. The outside world only exists to deliver what he needs to fulfil his literary destiny. He offers nothing in return.
Leaves me to form a judgment on the novel. Clearly Mr Coetzee himself is spiritually at home in Stockholm, as he received the Nobel Prize in Literature from the Swedish Academy in 2003, shortly after he wrote this novel. Clearly he has a sharp analytical mind and is able to describe an abject character objectively without raising an eyebrow. The story as such is compelling, and most definitely a mirror of what many young men in 1962 would have thought or done.
It does take a master storyteller to create a portrait of such a man and get the reader to feel so strongly against him, and still want to read on.
I will have to reread my Coetzee collection again in order to make a proper evaluation of why I can’t make up my mind about this one.
The jury is still out. Not expected back anytime soon.
November 10, 2023
RITRATTO DELL’ARTISTA DA GIOVANE
Nel costante gioco di rimandi nel quale Coetzee trasforma la sua narrativa, talvolta spingendosi al confine della metaletteratura (penso per esempio a La vita degli animali), qui il protagonista si chiama John proprio come l’autore, e fa cose molto simili negli stessi posti e negli stessi anni in cui le ha fatte Coetzee.
Gioventù, che prosegue il racconto e la biografia di John iniziati con Infanzia, è una vera autobiografia nascosta dietro una finta biografia.
È un romanzo. Bello, molto bello come tutti quelli di J. M. Coetzee che ho letto (oltre al Nobel, due Booker Prize).
Piccadilly Circus 1963.
E quindi, dopo aver visto crescere John in Sudafrica nel primo capitolo (nel primo romanzo), potremmo definire questo nuovo capitolo (romanzo), il ritratto dell’artista da giovane.
John lascia il Sudafrica e va a cercare fortuna in Inghilterra, a Londra, dove la lingua parlata è la stessa con la quale lui è cresciuto.
John capisce presto che il Sudafrica è asfittico, almeno per le sue mire: gli serve l’Europa. E in fondo ogni uomo è un’isola; non c’è bisogno dei genitori.
Trafalgar Square e Northmberland Ave. 1962.
Solo che l’isola dove approda, è fredda e inospitale - l’eredità che si porta sulle spalle, il suo paese d’origine che ha scelto l’apartheid, che vive nel razzismo, gli suscita vergogna e imbarazzo, e forse anche gli inglesi lo guardano in modo strano proprio in quanto sudafricano - fare lo scrittore o il poeta come vorrebbe non è così semplice, bisognerebbe se non altro cominciare a scrivere veramente, a farlo sul serio, non solo a progettarlo e pensarlo, trastullarsi con l’idea.
John finisce a fare proprio quello che non voleva, quello che temeva: lavorare per una multinazionale dell’elettronica (programmatore di computer all’IBM).
John è un giovane che se la cava meglio con i test, quiz ed esami che con la vita vera. Forse proprio per questo s’è laureato in matematica.
Ma avendo problemi con la vita vera, è facile immaginare che sarà tendenzialmente un solitario, una persona schiva: e infatti non si può dire che gli anni londinesi allarghino il giro dei suoi affetti.
Conosce donne, ma non la donna eccezionale che sperava.
In effetti, non è che i suoi rapporti con le donne siano splendidi, quanto piuttosto sbrigativi: John è un amante mediocre che sembra non rendersi conto che la verginità è anche un fatto fisico, e costringe ad abortire una ragazza senza neppure chiederle se sia d’accordo.
Conosce gente, ma lega relativamente. In compenso Ezra Pound, la Bachmann, Brecht, Enzensberger, e il “Vangelo secondo Matteo” di Pasolini lo sconvolgono, e scaldano, e sostanzialmente gli fanno più compagnia di tutti quelli che conosce.
Whitehall 1962.
L’isola inglese è un’isola nel senso letterale del termine, molto poco accogliente:
Come può qualcuno in Inghilterra capire cosa porta le persone dagli angoli più remoti della terra a morire su un'isola umida e avvilente, che detestano e con la quale non hanno nessun legame?... Mese dopo mese, il governo dà un giro di vite alle leggi sull'immigrazione. Gli antillani vengono fermati sui moli di Liverpool, trattenuti finché non sono proprio disperati, quindi rispediti indietro. Se non lo fanno sentire così manifestamente indesiderato come loro, è solo per la sua colorazione protettiva: il completo giacca e pantaloni di Moss Brothers, la pelle chiara.
Trafalgar Square 1962.
Coetzee prende le distanze da John, usa la terza persona invece di un più immediato io narrante: si allontana dal suo personaggio, si guarda da fuori, anche se la vita del John sulla carta è assai simile a quella che ha vissuto il John che scrive (Coetzee ha effettivamente vissuto a Londra dal 1962 al 1965 facendo esattamente il programmatore, prima per l’IBM e poi l’ICT. Dopo di che credo si sia trasferito negli States). Da matematico, vero o finto che sia, Coetzee sceglie il suo tipico linguaggio secco, tagliato e tagliente, freddo, lucido, spietato, non risparmia nulla al suo John, né a se stesso.
Charing Cross Pier 1963.
Nel costante gioco di rimandi nel quale Coetzee trasforma la sua narrativa, talvolta spingendosi al confine della metaletteratura (penso per esempio a La vita degli animali), qui il protagonista si chiama John proprio come l’autore, e fa cose molto simili negli stessi posti e negli stessi anni in cui le ha fatte Coetzee.
Gioventù, che prosegue il racconto e la biografia di John iniziati con Infanzia, è una vera autobiografia nascosta dietro una finta biografia.
È un romanzo. Bello, molto bello come tutti quelli di J. M. Coetzee che ho letto (oltre al Nobel, due Booker Prize).
Piccadilly Circus 1963.
E quindi, dopo aver visto crescere John in Sudafrica nel primo capitolo (nel primo romanzo), potremmo definire questo nuovo capitolo (romanzo), il ritratto dell’artista da giovane.
John lascia il Sudafrica e va a cercare fortuna in Inghilterra, a Londra, dove la lingua parlata è la stessa con la quale lui è cresciuto.
John capisce presto che il Sudafrica è asfittico, almeno per le sue mire: gli serve l’Europa. E in fondo ogni uomo è un’isola; non c’è bisogno dei genitori.
Trafalgar Square e Northmberland Ave. 1962.
Solo che l’isola dove approda, è fredda e inospitale - l’eredità che si porta sulle spalle, il suo paese d’origine che ha scelto l’apartheid, che vive nel razzismo, gli suscita vergogna e imbarazzo, e forse anche gli inglesi lo guardano in modo strano proprio in quanto sudafricano - fare lo scrittore o il poeta come vorrebbe non è così semplice, bisognerebbe se non altro cominciare a scrivere veramente, a farlo sul serio, non solo a progettarlo e pensarlo, trastullarsi con l’idea.
John finisce a fare proprio quello che non voleva, quello che temeva: lavorare per una multinazionale dell’elettronica (programmatore di computer all’IBM).
John è un giovane che se la cava meglio con i test, quiz ed esami che con la vita vera. Forse proprio per questo s’è laureato in matematica.
Ma avendo problemi con la vita vera, è facile immaginare che sarà tendenzialmente un solitario, una persona schiva: e infatti non si può dire che gli anni londinesi allarghino il giro dei suoi affetti.
Conosce donne, ma non la donna eccezionale che sperava.
In effetti, non è che i suoi rapporti con le donne siano splendidi, quanto piuttosto sbrigativi: John è un amante mediocre che sembra non rendersi conto che la verginità è anche un fatto fisico, e costringe ad abortire una ragazza senza neppure chiederle se sia d’accordo.
Conosce gente, ma lega relativamente. In compenso Ezra Pound, la Bachmann, Brecht, Enzensberger, e il “Vangelo secondo Matteo” di Pasolini lo sconvolgono, e scaldano, e sostanzialmente gli fanno più compagnia di tutti quelli che conosce.
Whitehall 1962.
L’isola inglese è un’isola nel senso letterale del termine, molto poco accogliente:
Come può qualcuno in Inghilterra capire cosa porta le persone dagli angoli più remoti della terra a morire su un'isola umida e avvilente, che detestano e con la quale non hanno nessun legame?... Mese dopo mese, il governo dà un giro di vite alle leggi sull'immigrazione. Gli antillani vengono fermati sui moli di Liverpool, trattenuti finché non sono proprio disperati, quindi rispediti indietro. Se non lo fanno sentire così manifestamente indesiderato come loro, è solo per la sua colorazione protettiva: il completo giacca e pantaloni di Moss Brothers, la pelle chiara.
Trafalgar Square 1962.
Coetzee prende le distanze da John, usa la terza persona invece di un più immediato io narrante: si allontana dal suo personaggio, si guarda da fuori, anche se la vita del John sulla carta è assai simile a quella che ha vissuto il John che scrive (Coetzee ha effettivamente vissuto a Londra dal 1962 al 1965 facendo esattamente il programmatore, prima per l’IBM e poi l’ICT. Dopo di che credo si sia trasferito negli States). Da matematico, vero o finto che sia, Coetzee sceglie il suo tipico linguaggio secco, tagliato e tagliente, freddo, lucido, spietato, non risparmia nulla al suo John, né a se stesso.
Charing Cross Pier 1963.
April 30, 2026
¿Te acuerdas de cuando pensabas que largarte de casa, vivir en una ciudad extranjera y escribir poesía era sinónimo de libertad?
J.M. Coetzee se acuerda también. Pero en Juventud te deja claro que esa película solo la pasan en tu cabeza. Y spoiler: no es comedia, es drama.
En Juventud, la segunda entrega de su trilogía autobiográfica Escenas de una vida de provincias, J.M. Coetzee disecciona la ilusión de la juventud, ese espejismo donde creemos que el futuro nos pertenece y que basta con huir de nuestro origen para encontrarnos a nosotros mismos. Si en Infancia veíamos a un niño completamente encerrado en sí mismo en la Sudáfrica del apartheid, ahora tenemos a ese mismo chico, ya un joven, tratando de reinventarse en Londres, creyendo que la literatura y el rollo de ‘ser escritor’ lo van a salvar. Spoiler: No. La realidad no tiene tanta compasión. Londres no es la ciudad bohemia y libertaria que imaginó, y la vida de un escritor no es una epifanía constante, sino una rutina de mediocridad y alienación. La juventud, según Coetzee, no es esa jodida promesa de libertad y autodescubrimiento. Es un purgatorio entre la esperanza y el desencanto, donde ni siquiera te avisan de que la puerta de salida está cerrada
Y es aquí donde Coetzee se ríe de todos esos clichés de la ‘novela de formación’. Aquí no hay epifanías, ni evolución heroica. No esperes un 'y entonces todo cambió' porque no; no cambia. Olvídate de Retrato del artista adolescente o El guardián entre el centeno. En Juventud el tipo simplemente ve cómo sus sueños se deshacen, pieza a pieza, como una película de terror que no sabes si realmente quieres terminar de ver. El protagonista —Coetzee disfrazado tras la tercera persona y una distancia fría, casi helada— es un joven obsesionado con convertirse en un gran escritor, con la figura de T.S. Eliot como faro y la idea de que Londres será su forja. Pero su vida en la ciudad es un desfile de desilusiones: trabajos anodinos como programador de IBM, relaciones sin pasión, una sensación de extranjería constante. La bohemia es solo un concepto vacío cuando te encuentras atrapado en una existencia gris, sin el talento ni la valentía para dar el salto.
Aquí, Coetzee no se limita a narrar la experiencia personal de su protagonista, sino que la entrelaza con una crítica sutil pero firme a las tensiones sociales y políticas de los años 60, tanto en Sudáfrica como en Inglaterra. No es que la novela se centre exclusivamente en el apartheid, pero las sombras de este régimen se cuelan de forma menos velada que en Infancia . El protagonista pronto se da cuenta de que el racismo, esa fuerza invisible pero corrosiva, también está presente en el corazón de Inglaterra, aunque se manifiesta de manera más insidiosa y sofisticada. Aquí, el racismo se presenta como una sombra que, aunque menos obvia, sigue siendo la que define a John como un "extraño" en cualquier lugar al que vaya. Y que ese racismo se aplica no solo a los antillanos o africanos negros, sino también, de forma más sutil pero no menos hiriente, a gente como él, blancos con traje pero venidos de fuera. “Si a él no le hacen sentirse tan indefenso e inoportuno como a ellos es sólo gracias a su coloración protectora: traje Moss Brothers, piel blanca”
Y es que el conflicto de John no solo es existencial, sino que se extiende a una desconexión palpable con la sociedad que lo rodea. El Londres que imaginó como una ciudad de oportunidades se convierte en un territorio lejano, casi irreconocible, donde las relaciones humanas se sienten como un espejismo más. Es aquí donde Coetzee no solo crea una crisis personal, sino también una crítica tácita a las barreras invisibles que erige una sociedad que no se siente capaz de integrar a los 'otros'.
Coetzee no se anda con rodeos: su estilo es seco, preciso, sin esos adornos que te hacen pensar que te están vendiendo una idea sublime. Con frases que parecen dictadas por alguien que lleva demasiado tiempo solo. No, aquí no hay metáforas grandiosas ni poesía en cada rincón. Lo que hay es un tipo con un bisturí diseccionando la experiencia humana con frialdad. Y esa contención, esa precisión, es justo lo que hace que el dolor del protagonista te pegue en el estómago. En cada frase hay un peso, una carga de frustración y autoengaño. La estructura también es afilada: capítulos breves, escuetos, como pequeños cortes que van desangrando al personaje. No hay un gran clímax, porque la vida rara vez los ofrece.
Coetzee sigue con su truco de narrar en tercera persona, igual que en Infancia , y le añade ese toque tan suyo de tiempo presente. ¿Por qué lo hace? Fácil: para que no puedas escapar de la angustia del momento. No hay distanciamiento, no hay nostalgia. Estás atrapado, igual que el protagonista, en ese maldito presente, sin tiempo para pensar en lo que fue ni lo que vendrá. Todo es incómodo, todo es desesperante. La elección de usar este tiempo verbal parece un recurso frecuente para Coetzee —recuerdo por ejemplo Desgracia — cuando quiere darle al relato una sensación de inmediatez y de urgencia, envolviendo al lector en la experiencia del protagonista sin la comodidad de una reflexión retrospectiva.
Pero una de las cosas más endiabladamente brillantes que hace Coetzee en Juventud —y que parece un detalle menor hasta que te das cuenta de que te está agujereando el cráneo— es la manera en que lanza preguntas al aire como quien tira piedras a un lago en calma. Preguntas retóricas para desafiar al lector a reflexionar sobre temas complejos como la identidad, la pertenencia, el amor, el sexo o el aprendizaje. Preguntas sin respuesta, claro, porque no estamos en un maldito manual de autoayuda, sino dentro de una mente que no para de rumiarse a sí misma. Coetzee convierte a su protagonista en una máquina de dudas, en un espejo que no devuelve imagen sino preguntas, y eso no solo le da a la novela un ritmo peculiar, casi hipnótico, sino que nos obliga —sí, nos obliga— a participar del desastre. Porque cada interrogante que se hace John no es solo suyo: también es nuestro. Y ahí es donde Coetzee te atrapa sin que lo notes. No con grandes revelaciones ni discursos incendiarios, sino con la voz bajita de quien no sabe y, sin embargo, no puede dejar de preguntar. Y ese es el verdadero arte: convertir la incertidumbre en forma narrativa.
Si Infancia era el relato de una asfixia —la de un niño atrapado en un hogar y una sociedad que no lo comprenden—, Juventud es el relato de una fuga que resulta ser una celda aún más grande. El protagonista escapa de Sudáfrica con la esperanza de encontrarse en Londres, pero solo descubre otro tipo de cárcel: la de su propia mediocridad. No es una historia de conquista ni de afirmación de identidad; es un estudio de la parálisis. En Infancia , al menos había una especie de fuego interno en el niño, un deseo de escapar. En Juventud, ese fuego se ha convertido en cenizas.
Es inevitable leer esta novela sin pensar en otros grandes relatos del desarraigo y la alienación. Hay algo de El extranjero de Camus en la distancia emocional del protagonista, algo de Kafka en su impotencia para encajar en el mundo que lo rodea. Pero mientras Meursault y los personajes de Kafka parecen víctimas de un destino absurdo, el protagonista de Juventud es, en cierto modo, su propio carcelero. No hay un sistema opresor que lo condene, ni una sentencia explícita que lo margine: es él quien se niega a sí mismo la posibilidad de encajar, atrapado en su propia mitología del genio incomprendido. Y es que hay algo aquí que es puramente Coetzee: esa capacidad de despojar la narrativa de cualquier sentimentalismo y presentar la experiencia humana en su forma más desnuda y cruda.
Y el final… bueno, digamos que es como la patada final en el estómago que te confirma que la juventud no es el trampolín hacia la grandeza que te habían vendido. No, en realidad, es un abismo donde te das cuenta de que, tal vez, nunca tuviste nada que te hiciera destacar de verdad. Y ahí, querido lector, es cuando te das cuenta de que no hay escape. En Infancia , soñaba con un mundo más grande que su pequeño pueblo sudafricano. En Juventud, descubre que ese mundo no solo es igual de opresivo, sino que ya no tiene adónde huir. Porque la única celda de la que nunca escapará es la que ha construido dentro de sí mismo. ¿La juventud? Un mal chiste con pretensiones de poema. Aquí es solo un abismo donde te das cuenta de que nunca fuiste especial, y lo peor es que ya es demasiado tarde para creerte otra mentira.
Reseña de Infancia (Trilogía autobiográfica de J.M. Coetzee - Escenas de una vida de provincias I)
Reseña de Juventud (Trilogía autobiográfica de J.M. Coetzee - Escenas de una vida de provincias II)
Reseña de Verano (Trilogía autobiográfica de J.M. Coetzee - Escenas de una vida de provincias III)
J.M. Coetzee se acuerda también. Pero en Juventud te deja claro que esa película solo la pasan en tu cabeza. Y spoiler: no es comedia, es drama.
En Juventud, la segunda entrega de su trilogía autobiográfica Escenas de una vida de provincias, J.M. Coetzee disecciona la ilusión de la juventud, ese espejismo donde creemos que el futuro nos pertenece y que basta con huir de nuestro origen para encontrarnos a nosotros mismos. Si en Infancia veíamos a un niño completamente encerrado en sí mismo en la Sudáfrica del apartheid, ahora tenemos a ese mismo chico, ya un joven, tratando de reinventarse en Londres, creyendo que la literatura y el rollo de ‘ser escritor’ lo van a salvar. Spoiler: No. La realidad no tiene tanta compasión. Londres no es la ciudad bohemia y libertaria que imaginó, y la vida de un escritor no es una epifanía constante, sino una rutina de mediocridad y alienación. La juventud, según Coetzee, no es esa jodida promesa de libertad y autodescubrimiento. Es un purgatorio entre la esperanza y el desencanto, donde ni siquiera te avisan de que la puerta de salida está cerrada
Y es aquí donde Coetzee se ríe de todos esos clichés de la ‘novela de formación’. Aquí no hay epifanías, ni evolución heroica. No esperes un 'y entonces todo cambió' porque no; no cambia. Olvídate de Retrato del artista adolescente o El guardián entre el centeno. En Juventud el tipo simplemente ve cómo sus sueños se deshacen, pieza a pieza, como una película de terror que no sabes si realmente quieres terminar de ver. El protagonista —Coetzee disfrazado tras la tercera persona y una distancia fría, casi helada— es un joven obsesionado con convertirse en un gran escritor, con la figura de T.S. Eliot como faro y la idea de que Londres será su forja. Pero su vida en la ciudad es un desfile de desilusiones: trabajos anodinos como programador de IBM, relaciones sin pasión, una sensación de extranjería constante. La bohemia es solo un concepto vacío cuando te encuentras atrapado en una existencia gris, sin el talento ni la valentía para dar el salto.
Aquí, Coetzee no se limita a narrar la experiencia personal de su protagonista, sino que la entrelaza con una crítica sutil pero firme a las tensiones sociales y políticas de los años 60, tanto en Sudáfrica como en Inglaterra. No es que la novela se centre exclusivamente en el apartheid, pero las sombras de este régimen se cuelan de forma menos velada que en Infancia . El protagonista pronto se da cuenta de que el racismo, esa fuerza invisible pero corrosiva, también está presente en el corazón de Inglaterra, aunque se manifiesta de manera más insidiosa y sofisticada. Aquí, el racismo se presenta como una sombra que, aunque menos obvia, sigue siendo la que define a John como un "extraño" en cualquier lugar al que vaya. Y que ese racismo se aplica no solo a los antillanos o africanos negros, sino también, de forma más sutil pero no menos hiriente, a gente como él, blancos con traje pero venidos de fuera. “Si a él no le hacen sentirse tan indefenso e inoportuno como a ellos es sólo gracias a su coloración protectora: traje Moss Brothers, piel blanca”
Y es que el conflicto de John no solo es existencial, sino que se extiende a una desconexión palpable con la sociedad que lo rodea. El Londres que imaginó como una ciudad de oportunidades se convierte en un territorio lejano, casi irreconocible, donde las relaciones humanas se sienten como un espejismo más. Es aquí donde Coetzee no solo crea una crisis personal, sino también una crítica tácita a las barreras invisibles que erige una sociedad que no se siente capaz de integrar a los 'otros'.
Coetzee no se anda con rodeos: su estilo es seco, preciso, sin esos adornos que te hacen pensar que te están vendiendo una idea sublime. Con frases que parecen dictadas por alguien que lleva demasiado tiempo solo. No, aquí no hay metáforas grandiosas ni poesía en cada rincón. Lo que hay es un tipo con un bisturí diseccionando la experiencia humana con frialdad. Y esa contención, esa precisión, es justo lo que hace que el dolor del protagonista te pegue en el estómago. En cada frase hay un peso, una carga de frustración y autoengaño. La estructura también es afilada: capítulos breves, escuetos, como pequeños cortes que van desangrando al personaje. No hay un gran clímax, porque la vida rara vez los ofrece.
Coetzee sigue con su truco de narrar en tercera persona, igual que en Infancia , y le añade ese toque tan suyo de tiempo presente. ¿Por qué lo hace? Fácil: para que no puedas escapar de la angustia del momento. No hay distanciamiento, no hay nostalgia. Estás atrapado, igual que el protagonista, en ese maldito presente, sin tiempo para pensar en lo que fue ni lo que vendrá. Todo es incómodo, todo es desesperante. La elección de usar este tiempo verbal parece un recurso frecuente para Coetzee —recuerdo por ejemplo Desgracia — cuando quiere darle al relato una sensación de inmediatez y de urgencia, envolviendo al lector en la experiencia del protagonista sin la comodidad de una reflexión retrospectiva.
Pero una de las cosas más endiabladamente brillantes que hace Coetzee en Juventud —y que parece un detalle menor hasta que te das cuenta de que te está agujereando el cráneo— es la manera en que lanza preguntas al aire como quien tira piedras a un lago en calma. Preguntas retóricas para desafiar al lector a reflexionar sobre temas complejos como la identidad, la pertenencia, el amor, el sexo o el aprendizaje. Preguntas sin respuesta, claro, porque no estamos en un maldito manual de autoayuda, sino dentro de una mente que no para de rumiarse a sí misma. Coetzee convierte a su protagonista en una máquina de dudas, en un espejo que no devuelve imagen sino preguntas, y eso no solo le da a la novela un ritmo peculiar, casi hipnótico, sino que nos obliga —sí, nos obliga— a participar del desastre. Porque cada interrogante que se hace John no es solo suyo: también es nuestro. Y ahí es donde Coetzee te atrapa sin que lo notes. No con grandes revelaciones ni discursos incendiarios, sino con la voz bajita de quien no sabe y, sin embargo, no puede dejar de preguntar. Y ese es el verdadero arte: convertir la incertidumbre en forma narrativa.
Si Infancia era el relato de una asfixia —la de un niño atrapado en un hogar y una sociedad que no lo comprenden—, Juventud es el relato de una fuga que resulta ser una celda aún más grande. El protagonista escapa de Sudáfrica con la esperanza de encontrarse en Londres, pero solo descubre otro tipo de cárcel: la de su propia mediocridad. No es una historia de conquista ni de afirmación de identidad; es un estudio de la parálisis. En Infancia , al menos había una especie de fuego interno en el niño, un deseo de escapar. En Juventud, ese fuego se ha convertido en cenizas.
Es inevitable leer esta novela sin pensar en otros grandes relatos del desarraigo y la alienación. Hay algo de El extranjero de Camus en la distancia emocional del protagonista, algo de Kafka en su impotencia para encajar en el mundo que lo rodea. Pero mientras Meursault y los personajes de Kafka parecen víctimas de un destino absurdo, el protagonista de Juventud es, en cierto modo, su propio carcelero. No hay un sistema opresor que lo condene, ni una sentencia explícita que lo margine: es él quien se niega a sí mismo la posibilidad de encajar, atrapado en su propia mitología del genio incomprendido. Y es que hay algo aquí que es puramente Coetzee: esa capacidad de despojar la narrativa de cualquier sentimentalismo y presentar la experiencia humana en su forma más desnuda y cruda.
Y el final… bueno, digamos que es como la patada final en el estómago que te confirma que la juventud no es el trampolín hacia la grandeza que te habían vendido. No, en realidad, es un abismo donde te das cuenta de que, tal vez, nunca tuviste nada que te hiciera destacar de verdad. Y ahí, querido lector, es cuando te das cuenta de que no hay escape. En Infancia , soñaba con un mundo más grande que su pequeño pueblo sudafricano. En Juventud, descubre que ese mundo no solo es igual de opresivo, sino que ya no tiene adónde huir. Porque la única celda de la que nunca escapará es la que ha construido dentro de sí mismo. ¿La juventud? Un mal chiste con pretensiones de poema. Aquí es solo un abismo donde te das cuenta de que nunca fuiste especial, y lo peor es que ya es demasiado tarde para creerte otra mentira.
Reseña de Infancia (Trilogía autobiográfica de J.M. Coetzee - Escenas de una vida de provincias I)
Reseña de Juventud (Trilogía autobiográfica de J.M. Coetzee - Escenas de una vida de provincias II)
Reseña de Verano (Trilogía autobiográfica de J.M. Coetzee - Escenas de una vida de provincias III)
November 27, 2021
This is very good, and I highly recommend it. It is autobiographical fiction. That one is not always sure what is fact and what is fiction didn’t bother me in the least—what we are delivered all the way through are Coetzee’s views. The details may be off, but they are not the essential. How he reasons and thinks, that is what is important, and it is this that we come to understand.
As the title indicates we observe Coetzee’s youth. We start when he is nineteen and we follow him through his twenties, i.e. the 1960s. What is happening in both South Africa and on the world stage set background events. We see Coetzee’s as a mathematician, teacher, computer programmer working at IBM and for a British competitor. This is during the Cold War and the Cuban Crisis. We see him as a writer, as a poet as a lover.
The art of writing was for me the book’s central theme, what intrigued me most. We watch how he grows into his role as an artist of words. I love reading. His analysis of authors I have read captivated me. He speaks, for example, of Ezra Pound, Samuel Beckett, Henry James, T.S. Elliot and Ford Madox Ford. I now want to read The Good Soldier: A Tale Of Passion and Parade's End, the books by Ford he most highly recommends.
I am glad to have read Nelson Mandela’s autobiography A Long Walk to Freedom. It has given me a firm base to stand on. The knowledge learned from one book helps you get a better grip on another.
Experiences in one’s own life enhance one’s ability to see new ways of thinking. The sentences in this book leave you thinking. One cannot help but take his thoughts, evaluate them and compare them to your own. See the following quotes:
*”He believes in passionate love and its power to transfigure.”
*“Some of us are not built for fun.”
*“I ought to be happy.”
*“He is used to not understanding.”
*“To be dogged is essential in both love and art.”
Both Coetzee and I appreciate sparse prose. The writing is excellent and gives readers food for thought. These are qualities I look for in a book.
The author’s views on the value of manual labor fit my own.
I got a kick out of how efficiency is built into computer models. I could not help but compare this to how my daughter instinctively thinks. Do you see how my mind analyzes, how I turn the book’s content this way and that and reformulate it in my own way?! The comparison left me smiling.
William Gaminara narrates the audiobook very well. You have time to think, and the words are spoken clearly. The narration I have given four stars.
I liked this so very much that I have chosen to immediately read the next book in the series--Summertime. See this as a vote of confidence. I am enjoying it, although its style is quite different. Ironical humor comes to the fore. It is good that the books are different; you don’t get a repeat; you don’t get bored.
************************
*Boyhood: Scenes from Provincial Life 4 stars
*Youth 4 stars
*Summertime reading now
*Age of Iron 4 stars
*Waiting for the Barbarians 5 stars
*Disgrace 3 stars
*The Master of Petersburg 3 stars
As the title indicates we observe Coetzee’s youth. We start when he is nineteen and we follow him through his twenties, i.e. the 1960s. What is happening in both South Africa and on the world stage set background events. We see Coetzee’s as a mathematician, teacher, computer programmer working at IBM and for a British competitor. This is during the Cold War and the Cuban Crisis. We see him as a writer, as a poet as a lover.
The art of writing was for me the book’s central theme, what intrigued me most. We watch how he grows into his role as an artist of words. I love reading. His analysis of authors I have read captivated me. He speaks, for example, of Ezra Pound, Samuel Beckett, Henry James, T.S. Elliot and Ford Madox Ford. I now want to read The Good Soldier: A Tale Of Passion and Parade's End, the books by Ford he most highly recommends.
I am glad to have read Nelson Mandela’s autobiography A Long Walk to Freedom. It has given me a firm base to stand on. The knowledge learned from one book helps you get a better grip on another.
Experiences in one’s own life enhance one’s ability to see new ways of thinking. The sentences in this book leave you thinking. One cannot help but take his thoughts, evaluate them and compare them to your own. See the following quotes:
*”He believes in passionate love and its power to transfigure.”
*“Some of us are not built for fun.”
*“I ought to be happy.”
*“He is used to not understanding.”
*“To be dogged is essential in both love and art.”
Both Coetzee and I appreciate sparse prose. The writing is excellent and gives readers food for thought. These are qualities I look for in a book.
The author’s views on the value of manual labor fit my own.
I got a kick out of how efficiency is built into computer models. I could not help but compare this to how my daughter instinctively thinks. Do you see how my mind analyzes, how I turn the book’s content this way and that and reformulate it in my own way?! The comparison left me smiling.
William Gaminara narrates the audiobook very well. You have time to think, and the words are spoken clearly. The narration I have given four stars.
I liked this so very much that I have chosen to immediately read the next book in the series--Summertime. See this as a vote of confidence. I am enjoying it, although its style is quite different. Ironical humor comes to the fore. It is good that the books are different; you don’t get a repeat; you don’t get bored.
************************
*Boyhood: Scenes from Provincial Life 4 stars
*Youth 4 stars
*Summertime reading now
*Age of Iron 4 stars
*Waiting for the Barbarians 5 stars
*Disgrace 3 stars
*The Master of Petersburg 3 stars
February 22, 2018
This is really a portrait of an artist as a young man (pun intended). The stupid motivational speakers make it sound too easy - when they ask one to chose between passion and money as one's career goal. Money here sounds some kind of luxury which one can live without. But really, money is what is going to pay the bills. And pursuit of arts almost always have a big gestation period before it earns one money. And the artist must struggle in poverty in meantime - may be live as a financially dependent. John struggles to maintain a balance between what he does to earn and pursuit of his own art. The choice he has is between being a bored programmer or a starving artist. And he finds himself gradually tilting towards the last.
Like any young artist, he is visited by doubts - how come he hasn't written anything great yet? Is he a failure then? It is this eternal wait for some muse to take petty on him which forms the main theme of novel.
Meanwhile he is also young man - and feels frustrated like any young person who is learning to see the world for what it is and not finding it in anyway the bed of roses it was supposed to be. Plus like any young man, he grumbles at problem if getting sex regularly. In fact, that is one of the attractions of being an artist. The women are supposed to just fell in love with and quarrel to be taken by one. So sad, it doesn't seem to happen.
Plus John's conscience is troubled by the political evil around him and, to which, he steadily seems to be contributing more and more - of unwillingly made to contribute to cold war, of politics in Africa etc.
There is so much to relate in this novel. Unfortunately, this wait for muse is such a passive thing and so the novel lacks action. There is trouble of memoirs shaped into novels - so often they are chaotic like real life and lacks necessary symmetry to make a good novel. What is more Coetzee seems too harsh on himself (or the protagonist) - so often the narrative seems to laughing at the protagonist. While once can easily find so many faults with John, the music of inspiration which drives himself seems to have been killed by the cynic narrative.
Like any young artist, he is visited by doubts - how come he hasn't written anything great yet? Is he a failure then? It is this eternal wait for some muse to take petty on him which forms the main theme of novel.
Meanwhile he is also young man - and feels frustrated like any young person who is learning to see the world for what it is and not finding it in anyway the bed of roses it was supposed to be. Plus like any young man, he grumbles at problem if getting sex regularly. In fact, that is one of the attractions of being an artist. The women are supposed to just fell in love with and quarrel to be taken by one. So sad, it doesn't seem to happen.
Plus John's conscience is troubled by the political evil around him and, to which, he steadily seems to be contributing more and more - of unwillingly made to contribute to cold war, of politics in Africa etc.
There is so much to relate in this novel. Unfortunately, this wait for muse is such a passive thing and so the novel lacks action. There is trouble of memoirs shaped into novels - so often they are chaotic like real life and lacks necessary symmetry to make a good novel. What is more Coetzee seems too harsh on himself (or the protagonist) - so often the narrative seems to laughing at the protagonist. While once can easily find so many faults with John, the music of inspiration which drives himself seems to have been killed by the cynic narrative.
December 29, 2020
The reluctant, inwardly drawn, conscience-stricken 10-year-old from Boyhood returns as a prudish and insecure young man who dreams of being a great artist. As a 19-year-old Mathematics student in a South African university, John is leading an extraordinarily practical life – making cheese with left-over milk and working hard at multiple jobs during vacations – to escape the deterioration of South Africa (like Stephen Dedalus wants to cut all ties from Ireland) and find his way as a poet in London. But his inherently cautious and rule-abiding nature doesn’t let him get soaked in the experiences that a city like London offers. Stuck in a soul-sucking day job as a computer programmer which provides him financial independence, he is lonely and miserable, with no outlet for his creative expression.
This is a fictionalized autobiography of J.M. Coetzee and he has been relentless and perhaps remarkably truthful in the examination of his youth, his ideals, and more importantly his inadequacies. John desires freedom from the traps of his family (especially his mother), his country, and the “provincial culture” – all of which he considers embarrassing. But he is never able to extricate himself from this “trap”; he is torn between his South African and English identities. Like most of his works, the apartheid in South Africa and its social and economic implications form the backdrop of life there. When he runs away to London, he wishes for acceptance but experiences social snubbing and alienation in the stony frigidity of the European capital. The solitude he craves slowly turns into isolation. As he undergoes this misery, he tries to believe that the agony and darkness which fill his days are the rites of passage to be a great writer and he would channel them in his work.
John is not particularly likable; he is cold, indifferent, and too proud of his artistic temperament. In all his associations with others, he wants his inner artistic flame to be acknowledged. He waits for his “destined woman” to reveal herself – only an exceptional girl who is his equal in all ways and is attracted to the creative fire within his dull exterior. This torrid, life-altering passion will consume him and bring out the great artist in him. In the meanwhile, he looks at women as objects of desire and sometimes even as obstacles to art. In his interactions with these women, he is immature and insensitive. He has a string of meaningless affairs where his attempts are half-hearted and passive; he is ashamed about his failure as a lover which, for him, also translates to his failure as an artist. Outwardly, he dismisses exhibitions of vulnerability, but deep down he knows he is a child incapable of handling what life is throwing at him.
This book has 160-odd pages, but I took time to read it, partially because I kept going back to the restrained writing and the simple sentences which are chosen with so much care and precision; this artful economy brings out the complexity inherent in Coetzee’s work. I’m sure I will pick it up again in 2021.
This is a fictionalized autobiography of J.M. Coetzee and he has been relentless and perhaps remarkably truthful in the examination of his youth, his ideals, and more importantly his inadequacies. John desires freedom from the traps of his family (especially his mother), his country, and the “provincial culture” – all of which he considers embarrassing. But he is never able to extricate himself from this “trap”; he is torn between his South African and English identities. Like most of his works, the apartheid in South Africa and its social and economic implications form the backdrop of life there. When he runs away to London, he wishes for acceptance but experiences social snubbing and alienation in the stony frigidity of the European capital. The solitude he craves slowly turns into isolation. As he undergoes this misery, he tries to believe that the agony and darkness which fill his days are the rites of passage to be a great writer and he would channel them in his work.
John is not particularly likable; he is cold, indifferent, and too proud of his artistic temperament. In all his associations with others, he wants his inner artistic flame to be acknowledged. He waits for his “destined woman” to reveal herself – only an exceptional girl who is his equal in all ways and is attracted to the creative fire within his dull exterior. This torrid, life-altering passion will consume him and bring out the great artist in him. In the meanwhile, he looks at women as objects of desire and sometimes even as obstacles to art. In his interactions with these women, he is immature and insensitive. He has a string of meaningless affairs where his attempts are half-hearted and passive; he is ashamed about his failure as a lover which, for him, also translates to his failure as an artist. Outwardly, he dismisses exhibitions of vulnerability, but deep down he knows he is a child incapable of handling what life is throwing at him.
This book has 160-odd pages, but I took time to read it, partially because I kept going back to the restrained writing and the simple sentences which are chosen with so much care and precision; this artful economy brings out the complexity inherent in Coetzee’s work. I’m sure I will pick it up again in 2021.
September 15, 2020
”... al centro delle poesie c’è lui stesso – intrappolato, solo, infelice...”
[Forse era meglio non sapere...]
Forse, quando nutriamo grande passione per uno scrittore, non dovremmo sollecitare la curiosità per il suo privato leggendo biografie e/o autobiografie.
Ho letto spesso commenti ai romanzi dello scrittore sudafricano J.M. Coetzee, che lamentavano una scrittura fredda, una mancanza di calore.
Leggendo “Gioventù...”, non solo possiamo inquadrare la personalità algida dell’autore ma ne abbiamo, addirittura, una piena consapevolezza ed ammissione.
Dopo aver affrontato in “Infanzia” i primi anni (dai 9 ai 13 circa) della sua vita sudafricana, qui troviamo un ragazzo più cresciuto fisicamente (dai 19 ai 24 circa) ma con paure, debolezze ed insicurezze ancora molto infantili.
Scritto sempre in terza persona come a prendere le distanze da se stesso, ci racconta gli anni universitari e le prime esperienze nel mondo del lavoro spostandosi dal Sud Africa alla Gran Bretagna.
Il gelido distacco con cui scrive è fastidioso e non solo per l’estraniazione da se stesso ma per le frasi secche, perentorie che, spesso, danno quasi l’idea di un mero elenco di azioni.
Coetzee, futuro vincitore del Premio Nobel per la Letteratura (2003) è un giovane matematico che troverà impiego nella nascente industria informatica inglese come programmatore.
In segreto, però sogna di diventare un poeta e di trovare la Donna Ideale.
Il suo disprezzo per l’immagine dello sregolato artista bohémien lo porta ad abbracciare uno stile di vita strettamente regolato.
Seguendo l’idea che per generare Arte si debba soffrire decide di sopportare un’opprimente vita di ufficio dove si reca ogni giorno costretto nel suo completo di flanella.
Sono gli anni ’60, la guerra fredda e i cambiamenti sociali in vista non scalfiscono la sua determinazione a prendere le distanze da tutto ciò che è anche solo vagamente politico:
” Solo l’amore e l’arte sono, secondo lui, degni di dedizione assoluta.”
Incastrato dietro ad una scrivania vive la vergogna del retaggio sudafricano, cerca di annullare di ogni legame con la sua terra e soprattutto con il soffocante amore della madre.
Per almeno metà libro mi sono ripetuta che «forse era meglio non sapere.» perché io, che sto a centellinare la lettura dei suoi romanzi per assorbirne con calma ogni fibra, non avrei voluto prendermi carico della sua mancanza di calore, della sua legnosità, del suo fuggire di fronte ai problemi sociali, e, soprattutto non avrei voluto sapere di come, spesso e volentieri abbia usato le donne con comportamenti disgustosi...
Arrivata, tuttavia, a metà lettura ho avuto un momento d’improvvisa lucidità (?).
Sono riuscita anch’io a distanziarmi e a vedere questo giovane ragazzo per quello che era:
incastrato tra un passato che lo metteva fortemente a disagio, solo, con un senso dell’autostima distorto, con una mancanza di visione completa.
Un qualsiasi John, un ragazzo, in lotta con se stesso e in cerca della sua strada per diventare adulto.
” C’è un altro modo, ancor piú brutale, di dire la stessa cosa. In realtà, ci sono centinaia di modi: potrebbe passare il resto della vita a elencarli. Ma il modo piú brutale è dire che ha paura: paura di scrivere, paura delle donne. “
[Forse era meglio non sapere...]
Forse, quando nutriamo grande passione per uno scrittore, non dovremmo sollecitare la curiosità per il suo privato leggendo biografie e/o autobiografie.
Ho letto spesso commenti ai romanzi dello scrittore sudafricano J.M. Coetzee, che lamentavano una scrittura fredda, una mancanza di calore.
Leggendo “Gioventù...”, non solo possiamo inquadrare la personalità algida dell’autore ma ne abbiamo, addirittura, una piena consapevolezza ed ammissione.
Dopo aver affrontato in “Infanzia” i primi anni (dai 9 ai 13 circa) della sua vita sudafricana, qui troviamo un ragazzo più cresciuto fisicamente (dai 19 ai 24 circa) ma con paure, debolezze ed insicurezze ancora molto infantili.
Scritto sempre in terza persona come a prendere le distanze da se stesso, ci racconta gli anni universitari e le prime esperienze nel mondo del lavoro spostandosi dal Sud Africa alla Gran Bretagna.
Il gelido distacco con cui scrive è fastidioso e non solo per l’estraniazione da se stesso ma per le frasi secche, perentorie che, spesso, danno quasi l’idea di un mero elenco di azioni.
Coetzee, futuro vincitore del Premio Nobel per la Letteratura (2003) è un giovane matematico che troverà impiego nella nascente industria informatica inglese come programmatore.
In segreto, però sogna di diventare un poeta e di trovare la Donna Ideale.
Il suo disprezzo per l’immagine dello sregolato artista bohémien lo porta ad abbracciare uno stile di vita strettamente regolato.
Seguendo l’idea che per generare Arte si debba soffrire decide di sopportare un’opprimente vita di ufficio dove si reca ogni giorno costretto nel suo completo di flanella.
Sono gli anni ’60, la guerra fredda e i cambiamenti sociali in vista non scalfiscono la sua determinazione a prendere le distanze da tutto ciò che è anche solo vagamente politico:
” Solo l’amore e l’arte sono, secondo lui, degni di dedizione assoluta.”
Incastrato dietro ad una scrivania vive la vergogna del retaggio sudafricano, cerca di annullare di ogni legame con la sua terra e soprattutto con il soffocante amore della madre.
Per almeno metà libro mi sono ripetuta che «forse era meglio non sapere.» perché io, che sto a centellinare la lettura dei suoi romanzi per assorbirne con calma ogni fibra, non avrei voluto prendermi carico della sua mancanza di calore, della sua legnosità, del suo fuggire di fronte ai problemi sociali, e, soprattutto non avrei voluto sapere di come, spesso e volentieri abbia usato le donne con comportamenti disgustosi...
Arrivata, tuttavia, a metà lettura ho avuto un momento d’improvvisa lucidità (?).
Sono riuscita anch’io a distanziarmi e a vedere questo giovane ragazzo per quello che era:
incastrato tra un passato che lo metteva fortemente a disagio, solo, con un senso dell’autostima distorto, con una mancanza di visione completa.
Un qualsiasi John, un ragazzo, in lotta con se stesso e in cerca della sua strada per diventare adulto.
” C’è un altro modo, ancor piú brutale, di dire la stessa cosa. In realtà, ci sono centinaia di modi: potrebbe passare il resto della vita a elencarli. Ma il modo piú brutale è dire che ha paura: paura di scrivere, paura delle donne. “
October 27, 2022
"هذا الوضع يصيبه بالغثيان والاشمئزاز من بدايته إلى نهايته، فالقوانين في حد ذاتها، ورجال الشرطة المجرمون، والحكومة التي تدافع علنًا عن القتلة وتندد بقتلى التظاهرات، والصحافة التي تخشى أن تقول الحق أو تصف ما يمكن أن يراه كل ذي عينين".
November 29, 2016
Ah, to be welcomed back into the eloquent polished sheen of Coetzee’s prose. So quickly I join the young man leaving the smothering mother’s grasp, himself now grasping to evolve into the blossom of poetry. From South Africa to London where culture thrives and he sees himself entering.
What he finds is a wait. He awaits. Waiting is what he does. His performance. A woman will notice him and see all the magic of his creativity locked within his stiff posture and muffled gestures. She will unlock what he knows is there but is knotted.
The knot cinched tight consists of strands of webbing. He has cultured the art of self criticism locking himself in while locking others out. This leaves him protected but passive. In effect keeping himself safe by keeping others out. He is a pro. No one enters justifying his beliefs of self criticism completing the circle of his diving further down into his passive withdrawal.
I couldn’t wait to follow Coetzee removing strand by strand, the ups and downs, John staging the battle to free himself. But…But…But… it didn’t happen. A set piece. A concert where the same note is played over and over again, at the end no one sure whether to stand and applaud or walk out. I found the aisle and walked out. John continued in his self constructed rut. This short novel gave the experience of what it is like to be trapped by one’s own undoing but nothing more. The fact that our protagonist has the same name as the author, for me now looking back, shows Coetzee’s own battle writing this piece. The piece becoming a piece about itself?
What he finds is a wait. He awaits. Waiting is what he does. His performance. A woman will notice him and see all the magic of his creativity locked within his stiff posture and muffled gestures. She will unlock what he knows is there but is knotted.
The knot cinched tight consists of strands of webbing. He has cultured the art of self criticism locking himself in while locking others out. This leaves him protected but passive. In effect keeping himself safe by keeping others out. He is a pro. No one enters justifying his beliefs of self criticism completing the circle of his diving further down into his passive withdrawal.
I couldn’t wait to follow Coetzee removing strand by strand, the ups and downs, John staging the battle to free himself. But…But…But… it didn’t happen. A set piece. A concert where the same note is played over and over again, at the end no one sure whether to stand and applaud or walk out. I found the aisle and walked out. John continued in his self constructed rut. This short novel gave the experience of what it is like to be trapped by one’s own undoing but nothing more. The fact that our protagonist has the same name as the author, for me now looking back, shows Coetzee’s own battle writing this piece. The piece becoming a piece about itself?
February 16, 2021
«Anche lui è capace di essere focoso, non ha smesso di crederlo. Ma per il momento, per questo indefinito momento, lui è freddo: freddo, gelido».
Cosa può interessare nei migliori libri di Coetzee (come questo), storie in cui l'io dichiara come se niente fosse che “nella vita vera sa fare solo una cosa a quanto pare: essere infelice”?
Forse l’implacabilità a non trovare una forma, a riluttare, e rendersi disturbante, senza estro e suo malgrado.
Gioventù (2002) ripercorre la vita di Coetzee dai 19 ai 24 anni, scritto in terza persona anima un personaggio dai tratti originali che non è più lui più di quanto si sforzi di risuscitare. Un ragazzo che vive a Città del Capo, studia matematica e dopo la laurea si trasferisce a Londra come programmatore all'IBM. Un essere flemmatico che dichiara che non sa che farsene della felicità, dovrebbe andare in analisi ma sta bene nella sua infelicità, gli permette di votarsi all’arte, anche se non ha ancora capito se ha o non ha un briciolo di inclinazione all’arte stessa. E legge smodatamente, pensa, guarda film, si innamora di Monica Vitti ne “L’Eclisse”, quando lei vaga perdutamente per Palermo sotto un sole rovente. Va a letto con una donna più grande di lui, più sofisticata, più intelligente, sa che lui per lei è uno sfizio, sa che non la soddisferà, sa che se non è soddisfatto l’uomo non lo sarà neppure la donna. Come non è soddisfatto degli autori che legge, verso i quali si affeziona e si disaffeziona sbadatamente, allo stesso modo si smidolla, si sbriciola, tra le braccia di una donna; che dovrebbe amarlo per la sua non amabilità, che non sa dire egli stesso se sia una posa o una iattura?
Libro apparentemente arido, dal ritmo rapido e monotono, frasi brevi, asciutte, come la figura dello scrittore stesso. Un osservare la sua vita in terza persona. Un uomo che non sa diventarlo, che teme di perdere quel barlume di fremito che sente dentro nell'imminenza dell'età adulta, alla quale non crede. Crede che l'età adulta non sia tanto diversa dalla giovinezza, e forse non esiste è un trucco, si restringono soltanto le velleità, il Tutto diventa un tutto. E lui non vuole ciò, sotto sotto arde, anche se sembra arrendevole e irritante per la sua perdurante, quasi stilizzata, malinconia senza approdo.
Ha solo 24 anni, tuttavia.
Coetzee è uno dei grandi scrittori viventi, grande che non accende le folle, come un Kafka cento anni dopo. Questo libro va letto insieme allo splendido e successivo, “Tempo d’estate” (2009), in cui Coetzee immagina di essere morto e la sua figura viene ricostruita attraverso le interviste che un ricercatore (che sta scrivendo un libro su Coetzee stesso) colleziona, spesso sono donne a parlare, viene fuori il ritratto di un uomo, trentenne, che non ha nulla del valore che in seguito la società gli attribuirà, un uomo senza talento, uno Zeno nato in Sud Africa, bianco, di lingua inglese, attivo che sembra inattivo. La bravura di Coetzee è quella del romanzo stesso mentre ci mostra che un romanzo è la spiegazione scritta di come non si possa arrivare a conoscere una persona se non per blitz casuali.
Cosa può interessare nei migliori libri di Coetzee (come questo), storie in cui l'io dichiara come se niente fosse che “nella vita vera sa fare solo una cosa a quanto pare: essere infelice”?
Forse l’implacabilità a non trovare una forma, a riluttare, e rendersi disturbante, senza estro e suo malgrado.
Gioventù (2002) ripercorre la vita di Coetzee dai 19 ai 24 anni, scritto in terza persona anima un personaggio dai tratti originali che non è più lui più di quanto si sforzi di risuscitare. Un ragazzo che vive a Città del Capo, studia matematica e dopo la laurea si trasferisce a Londra come programmatore all'IBM. Un essere flemmatico che dichiara che non sa che farsene della felicità, dovrebbe andare in analisi ma sta bene nella sua infelicità, gli permette di votarsi all’arte, anche se non ha ancora capito se ha o non ha un briciolo di inclinazione all’arte stessa. E legge smodatamente, pensa, guarda film, si innamora di Monica Vitti ne “L’Eclisse”, quando lei vaga perdutamente per Palermo sotto un sole rovente. Va a letto con una donna più grande di lui, più sofisticata, più intelligente, sa che lui per lei è uno sfizio, sa che non la soddisferà, sa che se non è soddisfatto l’uomo non lo sarà neppure la donna. Come non è soddisfatto degli autori che legge, verso i quali si affeziona e si disaffeziona sbadatamente, allo stesso modo si smidolla, si sbriciola, tra le braccia di una donna; che dovrebbe amarlo per la sua non amabilità, che non sa dire egli stesso se sia una posa o una iattura?
Libro apparentemente arido, dal ritmo rapido e monotono, frasi brevi, asciutte, come la figura dello scrittore stesso. Un osservare la sua vita in terza persona. Un uomo che non sa diventarlo, che teme di perdere quel barlume di fremito che sente dentro nell'imminenza dell'età adulta, alla quale non crede. Crede che l'età adulta non sia tanto diversa dalla giovinezza, e forse non esiste è un trucco, si restringono soltanto le velleità, il Tutto diventa un tutto. E lui non vuole ciò, sotto sotto arde, anche se sembra arrendevole e irritante per la sua perdurante, quasi stilizzata, malinconia senza approdo.
Ha solo 24 anni, tuttavia.
Coetzee è uno dei grandi scrittori viventi, grande che non accende le folle, come un Kafka cento anni dopo. Questo libro va letto insieme allo splendido e successivo, “Tempo d’estate” (2009), in cui Coetzee immagina di essere morto e la sua figura viene ricostruita attraverso le interviste che un ricercatore (che sta scrivendo un libro su Coetzee stesso) colleziona, spesso sono donne a parlare, viene fuori il ritratto di un uomo, trentenne, che non ha nulla del valore che in seguito la società gli attribuirà, un uomo senza talento, uno Zeno nato in Sud Africa, bianco, di lingua inglese, attivo che sembra inattivo. La bravura di Coetzee è quella del romanzo stesso mentre ci mostra che un romanzo è la spiegazione scritta di come non si possa arrivare a conoscere una persona se non per blitz casuali.
October 11, 2018
"She writes every week but he does not write every week in return. That would be too much like
reciprocation."
"He has a horror of spilling mere emotion on to the page. Once it has begun to spill out he would not know how to stop it. It would be like severing an artery and watching one's lifeblood gush out."
"They might as well get married, he and Astrid, then spend the rest of their lives looking after each other like invalids."
"He is chagrined to see how well the reality principle operates, how, under the prod of loneliness, the boy with spots settles for the girl with the dull hair and the heavy legs, how everyone, no matter how unlikely, finds, in the end, a partner."
"Without descending into the depths one cannot be an artist. But what exactly are the depths? He had thought that trudging down icy streets, his heart numb with loneliness, was the depths. But perhaps the real depths are different, and come in unexpected form: in a flare-up of nastiness against a girl in the early hours of the morning, for instance. Perhaps the depths that he has wanted to plumb have been within him all the time, closed up in his chest: depths of coldness, callousness, caddishness."
"Sorry: the word comes heavily out of his mouth, like a stone. Does a single word of indeterminate class count as speech? Has what occurred between himself and the old man been an instance of human contact, or is it better described as mere social interaction, like the touching of feelers between ants? To the old man, certainly, it was nothing. All day long the old man stands there with his stacks of papers, muttering angrily to himself; he is always waiting for a chance to abuse some passer-by. Whereas in his own case the memory of that single words will persist for weeks, perhaps for the rest of his life. Bumping into people, saying “Sorry!”, getting abused: a ruse, a cheap way of forcing a conversation. How to trick loneliness."
"What is wrong with him is that he is not prepared to fail."
September 28, 2023
I could tell why Angela Carter called Coetzee "that boring South African" whilst reading "Youth". A certain coldness, a matter-of-factness to his writing that can come off a bit unexciting.
Our hero, John, barely into his twenties, has fled South Africa to London in hopes of being a poet, an artist because of the political unrest of his home country. We are talking about the 1950s and the unrest being: Apartheid. He wants to detach himself from this supposed political noise and move to London because, he believes, it's easier to be a poet in cities like London and Paris. Only later does he realise he'll need a real job to survive before he can devote anytime to write. He takes up boring jobs in hopes that this boredom would enable him to write. That this monotony is the prerequisite sufferings all artists must go through before writing anything of worth. But his days are quickly moving away from him. Days, weeks, months go by before he realises he hasn't written a word in ages despite it being central to his existence.
Yet, central here is the failed artist. John fails not because his art is worthless but he's so scared to fail he fails to create his art. Because it's twenties there aren't any epiphanies here; But it's a novel that spoke to me on many levels. Temporary people being temporary and populating life with people who come and go, leaving no trace. Not devoting anytime to write but constantly thinking about the act of writing. Too relatable and without firm resolutions, that ending a bit too foreseeable for my liking.
Living in London, in my twenties, i spend a lot of time alone, unintentionally. I too roam this big city by myself, stopping by at bookshops instead of reading what I have in my flat. Probably why the novel didn't work for me all that well because all of it was too not so unusual for me.
Our hero, John, barely into his twenties, has fled South Africa to London in hopes of being a poet, an artist because of the political unrest of his home country. We are talking about the 1950s and the unrest being: Apartheid. He wants to detach himself from this supposed political noise and move to London because, he believes, it's easier to be a poet in cities like London and Paris. Only later does he realise he'll need a real job to survive before he can devote anytime to write. He takes up boring jobs in hopes that this boredom would enable him to write. That this monotony is the prerequisite sufferings all artists must go through before writing anything of worth. But his days are quickly moving away from him. Days, weeks, months go by before he realises he hasn't written a word in ages despite it being central to his existence.
Yet, central here is the failed artist. John fails not because his art is worthless but he's so scared to fail he fails to create his art. Because it's twenties there aren't any epiphanies here; But it's a novel that spoke to me on many levels. Temporary people being temporary and populating life with people who come and go, leaving no trace. Not devoting anytime to write but constantly thinking about the act of writing. Too relatable and without firm resolutions, that ending a bit too foreseeable for my liking.
Living in London, in my twenties, i spend a lot of time alone, unintentionally. I too roam this big city by myself, stopping by at bookshops instead of reading what I have in my flat. Probably why the novel didn't work for me all that well because all of it was too not so unusual for me.
October 11, 2011
From the book cover:
Set against the background of the 1960's - Sharpeville and the Cuban Missile Crisis, Vietnam - Youth is a remarkable portrait of a consciousness, isolated and adrift, turning in on itself. J.M Coetzee explores a young man's struggle to find his way in the world with tenderness and a fierce clarity.
Hmmm.
When I first started reading this book my first thought was, Dawsons Creek, with aspergers set in the 1960's. To much youthful angst and introverted navel gazing highlighted by a tumult of excessive adjectives to describe every thought, every hope, every breath, every aspiration (see what i did there?).
Youth is a study of a man who spends too much time believing that he was destined for better things and over analysing the fact that instead of being born as the 1960's answer Voltaire or Flaubert, he is in fact a computer programmer. A wordy testament to the fact that as we get older most of us realise that we are not going to set the world on fire and get on with simply living.The last four lines of the book were a great summary. Not convinced it deserved a place on the 1001 books list and I've since read other Coetzee books which I liked a lot more.
Set against the background of the 1960's - Sharpeville and the Cuban Missile Crisis, Vietnam - Youth is a remarkable portrait of a consciousness, isolated and adrift, turning in on itself. J.M Coetzee explores a young man's struggle to find his way in the world with tenderness and a fierce clarity.
Hmmm.
When I first started reading this book my first thought was, Dawsons Creek, with aspergers set in the 1960's. To much youthful angst and introverted navel gazing highlighted by a tumult of excessive adjectives to describe every thought, every hope, every breath, every aspiration (see what i did there?).
Youth is a study of a man who spends too much time believing that he was destined for better things and over analysing the fact that instead of being born as the 1960's answer Voltaire or Flaubert, he is in fact a computer programmer. A wordy testament to the fact that as we get older most of us realise that we are not going to set the world on fire and get on with simply living.The last four lines of the book were a great summary. Not convinced it deserved a place on the 1001 books list and I've since read other Coetzee books which I liked a lot more.
August 19, 2017
Seguito di Infanzia, Coetzee in questa opera prosegue l'autobiografia scritta in terza persona. Anche qui lo scrittore espone senza nessun ritegno le parti più recondite dei suoi pensieri e dei suoi sentimenti. Si sdraia sul tavolo d'acciaio dell'anatomopatologo e procede ad una minuziosa dissezione del suo Io.
Gli eventi lo hanno portato a Londra, dove trova lavoro, ma nel cuore persiste l'aspirazione a divenire poeta. Il Sudafrica è una ferita dentro di lui che non smette di sanguinare. Non sa a cosa credere, non sa qual è il suo posto nella vita, lui che "ha talento solo per l'infelicità". Ci presenta i suoi sentimenti con una prosa semplice, diretta, riflessioni profonde, parole allineate come stelle in cielo e fredde come cristalli di ghiaccio. E' questa la forza del libro.
Gli eventi lo hanno portato a Londra, dove trova lavoro, ma nel cuore persiste l'aspirazione a divenire poeta. Il Sudafrica è una ferita dentro di lui che non smette di sanguinare. Non sa a cosa credere, non sa qual è il suo posto nella vita, lui che "ha talento solo per l'infelicità". Ci presenta i suoi sentimenti con una prosa semplice, diretta, riflessioni profonde, parole allineate come stelle in cielo e fredde come cristalli di ghiaccio. E' questa la forza del libro.
May 17, 2026
Portrait of the artist as a young mathmetician who takes his reading recommendations from Ezra Pound; who lusts after Emma Bovary and flees apartheid South Africa, where the Sharpeville massacre has recently taken place, for England. In London he takes a job as a computer programmer with IBM and waits for poetic inspiration. Do all novelists start by writing poetry? Muriel Spark started with poetry, and if Youth is to be taken as autobiography, so did Coetzee—to his chagrin. As if prose is where writers somehow end up when their passion and energy for poetry has waned. Among other considerations, protagonist/subject John (Coetzee), who takes himself very seriously, ponders what constitutes suffering and whether it is necessary for a life of art. What about madness? And sex? But a life of art, even without a job, isn't just stumbled upon. And South Africa, even though he has escaped it, along with the backwoods ways of the Afrikaner, continues to be source of shame and embarrassment to him.
What I love about Coetzee's writing is that there are always echoes—constant reminders that where we find ourselves in the world is right now is an echo of so much that came before. The introduction of AI into modern warfare is no less morally degrading than the introduction of computers into warfare sixty years ago. South Africa in the 1960s was already an acho of Germany in the 1930s and 1940s and how easily Sharpeville in 1960 becomes Minneapolis in 2026.
What I love about Coetzee's writing is that there are always echoes—constant reminders that where we find ourselves in the world is right now is an echo of so much that came before. The introduction of AI into modern warfare is no less morally degrading than the introduction of computers into warfare sixty years ago. South Africa in the 1960s was already an acho of Germany in the 1930s and 1940s and how easily Sharpeville in 1960 becomes Minneapolis in 2026.
From beginning to end the business sickens him: the laws themselves; the bully-boy police; the government, stridently defending the murderers and denouncing the dead; and the press, too frightened to come out and say what anyone with eyes in his head can see.We thought were done with all this fascist bullshit, yet here we are again. Not just in the United States, but across the globe. Proudly anti-fascist until the day I die, Donnie. Bite me, bitch.
October 21, 2016
Reading J.M. Coetzee's work is somewhat exhausting. No matter how you're psyched to think you're in the same current stage in life to master reading a masterpiece, you'll eventually left dumbfounded and coerced to rethink what's come to the life of the character that is hard to articulate. Or maybe their life, even so much different than yours, can be terrifyingly comprehensible and it's unbearable not to weight on their decisions as if they were yours to bear. Writing such wonderful characters is truly Coetzee's purest gift.
The main character in this book is arrogant, idealistic, ignorant and self-absorbed as may him be called out. He is desperately trying to escape from whose life he is living in by over-analysing everything comes between who he is and the definition of what he wants to be -- the great poet. His existence depends on the ideal meaning he's craving to trap himself into. The belief that his life is destined for something much greater than he is at the moment manifests him and fosters his ignorance. While, so many conditions: racial and historical influence hinder his dreams, or what he believes that he could acquire; the ability to write, love and care for the other human beings. All those are missing throughout the flood of social dilemma, racial bias, xenophobia, and most of all concluded as the sense of alienation by leaving for the motherland to live in the foreign country with the heart full of false hope.
Yep, it's pretty much like reading about a white man's delusional crippled mind with the psychoanalysis approach and so many literary criticism which, I could say, is the major fondness I have for this book. His taste for poetry is pretty much the same as mine. Lol.
The main character in this book is arrogant, idealistic, ignorant and self-absorbed as may him be called out. He is desperately trying to escape from whose life he is living in by over-analysing everything comes between who he is and the definition of what he wants to be -- the great poet. His existence depends on the ideal meaning he's craving to trap himself into. The belief that his life is destined for something much greater than he is at the moment manifests him and fosters his ignorance. While, so many conditions: racial and historical influence hinder his dreams, or what he believes that he could acquire; the ability to write, love and care for the other human beings. All those are missing throughout the flood of social dilemma, racial bias, xenophobia, and most of all concluded as the sense of alienation by leaving for the motherland to live in the foreign country with the heart full of false hope.
Yep, it's pretty much like reading about a white man's delusional crippled mind with the psychoanalysis approach and so many literary criticism which, I could say, is the major fondness I have for this book. His taste for poetry is pretty much the same as mine. Lol.
May 30, 2016
How do bitter and twisted, lonely, emotionally crippled older men start out? Men whose relationships, if any, have always soured early, men whose jobs are all that sustain them, mediocre jobs with colleagues who never become friends. Men whose strict weekend routines stop loneliness from being more than an uneasy feeling which never quite comes to the surface. Never quite acknowledged.
They start out as bitter and twisted Youth. In this novel by Coetzee, we see the establishment of such a being, a young man who thinks somehow that his cold alienating ways will make him a poet. When it turns out that he has nothing more in him than the capacity to be a computer programmer, and an undistinguished one of those, he sees his future as a hollow meaningless thing. We do not find out if his life remained the mean and nasty existence he portended.
Enter Nagasaki. Here we meet a man who might be the person Youth foresaw. Towards the end of his nondescript career he is alone, as far as we know he has never had a meaningful relationship with anybody, including his relations. When not at work he is at home, when at home, the person he talks to is himself. He has no friends, no interests, nothing about him justifies his carbon footprint. Like Youth, he is given the opportunity to live, to behave with largesse, to give. Like Youth he cannot do that. Both of them experience discomfort, unease at their utter meanness of spirit, but neither is capable of being a new person.
Is this inevitable? Enter Mr Stone of Mr Stone and the Knights Companion.
rest here: https://alittleteaalittlechat.wordpre...
They start out as bitter and twisted Youth. In this novel by Coetzee, we see the establishment of such a being, a young man who thinks somehow that his cold alienating ways will make him a poet. When it turns out that he has nothing more in him than the capacity to be a computer programmer, and an undistinguished one of those, he sees his future as a hollow meaningless thing. We do not find out if his life remained the mean and nasty existence he portended.
Enter Nagasaki. Here we meet a man who might be the person Youth foresaw. Towards the end of his nondescript career he is alone, as far as we know he has never had a meaningful relationship with anybody, including his relations. When not at work he is at home, when at home, the person he talks to is himself. He has no friends, no interests, nothing about him justifies his carbon footprint. Like Youth, he is given the opportunity to live, to behave with largesse, to give. Like Youth he cannot do that. Both of them experience discomfort, unease at their utter meanness of spirit, but neither is capable of being a new person.
Is this inevitable? Enter Mr Stone of Mr Stone and the Knights Companion.
rest here: https://alittleteaalittlechat.wordpre...
September 2, 2016
I LOVE Coetzee.
No more words are there to express my feelings for him. :)
No more words are there to express my feelings for him. :)
September 20, 2018
Lui è come Lo Straniero di Camus (che poi in francese ha anche il significato di "Estraneo" che forse in questo caso è più consono e d'impatto...). Lui è un altro personaggio in "formazione", è acerbo, però è asettico alle emozioni, lui tra le altre sue azioni senza significato (cose che semplicemente gli capitano per noia) mette in cinta una donna e poi cerca elegantemente, scrupolosamente con garbo di rimediare con una procedura fattibile e burocratica alla sua incapacità di amare, per potersi allontanare il più velocemente dalla parte peggiore e inutile di se stesso.
Lui è fragile e inconsapevole, lui non vuole finire nei meccanismi aridi della catena di montaggio di un lavoro falso e d'ufficio, tra gente ipocrita e tra cervelli che sono solo macchine in funzione e dove c'è solo la politica del guadagno e non dell'umanità, ma finisce poi a fare un lavoro banale e a perdersi nel grande meccanismo dell'accettazione di ciò che durante l'adolescenza non avremmo mai accettato, quando studiavamo i poeti e recitavamo affascinati il "to be, or not to be..." Il suo disincantato cinismo è il protagonista di questo breve romanzo. Finisci l'ultimo rigo e rimani in apnea e ti guardi attorno sperando di riuscire a estrarti nella tua vita reale dall'automatismo delle azioni nella vita di tutti i giorni che nel romanzo sono ben raccontate.
Vorresti almeno tu che hai letto il romanzo non essere un topo di laboratorio... in realtà hai la sensazione di esserlo già da tempo, allora sospiri... e pensi: il prossimo romanzo forse mi porrà di fronte altre sfide, così che io possa dimenticare che di sicuro non sto vivendo ciò che in realtà desidero.
È venuta così... senza gioia...
Lui è fragile e inconsapevole, lui non vuole finire nei meccanismi aridi della catena di montaggio di un lavoro falso e d'ufficio, tra gente ipocrita e tra cervelli che sono solo macchine in funzione e dove c'è solo la politica del guadagno e non dell'umanità, ma finisce poi a fare un lavoro banale e a perdersi nel grande meccanismo dell'accettazione di ciò che durante l'adolescenza non avremmo mai accettato, quando studiavamo i poeti e recitavamo affascinati il "to be, or not to be..." Il suo disincantato cinismo è il protagonista di questo breve romanzo. Finisci l'ultimo rigo e rimani in apnea e ti guardi attorno sperando di riuscire a estrarti nella tua vita reale dall'automatismo delle azioni nella vita di tutti i giorni che nel romanzo sono ben raccontate.
Vorresti almeno tu che hai letto il romanzo non essere un topo di laboratorio... in realtà hai la sensazione di esserlo già da tempo, allora sospiri... e pensi: il prossimo romanzo forse mi porrà di fronte altre sfide, così che io possa dimenticare che di sicuro non sto vivendo ciò che in realtà desidero.
È venuta così... senza gioia...
May 13, 2011
"Youth" is a portrait of an artist as a young man - struggling to find his way.
Maybe I will just start with a quote;
"At 18 he might have been a poet. Now he is not a poet, not a writer, not an artist. He is a computer programmer, a 24year old computer programmer in a world where there are (yet) no 30 year old computer programmers. At 31 he is too old to be a programmer: one turns oneself into something else - some kind of businessman - or shoots oneself" Coetzee.
Darn. I have 7 foolscap pages of handwritten notes I made while reading. Somehow have to condense it. I will return to this.
************************************************************************
Review in progress / feeling too sick to write reviews too fast between coughing. This was excellent though. Want to read more of Coetzee. Recommend this for would be writers, poets or anyone really who is sucking on their misery / dark night of the soul stuff.
btw excuse slashes / as punctuation, my keyboard is cracking up in sympathy with my lungs. Delete, hyphen and various other keys not working.
Library borrow. Just discovered this author last night and found this slim volume on my college library shelves today. I am trying to expand the range of authors I'm reading so this is kind of like a test drive.
Maybe I will just start with a quote;
"At 18 he might have been a poet. Now he is not a poet, not a writer, not an artist. He is a computer programmer, a 24year old computer programmer in a world where there are (yet) no 30 year old computer programmers. At 31 he is too old to be a programmer: one turns oneself into something else - some kind of businessman - or shoots oneself" Coetzee.
Darn. I have 7 foolscap pages of handwritten notes I made while reading. Somehow have to condense it. I will return to this.
************************************************************************
Review in progress / feeling too sick to write reviews too fast between coughing. This was excellent though. Want to read more of Coetzee. Recommend this for would be writers, poets or anyone really who is sucking on their misery / dark night of the soul stuff.
btw excuse slashes / as punctuation, my keyboard is cracking up in sympathy with my lungs. Delete, hyphen and various other keys not working.
Library borrow. Just discovered this author last night and found this slim volume on my college library shelves today. I am trying to expand the range of authors I'm reading so this is kind of like a test drive.
June 22, 2023
3,5
“But the sun don’t come, ‘n’ you get a tan, from standing in the english rain”.
I am the Walrus, Lennon-McCartney
John deja atrás el espíritu provinciano de Sudáfrica, para ir a Londres, la capital de la literatura en inglés: quiere ser poeta. Pero también deja el clima agradable de días soleados, por la penumbra y la lluvia, poco compasivos para un extranjero solitario.
Su historia es la de una búsqueda, mientras lucha por sobrevivir, y en la que las alternativas no son tan ideales como había imaginado.
“¿Eso es lo que hay que hacer para convertirse en un catedrático de inglés: leer a los autores del canon y escribir una clase sobre cada uno de ellos? ¿Cuántos años de vida se te lleva por delante algo así? ¿Qué le hace a tu alma?”
Y junto con su esfuerzo diario, va moldeando su idea de lo que quiere ser, incluyendo las primeras dudas sobre su aptitud y vocación por la poesía.
“Le horroriza derramar mera emoción en la página. Una vez que ha empezado a derramarse, no sabe como detenerla. La prosa, afortunadamente, no requiere emoción: eso puede decirse a su favor. La prosa es como una extensión lisa de agua tranquila sobre la que uno puede ir añadiendo cosas a placer, dibujando sobre la superficie.”
Una buena novela, que gira principalmente sobre la literatura y la vocación literaria; y como trasfondo, la lucha por ganarse un lugar en una ciudad que no deja de percibirlo como un extranjero y provinciano.
“But the sun don’t come, ‘n’ you get a tan, from standing in the english rain”.
I am the Walrus, Lennon-McCartney
John deja atrás el espíritu provinciano de Sudáfrica, para ir a Londres, la capital de la literatura en inglés: quiere ser poeta. Pero también deja el clima agradable de días soleados, por la penumbra y la lluvia, poco compasivos para un extranjero solitario.
Su historia es la de una búsqueda, mientras lucha por sobrevivir, y en la que las alternativas no son tan ideales como había imaginado.
“¿Eso es lo que hay que hacer para convertirse en un catedrático de inglés: leer a los autores del canon y escribir una clase sobre cada uno de ellos? ¿Cuántos años de vida se te lleva por delante algo así? ¿Qué le hace a tu alma?”
Y junto con su esfuerzo diario, va moldeando su idea de lo que quiere ser, incluyendo las primeras dudas sobre su aptitud y vocación por la poesía.
“Le horroriza derramar mera emoción en la página. Una vez que ha empezado a derramarse, no sabe como detenerla. La prosa, afortunadamente, no requiere emoción: eso puede decirse a su favor. La prosa es como una extensión lisa de agua tranquila sobre la que uno puede ir añadiendo cosas a placer, dibujando sobre la superficie.”
Una buena novela, que gira principalmente sobre la literatura y la vocación literaria; y como trasfondo, la lucha por ganarse un lugar en una ciudad que no deja de percibirlo como un extranjero y provinciano.
February 26, 2023
me: can we get portrait of the artist as a young man
coetzee: we have portrait of the artist as a young man at home
the portrait at home: dull attempt at narrating a journey of self development and growth (usually compelling topic!) with such bland writing it couldn’t even make a sexuality crisis interesting. i don’t usually complain about narratives where the stakes are “low” (i swear you don’t have to be saving the earth for me to find your story interesting) but this just feels like a bunch of nothing on top of more nothing. it’s leading nowhere. there were some okay reflections on art and life but they are so sporadic and unrelated to anything that i can’t really take them into account. idk. just one more to go i guess. (also if he mentions pound one more time i will jump out the window)
coetzee: we have portrait of the artist as a young man at home
the portrait at home: dull attempt at narrating a journey of self development and growth (usually compelling topic!) with such bland writing it couldn’t even make a sexuality crisis interesting. i don’t usually complain about narratives where the stakes are “low” (i swear you don’t have to be saving the earth for me to find your story interesting) but this just feels like a bunch of nothing on top of more nothing. it’s leading nowhere. there were some okay reflections on art and life but they are so sporadic and unrelated to anything that i can’t really take them into account. idk. just one more to go i guess. (also if he mentions pound one more time i will jump out the window)
April 16, 2022
One of those rare books that I liked less and less with each new chapter, a new member of my least favorite books shelf.
A miserable and humorless book about a miserable and humorless young man who may or may not 'be' the author in a narrative where the misery is compounded by the use of wearying third person present tense. A plethora of paragraphs are filled with laundry-list self-discovery-seeking navel-gazing questions that presented a serious distraction in resisting the temptation to tally the number of '?'s on every page. All the more wearying is the miserable and humorless young man's emotional predicament that stems entirely from his near total self-involvement and inability to summon up even a modicum of empathy from the kiddie-pool level shallows of his soul for any individual human being despite his morose narcissism being partially camouflaged by his expressions of outrage at injustices towards peoples in South Africa and the world at large. Every other chapter or so he treats a woman awfully and we are expected to feel sorry for ... not her, but him. Despite all the serious pondering of profundities in the literary, visual, musical and cinematic arts by this sad sack misanthrope I found myself yearning for the more profound pleasures of the un-artistically inclined sad sack misanthropes found on the tv show Seinfeld - I'll take George Costanza's philosophizing over John Coetzee's any day. If this book is indeed autobiographical then I am glad that I have met so few people of such impoverished emotional spirit as this author. If this book is more fiction than autobiography then perhaps it is a complete success, to its detriment. At least I can add another Nobel winner and another country to my internal "authors read" lists so it is not a total loss.
Note to self: any time I am tempted to try out another Coetzee book recall this paragraph and decline: "Because they are creators, artists possess the secret of love. The fire that burns in the artist is visible to women by means of an instinctive faculty. Women themselves do not have the sacred fire (there are exceptions; Sappho Emily Brontë). It is in quest of the fire they lack, the fire of love, that women pursue artists and give themselves to them. In their lovemaking artists and their mistresses experience briefly the life of the gods. From such lovemaking the artist returns to his work enriched and strengthened, the woman to her life transfigured." Misogynistic pretension much?
A miserable and humorless book about a miserable and humorless young man who may or may not 'be' the author in a narrative where the misery is compounded by the use of wearying third person present tense. A plethora of paragraphs are filled with laundry-list self-discovery-seeking navel-gazing questions that presented a serious distraction in resisting the temptation to tally the number of '?'s on every page. All the more wearying is the miserable and humorless young man's emotional predicament that stems entirely from his near total self-involvement and inability to summon up even a modicum of empathy from the kiddie-pool level shallows of his soul for any individual human being despite his morose narcissism being partially camouflaged by his expressions of outrage at injustices towards peoples in South Africa and the world at large. Every other chapter or so he treats a woman awfully and we are expected to feel sorry for ... not her, but him. Despite all the serious pondering of profundities in the literary, visual, musical and cinematic arts by this sad sack misanthrope I found myself yearning for the more profound pleasures of the un-artistically inclined sad sack misanthropes found on the tv show Seinfeld - I'll take George Costanza's philosophizing over John Coetzee's any day. If this book is indeed autobiographical then I am glad that I have met so few people of such impoverished emotional spirit as this author. If this book is more fiction than autobiography then perhaps it is a complete success, to its detriment. At least I can add another Nobel winner and another country to my internal "authors read" lists so it is not a total loss.
Note to self: any time I am tempted to try out another Coetzee book recall this paragraph and decline: "Because they are creators, artists possess the secret of love. The fire that burns in the artist is visible to women by means of an instinctive faculty. Women themselves do not have the sacred fire (there are exceptions; Sappho Emily Brontë). It is in quest of the fire they lack, the fire of love, that women pursue artists and give themselves to them. In their lovemaking artists and their mistresses experience briefly the life of the gods. From such lovemaking the artist returns to his work enriched and strengthened, the woman to her life transfigured." Misogynistic pretension much?
December 19, 2019
This second part of Coetzee's "autobiographical trilogy in novel form" was maddeningly dull in that I can only read so much of someone's adolescent angst without a break. It's true that the narrator here, John, is in his early 20's but having lived through this period myself (without nearly as much meaningless sex as John is getting), what I ended wanting to do was slap him and tell him to shut up and stop whining. This is Knausgaard, boiled down, without any of the cleverness or plot development I expect from Coetzee - although it still has the succinct prose that I admire. Well, on to part three, I suppose...
August 30, 2020
Postales de un joven en Londres (Enumeración, 2020)
1. El hijo hace todo lo posible por apartarse del padre y de la madre. Cuando puede se muda fuera, vive como estudiante, le obsesiona el dinero. Lee, sigue una carrera en matemáticas. Aprende a sumar.
2. Relaciones amorosas al borde de la locura. El misterio del sexo enlazado al misterio del amor. Confusas ideas de la creación asociada al acto amoroso: el amor de la mujer debe redimirlo de sus culpas. No lo hace.
3. Una torpeza apática lo rodea. No consigue apasionarse, es tibio apenas, como arena bajo el sol de la mañana, apenas comenzando a calentar. No consigue comprometerse, o enfadarse, u odiar.
4. Después de la universidad de muda a Londres. La gran metrópoli debe tener algo que ofrecer. Se vuelve oficinista. Programa con tarjetas perforadas en IBM. Le falta valor para pedirle algo más a la vida.
5. Su vergüenza le acompaña. Siempre. Hay una sombra en todo lo que hace. No consigue conectar con nadie. Es un solitario porque no es capaz de tender puentes, de amarrar lazos. Es egoísta.
6. Vive a base de salchichas picantes y trozos de pan. Se alimenta a la manera de los estoicos. A veces va a cine. Anhela un mundo de misterios que no se abre para él. Que él es incapaz de abrir.
7. Cuando salta al vacío lo hace con paracaídas. Se despide de la ciudad, en la periferia construye rutinas. Su mayor mística es la soledad de madrugada con una supercomputadora. El oráculo de consolación.
8. Siente que la vida debe ser algo más. Piensa que la vida debe ser algo más. Le exige a la vida que sea algo más. Pero sentimiento, pensamiento y exigencia no tienen fuerza suficiente. Es lo que es.
9. En el colmo del aburrimiento reconoce el privilegio, el mimo que siempre ha acolchado su existencia. Entonces comprende, o empieza a comprender, la culpa inmensa que carga sin saberlo del todo.
10. Lee sobre el pasado de su patria. Siente la palabra patria. Imagina un regreso. Imagina escribir un mito. Imagina fundar una ciudad imaginaria donde consiga conjurar sus fantasmas para conseguir el perdón.
1. El hijo hace todo lo posible por apartarse del padre y de la madre. Cuando puede se muda fuera, vive como estudiante, le obsesiona el dinero. Lee, sigue una carrera en matemáticas. Aprende a sumar.
2. Relaciones amorosas al borde de la locura. El misterio del sexo enlazado al misterio del amor. Confusas ideas de la creación asociada al acto amoroso: el amor de la mujer debe redimirlo de sus culpas. No lo hace.
3. Una torpeza apática lo rodea. No consigue apasionarse, es tibio apenas, como arena bajo el sol de la mañana, apenas comenzando a calentar. No consigue comprometerse, o enfadarse, u odiar.
4. Después de la universidad de muda a Londres. La gran metrópoli debe tener algo que ofrecer. Se vuelve oficinista. Programa con tarjetas perforadas en IBM. Le falta valor para pedirle algo más a la vida.
5. Su vergüenza le acompaña. Siempre. Hay una sombra en todo lo que hace. No consigue conectar con nadie. Es un solitario porque no es capaz de tender puentes, de amarrar lazos. Es egoísta.
6. Vive a base de salchichas picantes y trozos de pan. Se alimenta a la manera de los estoicos. A veces va a cine. Anhela un mundo de misterios que no se abre para él. Que él es incapaz de abrir.
7. Cuando salta al vacío lo hace con paracaídas. Se despide de la ciudad, en la periferia construye rutinas. Su mayor mística es la soledad de madrugada con una supercomputadora. El oráculo de consolación.
8. Siente que la vida debe ser algo más. Piensa que la vida debe ser algo más. Le exige a la vida que sea algo más. Pero sentimiento, pensamiento y exigencia no tienen fuerza suficiente. Es lo que es.
9. En el colmo del aburrimiento reconoce el privilegio, el mimo que siempre ha acolchado su existencia. Entonces comprende, o empieza a comprender, la culpa inmensa que carga sin saberlo del todo.
10. Lee sobre el pasado de su patria. Siente la palabra patria. Imagina un regreso. Imagina escribir un mito. Imagina fundar una ciudad imaginaria donde consiga conjurar sus fantasmas para conseguir el perdón.
September 13, 2020
Có vẻ tương đồng với văn chương của ông trong khoảng thời gian gần sau này. Nếu Tuổi thơ kể về cái yếu mềm lúc nhỏ, thì Tuổi trẻ là thời thanh niên 20 bỏ lại tất cả ở Nam Phi để dấn bước sang Anh, sống vững vàng trên một hòn đảo không cần cha mẹ sau sự kiện Sharpeville bi thảm.
Nhưng vẫn thế. Cái bạc nhược luôn theo sau ông, bạc nhược vì trốn nghĩa vụ chiến tranh, bạc nhược vì chối bỏ trách nhiệm làm cha và hàng hà những nghĩa vụ cấp thiết khác trong đời sống một người đàn ông, một người nghệ sĩ mà ông luôn khao khát trở thành. Đây cũng là khoảng thời gian những tự vấn của một người nghệ sĩ thành hình. Giữa tình nghệ sĩ, giữa cảm hứng tắt ngấm, giữa đường cùng công việc kiếm tiền và những ngẫu hứng tràn trề nghệ thuật...
Tuổi trẻ như áng văn giãi bày về khoảng thời gian khó khăn trong nỗi suy tư làm cách nào tự bản thân trở nên quan trọng, để phản ánh thời đại, để trở thành một nghệ sĩ thực thụ như Picasso, như Pound, như Eliot trong đời sống vật chất lên cao. Chưa ai dũng cảm như J.M. Coetzee để phơi bày mình ra trước ánh mắt phán xét tận cùng của xã hội này như ông, trước đó và cả sau này dường như và sẽ chưa bao giờ có.
Nhưng vẫn thế. Cái bạc nhược luôn theo sau ông, bạc nhược vì trốn nghĩa vụ chiến tranh, bạc nhược vì chối bỏ trách nhiệm làm cha và hàng hà những nghĩa vụ cấp thiết khác trong đời sống một người đàn ông, một người nghệ sĩ mà ông luôn khao khát trở thành. Đây cũng là khoảng thời gian những tự vấn của một người nghệ sĩ thành hình. Giữa tình nghệ sĩ, giữa cảm hứng tắt ngấm, giữa đường cùng công việc kiếm tiền và những ngẫu hứng tràn trề nghệ thuật...
Tuổi trẻ như áng văn giãi bày về khoảng thời gian khó khăn trong nỗi suy tư làm cách nào tự bản thân trở nên quan trọng, để phản ánh thời đại, để trở thành một nghệ sĩ thực thụ như Picasso, như Pound, như Eliot trong đời sống vật chất lên cao. Chưa ai dũng cảm như J.M. Coetzee để phơi bày mình ra trước ánh mắt phán xét tận cùng của xã hội này như ông, trước đó và cả sau này dường như và sẽ chưa bao giờ có.
March 30, 2020
6 días y 171 páginas después. El tercer libro de Coetzee que leo, y este fue un prestamo de un buen amigo literario.
A ciencia cierta no supe que me motivó a leer este libro, quería seguir leyendo a Coetzee después del libro de los barbaros, pero creo que no fue la mejor opción, ya que considero que un libro de memorias es únicamente para los seguidores fervientes de los autores, y aunque me fascina Coetzee no me considero un ferviente admirador... por el principal motivo que no he leído lo suficiente de él.
Aunque el libro no es malo, leer los pasajes de casi cualquier juventud es un ejercicio de inspección interna y externa, ya que es inevitable no comparar... aunque en este caso ni el país ni la época ayudan mucho a una comparación.
Comprendo los motivantes del autor y los temas de los que habla el libro, pero simplemente no me generó gran emoción, por supuesto que la narrativa es demasiado hermosa (no encuentro otro superlativo para describirlo) pero en este caso no es suficiente. Hay unos episodios realmente bueno, mayormente al principio y al final. Me quedaron muchas dudas acerca de si todo fue real.
Un libro que nos ayuda a darnos cuenta de las dos Sudafricas y las grandes diferencias, que hubo (seguramente que aún hay).
No habrá reseña.
A ciencia cierta no supe que me motivó a leer este libro, quería seguir leyendo a Coetzee después del libro de los barbaros, pero creo que no fue la mejor opción, ya que considero que un libro de memorias es únicamente para los seguidores fervientes de los autores, y aunque me fascina Coetzee no me considero un ferviente admirador... por el principal motivo que no he leído lo suficiente de él.
Aunque el libro no es malo, leer los pasajes de casi cualquier juventud es un ejercicio de inspección interna y externa, ya que es inevitable no comparar... aunque en este caso ni el país ni la época ayudan mucho a una comparación.
Comprendo los motivantes del autor y los temas de los que habla el libro, pero simplemente no me generó gran emoción, por supuesto que la narrativa es demasiado hermosa (no encuentro otro superlativo para describirlo) pero en este caso no es suficiente. Hay unos episodios realmente bueno, mayormente al principio y al final. Me quedaron muchas dudas acerca de si todo fue real.
Un libro que nos ayuda a darnos cuenta de las dos Sudafricas y las grandes diferencias, que hubo (seguramente que aún hay).
No habrá reseña.
September 24, 2023
With the second volume in his “autobiography” trilogy, J.M. Coetzee’s Youth is even more candid than its predecessor Boyhood in offering Coetzee’s recollections of his young adulthood. In another short but remarkable memoir, he is again confessional, solemn, and melancholy, but also he demonstrates his ability to have dark and caustic humor when remembering his past.
The “scenes” he recounts focus on his determination to leave behind the disgrace and unrest of apartheid in South Africa for the hopeful opportunity of pursuing his dream in London to become the next great writer. He channels classic poets such as Ezra Pound and T.S. Eliot in efforts to summon the muse, but once in London his ability to write proves more challenging than he expected.
Instead of finding the abundance of time and motivation he needs, whereby the profundity of his ideas pours forth onto the page, he is trapped in the mundane necessity of having to work as a computer programmer to survive. Unsatisfying love affairs and an inability to find his voice leave him questioning and wondering when and how he may ever initiate his yearning to write.
Youth is a mesmerizing narrative about a young man willing himself to become a writer amid serious self-doubt and constant setbacks. Even with such a compact book, Coetzee demonstrates his ability to offer a vast breadth and intensity of ideas. In reliving for us his struggles, it’s inspiring for anyone with a dream to hear from one of the great writers of the late 20th and early 21st centuries how he ultimately overcame his self-identified failures.
The “scenes” he recounts focus on his determination to leave behind the disgrace and unrest of apartheid in South Africa for the hopeful opportunity of pursuing his dream in London to become the next great writer. He channels classic poets such as Ezra Pound and T.S. Eliot in efforts to summon the muse, but once in London his ability to write proves more challenging than he expected.
Instead of finding the abundance of time and motivation he needs, whereby the profundity of his ideas pours forth onto the page, he is trapped in the mundane necessity of having to work as a computer programmer to survive. Unsatisfying love affairs and an inability to find his voice leave him questioning and wondering when and how he may ever initiate his yearning to write.
Youth is a mesmerizing narrative about a young man willing himself to become a writer amid serious self-doubt and constant setbacks. Even with such a compact book, Coetzee demonstrates his ability to offer a vast breadth and intensity of ideas. In reliving for us his struggles, it’s inspiring for anyone with a dream to hear from one of the great writers of the late 20th and early 21st centuries how he ultimately overcame his self-identified failures.
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