This book came highly recommended by The Guardian, and JM Coetzee declared himself "deeply impressed" by this "outstanding novel". I couldn't get into it at all - it's slow, and almost every character lacks charm and much more besides. It's maybe the point that you're not supposed to empathise with white South Africans gradually losing a grip on their wealth and what they've always supposed to be their entitlements, but getting across that loss is a painful drag through 260 pages.
Pa is the former car-dealing old pain in the ass who's dying way too slowly of cancer in his big house, while son Matt, a directionless lad in his 30s who wants to start his own local fast food outlet for poor people, is addicted to gay porn, a plot strand that rears itself tirelessly and tediously throughout the book, but seems to serve no purpose whatsoever. His boyfriend Jack is a bit of an idiot who spends a lot of time Facebooking with friends we barely get to meet. Mat's sister Sissy is out in the sticks on a drought-ridden farm with husband and kids. It all reminded me of watching Aussie TV soap Neighbours back in the 80s. Everybody whines the whole time, and everyone gets serially offended by anything anyone else says, and when you stop watching/reading you forget about them completely.
SPOILER:
The plot with Emile, the Congolese refugee who starts work in Matt's fast-food outlet, is telegraphed in big flashing lights, but Matt doesn't bother to do anything about it. And when Emile finally does what we've been expecting for 150 pages, it's hard not to blame him. Maybe that's how we're supposed to feel, I don't know. If Matt had actually treated Emile and his family with less mistrust and more humanity, maybe he'd have been okay. By that point, though, I didn't care much either way.
And don't even get me started on the sledge-hammered wolf metaphor.