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332 pages, Hardcover
First published January 1, 1990
It is such a stupid waste, Dottie thought. Whatever has happened to us, to Hudson and Sophie and those young men, has made us believe that we came into this world as if we were beggars, squalling and throwing tantrums, expecting those who summoned us to be dissatisfied and to give up on us. Then when this happens we say how right we were all along. You made me like this. Look at me. This is your work, and now I’ll make you pay for having been foolish enough to want me here in the first place. It was themselves they tortured most of all, she thought, then their loved ones, and all the time, while they ranted and strutted, their enemies waited at the rise of the hill to mow them down. They looked strong and healthy, with sharp, flashing smiles, and a mischievous glint in the eye. It seemed a terrible disaster to her that all the use such natural skills were put to was display and gesture.
Gurnah often allows his carefully constructed narratives to lead up to a hard-won insight. A good example is the third novel, Dottie (1990), a portrait of a Black woman of immigrant background growing up in harsh conditions in racially charged 1950’s England, and because of her mother’s silence lacking connection with her own family history. At the same time, she feels rootless in England, the country she was born and grew up in. The novel’s protagonist attempts to create her own space and identity through books and stories; reading gives her a chance to reconstruct herself. Not least names and name changes play a central role in a novel that shows Gurnah’s deep compassion and psychological adroitness, completely without sentimentality.
They did not even know who they were, she and Sophie and Hudson, or what people they belonged to. They knew this place, and this was all they had. There was no choice but to hang on here, and make room for themselves. What choice did they have?
She packed the biscuit tin in one of the book boxes. There was nothing much in it, really. Bits of paper that attested to their existence, and round which she could weave half-made stories that gave their lives substance and significance. There was more to them than met the eye, after all. Papers and photographs and tokens of abandoned times. The defeated lives they owned did not tell the whole story, did not specify the full extent of who they were.
They told her, those teachers or whoever they were, that all people were the same, and that she would do best to realise that she now lived in England, and she should determine to do what she could to make herself acceptable. She could do more to help herself to that end than behave in such an obstinate and dreamy way. Her whisperings might give the wrong impression, a kindly teacher warned her. They might make people believe that she could not cope. Don’t play with fire. Don’t tempt fate. When in Rome you have to do as the Romans. Pull your socks up. She heard that from them several times. We don’t do that in England, dear, they told her when her ignorance caused offence. The criticism made her feel like a sinner, or like a traitor.
She discovered that her sketch of the world was little more than a tenuous and unstable metaphor, patchily blank and shimmery in the oddest places. What she learned made her more able to resist the feeling of unworthiness that her exposure to the English way of viewing the world had forced on her.
They did not even know who they were, she and Sophie and Hudson, or what people they belonged to. They knew this place, and this was all they had. There was no choice but to hang on here, and make room for themselves. What choice did they have? (p.170)
This is how we are, all of us, a degraded and degenerate lot, if you don't mind me saying. The history of man consists mostly of plunder and looting and murder, That's how human beings have been, whether in China or Rome or America or Timbuktoo, and they'd be the same even if you put them on the sea-bed. (p.101)