the book of not.

Is a sequel ever As Good? I’m not sure.

It’s confusing because often with sequels, you are keen and excited and salivating for more plot. (Sometimes you’re not – in which case you weren’t even aware there was a sequel and no one gets hurt). Tessa warned me against any sequel to ‘Dune’ by Frank Herbert. She simply said, Don’t do it. It’s not Good. Stay Away. Anything else written by him (or his sons) is not worth it. And I’ve listened to her quite happily since… (that girl has no idea the kind of control she has over me).

I’m glad no one told me to stay away from The Book of Not, the sequel to Zimbabwean author Tsitsi Dangarembga’s first book Nervous Conditions. Which I have already written about here and which I loved reading very much. When I found out there was in fact a sequel I became really excited and my sister and her husband bought it for me online (fancy, no?) for my birthday. Hooray.

It was so lovely to continue the tale that was already pretty fresh in my memory. Naturally it remains a different story. Tambu, the main character is a teenager now and not a child. Rhodesia is painfully and violently turning into Zimbabwe as the beginnings of the civil war seep into daily life. Most of the book takes place at her boarding school; she is one of the six black students on a scholarship at one of the best girl’s convent school in Zimbabwe and is doing her utmost best to prove herself as a legitimate human being by succeeding academically. And her life continues to be pretty shit.

It was a difficult read, not in terms of structure or language or plot. There was something else that made it difficult, a bit messy and all over the place. The book felt uncertain of itself in a vague, sort of violent way, it looped and repeated and faded off into tangents in a disarmingly tragic manner. Which is exactly it and exactly right, this unsettling tone is completely appropriate for such content. Set in a country that is changing messily and violently, about a girl uncertain of who or where she is in an always-shifting but never-changing quandary.

It became increasingly painful to read of this young girl thrust into political and social fuck ups without being equipped or told where and how to direct her anger and identity. There is not one adult or person available to Tambu to help her out and help her grow, she is isolated in a terrifying way. At least in Nervous Conditions there was the incredible character Nyasha who for some reason fades away in this sequel.

I think what made it most difficult was the ending, which just like Nervous Conditions, had no resolution or conclusion. And again you could argue that this is apt for the condition in Zimbabwe and almost every African country – very little sense of warmhearted endings. But the book cut off mid-way as though the author suddenly felt like she couldn’t say anymore and so didn’t. Apparently, she is working on a third novel to complete the series.

Either way, it was incredibly disheartening. 

I may take a break and delve into a new Ursula Le Guin book I recently purchased. My current feelings regarding this particular human race makes me long for stories set on an entirely different and imagined planet, please. I have also been reading some collected essays of Chinua Achebe (which I’m almost finished with). He is incredible and totally brilliant.

Ok.  

A picture of not the most aesthetically pleasing book cover there is:

brother of the more famous jack.

This book by Barbara Trapido is one of Katie's other most favourite books. Katie was my housemate and is one of my best beloveds. I had seen this book in our sweet little flat and kept meaning to read it. Now I've moved out of our sweet little flat and I'm all reminiscent and forlorn. So when I saw a copy in the second hand bookstore I frequent (the exact same edition as Katie's) - I bought it out sentiment for days now gone.

I assumed the author was British so kept it aside for next year but then I noticed the write up on Barbara Trapido and saw she was born in Cape Town, grew up in Durban and studied at the University of Natal. (Ha!) Which pretty much makes her South African, even if she emigrated to London. JM Coetzee is now an Australian citizen (gross) and he's still hailed as one the most prominent South African authors of our time. So there.

I read the book in one day. Which says a lot about:

a. How absorbing I found the book and
b. How unemployed I actually am.

I found the story to be funny and sad and sweet and charming and very, very British. It was so strange to be swirled into the delightfully sinister world of English academics and novelists who are witty and knitty and full of safe, deviant ideas of fun and sex, who outrageously say 'fuck' a lot in their charming English accents and who bravely write books whilst reading the Guardian and planting potatoes.

After reading about Angolan immigrants living in Johannesburg, the complexities of being a pseudo white South African liberal in the seventies and the grandiose ongoings of southern Africa in 1830s through the eyes of the Barolong tribe - I couldn't get enough of the frivolous conversations of the daughter of a greengrocer, Katherine and her introduction into the intellectual world of her philosophy professor and his jumbly family romping about with violins and Russian novels. (Excuse the length of the sentence).

It was strange and lovely to read such an oddly familiar story and almost, nearly unenjoyable but I had a very good time reading it and didn't like it at all. I'm in a bit of lonely, radical, idealistic place right now so naturally I found the feminist themes a bit too subtle and possibly even weak. And at the end of the day, us clever girls who get degrees, live independent lives, move to Italy, have many lovers and tell many stories will ultimately one day get to marry a British novelist, make quirky babies in a sweet rambling home and plant apple trees and then our dreams really will come true. Hooray for aspiring novelists who clean up after themselves! Oh! The husbands they will make!

I'm not sure what to make of this book. I think it is about how to be the wife of a British intellectual. And I don't know if I'm very interested in that.

Here are some book covers... I have put them in an order in which they get progressively uglier.

(This is the one Katie and I have)

(Quite nice)

(What?)

(AAAHHHHHHfuck)

mhudi.

I liked this book so much. Aside from enjoying the actual reading of the book (strange sentence), I actually loved the object, the book itself. It has these great pictures in it that I will scan in and show you. And yes - books with pictures in them are still marginally better than books without pictures in them. (Depending on, of course, the book and the pictures.)

This is the copy I have, part of the African Writers Series:

Isn't it beautiful? The first thing someone would say about this book (and it is the first thing I usually say) is that it is the first novel to be written in English by a black South African. Sol Plaatje, the author, was also one of the founders of the South African Native National Congress (today known as the ANC). It was definitely finished by 1920, possibly earlier (many people say 1913) but only published in 1930.

It is an epic historical piece of fiction set in the 1830s and there is a lot going on throughout the whole book. It reminds me of Shakespeare and tells of grand battles and grander love and all of those wonderful things that makes violent human beings so shitty and confusing and fascinating.

I don't feel like I am knowledgable enough to expand fully on this book... Do you mind if I quote from the back of the book? Cheating, I know, but surely that's what they are there for?

"Mhudi, a woman of endurance and courage, saves her future husband Ra-Thaga at a time when Mzilikazi's Matabele soliders raiding the Barolong in Botswana..."

Then Bessie Head says it's a beautiful book and I nod in agreement. But there is (much) more to the story than that. I've never read a novel about South Africa in 1830s that had no English characters. You read about the defeated Barolong tribe, crushed by the Matabele soldiers. But you also read about the Matabele and their king, the ruthless Mzilikazi and somehow Plaatje gets you to empathize with both. You read about the Boers and get a taste of the terrible things yet to come. Interesting and strange dynamics regarding gender, considering the extreme patriarchal set up our heroine, Mhudi, is pretty sassy and incredible. You get a sense of the magnitude of violence and injustice, when thousands of soldiers with spears die simply and quickly from the gunfire of White Europeans.

Despite all of this, you somehow feel good and the end of the story, I really can't say why or how.

I desperately wanted to be clever when writing about this book. And I promise I do have clever thoughts when reading but they go away when I try write about it. Egh. What's the point of a blog, anyway?

Here are some pictures:

(I have searched the entire book and I still don't know when these exquisite pictures were created or who made them... If anyone knows - let me know!)

going home.

My sister lent me this book by Angolan author Simão Kikamba and I finished reading it a few weeks ago, so it's not too fresh in my mind. But I did enjoy reading it. It's a pretty gripping story about a young Angolan man who grows up in the Congo, then moves back to Angola but due to political reasons he has to emigrate to South Africa. The rest of the story is basically about how shitty it is to be an immigrant in South Africa.

It is simply written for such an interesting tale. But there is always something a bit magical when someone writes in a language that is not their first. They show you something new about the language and tend to use words or phrases in an unexpectedly exquisite way. I think when you grow up thinking in one language and then become fluent in another language, your thoughts will always be affected and influenced by the language you grew up in. Which (I think) makes for incredibly interesting literature that brings up a myriad of new things to do with words. (My Thoughts About Language Are Riveting).

It is a pretty heartbreaking story but entirely worth reading. It ends abruptly. And completely unresolved - much like the dire situation of immigrant life in South Africa.

I was nervous about reading only African authors this year. I thought it would be too painful and awful and depressing. I'm amazed at how wonderful it is to read authors that are African, how important and good it is. I'm kicking myself for not doing it sooner. It is very difficult to write about these books for a number of reasons (like sounding ponsy, white and bourgeois being just one of them) but it's incredible to read them. Already I have learnt more about this continent than I expected. Sounds super cheesy but there it is.

READ BOOKS! THEY MAKE YOU NICER AND BETTER. READ BOOKS WRITTEN BY AFRICANS! THEY MAKE YOU EVER MORE NICER. AND BETTER. DON'T PAY ATTENTION TO MY GRAMMAR.

A Picture:

a sport of nature.

The only vaguely disappointing thing about this book is the title. It's not a bad title, it's just a bit unimpressive, tricky to remember.

Other than that - this might just be the best book I've ever read in my life. Ever. I'm serious, I know that I speak highly of most of the books I read (which I like to think means that I have pretty good taste in books as opposed to being a book slut that gushes over anything I happen to come across) but I enjoyed this book massively (and somehow differently) to other Very Good Books I've read.

It is the first novel I've read by Nadine Gordimer, aside from a few short stories here and there. Written in 1987, it follows the life of Hillela, a white South African girl who has an incredibly interesting life that begins and ends in South Africa but journeys across Western Europe, Eastern Europe, America and much of Africa as Hillela embarks on what turns out to be pretty fascinating life and also political career.

The combination of how well Gordimer writes, how good at story-telling she is, plus her amazing knowledge of African and South African politics and history made this book not only Really Good but also Really Special in terms of literature concerning my own country. It's somewhat sad but ultimately true that narratives set in and pertaining to my home are still a novelty to me since up until recently I've been bombarded and enamoured with American and European stories. I am thoroughly enjoying the intentional change in literature.

As a character, Hillela is incredibly complex and slippery and she seems to keep herself at distance from the reader, although the reader becomes besotted with her odd sense of undeniable charm (at least I did). Even though she is clearly the protagonist, one is never quite sure of what is happening in her head but rather the action and other characters simply charge on around her and she somehow remains untouched. I felt as though Hillela was even able to keep Gordimer at a distance, such a rich and textured character she is.

I can't think of what else to write really, except for how this is definitely on my top 5 list of books right now, I think. My next Nadine Gordimer will be 'Occasion for Love'. I'm excited.

Also - I'm getting worse at blogging, aren't I?

Some Pictures:

First Edition Cover 

The cover I have

(She's so lovely)

nervous conditions.

I have made a vague but resolute decision to read only African authors this year. Last year it was no white men and that worked out very well for me, despite amusing grumbles of a few peers who claimed I was being 'sexist'. Ha! I found many new and wondrous authors and didn't miss those modern classics at all. (Although, I think I'll let Science Fiction and Fantasy happen this year... I didn't read one Terry Pratchett last year and I don't think I could do that again.)

This year, I hope to familiarise myself with the literature from my own continent. A few days ago I finished the  first novel of Zimbabwean author, Tsitsi Dangarembga, entitled Nervous Conditions (1988). The story of young girl, Tambu, growing up in impoverished, rural Zimbabwe in the sixties and her path of 'progress' as she gets the chance to go to her uncle's mission school and Be Educated.

It sounds like the kind of book that my gross-seventeen-year-old-self would have been totally uninterested in. But I loved this book wholly and I'm struggling to write about it because anything I write I will still be a white South African bourgeois voyeur liberal girly-girl who will always sound like a bit of a tool when dealing with this sort of content matter.

Ah, well. Here I go.

I think I loved this book because there is little pathos, there is no overwhelming sense of melodrama and tragedy, just a small narrative example of the fucking awful quandary of Africa. Of race, education, poverty, Europe and all that godawful kak that comes with engaging fully with the past of this continent. Or any continent. Just humans.

Every women in this book is a fascinating character but Tambu's cousin, Nyasha who spent half of her childhood in England is completely seductive and absorbing in her intelligence and spunk and gradual influence on Tambu herself. Themes of gender and race are quite subtle, but ultimately powerful in their quiet, pervasive presence.The book ends somewhat abruptly. But there is a sequel, The Book of Not that I'd like to get my hands on. The characters don't really resolve themselves, positive change doesn't really appear and I think this is a very honest way to conclude such a tale.

I'm really struggling to get across the value of a book like this. Also I haven't really said anything about the confident and beautific writing style of Tsitsi Dangarembga (who also makes films!). But I am sick and flu-y and pathetic in bed so all of my thoughts are jumbled and messy like the duvet and pillows and the only thought I can really hang on to, or express, is that this book is wonderful and beautiful and I want more of it...

(1990 Edition, I think???)

 (2001 Edition)

(2004 Edition)

(What I find interesting is the way these book covers have progressed over the years... Changing and also staying the same, y'know?)

novel on yellow paper.

This book is so intensely most brilliant. I'll just say it now in the beginning. I had to force myself to finish it, for it was not the easy breezy summer holiday read I thought, but rather it was quite tricky, slipping away from me and going all over the place with many genius ramblings stopped short by references to something that belongs to a different time. It may have read easier had I been in the mode of fitly reading cleverclever books for my English degree two years ago. But still I pushed through and it was worth it.

Stevie Smith is the author that makes you want to write. I stumbled across her poetry in the library a while back, intrigued by the fantastic drawings that accompanied her poetry. This is the first novel I've read of hers.

She is the one who writes about her life in a jolly fictional way with the Big Things constantly underfoot. She writes sweetly, determinedly, casually and oh-so-cleverly with wit. Above all, even though she wrote this novel in the mid-1930s in London, she will always be (even today) Cool. Stevie Smith was, and is, Totally Cool.

Novel on Yellow Paper or Work it Out For Yourself consists of the thoughts of a young secretary. Bizarre twists and turn, you have to keep up with the main character's convoluted thought process. Her name is Pompey (a name so glorious that I will have to name every plant, small animal, child, or other nameable object that crosses my way 'Pompey'.) The thing I enjoyed the most, was every time I felt exasperated at her confusing prose and impatient at the self-indulgent scattered style, Pompey would suddenly address me, the Reader and acknowledge my impatience with humour. Smith knows how slippery she writes and revels in it.

I wasn't 'Dear Reader'ed' like sappy old Fanny Price or even like conflicted, pathetic Jane Eyre. No, Pompey acknowledges the reader with unforgiving curiosity, which in turn makes you curious about the author.

Of course I think one of the reasons she turned out so interesting is because she was raised by a feminist.  But she is also interesting because in between many bouts of incoherence, a single sentence or paragraph suddenly jumps out at you as clear as day and that sentence makes you so happy because you think "OF COURSE DAMMIT" and and you are filled with triumph and the sentence stops and then you keep reading, sucked back into her word games and unfinished anecdotes.

Also, why have none of us heard of her? We get so few female authors of that time. At the height of Modernism, the world is bursting with men but we have to hunt down specifically those women making art in the 30s and 40s. In Highschool, we don't get given the sassy, live, hopping ones like Steve Smith here, we only get given the sad, suicidal, dead ones because that's how they convinced the Men that they were serious enough to make art, too. (Incidentally Plath was a big fan of Smith's poetry).

Eh. So it goes. I'm not sure if you'd enjoy it, read it to impress someone or prove something and then it will have been read and you won't regret it.


(Also, my friend Sebastian said I should add pictures - so here are some. They were all so lovely I couldn't decide which one so I chose them all...)