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...)