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...)

rebecca.

I missed most of Christmas because of this book. I struggled to stop reading. I lay in bed while my family talked and my neck got twisty and raged at me to stop – but still I read on.

It my housemate, Kathryn’s, possiblyfavourite book. She spent a long time hunting for the perfect cover of ‘Rebecca’ and I began to keep an eye out, too. (Book hunts are the best – I join them whenever I can. They give you every reason to stroll into a bookstore with purpose and a vague but rewarding sense of ambition.)

Tessa lent me her copy. Tessa doesn’t particularly like this book because the nameless heroine is so incredibly pathetic and since it is written in the first person, you get the full extent of her insecurity and feminine frailty. However, our protagonist has the most brilliantly odd imagination and also she wrote the book – so she must be slightly interesting. (When Tess heard my defense, she scoffed and responded, ‘No. It was Daphne du Maurier who wrote the book.” Which is true – but not the point.)

I understand perfectly why it is one of Kathryn’s favourites. I also understand why Tessa can’t stand it. I understand both of these partly because I know my friends very well. But also because it’s that sort of book. Clever, nauseating, very dated but always a classic.

It is gross and engrossing. 

It’s wonderful.

Our nameless narrator tells her sinister tale of falling in love with the wealthiest widower you’ve ever met. He is at least 20 years older than her. But he marries her neatly and brings her back to his massive mansion where they have servants and tea. His previous wife (who drowned) is Rebecca and she was beautiful and everyone loved her (maybe a bit too much) and the new little wifey feels she will forever exist in Rebecca’s glorious shadow, haunted by the perfect previous mistress.

There is a constant underlying creepiness throughout, aided by the ominous and (I think) semi-insane housekeeper, Mrs. Danvers. There is a lot of horticultural magnificence that goes on in this book. The weather and trees and plants are overwhelming.

Of course it sorts itself out. The end drags on a bit, but our heroine finally grows into herself and seems to mature. By ‘mature’ I mean she eventually becomes brave enough to boss the servants around and is no longer afraid of them. It takes a while, but she finally realizes she is in fact good enough to be an upper class snob. I sincerely mean it when I say, Good for Her!

But I thoroughly enjoyed despite seriously weird gendered and classist ongoings. Like any good British book, there is a lot of food and a faithful dog. Books with food are always good at Christmas.

the dispossessed.

Last night I finished Ursula Le Guin's classic novel of science fiction, 'The Dispossessed'. Whenever I finish one of Ursula Le Guin's novel, (oh! it is a glorious thing to write that name let alone say it aloud... by far the best science fiction author's name I have ever come across ever). Yes.

Whenever I finish one of Ursula Le Guin's (eeh!) novels, I am always slightly less than satisfied. Partly due to quiet shock that it's actually over. And partly because I think when your stories are that good and that epic and your name is Ursula Le Guin, you just have to choose a place to stop. And wherever you stop, it will always be a bit sad. (This is why, I think, Tolkien insisted on all those appendixes and whatnots).

'The Dispossessed' takes place in the same universe as the one in 'The Left Hand of Darkness', another book by Le Guin that is possibly my Favourite Science Fiction Book Ever. I have not written about it yet, which is bizarre. I talk about it a lot though. Anyway, 'The Dispossessed' takes place on an entirely different planet, actually, two planets. The plot bounces between happenings on the twin planets of Anarres and Urras.

Urras is not unlike our own world, capitalism and hierarchy and commerce and etc. On Urras, the evil 1% thrive pleasantly while most of the rest of the population slug away in poverty. (This is a crude, inaccurate summary but you get the picture). But 150 years before, a group of Anarchist revolutionaries, following the writings and philosophies of the female anarchist, Odo, leave Urras and colonize the twin planet of Anarres. Beginning an entirely new society based mutual aid, common humanity and an absolute lack of a single ruling power. All inhabitants are equal, free to do as they please and function in an absolute socialist volunteer type utopia that is not without its own problems but ultimately a very attractive society. Lots of clever and thought provoking stuff on politics, philosophy, humans, science, and all things interesting.

A young physicist, our protagonist, seeks to unite these two worlds and of course, fails. But it's still a really really really good book. I Googled it a bit and yes, it's a very clever book, that many other people (with important letters attached to the end of their names) have written books and essays about.

The problem with writing about science fiction is that unless someone has read the same book, you always sound like a bit of a tool or like someone who has entirely poor taste in literature. Because the author has spent a lot of time thinking up an entire universe. They have written a whole book describing the subtleties of the people, the language, the culture. Everything is set up very cleverly and you get drawn into a perfectly legitimate idea. But when you try and talk about said book to another, you sound bizarre. Unless you strapped your listener to a chair and talked for a very very long time explaining how the whole planet works, and who's who and what's what until your listener implodes from absolute boredom, they won't really understand what makes the book so incredibly good.

Which is why no one likes science fiction, except the people who read science fiction.

So I suggest you read it, so I don't have to strap you to a chair and bore you to death. If you want the first Thirteen Chapters, it's in the Anarchist Library: http://theanarchistlibrary.org/library/ursula-k-le-guin-the-dispossessed

'buckingham palace', district six

I haven't written in a while but I handed my thesis in about a month ago and I have decided to start blogging rigorously again in order to keep myself from spiraling into a dark deep pit of despair, also known as 'looking for a job'.

Today's book was written by Richard Rive in 1986 and follows the story of several characters living in District Six in Cape Town during the early 1960s before it was hit by the infamous and terrible Group Areas Act. Rive draws on his experience, mixing first person reflections on his childhood and third person narratives on various endearing characters who lived on the street he grew up in.

This book is naturally apart of my 'no white male authors for one year' decision but I got an extra kick out of this one because it is set in the city I live in. Once again I was struck by the thrill I always get from reading books that are set in my own country, something that doesn't happen often enough. Next year I think I may do a six month stint of only South African/African authors.

I get to empathize and envision so much more when I am familiar with the geography of a book and the geography in this book is important, something that is clear simply from the title. The references to Table Mountain, the descriptions of roads and routes and areas that I am familiar with made for bittersweet reading. Despite amusing anecdotes, it was sad to read about the forced removals not only because it always sad and wrong and outrageous to read almost anything that took place during Apartheid but also because I was reminded of how the Group Areas Act has had a long term affect on my city, one that is still not integrated to the degree it should be. (She writes cosily from her sweet little flat in white, safe Rosebank near the big safe University).

One thing that was bizarre about reading this book was that I had bought it from a second hand store near my parent's home in Durban. I assume it was a prescribed reading for a high school in the region because there many adolescent, pedantic notes written in the margin, in pen (various colours) that I can only assume were written by a studious and serious young girl who had recently discovered the term 'irony'. Almost every note in almost every margin are the words "IRONIC - humerous" - even when certain exchanges or lines were not particularly ironic.

The cover of the copy I have is a fantastic sketch of sorts and all in all, I thoroughly enjoyed reading this book. (Don't know how to end off, am so out of practice with this blogging thing that it's been quite difficult to write this, ok. I think this one was quite dull, no? Just going to stop now.)

walk to the end of the world.

I have decided to start up this blog of mine again... Partly because I am still reading books and I still like talking about them. And partly because I am waiting in an airport for another five hours. But enough of lapses and relapses. I have many thoughts on Suzy McKee Charnas' book, Walk to the End of the World. 

So since my last entry, I decided that this year of 2012 I would not read any books written by authors who are/were white and male. Some of my friends thought this was sexist and silly - they are entitled to that view. I just figured that I read so many white men and have been reading so many white men for so long, I just wanted to see what else there is. Find some new authors, discipline and possibly change some reading habits. And it has been really fantastic.

I broke my rule twice, which is ok because I made the rules so I can break them. I read Watchmen by Dave Gibbons and Alan Moore, which I allowed because it was a graphic novel. And I thoroughly enjoyed it. And I also broke my rule for Ray Bradbury's Fahrenheit 451. I felt compelled to read it because I've been living in America since January and will be here until the end of June, and it is such a famous American novel. And Ray Bradbury traditionally writes science fiction and things, and it was cheap and short. And somewhat disappointing. I shouldn't have broke my rule for it, it was good, but not worth breaking my rule. Ah well, so it goes.

Anyway, now for Walk to the End of the World. It's a long clunky title, one that I always forget. I bought this book online (a shocking and terrible habit to get into... it's just so much fun receiving things in the mail!), it is three books in one, under the heading of Radical Utopias. (Carrying three books in one is always nifty when travelling, I feel. Like an almost kindle, but considerably more archaic). I started with Suzy McKee Charnas' science fiction novel that does not really take place in what one would call a 'Utopia'. The driving idea behind the book however is pretty radical. And incredibly interesting.

The book is set in the post-apocalyptic world, where technology, greed and power of men has ultimately self imploded into nothingness, an event referred to as 'The Wasting'. The men who survived 'The Wasting' have constructed a new society where women (referred to as 'fems') are not regarded as human, but as animals and slaves to be used as men need them. The fems are made out to be so far below human, so repulsive that men ultimately take other men as lovers. Resulting in a society so segregated that heterosexuality is considered 'perverse'. It is strange and thought provoking.

And bleak. The society is militant and crude and full of horrifically awful things that are very normal and unsurprising to most of the men and women of that society. There is also a huge emphasis on the age barrier of young men and old men, yet another damaging and terrifying segregated mode of control. Men are forced to perform their manly duty for the society by spending a prescribed amount of time in the 'breeding rooms', which is the only reason fems are kept around, for reproductive purposes. It's pretty kooky and tricky to explain. But she explains the whole system pretty well, so it doesn't seem entirely kooky. That's the thing about making new worlds, if you give enough history, background and full in the bits and pieces, it's pretty believable.

What's interesting, is that the author really sticks to this idea. To the extent that you know almost nothing about the one female character. She has no voice in the book, because she has no voice in the society. Until the very last section. Each section is narrated in the third person, but from the view of a specific character. There are four main characters and the last section covers the only female character. Which is really what made me keep reading this desolate story. I was so curious about the mysterious supposedly voiceless female and had to wait till the very end to find out about her.

It was good and not good, in the sense that it seemed angrily depressing. I'm glad I read it, the idea and theory was fascinatingly weird, the conclusion  just as bleak as the concept with only the most optimistic of readers to interpret the last few pages as a hopeful ending.

This new genre that I have lately embarked on, of science fiction-fantasy that explores gender and feminism - it is really great. It is so refreshingly different to what I'm used to reading. And I'll happily stay here for a while, reading these books about new planets imagined by ladies from all over. Yes. It's great. I suggest you put down your white male author for a while and start looking elsewhere, he'll always be there when you're done...