I rarely discuss books here.
There is a reason for this. Books are an ubiquitous presence in my life. Talking about them with a convincing degree of reverence intact does seem stretched at this point. It is not like I am proclaiming myself to be widely read or trying to brag about my erudition here. It is just that, at this point I rarely come across a book that sustains my interest till the end. After a couple of pages, I will inevitably find the narrative slipping into a predictable mould and that would be the end of it.
But Disgrace by Coetzee has achieved some sort of a rare,singular distinction, given my erratic disposition and infinitesimally small attention span. It is one of those rare books that I have read twice - at one sitting without discarding it unceremoniously.
I remember the first time I read this book, I was in eleventh standard. It was a different time then- something that seems almost surreal in retrospect. There is this particular thing that going back in memory does to you. Even the most unpleasant of memories take on some sort of a delicate sheen, when viewed from the distance of a few years. This always comes with the risk of appearing too impersonal,with an underlying sense of subtle smugness. This comes from knowing that you have been through shit and conquered it with some amount of grace, that indeed looks laudable in retrospect.
There was me- all of sixteen years, a bespectacled nerdy teenager, fielding obstacles that looked insurmountable at that time but seems dismissively juvenile now. I was also battling serious academic issues which got worse by the time I was in twelfth standard.
The annual examinations were just about to commence. I had already failed in Maths and Physics in the internals. For all my inconsistencies , I managed to behave out of character by manifesting a startling level of consistency in the reckless way I failed most of the science subjects then. I had, by then steeled myself and learnt to look at such events as temporary outcomes that are necessary for sustainable growth in the future.
I was a rather refined optimist who was blessed with this exceptional quality to silently goad oneself on, even when things looked disastrously bleak. I never lost my cool, which did not go down well with the Mater who was literally tearing her hairs out, at my unwillingness to react more aptly to the dire situation I was in.
So on that day, I had shut myself up in my room while my mother raged on outside- a veritable tornado that did not show any signs of ceasing. This was the only book lying on the bed. My mother had taken care to remove all the non-academic books from my room. This one remained as a glaring reminder of how inefficient she had been in her task, I could not help but think at that point.
The next three hours passed in a haze. I drifted in an out of the narrative. Everything descended into an ominous silence once I was done. This book rendered any banal response to the world around me so despairingly obscene. I could not just sit still and not be shattered in the very depths of my being about what I had just read. Everything seemed so strange and unreal. The fact that I had failed in my internals did not seem as devastating to me as this book did. I was sixteen- not so well schooled about the ways of the world then. It understandably affected me in a far more visceral way than what it did today when I was reading it for the second time.
In the six and half years that have transpired in between, I have thought of this book many many times-on occasions when I have read some other book by Coetzee or come across some incident, that has really shaken me up in an uncomfortable way. i have however never discussed this book with anyone before. I just never felt comfortable about it. This book was so personally felt that it almost seemed like a transgression, to discuss it with any kind of added embellishment that comes in the name of literary criticism. I could never adopt the required neutral gaze that becomes necessary, when you have to come up with a nuanced critical argument. I could not measure out in sentences what this book exactly did for me. Herein lies the beauty of Coetezee's deliberations and the dexterity with which he wields every word. The glaring economy in the usage of words that promotes any sort of emotional excess, does precisely what it consciously tries to avoid- one is left grappling with emotions that are beyond one's control.
I do not think I have ever read a book as nightmarishly absorbing as this one. The grating diction opens up to you- speaks to you in a way, the only living can. Most other books gives in to the lure of conscious posturing by the author, who is always conscious of the fact that he is being assessed with every sentence that he pens down. Not this one. There is a certain degree of nakedness in the way the subject has been treated, which makes me want to fall in love with Coetzee over and over, again and again. I have never come across a more honest writer.
All of this, so that you go and read this book NOW, if you haven't already.
There is a reason for this. Books are an ubiquitous presence in my life. Talking about them with a convincing degree of reverence intact does seem stretched at this point. It is not like I am proclaiming myself to be widely read or trying to brag about my erudition here. It is just that, at this point I rarely come across a book that sustains my interest till the end. After a couple of pages, I will inevitably find the narrative slipping into a predictable mould and that would be the end of it.
But Disgrace by Coetzee has achieved some sort of a rare,singular distinction, given my erratic disposition and infinitesimally small attention span. It is one of those rare books that I have read twice - at one sitting without discarding it unceremoniously.
I remember the first time I read this book, I was in eleventh standard. It was a different time then- something that seems almost surreal in retrospect. There is this particular thing that going back in memory does to you. Even the most unpleasant of memories take on some sort of a delicate sheen, when viewed from the distance of a few years. This always comes with the risk of appearing too impersonal,with an underlying sense of subtle smugness. This comes from knowing that you have been through shit and conquered it with some amount of grace, that indeed looks laudable in retrospect.
There was me- all of sixteen years, a bespectacled nerdy teenager, fielding obstacles that looked insurmountable at that time but seems dismissively juvenile now. I was also battling serious academic issues which got worse by the time I was in twelfth standard.
The annual examinations were just about to commence. I had already failed in Maths and Physics in the internals. For all my inconsistencies , I managed to behave out of character by manifesting a startling level of consistency in the reckless way I failed most of the science subjects then. I had, by then steeled myself and learnt to look at such events as temporary outcomes that are necessary for sustainable growth in the future.
I was a rather refined optimist who was blessed with this exceptional quality to silently goad oneself on, even when things looked disastrously bleak. I never lost my cool, which did not go down well with the Mater who was literally tearing her hairs out, at my unwillingness to react more aptly to the dire situation I was in.
So on that day, I had shut myself up in my room while my mother raged on outside- a veritable tornado that did not show any signs of ceasing. This was the only book lying on the bed. My mother had taken care to remove all the non-academic books from my room. This one remained as a glaring reminder of how inefficient she had been in her task, I could not help but think at that point.
The next three hours passed in a haze. I drifted in an out of the narrative. Everything descended into an ominous silence once I was done. This book rendered any banal response to the world around me so despairingly obscene. I could not just sit still and not be shattered in the very depths of my being about what I had just read. Everything seemed so strange and unreal. The fact that I had failed in my internals did not seem as devastating to me as this book did. I was sixteen- not so well schooled about the ways of the world then. It understandably affected me in a far more visceral way than what it did today when I was reading it for the second time.
In the six and half years that have transpired in between, I have thought of this book many many times-on occasions when I have read some other book by Coetzee or come across some incident, that has really shaken me up in an uncomfortable way. i have however never discussed this book with anyone before. I just never felt comfortable about it. This book was so personally felt that it almost seemed like a transgression, to discuss it with any kind of added embellishment that comes in the name of literary criticism. I could never adopt the required neutral gaze that becomes necessary, when you have to come up with a nuanced critical argument. I could not measure out in sentences what this book exactly did for me. Herein lies the beauty of Coetezee's deliberations and the dexterity with which he wields every word. The glaring economy in the usage of words that promotes any sort of emotional excess, does precisely what it consciously tries to avoid- one is left grappling with emotions that are beyond one's control.
I do not think I have ever read a book as nightmarishly absorbing as this one. The grating diction opens up to you- speaks to you in a way, the only living can. Most other books gives in to the lure of conscious posturing by the author, who is always conscious of the fact that he is being assessed with every sentence that he pens down. Not this one. There is a certain degree of nakedness in the way the subject has been treated, which makes me want to fall in love with Coetzee over and over, again and again. I have never come across a more honest writer.
All of this, so that you go and read this book NOW, if you haven't already.
