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3.37 AVERAGE
3.37 AVERAGE
There are books that you need to read twice to penetrate beneath the surface. This is the case with "The Schooldays of Jesus", which I read for the first time five years ago and promptly forgot, as I do with books I don't like. I reread it by chance and this time, although I was not entirely satisfied with it, I received a different impression. The obvious parallel with the Christian Holy Family deviates more and more as the story goes on. Characters blur, morph into the background of the parable of the growth of St. Joseph/Simon, who eventually becomes the only one able to connect with the stars.
(Old review)
I'll be honest: I didn't understand anything. I didn't understand who are Simon, David and Ines, although I suppose, given the title of the novel, the fact that they say that those are not their real names, and being Simon a foster father, that there is a bland recall of the Holy Family. Then a Spanish speaking country like Egypt? Maybe. Sure that as a reincarnation of Child Jesus David is intolerable and very little iconographical. Even Ines as Holy Virgin leaves much to be desired, while Simon is more in character. So that history don't work, the characters are fake as a three euro coin, and it is unclear why Coetzee has felt the need to tell it. The tragedy is that it is written beautifully.
Thank Random House UK, Vintage Publishing and Netgalley for giving me a free copy in exchange for an honest review.
(Old review)
I'll be honest: I didn't understand anything. I didn't understand who are Simon, David and Ines, although I suppose, given the title of the novel, the fact that they say that those are not their real names, and being Simon a foster father, that there is a bland recall of the Holy Family. Then a Spanish speaking country like Egypt? Maybe. Sure that as a reincarnation of Child Jesus David is intolerable and very little iconographical. Even Ines as Holy Virgin leaves much to be desired, while Simon is more in character. So that history don't work, the characters are fake as a three euro coin, and it is unclear why Coetzee has felt the need to tell it. The tragedy is that it is written beautifully.
Thank Random House UK, Vintage Publishing and Netgalley for giving me a free copy in exchange for an honest review.
Pig in a poke...
After fleeing from Novilla at the end of the last book, Simón, Davíd and Inés arrive in Estrella. While there, Simón will agonise endlessly over how to get a decent education for Davíd, Inés will get a job in a dress shop, and Davíd will become even more obnoxious than he was in The Childhood of Jesus. The pseudo-religious symbolism will be replaced by a load of pseudo-mumbo-jumbo about numbers. And the hollowness of book 1 will turn into a vacuous vacuum in this one.
When I slated [b:The Childhood of Jesus|15799416|The Childhood of Jesus|J.M. Coetzee|https://images.gr-assets.com/books/1353033238s/15799416.jpg|21522388] for being essentially empty of all meaning, many Coetzee fans told me not to give up on him – they assured me that really he was a wonderful, intelligent writer with plenty to say. So I gave him a second chance. I find it hard to believe, but this book is actually even more meaningless and shallow than the previous one. If ever there were a case of the emperor's new clothes, this is it – Mr Coetzee is running naked through the streets, hoping people will still think he's dressed in robes of gold and purple. Ironic really, since if this book does have a point, it is that the people of this strange country in which our tedious trio have washed up seem willing to worship Davíd despite him being an obnoxious and rather unintelligent spoiled little brat, who frankly should have been sent to bed with no supper at the end of chapter 1, book 1, and not allowed out till he apologised for existing.
Since this is a sequel, the following paragraphs will contain some mild spoilers for the first book.
At the end of The Childhood, it was left with Davíd and his surrogate parents fleeing Novilla because the authorities there wanted to put Davíd in some kind of institution, considering his behaviour disruptive. The suggestion, subtly given in the title, was that Davíd was some kind of Messiah, perhaps even actually Jesus, and as he fled he began to pick up followers who recognised his frequently touted but never shown exceptionality. This second book promptly drops all that, and drops other “important” symbolism from book 1 too, such as Inés, the virgin mother in The Childhood, now apparently being a sexually experienced woman (without having had sex in the interim I might add – miraculous!).
Simón, devoted to Davíd and convinced of his exceptionalism in book 1, is now finding that the child is simply difficult – something I feel the rest of us had worked out long before. Davíd shows no affection for these adults who have cared for him and promptly demands to become a boarder at his new school, where they are teaching the children how to call down numbers from the stars via dance. (That sentence alone should surely be enough of a warning to avoid the book at all costs.) Davíd instead gives his love to a weird caretaker, whose main attraction seems to be that he shows the schoolboys lewd pictures of women. But things all go horribly wrong and we have some jejune philosophising on justice and rehabilitation. After avoiding the overt but silly religious symbolism of the first book throughout nearly all of this one, Coetzee then reverts to what must surely be mockery by having Davíd offering redemption if only people would believe in him.
It is readable because Coetzee is a good storyteller. He manages to create a constant impression that he's just about to say something meaningful, which keeps the reader turning the pages in hope. But sadly he has nothing meaningful to say, so he fills the space with a lot of pseudo-philosophical absurdity, occasionally humorous but always with a kind of supercilious sneer hidden not very thoroughly between the lines. When discussing book 1 with a fellow reviewer, I joked that Coetzee was probably having a good laugh at all the thousands of people vainly trying to find a coherent meaning in the novel – the joke's on me for being daft enough to read book 2! Ugh! Needless to say, it was longlisted for the 2016 Booker... an institution always willing to see gorgeous robes where none exist, so long as the emperor has a well-known name. 1½ stars for me, so rounded up.
NB This book was provided for review by the publisher, Random House Vintage.
www.fictionfanblog.wordpress.com
After fleeing from Novilla at the end of the last book, Simón, Davíd and Inés arrive in Estrella. While there, Simón will agonise endlessly over how to get a decent education for Davíd, Inés will get a job in a dress shop, and Davíd will become even more obnoxious than he was in The Childhood of Jesus. The pseudo-religious symbolism will be replaced by a load of pseudo-mumbo-jumbo about numbers. And the hollowness of book 1 will turn into a vacuous vacuum in this one.
When I slated [b:The Childhood of Jesus|15799416|The Childhood of Jesus|J.M. Coetzee|https://images.gr-assets.com/books/1353033238s/15799416.jpg|21522388] for being essentially empty of all meaning, many Coetzee fans told me not to give up on him – they assured me that really he was a wonderful, intelligent writer with plenty to say. So I gave him a second chance. I find it hard to believe, but this book is actually even more meaningless and shallow than the previous one. If ever there were a case of the emperor's new clothes, this is it – Mr Coetzee is running naked through the streets, hoping people will still think he's dressed in robes of gold and purple. Ironic really, since if this book does have a point, it is that the people of this strange country in which our tedious trio have washed up seem willing to worship Davíd despite him being an obnoxious and rather unintelligent spoiled little brat, who frankly should have been sent to bed with no supper at the end of chapter 1, book 1, and not allowed out till he apologised for existing.
Since this is a sequel, the following paragraphs will contain some mild spoilers for the first book.
At the end of The Childhood, it was left with Davíd and his surrogate parents fleeing Novilla because the authorities there wanted to put Davíd in some kind of institution, considering his behaviour disruptive. The suggestion, subtly given in the title, was that Davíd was some kind of Messiah, perhaps even actually Jesus, and as he fled he began to pick up followers who recognised his frequently touted but never shown exceptionality. This second book promptly drops all that, and drops other “important” symbolism from book 1 too, such as Inés, the virgin mother in The Childhood, now apparently being a sexually experienced woman (without having had sex in the interim I might add – miraculous!).
Simón, devoted to Davíd and convinced of his exceptionalism in book 1, is now finding that the child is simply difficult – something I feel the rest of us had worked out long before. Davíd shows no affection for these adults who have cared for him and promptly demands to become a boarder at his new school, where they are teaching the children how to call down numbers from the stars via dance. (That sentence alone should surely be enough of a warning to avoid the book at all costs.) Davíd instead gives his love to a weird caretaker, whose main attraction seems to be that he shows the schoolboys lewd pictures of women. But things all go horribly wrong and we have some jejune philosophising on justice and rehabilitation. After avoiding the overt but silly religious symbolism of the first book throughout nearly all of this one, Coetzee then reverts to what must surely be mockery by having Davíd offering redemption if only people would believe in him.
It is readable because Coetzee is a good storyteller. He manages to create a constant impression that he's just about to say something meaningful, which keeps the reader turning the pages in hope. But sadly he has nothing meaningful to say, so he fills the space with a lot of pseudo-philosophical absurdity, occasionally humorous but always with a kind of supercilious sneer hidden not very thoroughly between the lines. When discussing book 1 with a fellow reviewer, I joked that Coetzee was probably having a good laugh at all the thousands of people vainly trying to find a coherent meaning in the novel – the joke's on me for being daft enough to read book 2! Ugh! Needless to say, it was longlisted for the 2016 Booker... an institution always willing to see gorgeous robes where none exist, so long as the emperor has a well-known name. 1½ stars for me, so rounded up.
NB This book was provided for review by the publisher, Random House Vintage.
www.fictionfanblog.wordpress.com
The agony goes on, even on this part, that I sadly have to consider not even the last one; David keeps on being insufferable, Ines hysteric and Simon doesn't even know what is he going to do from one minute to the other. As far as the metaphor goes, I'm still thinking who is Dimitri supposed to represent.
L'agonia prosegue anche in questo secondo libro, che devo tristemente ritenere non sia nemmeno l'ultimo; David continua ad essere insopportabile, Ines isterica e Simon brancola nel buio. Per quanto riguarda la metafora con la vita di Gesú, mi sto ancora chiedendo chi dovrebbe rappresentare Dimitri.
THANKS TO NETGALLEY FOR THE PREVIEW!
L'agonia prosegue anche in questo secondo libro, che devo tristemente ritenere non sia nemmeno l'ultimo; David continua ad essere insopportabile, Ines isterica e Simon brancola nel buio. Per quanto riguarda la metafora con la vita di Gesú, mi sto ancora chiedendo chi dovrebbe rappresentare Dimitri.
THANKS TO NETGALLEY FOR THE PREVIEW!
A very long time ago, in what seems like another life, in some sort of writing class, the professor singled out one of my answers on a test. She had me stand in front of the class and read it out loud. She said my answer "filled the cup"; I had poured in just the right amount of tea (these last are my words now, not hers then). Not too little, not too much. I think that Coetzee is a master at this. All of his novels are about 250 pages long, with just the right amount of chapters, just the right amount of sentences, just the right amount of words, with just the right amount of suspense, and with just the right amount of mystery.
In my review of The Childhood of Jesus, I wondered what exactly I had just read, indeed about the very nature of the book. The answer now (after having read the rest of Coetzee's oeuvre in the meantime) seems obvious: it is simply a book, within which live imagined characters. And behind that simple answer there hides a whole universe: the universe created by the book.
On the surface, we are talking about the education of a young boy, a young boy who refuses to see things the way his teachers (and other "normal" people) see things, a young boy who refuses to count properly (I had completely forgotten the question of numbers from The Childhood of Jesus; it has been 9 years). And so he goes to an Academy of Dance, where numbers can be danced, indeed whole ideas can be danced; where the stars are not just faraway light-emitting objects, but something much more mysterious; and so he has found his non-measurable mojo. But under the surface of any Coetzee book is violence, violence that rips holes in the world. And how do you foresee that; how do you measure that; how do you forgive that?
But it's also about the education of a man (a character in a book?) who wants to know why he is here (in this book?), who perhaps starts to get the idea he is made of words, and so is "learning to write" (176), who only sees "what is before my eyes" (253), who lacks passion, who lacks imagination, who wants to shake but can't be shook, and finally decides, perhaps, yes, "I will behold the world as it really is" (257).
In my review of The Childhood of Jesus, I wondered what exactly I had just read, indeed about the very nature of the book. The answer now (after having read the rest of Coetzee's oeuvre in the meantime) seems obvious: it is simply a book, within which live imagined characters. And behind that simple answer there hides a whole universe: the universe created by the book.
On the surface, we are talking about the education of a young boy, a young boy who refuses to see things the way his teachers (and other "normal" people) see things, a young boy who refuses to count properly (I had completely forgotten the question of numbers from The Childhood of Jesus; it has been 9 years). And so he goes to an Academy of Dance, where numbers can be danced, indeed whole ideas can be danced; where the stars are not just faraway light-emitting objects, but something much more mysterious; and so he has found his non-measurable mojo. But under the surface of any Coetzee book is violence, violence that rips holes in the world. And how do you foresee that; how do you measure that; how do you forgive that?
But it's also about the education of a man (a character in a book?) who wants to know why he is here (in this book?), who perhaps starts to get the idea he is made of words, and so is "learning to write" (176), who only sees "what is before my eyes" (253), who lacks passion, who lacks imagination, who wants to shake but can't be shook, and finally decides, perhaps, yes, "I will behold the world as it really is" (257).
What. Just. Happened?
I've been trying to get my hands on as many Man Booker 2016 books, and this one was on the longlist so I thought to give it a shot. Bad idea.
Despite this being a sequel to [b:The Childhood of Jesus|15799416|The Childhood of Jesus|J.M. Coetzee|https://d2arxad8u2l0g7.cloudfront.net/books/1353033238s/15799416.jpg|21522388] the characters refer to the past often enough for the unaware reader to go into the book well-informed.
The trouble is, it's hard to fathom what this book is about. The main characters, Simon, Ines and David are a troubled family, brought together under unusual circumstances. Yet, they do not get along, do not like each other and don't have the same goals. I don't know how the first book went, but in this one David is the most insufferable child ever to exist in any literature I've read. I'd accept if the author was able to label him with some kind of autism, but since he doesn't, all David comes across as is an ungrateful bully! The fact that he's so militant to two people who have kindly taken his care upon them and aren't biologically related to him at all makes him an even worse creature.
I take it this book is supposed to be some kind of allegory, but it sure doesn't read like it. An allegory would have some basis in reality, yet all the supposed talk about dance doesn't add up to anything. Maybe it will in future parts, but in this story it's just annoying page fillers, and more unnecessary reason for David to be a brat.
If there was a message in this book, it never sees light of day. The unconventionality of this nuclear family doesn't extend beyond them not sharing a blood relationship. Aside from that, Ines stays home and cooks, and even when she gets a job she cooks. Simon is the protagonist who gets to suffer existential crises, while Ines is just a cardboard cutout in the background. And there's David, but... let's not go there. Ever.
Coetzee, for all the hype, still loves trawling through old tropes. The dance academy David is sent to has the world's most perfect white woman heading it, and her husband - old and looking it. Also, sexual assault is used as a plotline to further the cause of male characters. The author also seems unaware of the old adage 'If I can't have her, no one can', because a large section of the court scene in the third act involves the judge decrying the fact that the accused did assault and kill the object of his desire, because that's totally not what one would do to someone they 'love'. *EPIC EYE ROLL*
Honestly, what is the point of this book? What's it trying to say? Childhood is hard; parenting is hard; dancing is hard; life sucks - jeez, no s**t, Sherlock.
This must be a particularly poor year in the UK literary scene, because the Booker longlist nominees have been utter disasters for the most part. The problem with this one is that it's so annoying that you don't have time to ponder how overly pretentious, tedious and pointless it is. That comes after the fact.
Also, the weird tick of always referring to Simon as 'he, Simon', or 'him, Simon' began to grate at the second mention of it. Why couldn't the author just have written Simon, why the clarification of 'he, Simon' - what a waste of space.
I'd write more about how this book was a 200-page waste of time, but then I'd be repeating myself. Just... don't with this book.
I've been trying to get my hands on as many Man Booker 2016 books, and this one was on the longlist so I thought to give it a shot. Bad idea.
Despite this being a sequel to [b:The Childhood of Jesus|15799416|The Childhood of Jesus|J.M. Coetzee|https://d2arxad8u2l0g7.cloudfront.net/books/1353033238s/15799416.jpg|21522388] the characters refer to the past often enough for the unaware reader to go into the book well-informed.
The trouble is, it's hard to fathom what this book is about. The main characters, Simon, Ines and David are a troubled family, brought together under unusual circumstances. Yet, they do not get along, do not like each other and don't have the same goals. I don't know how the first book went, but in this one David is the most insufferable child ever to exist in any literature I've read. I'd accept if the author was able to label him with some kind of autism, but since he doesn't, all David comes across as is an ungrateful bully! The fact that he's so militant to two people who have kindly taken his care upon them and aren't biologically related to him at all makes him an even worse creature.
I take it this book is supposed to be some kind of allegory, but it sure doesn't read like it. An allegory would have some basis in reality, yet all the supposed talk about dance doesn't add up to anything. Maybe it will in future parts, but in this story it's just annoying page fillers, and more unnecessary reason for David to be a brat.
If there was a message in this book, it never sees light of day. The unconventionality of this nuclear family doesn't extend beyond them not sharing a blood relationship. Aside from that, Ines stays home and cooks, and even when she gets a job she cooks. Simon is the protagonist who gets to suffer existential crises, while Ines is just a cardboard cutout in the background. And there's David, but... let's not go there. Ever.
Coetzee, for all the hype, still loves trawling through old tropes. The dance academy David is sent to has the world's most perfect white woman heading it, and her husband - old and looking it. Also, sexual assault is used as a plotline to further the cause of male characters. The author also seems unaware of the old adage 'If I can't have her, no one can', because a large section of the court scene in the third act involves the judge decrying the fact that the accused did assault and kill the object of his desire, because that's totally not what one would do to someone they 'love'. *EPIC EYE ROLL*
Honestly, what is the point of this book? What's it trying to say? Childhood is hard; parenting is hard; dancing is hard; life sucks - jeez, no s**t, Sherlock.
This must be a particularly poor year in the UK literary scene, because the Booker longlist nominees have been utter disasters for the most part. The problem with this one is that it's so annoying that you don't have time to ponder how overly pretentious, tedious and pointless it is. That comes after the fact.
Also, the weird tick of always referring to Simon as 'he, Simon', or 'him, Simon' began to grate at the second mention of it. Why couldn't the author just have written Simon, why the clarification of 'he, Simon' - what a waste of space.
I'd write more about how this book was a 200-page waste of time, but then I'd be repeating myself. Just... don't with this book.
It's been pointed out to me that this isn't the best place to start with Coetzee. Not just because this is the second book in a planned trilogy (the first novel being The Childhood of Jesus) but because Coetzee, with his long, distinguished, Nobel Prize winning career has written many a fine novel and this particular one - The Schooldays of Jesus - is not one of his best. And that might be the case, this might be lesser Coetzee. I still enjoyed it though.
Because it is the second novel of a series, I skimmed the plot synopsis for The Childhood of Jesus. The important points are that Simon, on a boat travelling to Novilla, comes across David - not his real name - a five year old for boy who is travelling to the city to find his mother. At some point in the novel Simon and David meet Ines (I believe she's playing tennis at the time) and David decides that this woman is his mother. After some toing and froing Ines is convinced of this as well and when the authorities want to send David to school, all three decide to escape to the adjoining town, Estrella. And it's in Estrella where the bulk of the action of The Schooldays of Jesus takes place.
In his review of The Childhood of Jesus, Benjamin Markovits describes the setting of Novilla as a theatre stage. The same description can be applied to Estrella. There's something flimsy and unreal about this small town and not just because it's never made clear where Estrella is actually located - though the mother tongue would appear to be Spanish. More then that, it's hard to put a finger on when (temporally) this book is set. People have cars and there are phones, but no-one seems to watch or own TVs, there's very little technology on display. Discussions about the stars and the philosophy of numbers have an almost mystical quality and while there is an institution called the Atom School where they teach kids to look at atoms through a microscope, this is a society that - in terms of astronomy - seems stuck on the notion of the Spheres. It's a muddle. But entirely deliberate. Coetzee is clearly not interested in world-building or creating a place that feels remotely real. Rather the setting is an ephemeral reflection of the character discussions around morals, ethics and the passions.
In Estrella Ines and Simon decide that inspite of their fears they need to deal with David's education. They don't want to send him to a State school because they're concerned (a) that the authorities will take David away from them and (b) David doesn't jibe well with traditional teaching methods. When a tutor fails to engage David it's suggested that he be sent to one of the Academies - Dance or Music. The Academy of Dance is chosen and three sisters enraptured by this precocious and otherworldly six year old agree to pay for his education. At this point we are introduced to the beautiful - angelic - dancer Ana Magdalena and her enigmatic husband Senor Arroyo. And let's not forget Dimitri. A caretaker for the museum next door who has an unhealthy obsession for dear Ana.
This is a book of ideas, a book that puts philosophy ahead of plot, it's also a character piece about parenthood and fatherhood. Simon, as our point of view character, deals with the frustration of not understanding the anarchic thought processes of his adopted son. The relationship between David and Simon is key to the novel. For all the philosophical posturing around numerology and the passions, for all the literary allusions that went right over my head, this push / pull bond between a confused adult and a highly intelligent six year old is the heart of the novel. Simon's desire to do best for David, even - and especially - when David is rejecting him, seeking attention from Ana and her husband and Dimitri, is the consistent thread that keeps the hazy aspects of the book together. The highlight are the discussions Simon has with David in regard to passion, in regard to love, in regard to violence and tragedy.
Maybe this isn't Coetzee at his best. But it is a very smart and human and compassionate novel. I look forward to see where he takes David, Simon and Ines next.
Because it is the second novel of a series, I skimmed the plot synopsis for The Childhood of Jesus. The important points are that Simon, on a boat travelling to Novilla, comes across David - not his real name - a five year old for boy who is travelling to the city to find his mother. At some point in the novel Simon and David meet Ines (I believe she's playing tennis at the time) and David decides that this woman is his mother. After some toing and froing Ines is convinced of this as well and when the authorities want to send David to school, all three decide to escape to the adjoining town, Estrella. And it's in Estrella where the bulk of the action of The Schooldays of Jesus takes place.
In his review of The Childhood of Jesus, Benjamin Markovits describes the setting of Novilla as a theatre stage. The same description can be applied to Estrella. There's something flimsy and unreal about this small town and not just because it's never made clear where Estrella is actually located - though the mother tongue would appear to be Spanish. More then that, it's hard to put a finger on when (temporally) this book is set. People have cars and there are phones, but no-one seems to watch or own TVs, there's very little technology on display. Discussions about the stars and the philosophy of numbers have an almost mystical quality and while there is an institution called the Atom School where they teach kids to look at atoms through a microscope, this is a society that - in terms of astronomy - seems stuck on the notion of the Spheres. It's a muddle. But entirely deliberate. Coetzee is clearly not interested in world-building or creating a place that feels remotely real. Rather the setting is an ephemeral reflection of the character discussions around morals, ethics and the passions.
In Estrella Ines and Simon decide that inspite of their fears they need to deal with David's education. They don't want to send him to a State school because they're concerned (a) that the authorities will take David away from them and (b) David doesn't jibe well with traditional teaching methods. When a tutor fails to engage David it's suggested that he be sent to one of the Academies - Dance or Music. The Academy of Dance is chosen and three sisters enraptured by this precocious and otherworldly six year old agree to pay for his education. At this point we are introduced to the beautiful - angelic - dancer Ana Magdalena and her enigmatic husband Senor Arroyo. And let's not forget Dimitri. A caretaker for the museum next door who has an unhealthy obsession for dear Ana.
This is a book of ideas, a book that puts philosophy ahead of plot, it's also a character piece about parenthood and fatherhood. Simon, as our point of view character, deals with the frustration of not understanding the anarchic thought processes of his adopted son. The relationship between David and Simon is key to the novel. For all the philosophical posturing around numerology and the passions, for all the literary allusions that went right over my head, this push / pull bond between a confused adult and a highly intelligent six year old is the heart of the novel. Simon's desire to do best for David, even - and especially - when David is rejecting him, seeking attention from Ana and her husband and Dimitri, is the consistent thread that keeps the hazy aspects of the book together. The highlight are the discussions Simon has with David in regard to passion, in regard to love, in regard to violence and tragedy.
Maybe this isn't Coetzee at his best. But it is a very smart and human and compassionate novel. I look forward to see where he takes David, Simon and Ines next.
A brilliant novel of ideas, but hard to engage without those ideas.
medium-paced
What an incredibly strange novel. I'd recommend it, simply because you probably won't read anything else like it, but be aware that it's quite the trip.
Before I continue, let me just say this: I'm sure this book is some sort of allegory, or perhaps even a parable of some kind, but I have literally *just* finished it and have not thought about it at all. I look forward to doing so, though, after I put my initial thoughts on paper...I feel like this is one of those books that can be read in many ways.
Simón (the narrator) and Inés have taken charge of six-year-old Davíd, a precocious, strong-willed and highly intelligent child. He is sensitive and curious, but also hard to handle: several characters along the way call him "wild" and suggest he needs to be "reined in." It is not clear what Simón and Inés' exact relationship to Davíd is, but Coetzee makes it clear that that's unimportant, because memory, narrative, and actual history often run together, making it difficult to differentiate between them and determine which is which. What matters, Coetzee seems to suggest, is what feels true. And for the duration of the story, the thing that feels truer than anything else is Davíd's extraordinariness and the strange pull of the Academy of Dance.
As soon as Davíd and his parents meet Ana Magdalena at her Academy of Dance, you know something is truly off. This is probably one of the things I enjoyed most about this book: you know something is just not right, but you don't know HOW you know - you just feel it (it feels true, so to speak). It always amazes me when writers manage to do that - make you feel something without explicitly spelling anything out for you.
Anyway, the Academy of Dance is strange, and not in the least because of its unusual pedagogy. I won't say too much because I don't want to give anything away, but suffice it to say that if I were a parent and met the unusual cast of characters that hangs around the school (Alyosha, anyone? WHAT is going on there?!) I would *not* send my child there, ever.
For Davíd, however, the school holds an unusual appeal. As Davíd continues at the school, his behavior becomes stranger, harder to manage, and his incessant questions sometimes exasperate Simón (and the reader, if I might add. Though I was impressed by Simón's patience!). I won't say more other than that Simón's uneasiness about the school is eventually justified...but the story does not end there.
What I loved most about this book, as I said before, is its strangeness: Coetzee fully commits to this bizarre world, which feels like our every-day reality has been tilted, if only slightly. I don't know how he does that, but the experience as a reader is uneasy and highly compelling. Once I started reading (and got through the first two chapters or so), I didn't want to put it down.
The only reason I'm not giving it four stars is that I'm a huge fan of character-driven novels, and this is not one of those. That's a personal preference, though. Oh, and as a side note to that: I have a huge aversion to books that are merely trying to be clever; books that seem to be exercises in stylistic innovation. Let me say now: this is NOT one of those books. While I prefer books that are a bit more character-driven, I still really enjoyed this because the plot is so unusual. In other words: the strangeness of this books stems from the plot, not from its style. There is no trickery here (other than the allegorical aspect that I have yet to discover).
As I finished reading, I thought back to something Simón tells Davíd in one of the first chapters, when they're talking about memory:
"Is it true? I don't know. It feels true to me. The more often I tell it to myself, the truer it feels" (19).
And with that, I have a lot left to think about. What an interesting book.
Before I continue, let me just say this: I'm sure this book is some sort of allegory, or perhaps even a parable of some kind, but I have literally *just* finished it and have not thought about it at all. I look forward to doing so, though, after I put my initial thoughts on paper...I feel like this is one of those books that can be read in many ways.
Simón (the narrator) and Inés have taken charge of six-year-old Davíd, a precocious, strong-willed and highly intelligent child. He is sensitive and curious, but also hard to handle: several characters along the way call him "wild" and suggest he needs to be "reined in." It is not clear what Simón and Inés' exact relationship to Davíd is, but Coetzee makes it clear that that's unimportant, because memory, narrative, and actual history often run together, making it difficult to differentiate between them and determine which is which. What matters, Coetzee seems to suggest, is what feels true. And for the duration of the story, the thing that feels truer than anything else is Davíd's extraordinariness and the strange pull of the Academy of Dance.
As soon as Davíd and his parents meet Ana Magdalena at her Academy of Dance, you know something is truly off. This is probably one of the things I enjoyed most about this book: you know something is just not right, but you don't know HOW you know - you just feel it (it feels true, so to speak). It always amazes me when writers manage to do that - make you feel something without explicitly spelling anything out for you.
Anyway, the Academy of Dance is strange, and not in the least because of its unusual pedagogy. I won't say too much because I don't want to give anything away, but suffice it to say that if I were a parent and met the unusual cast of characters that hangs around the school (Alyosha, anyone? WHAT is going on there?!) I would *not* send my child there, ever.
For Davíd, however, the school holds an unusual appeal. As Davíd continues at the school, his behavior becomes stranger, harder to manage, and his incessant questions sometimes exasperate Simón (and the reader, if I might add. Though I was impressed by Simón's patience!). I won't say more other than that Simón's uneasiness about the school is eventually justified...but the story does not end there.
What I loved most about this book, as I said before, is its strangeness: Coetzee fully commits to this bizarre world, which feels like our every-day reality has been tilted, if only slightly. I don't know how he does that, but the experience as a reader is uneasy and highly compelling. Once I started reading (and got through the first two chapters or so), I didn't want to put it down.
The only reason I'm not giving it four stars is that I'm a huge fan of character-driven novels, and this is not one of those. That's a personal preference, though. Oh, and as a side note to that: I have a huge aversion to books that are merely trying to be clever; books that seem to be exercises in stylistic innovation. Let me say now: this is NOT one of those books. While I prefer books that are a bit more character-driven, I still really enjoyed this because the plot is so unusual. In other words: the strangeness of this books stems from the plot, not from its style. There is no trickery here (other than the allegorical aspect that I have yet to discover).
As I finished reading, I thought back to something Simón tells Davíd in one of the first chapters, when they're talking about memory:
"Is it true? I don't know. It feels true to me. The more often I tell it to myself, the truer it feels" (19).
And with that, I have a lot left to think about. What an interesting book.
Gabriel Garcia Marquez meets Fyodor Dostoevsky.
Davíd arrived on a boat that came across the sea of forgetfulness. This happens to everyone; they pass from one life to the next and have only the vaguest memory of having had a previous life, with different parents, in a different place. Davíd's mother and father did not come, so he was taken under the wing of Simón and Inés, who also had drifted together in the confusion and perplexity of the journey. They are not his parents and do not pretend to be. They are not a couple and do not pretend to be. Inés is deeply suspicious of passion. Simón is a literalist with little imagination but a big heart. And Davíd is a six-year-old ("almost seven!") who asks lots and lots and lots of questions.
As he is nearly seven, it is time for Davíd to go to school. But which should they choose? Davíd sings beautifully but does not wish to enter the Acadamy of Music. He is bright and it is felt that the public schools may not challenge him enough. They are also fugitives from the law because they are not Davíd's true parents and fear that he might be recognized in that setting. This leaves the Acadamy of Dance, of which Davíd is skeptical, but they are running out of options, and at the interview he becomes enthralled with Ana Magdalena Arroyo, who will be his teacher. Usually somewhat truculent and used to having his own way, Davíd is markedly subdued and pliant in her presence; it is decided, he will attend the Academy of Dance.
But not is all as it appears at the Academy, and soon everything will change and grow more confusing for little Davíd, who will continue to incessantly ask questions about the why of it and how everything works. He is particularly interested in the workings of passion in adult humans. A crime is committed which must be expiated, but about which there must be a great deal of talk first.
I will admit this is a book I admired a great deal more than I enjoyed. I would label this magical realism if I had to choose a name for it. It is also deeply allegorical, though the title leaves little doubt what the allegory is. It is clever and sweet and charming. It is disarming in its simplicity. But in fact very little happens in a traditional sense, and there really is quite a bit of philosophizing and navel-gazing. And, as noted above, Davíd is a veritable font of questions; typical for a six-year-old, no doubt, but sometimes it gets to be a bit much. Simón clearly has more patience than I do (though it is not inexhaustible).
Still, this is a fine book of its type and I intend to pick up the other two volumes of this trilogy when I get a chance. If you wonder why, please don't ask.
Davíd arrived on a boat that came across the sea of forgetfulness. This happens to everyone; they pass from one life to the next and have only the vaguest memory of having had a previous life, with different parents, in a different place. Davíd's mother and father did not come, so he was taken under the wing of Simón and Inés, who also had drifted together in the confusion and perplexity of the journey. They are not his parents and do not pretend to be. They are not a couple and do not pretend to be. Inés is deeply suspicious of passion. Simón is a literalist with little imagination but a big heart. And Davíd is a six-year-old ("almost seven!") who asks lots and lots and lots of questions.
As he is nearly seven, it is time for Davíd to go to school. But which should they choose? Davíd sings beautifully but does not wish to enter the Acadamy of Music. He is bright and it is felt that the public schools may not challenge him enough. They are also fugitives from the law because they are not Davíd's true parents and fear that he might be recognized in that setting. This leaves the Acadamy of Dance, of which Davíd is skeptical, but they are running out of options, and at the interview he becomes enthralled with Ana Magdalena Arroyo, who will be his teacher. Usually somewhat truculent and used to having his own way, Davíd is markedly subdued and pliant in her presence; it is decided, he will attend the Academy of Dance.
But not is all as it appears at the Academy, and soon everything will change and grow more confusing for little Davíd, who will continue to incessantly ask questions about the why of it and how everything works. He is particularly interested in the workings of passion in adult humans. A crime is committed which must be expiated, but about which there must be a great deal of talk first.
I will admit this is a book I admired a great deal more than I enjoyed. I would label this magical realism if I had to choose a name for it. It is also deeply allegorical, though the title leaves little doubt what the allegory is. It is clever and sweet and charming. It is disarming in its simplicity. But in fact very little happens in a traditional sense, and there really is quite a bit of philosophizing and navel-gazing. And, as noted above, Davíd is a veritable font of questions; typical for a six-year-old, no doubt, but sometimes it gets to be a bit much. Simón clearly has more patience than I do (though it is not inexhaustible).
Still, this is a fine book of its type and I intend to pick up the other two volumes of this trilogy when I get a chance. If you wonder why, please don't ask.