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flaimiam's review
adventurous
mysterious
fast-paced
- Plot- or character-driven? A mix
- Strong character development? Yes
- Loveable characters? It's complicated
- Diverse cast of characters? No
- Flaws of characters a main focus? Yes
4.0
really beautifully written, even the lists added to the atmosphere. lots of allegorical potential but even without too much thought its a swirling ride of fantasy and disbelief. It’s also pretty funny in the beginning.
audreyvm's review
5.0
Twelve hours after I first picked up The Folly, I was bouncing on the bed next to my ever-patient husband. ‘Do you want to know what my favourite sentence is?’
The look on his face said that he didn’t, but he heard it anyway. I’d copied so many beautiful strings of words into my notebook that I had to share them. Instead of retyping them all here, let me just strongly suggest that you read the book.
I’ll admit to not knowing what to expect when I picked the book up. It’s a South African novel, first published in 1993, so politics, probably? But while The Folly can certainly be read as a political allegory, the story is a universal one, not reliant on the South African backdrop for its appeal. Its premise is simple. A stranger (Nieuwenhuizen, or ‘new house’ in Afrikaans) settles on a vacant lot with a plan to build a house. Next door live a middle aged couple, Mr and Mrs Malgas, who become fascinated by his presence; Mr (they refer to each other by title alone) is intrigued by the possibilities and Mrs repulsed by the disturbance to their lives. The house – the folly – ends up being constructed only in the minds of the men, and ultimately the whole fantastic edifice will collapse around them.
So yes, this can be read as an allegory to apartheid, that towering structure of legalized discrimination which was toppling as the book was written. More than that, it can be seen as scathing indictment of any of the political or personal fantasies we erect to feed our own importance, and one that feels just as relevant today as it must have twenty years ago.
Vladislavic has a mastery of language. He plays with sounds, often using alliteration and assonance to bring poetry into his writing and to turn conversation into a balloon, passed back and forth between the participants. One night we are told that the two men’s conversation moved from hardware to ‘wallpaper, sandpaper, zinc, sink, sank, surfaced again into the niceties of skinning a cat, dropped off, slid in slow motion through spec housing […] found themselves talking about the weather’. On another day, as they battle the earth, sketching out the plan with nails, the verbs become military: ‘soldiered’, ‘discharged’, ‘reloaded’, ‘broached’. There is no lazy writing here; each word has been carefully selected to serve its purpose.
Things, people’s relationships to them, and they way that they are used to give a sense of safety and belonging are crucial to the novel. All of the characters at one point or another make lists and use them to assert their dominance over the world around them. Mrs. Malgas’ character is perfectly conveyed when, overwhelmed by the strangeness of events, she turns to her ‘prize knick-knack cabinet’ for relief. ‘In the end it was a glass paperweight with a guinea fowl aflutter in its heart that spoke to her’.
The three characters in the novel each have their role to play in the broader allegorical purpose of the book, but Mr and Mrs Malgas are also at heart believable characters; she who never leaves the home and is obsessed with order and things remaining the same, he full of admiration for this stranger who can build his own dream. Nieuwenhuizen remains more elusive, never quite of this world.
At the end of the day this was a fantastic read. I loved the way Vladislavic plays with language; I loved the timeless nature of the story, and I loved the commentary on both South African politics and the broader world. There’s a lot to unpack here, and a lot of depth that I’ve not touched on here. I’m looking forward to coming back to this, and also to exploring more Vladislavic as I believe some of the themes recur in his later work.
The look on his face said that he didn’t, but he heard it anyway. I’d copied so many beautiful strings of words into my notebook that I had to share them. Instead of retyping them all here, let me just strongly suggest that you read the book.
I’ll admit to not knowing what to expect when I picked the book up. It’s a South African novel, first published in 1993, so politics, probably? But while The Folly can certainly be read as a political allegory, the story is a universal one, not reliant on the South African backdrop for its appeal. Its premise is simple. A stranger (Nieuwenhuizen, or ‘new house’ in Afrikaans) settles on a vacant lot with a plan to build a house. Next door live a middle aged couple, Mr and Mrs Malgas, who become fascinated by his presence; Mr (they refer to each other by title alone) is intrigued by the possibilities and Mrs repulsed by the disturbance to their lives. The house – the folly – ends up being constructed only in the minds of the men, and ultimately the whole fantastic edifice will collapse around them.
So yes, this can be read as an allegory to apartheid, that towering structure of legalized discrimination which was toppling as the book was written. More than that, it can be seen as scathing indictment of any of the political or personal fantasies we erect to feed our own importance, and one that feels just as relevant today as it must have twenty years ago.
Vladislavic has a mastery of language. He plays with sounds, often using alliteration and assonance to bring poetry into his writing and to turn conversation into a balloon, passed back and forth between the participants. One night we are told that the two men’s conversation moved from hardware to ‘wallpaper, sandpaper, zinc, sink, sank, surfaced again into the niceties of skinning a cat, dropped off, slid in slow motion through spec housing […] found themselves talking about the weather’. On another day, as they battle the earth, sketching out the plan with nails, the verbs become military: ‘soldiered’, ‘discharged’, ‘reloaded’, ‘broached’. There is no lazy writing here; each word has been carefully selected to serve its purpose.
Things, people’s relationships to them, and they way that they are used to give a sense of safety and belonging are crucial to the novel. All of the characters at one point or another make lists and use them to assert their dominance over the world around them. Mrs. Malgas’ character is perfectly conveyed when, overwhelmed by the strangeness of events, she turns to her ‘prize knick-knack cabinet’ for relief. ‘In the end it was a glass paperweight with a guinea fowl aflutter in its heart that spoke to her’.
The three characters in the novel each have their role to play in the broader allegorical purpose of the book, but Mr and Mrs Malgas are also at heart believable characters; she who never leaves the home and is obsessed with order and things remaining the same, he full of admiration for this stranger who can build his own dream. Nieuwenhuizen remains more elusive, never quite of this world.
At the end of the day this was a fantastic read. I loved the way Vladislavic plays with language; I loved the timeless nature of the story, and I loved the commentary on both South African politics and the broader world. There’s a lot to unpack here, and a lot of depth that I’ve not touched on here. I’m looking forward to coming back to this, and also to exploring more Vladislavic as I believe some of the themes recur in his later work.
lindzi's review against another edition
hopeful
mysterious
reflective
medium-paced
- Plot- or character-driven? Character
- Strong character development? Yes
- Loveable characters? No
- Diverse cast of characters? N/A
- Flaws of characters a main focus? Yes
2.75
janp's review
3.0
The writing was exquisite and the characters (particularly Mr. and Mrs.) were well-developed and complex, I was able to care for them a great deal. The style is not one I enjoy reading as it's surreal and Gabriel Garcia Marquez-like. However, I could appreciate the author's eye for detail and imagination.
arirang's review
4.0
Published originally in 1993 in South Africa, The Folly, Vladislavic's debut novel, was originally read as an allegory for the creation and collapse of the apartheid system. Bought out in the UK in 2015 by And Other Stories, and read by me on a plane flight to South Africa, I have to admit I struggled to see the specific allegory, but the novel worked for me as a comment on any absurd system or construction (as well as a critical comment on those lacking imagination and vision).
A stranger, Nieuwenhuizen, arrives one day and occupies the vacant plot next to the house of Mr and Mrs Malpas, who address each other simply as Mr and Mrs.
Mr, a hardware retailer ("Mr Hardware - a world of materials under one roof"), is intrigued by the newcomer:
"Just look at the head he's got on him! When I behold that head I must say it gives me a good feeling about him, here, in the pit of my stomach."
But Mrs is immediately suspicious:
"'Is he one of those squatters we've been hearing so much about? Will he put up a shack and bring hundreds of cronies to do the same? 'Extended families.' What do you think? Will they hammer together tomato boxes and rubbish bags, bits of supermarket trolleys and motor cars, noticeboards and yield signs, gunny sacks and jungle gyms, plastic, paper, polystyrene ... '
'Enough.'
'...brass, bronze and beaverboard. Fine. We'll be forced out of our home. They'll play their radios loud. They'll go in the streets like dogs. They'll tear up our parquet for firewood.'"
Nieuwenhuizen turns out to be there to build a new house - his coincidentally convenient name further rousing Mrs's suspicions but his task exciting Mr Malpas.
Except his building methods and tools are somewhat unorthodox. This description of him banging in a nail is typical:
"He stepped off with his right foot and took six stiff paces. The earth felt unusually firm and steady. When his left foot came down for the third time, in the middle of IE, he flung the hammer in his right hand forward with all his might, pivoted on his heel, toppled sideways, flew into the air, flapped after the hammer like a broken wing, went rigid as a statue in mid-air, hung motionless for a long, oblique instant, and crashed to earth with a cry of triumph. He levered himself up and located the impression of his heel on the ground; then the starch went out of him and flopped down on all fours to get a good look at the mark. It was shaped like a comma, with a bloated head and a short, limp, tail. He took a nail from the bandoleer and pressed its points into the comma. Then, swinging his right arm like a piece of broken furniture, he hammered the nail into the ground."
Indeed he doesn't really build at all. The nail is hammered into the ground simply as an anchor point for an elaborate construction of strings which seem to constitute the, unorthodox, plan of the house, or rather folly.
Mr gets increasingly engaged in the project and bewildered by the lack of concrete (pun intended) progress. He tries to ply Nieuwenhuizen with helpful supplies from his store only to be told:
"You've got hardware on the brain, my friend, and it leaves no room for speculation."
"You can't rush the building of a new house. You've got to get the whole thing clear in the mind's eye."
Mr Malpas admits he can not yet envision the house:
"Plans aren't my thing, I admit. I'm a supplier at heart."
Allegorical novels are often written in sparse prose, lacking in detail, so as to increase the universality of the story. Here, the opposite applies. The novel is perhaps most distinctive for it's use of language, particularly lists of commonplace but evocative terms.
Mrs watches Nieuwenhuizen, through the window, refusing to enter the plot, and mutters inventories of her household knick knacks as defensive invocation against the intruder, trying to keep herself grounded in reality as Mr loses interest in his business as he tries to enter into Nieuwenhuizen's vision:
"Copper ashtray. Welteverden coat of arms (wildebeest rampant). Wicker basket, yellow, a-tisket. Figurines viz. cobbler, gypsy,ballerina, plumber, horologist, Smurf. Paperweight, guineafowl feather. Paperweight, rose. Paperweight, Merry Pebbles Holiday Chalets. Cake-lifter, Continental China, coronation centenary crockery, crenate, crumbs. However. Spatula. Just as things were starting to become interesting. Mug. As day followed day. Doll. As day follows night. Puppy-dog. As night follows day, sure enough, she found herself drawn back to the window."
Nieuwenhuizen, in contrast, mentally categorises the house that lives largely in his imagination.
And Mr Malpas tries his hardest to follow, eventually reaching an epiphany when he suddenly sees and enters the new house as a physical reality, triumphantly proclaiming:
"I must say: Bakelite, yes, balusters, bay windows, breastsummers, bricks of course, and, I almost forgot, braai-spots. Please insert, I do declare."
Except the moment can not last. Nieuwenhuizen himself literally disentangles the edifice, as if his work is now done, leaving Mr and Mrs alone again in their house.
"Mr sat down at the table and sighed heavily, 'I'm sorry Mrs. There, I've said it.'
'There's no need to apologise. I'm just grateful you've come to your senses while we've still got a roof over our heads and food on the table. Thank heavens everything's back to normal.
'We're back where we started ... but let's not pretend that things are the same.
'Words, words, words,' said Mrs, misunderstanding him. 'Let's not pretend at all. It doesn't suit us. Let's just get on with our lives. One day we'll look back on all this and discover that we can laugh about it."
Overall, a beautifully written tale, rich in language, but rather, wonderfully, baffling in its absurdity.
A stranger, Nieuwenhuizen, arrives one day and occupies the vacant plot next to the house of Mr and Mrs Malpas, who address each other simply as Mr and Mrs.
Mr, a hardware retailer ("Mr Hardware - a world of materials under one roof"), is intrigued by the newcomer:
"Just look at the head he's got on him! When I behold that head I must say it gives me a good feeling about him, here, in the pit of my stomach."
But Mrs is immediately suspicious:
"'Is he one of those squatters we've been hearing so much about? Will he put up a shack and bring hundreds of cronies to do the same? 'Extended families.' What do you think? Will they hammer together tomato boxes and rubbish bags, bits of supermarket trolleys and motor cars, noticeboards and yield signs, gunny sacks and jungle gyms, plastic, paper, polystyrene ... '
'Enough.'
'...brass, bronze and beaverboard. Fine. We'll be forced out of our home. They'll play their radios loud. They'll go in the streets like dogs. They'll tear up our parquet for firewood.'"
Nieuwenhuizen turns out to be there to build a new house - his coincidentally convenient name further rousing Mrs's suspicions but his task exciting Mr Malpas.
Except his building methods and tools are somewhat unorthodox. This description of him banging in a nail is typical:
"He stepped off with his right foot and took six stiff paces. The earth felt unusually firm and steady. When his left foot came down for the third time, in the middle of IE, he flung the hammer in his right hand forward with all his might, pivoted on his heel, toppled sideways, flew into the air, flapped after the hammer like a broken wing, went rigid as a statue in mid-air, hung motionless for a long, oblique instant, and crashed to earth with a cry of triumph. He levered himself up and located the impression of his heel on the ground; then the starch went out of him and flopped down on all fours to get a good look at the mark. It was shaped like a comma, with a bloated head and a short, limp, tail. He took a nail from the bandoleer and pressed its points into the comma. Then, swinging his right arm like a piece of broken furniture, he hammered the nail into the ground."
Indeed he doesn't really build at all. The nail is hammered into the ground simply as an anchor point for an elaborate construction of strings which seem to constitute the, unorthodox, plan of the house, or rather folly.
Mr gets increasingly engaged in the project and bewildered by the lack of concrete (pun intended) progress. He tries to ply Nieuwenhuizen with helpful supplies from his store only to be told:
"You've got hardware on the brain, my friend, and it leaves no room for speculation."
"You can't rush the building of a new house. You've got to get the whole thing clear in the mind's eye."
Mr Malpas admits he can not yet envision the house:
"Plans aren't my thing, I admit. I'm a supplier at heart."
Allegorical novels are often written in sparse prose, lacking in detail, so as to increase the universality of the story. Here, the opposite applies. The novel is perhaps most distinctive for it's use of language, particularly lists of commonplace but evocative terms.
Mrs watches Nieuwenhuizen, through the window, refusing to enter the plot, and mutters inventories of her household knick knacks as defensive invocation against the intruder, trying to keep herself grounded in reality as Mr loses interest in his business as he tries to enter into Nieuwenhuizen's vision:
"Copper ashtray. Welteverden coat of arms (wildebeest rampant). Wicker basket, yellow, a-tisket. Figurines viz. cobbler, gypsy,ballerina, plumber, horologist, Smurf. Paperweight, guineafowl feather. Paperweight, rose. Paperweight, Merry Pebbles Holiday Chalets. Cake-lifter, Continental China, coronation centenary crockery, crenate, crumbs. However. Spatula. Just as things were starting to become interesting. Mug. As day followed day. Doll. As day follows night. Puppy-dog. As night follows day, sure enough, she found herself drawn back to the window."
Nieuwenhuizen, in contrast, mentally categorises the house that lives largely in his imagination.
And Mr Malpas tries his hardest to follow, eventually reaching an epiphany when he suddenly sees and enters the new house as a physical reality, triumphantly proclaiming:
"I must say: Bakelite, yes, balusters, bay windows, breastsummers, bricks of course, and, I almost forgot, braai-spots. Please insert, I do declare."
Except the moment can not last. Nieuwenhuizen himself literally disentangles the edifice, as if his work is now done, leaving Mr and Mrs alone again in their house.
"Mr sat down at the table and sighed heavily, 'I'm sorry Mrs. There, I've said it.'
'There's no need to apologise. I'm just grateful you've come to your senses while we've still got a roof over our heads and food on the table. Thank heavens everything's back to normal.
'We're back where we started ... but let's not pretend that things are the same.
'Words, words, words,' said Mrs, misunderstanding him. 'Let's not pretend at all. It doesn't suit us. Let's just get on with our lives. One day we'll look back on all this and discover that we can laugh about it."
Overall, a beautifully written tale, rich in language, but rather, wonderfully, baffling in its absurdity.
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