Colette Jones
Reader
Gosh, I think I need to re-read this because I don't remember those things from the book.
Very interesting post, judge-penitent, and welcome!
Very interesting post, judge-penitent, and welcome!
J.M. Coetzee: Disgrace
- Thread starter Cocko
- Start date
Hi judge, what a great post! Welcome to the forum. I remember feeling a bit as you do about Lucy. I was terribly disappointed as well that Lucy didn't fight back in any recognizable manner, except her decision to bear the child. To me, this represents a small victory in the internal struggle Lucy has in the immediate aftermath of the rape, when she was unable to even get dressed from her houserobe. In fact, in the post you quoted I wrote
The student, David's daughter, even the woman who runs the clinic are each stymied and misguided in their attempts to express power and control.
I think that the novel well portrays the effects of rape upon Melanie and Lucy by deadening their responses in a realistic way. Maybe her pregnancy was all Lucy could do.
You're right, she doesn't just accept her rape. I had forgotten what she said about paying the price to live on the land. And her reluctance to pursue any avenue of justice becomes a wedge between herself and David. Is it at this point where he returns to Capetown to visit Melanie's family and apologize? Forgive me, I read this in March and it isn't as fresh. I'm thinking the rape of his daughter is the catalyst for change, such as it is, in David's life.
The student, David's daughter, even the woman who runs the clinic are each stymied and misguided in their attempts to express power and control.
I think that the novel well portrays the effects of rape upon Melanie and Lucy by deadening their responses in a realistic way. Maybe her pregnancy was all Lucy could do.
You're right, she doesn't just accept her rape. I had forgotten what she said about paying the price to live on the land. And her reluctance to pursue any avenue of justice becomes a wedge between herself and David. Is it at this point where he returns to Capetown to visit Melanie's family and apologize? Forgive me, I read this in March and it isn't as fresh. I'm thinking the rape of his daughter is the catalyst for change, such as it is, in David's life.
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I am somewhere in between with regard to Lucy's character.
I didn't find her choices neither indicative of passive and victimized behaviour, nor particularly hopeful.
My general impression was that her choices, her decision to go on living like that, her acceptance of the infuriating proposals Petrus made to her, the decision to bear a child that was concieved that way, were just her way to stay true to her principles and beliefs.
In the middle of the book, when I realised that Lucy was not going to report the crime and that she wanted to keep the baby, I thought she was seriously disturbed.
However, as I went on, I realised that she believed -or had made herself believe- that life in this particular place was what made her or would make her happy (for lack of a better word - I believe that she was mostly trying to be balanced and in peace with herself).
And that she was willing to go along with all those things, because otherwise she would feel that she 'd betrayed her beliefs/goals
(regardless of what they were - for example her notion that she had to pay a price for living in this piece of land- and however wrong they may seem to us)
Staying true to them was an important pursuit in her life and her way of keeping her integrity, in the midst of all this violence
(in that way, I agree with Beth on that Lucy's pregnancy was all that she could do- it was an act of hope, in a world that sometimes doesn't make sense).
Once I "saw" that (I am using inverted commas because I know I might be completely wrong in my interpretation) I couldn't see Lucy as victimised anymore.
It's just a choice she made.
Maybe not one I would have made in her place (I kept thinking that I would have run away and never gone back there) but it was just a choice, a decision taken by someone who was hurt, but still sane and still in touch with herself.
My impression was enhanced by one of the last scenes of the book,
where David sees Lucy from far away, and what he gives us is a picture of pure beauty and peace.
I didn't find her choices neither indicative of passive and victimized behaviour, nor particularly hopeful.
My general impression was that her choices, her decision to go on living like that, her acceptance of the infuriating proposals Petrus made to her, the decision to bear a child that was concieved that way, were just her way to stay true to her principles and beliefs.
In the middle of the book, when I realised that Lucy was not going to report the crime and that she wanted to keep the baby, I thought she was seriously disturbed.
However, as I went on, I realised that she believed -or had made herself believe- that life in this particular place was what made her or would make her happy (for lack of a better word - I believe that she was mostly trying to be balanced and in peace with herself).
And that she was willing to go along with all those things, because otherwise she would feel that she 'd betrayed her beliefs/goals
(regardless of what they were - for example her notion that she had to pay a price for living in this piece of land- and however wrong they may seem to us)
Staying true to them was an important pursuit in her life and her way of keeping her integrity, in the midst of all this violence
(in that way, I agree with Beth on that Lucy's pregnancy was all that she could do- it was an act of hope, in a world that sometimes doesn't make sense).
Once I "saw" that (I am using inverted commas because I know I might be completely wrong in my interpretation) I couldn't see Lucy as victimised anymore.
It's just a choice she made.
Maybe not one I would have made in her place (I kept thinking that I would have run away and never gone back there) but it was just a choice, a decision taken by someone who was hurt, but still sane and still in touch with herself.
My impression was enhanced by one of the last scenes of the book,
where David sees Lucy from far away, and what he gives us is a picture of pure beauty and peace.
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I took my way of relating to books and said that it holds for everyone.
I don't know if that' s a mistake Igu Soni.
I think all of us do that sometimes
About the Stockholm's Syndrom
I guess that it could be interpreted that way (and actually it makes total sense in regard to her relationship with Petrus in particular) but in my humble opinion, it would take away a lot from the things I personally gained from the book.
I think all of us do that sometimes
About the Stockholm's Syndrom
I guess that it could be interpreted that way (and actually it makes total sense in regard to her relationship with Petrus in particular) but in my humble opinion, it would take away a lot from the things I personally gained from the book.
F
ferns_dad
Guest
Interesting discussion. I thought the book was more along the line of a look into the actions of the people, not necessarily any judgement attached to it. Can you read a morality into this book, or try to figure out how Coetzee is asking you to believe or to behave? I can't....and I don't think that is what he was trying to do either.....
chrisphillips
Reader
Well here I am a year or so late .
I just finished Disgrace last night. First things first, it is a good, entertaining, pacy read so in that respect is enjoyable. It's the first Coetzee I've read. I don't think it will be my last, but I'm in no hurry. I also was looking forward to seeing the film adaptation when it screened in Belfast recently, but I can very much picture John Malkovich as Lurie.
I found the highlight of the book to be the first third. Soroya the prosititute shows herself to be the only empowered female in the book and Lurie shows his...well I don't know, how do you summarise the act of hiring a private detective to find where his favourite prostitute has gone? In fact, look at late in the book an how he beseeches Lucy to reject the arrangment with Petrus and to take action against the kid. This is at complete loggerheads with the way he seems to expect women to behave when his sexual desires are in need of satisfying. I don't see any sign that he has sought to improve himself, to learn from events, at any stage, irrespective of the book's final sentence.
As for Lucy, she seems to accept that fate had it that she was to be raped and she further seems to conclude 'well hey, why shouldn't I, I'm white in post-apartheid South Africa.' Though full of sympathy for her ordeal, she's a pretty feeble woman and the arrangement that is eventually reached with Petrus is absurd and her reasoning in favour of it perverse.
I ought to just mention: The Byron and Teresa opera chapters towards the end are God-awful. I felt the book lost its rhythm completely at these junctures.
What do we think the writing being in the present tense adds to the book? I have to say I'm struggling to think of anything, though I wouldn't like to dismiss it as a gimmick.
There's more I could write, but those are one or two brief thoughts. ***00
Some non-fiction next I think.
.I just finished Disgrace last night. First things first, it is a good, entertaining, pacy read so in that respect is enjoyable. It's the first Coetzee I've read. I don't think it will be my last, but I'm in no hurry. I also was looking forward to seeing the film adaptation when it screened in Belfast recently, but I can very much picture John Malkovich as Lurie.
I found the highlight of the book to be the first third. Soroya the prosititute shows herself to be the only empowered female in the book and Lurie shows his...well I don't know, how do you summarise the act of hiring a private detective to find where his favourite prostitute has gone? In fact, look at late in the book an how he beseeches Lucy to reject the arrangment with Petrus and to take action against the kid. This is at complete loggerheads with the way he seems to expect women to behave when his sexual desires are in need of satisfying. I don't see any sign that he has sought to improve himself, to learn from events, at any stage, irrespective of the book's final sentence.
As for Lucy, she seems to accept that fate had it that she was to be raped and she further seems to conclude 'well hey, why shouldn't I, I'm white in post-apartheid South Africa.' Though full of sympathy for her ordeal, she's a pretty feeble woman and the arrangement that is eventually reached with Petrus is absurd and her reasoning in favour of it perverse.
I ought to just mention: The Byron and Teresa opera chapters towards the end are God-awful. I felt the book lost its rhythm completely at these junctures.
What do we think the writing being in the present tense adds to the book? I have to say I'm struggling to think of anything, though I wouldn't like to dismiss it as a gimmick.
There's more I could write, but those are one or two brief thoughts. ***00
Some non-fiction next I think.
waalkwriter
Reader
I've been skeptical about reading this book, if only it seems a bit in the mold of all those angry ex-National Party people looking at ways to lash out at the blacks after 1994. The book just seems to me to be distastefully misogynistic and Coetzee seems to further that image in me with the fact that a few years ago he left his native country and home for Australia.
The trouble with South Africa is that the race card is played by both sides. While Afrikaners are still blamed for more or less every ill in that country, the new, largely Black ruling class has not delivered the goods after running the country for a long time now. Whites are always under some pressure in southern Africa, as can most clearly be seen in Zimbabwe, where the ruling fools destroyed the profitable farms run by Whites. When Whites say nasty things about Blacks, there are long critical articles in the press. But when Black racists attack and sometimes murder White farmers, few peoples call that racism. Blacks always appear to be the victims in the way they are portrayed in the international press.
So Coetzee no doubt got out while the going was good. I still find the man creepy to look at in the photos I've seen, and don't like what little of his work I have read. I too think he seems to treat women as objects there. But his motives for moving to Australia were, no doubt, pragmatic. English-speakers more open to other languages would perhaps have moved to Europe instead, as did the Afrikaans-speakers Brink and Breytenbach during apartheid.
So Coetzee no doubt got out while the going was good. I still find the man creepy to look at in the photos I've seen, and don't like what little of his work I have read. I too think he seems to treat women as objects there. But his motives for moving to Australia were, no doubt, pragmatic. English-speakers more open to other languages would perhaps have moved to Europe instead, as did the Afrikaans-speakers Brink and Breytenbach during apartheid.
chrisphillips
Reader
There are also some very awkward parts surrounding the visit Lurie makes to Melanie's family. I found it all extremely far-fetched. Why the hell does the father invite him? Why doesn't the mother say a single word to him? And I'm afraid the sene where he bows to Melanie's mother and sister is preposturous.
And is Coetzee really trying to tell us that there is some sort of equivalence between what he does to Melanie and what the gang does to Lucy, and that this leads to a sudden bout of Lurie introspection? Lurie is an unpleasant character but if he is supposed to be a rapist, Coetzee is far too ambivalent in the descriptions of his sex with Melanie.
And is Coetzee really trying to tell us that there is some sort of equivalence between what he does to Melanie and what the gang does to Lucy, and that this leads to a sudden bout of Lurie introspection? Lurie is an unpleasant character but if he is supposed to be a rapist, Coetzee is far too ambivalent in the descriptions of his sex with Melanie.
waalkwriter
Reader
I think that there is difference between your mothers experience and Coetzee's. I feel his was more racially motivated. The Afrikaaners like to paint all of South Africa's problems on the fact that the "stupid blacks" got given the country. That angers me. Centuries of societal conditions have left an entire race of people not as adept or ready to run a society, the adjustment must be made the hard way, and getting both races will take a lot of pain and some steps backwards as the black society makes the adjustment that is hard because the white society kept them oppressed for so long, and the Afrikaaners don't understand this. Both sides need to stop the race baiting. At least Mandela did not race bait, if only his predessors were as interested in pushing unity.
Whoever calls Coetzee a racist is completely misinformed. He or someone in his family (wife or son, not sure: I read it in some interview) was the object of a dangerous attack by black people (not necessarily racially motivated though - just sheer delinquency). So his (Australian?) wife demanded to get the hell out of SA after the incident. As simple as that. Add to that the fact that Coetzee, although supporting the ANC, did so mostly from abroad - the guy has actually spent most of his writing life abroad, in the UK, the States and now Australia. Gordimer's case is different. She was very deeply committed to the ANC cause and, despite having herself suffered a terrorizing encounter with burglers, decided that she would brave it out and stay in her homeland no matter what.
I wouldn't judge Coetzee (or Gordimer or whoever) for where they decide to live or any other actions they take. It's their books I'm interested in.
I wouldn't judge Coetzee (or Gordimer or whoever) for where they decide to live or any other actions they take. It's their books I'm interested in.
Daniel del Real
Moderator
Racist or not I don't really care at all. He is one of the most talented writers alive and for me that's enough. Period.
Engleberton Crabferry
Reader
I realise that I am particularly late to this thread, but I thought I would offer my opinions nonetheless. I have just finished reading the book for the second time and...
My (current) impression of the novel is that a figurative aspect to its layering explicitly requires a deeper reading than a mere question of the realism of character, or unveiling of plot, etc. Reading Coetzee generally is – by and large – an allegorical undertaking, one whose “meanings” are never closed and whose origins are necessarily disparate; the novels pre-occupation with the performative act of enunciation serving to affiliate his writing with that of the post-structuralists (to name but one school).
Disgrace, as far as I can tell, is chiefly a post-colonial text; its protagonist the embodiment of a peculiarly Romantic sensibility; a psyche verging on the solipsistic, albeit not a pantheistic, mode, for (herein) Lurie is Byronic in a manner that precedes his undertakings, and therefore performs the function of Britain’s Imperial Century representative. He is a Neo-Romantic; an adamant (if increasingly frail) proponent of a philosophy now inoperative and unsustainable, perhaps due to its false metaphysical claims to truth and the divine spirit of the poet. Lurie is in mind (as well as in bodily functions – operating within the body of the university), an anachronism; a crystallized, Romantic island of a man; his ideas the lighthouse beaming back to the forgotten shore of 18[SUP]th[/SUP]/19[SUP]th[/SUP] century England; to a people who no longer inhabit the mainland, who have suffered the failures of a crumbling Empire and have moved on, isolating him, a man who loathes the pedagogic commitment of a modern, clinical subject such as “Communications 201”, and who yet is unthinkingly enamoured by notions of the “soul”, (not to mention his “service” to the God of Eros!). In short, he is an isolate figure, and has failed to modernise. And if Lurie is (at least in this one sense) a “Romantic” man, Disgrace, and its representation of South Africa, (I believe) tend towards the enactment of the crucial point of encounter between the romantic paradigm (or more broadly speaking, a set of ideals hailing from the European Industrial Enlightenment) and the modern, post-colonial state of Africa; one whose black inhabitants do not share such an industrial, philosophical (or indeed, canonical) history. Lurie is “stuck in the past”, precisely because he is marooned on the continent, stubbornly cleaving to a political identity that is retrospectively of a greater canonical renown than his African counterparts’; an endorsement whose structure ultimately necessitates his peril.
I notice there is some question as to whether the novel is moral or “good”; whether its characters possess any redeeming features, or are simply abhorrent and/or dislikeable (?).
If I could begin with David Lurie himself, I would posit that – as hinted above – the novel’s underpinning motif subtly oozes an obliquely didactic quality, in that Lurie’s “Fall” (as it were) signifies the failure of the Romantic paradigm, as well as his refusal to operate within a conventionally moral order; his callous mistreatment of women (under the pretext of a possession by the divine spirit of Eros) the most obvious example of this. Whilst it does not appear that Lurie learns very much from his wrongdoings, he is significantly punished, retribution sought by both Mr Isaacs (Melanie’s father) and (perhaps more obliquely) the three men eventually guilty of rape and attempted arson; the rape here arguably performed as part of a symbolic retaliation to, and the legacy of, colonial oppression (itself a culturally penetrative act and comparable to rape). To suggest that Coetzee endeavours to elicit empathy with such a character is to ignore the formulative distancing he imposes by way of a limited 3[SUP]rd[/SUP] person narrator. Perhaps this objection would be more tenable had the character been written in 1[SUP]st[/SUP] person. Regardless, I feel it is imperative to note that – in post-modernity (indeed in modernity, also) – a novelist is (thankfully) no longer required to present his/her chief protagonist as one whose lineage connotes a kind of moral ascent. Rather, a progressively greater onus befalls the readership in deciding the ever-morphing, ever-shifting, cultural (or political) significance of such a plight (such as is indicated in post-structural works by the likes of Roland Barthes and Jacques Derrida). It is in this context irrelevant whether or not one consummately empathizes with Lurie, for perhaps he is merely a lamentable formulation of Romantic attitudes towards coloniality. And whilst I believe it is inevitable that one empathizes with regard to the infectious properties of Lurie’s desire (perhaps only to the minutest of degrees, then), it is not at all necessary for a full appreciation of his character’s realism or political function within the novel. Perhaps it is rather pessimistic of me to say so, but I entirely concur with Coetzee’s formulation here, and regard Lurie’s character (at least in this one sense) a realistic (if negative) representation in the context of modern, racially divided South Africa. After all is said and done – casting personal preference aside – is not a villain (or flawed character) more often compelling than his heroic foil; more conducive to debate than the bulk of his moral counterparts? If not more so, then equally so, at the very least sufficiently worthy of critical insight and a high-level fictive exposition, such as this one.
A final point about Lurie’s character is that, as far as I can remember, the novel’s closing scene implies an affiliation of his with the dog he has chosen to put down. Whilst I haven’t spent much time understanding the significance of this, I did notice a type of psychological evolution of Lurie’s with regard to his symbolic proximity to the abject and more-or-less doomed realm of the kanine. I think perhaps his acceptance of this abjection connotes a style of redemption that is separate from conventional theological modes; one that is symbolic, or pictorial, linguistic, and that contrives to produce the obliquely didactic effect that I have already said I think pervades the novel (more analysis needed!).
In terms of Coetzee’s women then, perhaps it is Lucy who is the most important consideration of the novel (critically speaking). Many readers of Disgrace have found her apparent passivity fascinating, occasionally frustrating and decidedly unbelievable.
I would argue then, once more, the case for a post-colonial reading of the text; one that notes the novel’s assertion that the rapists are much like conduits, “history speaking through them” (to paraphrase). A counterpoint to this instance of historical transference is precisely Lucy’s passivity, or, rather, her wilful disobedience of patriarchal oppression and instruction (in the form of David’s dialogue with her). Unfortunately, for Lucy, Petrus and his wives, as well as the raping arsonists (!), embody yet another type of oppression, the women herein but once again mere commodities, closer to stock than beings of free will and agency (for Petrus has multiple wives, offering human protection to Lucy in exchange for her land). The reality then, for Lucy, is a bleak and unfortunate part of the legacy her European forebears have left. Whilst it appears that she has rejected her ancestors (her lesbianism perhaps even poignantly symbolic of defiance in the face of David’s generational patriarch), the undesirable choice between her father’s instruction and a life in close proximity to the people who raped her, denotes a kind of less-of-two-evils scenario. The key to understanding the empowerment of Lucy lies in noting her refusal to play the game, for neither does she succumb to Lurie’s instruction, nor does she functionally evade her attackers; instead, she simply stays, forbidding the discourse of patriarch the crux of its legitimating rhetoric: male physicality and superiority, and the consequent dominance it entails. “They can rape me, they can instruct me,” she seems to say, “but they can never alter my conviction to remain here”. For Lucy to have decamped and left her land to Petrus, would have rendered her character servile to the masculine impetus for patriarch on both sides of the racial divide.
As was mentioned earlier on in the thread, the character of (Soraya?) the prostitute at the beginning of the novel, is also defiant in the face of Lurie’s pursuance. Her defiance, however, relies on the mechanics of the escort agency’s refusal of information giving, and is thus a less powerful example than Lucy’s...
To conclude, Coetzee, whilst seemingly a negative voice, (in my view) succinctly demonstrates a capacity for the subtle, often hidden, tensions that prevail in the mores and platitudes of cultural legacy. His writing very rarely leaves unaccounted for the marginalised voice, and yet those not reading deeply enough will often find the seemingly absurd actions of his characters frustrating, hence the inherently divisive nature of his fiction.
My (current) impression of the novel is that a figurative aspect to its layering explicitly requires a deeper reading than a mere question of the realism of character, or unveiling of plot, etc. Reading Coetzee generally is – by and large – an allegorical undertaking, one whose “meanings” are never closed and whose origins are necessarily disparate; the novels pre-occupation with the performative act of enunciation serving to affiliate his writing with that of the post-structuralists (to name but one school).
Disgrace, as far as I can tell, is chiefly a post-colonial text; its protagonist the embodiment of a peculiarly Romantic sensibility; a psyche verging on the solipsistic, albeit not a pantheistic, mode, for (herein) Lurie is Byronic in a manner that precedes his undertakings, and therefore performs the function of Britain’s Imperial Century representative. He is a Neo-Romantic; an adamant (if increasingly frail) proponent of a philosophy now inoperative and unsustainable, perhaps due to its false metaphysical claims to truth and the divine spirit of the poet. Lurie is in mind (as well as in bodily functions – operating within the body of the university), an anachronism; a crystallized, Romantic island of a man; his ideas the lighthouse beaming back to the forgotten shore of 18[SUP]th[/SUP]/19[SUP]th[/SUP] century England; to a people who no longer inhabit the mainland, who have suffered the failures of a crumbling Empire and have moved on, isolating him, a man who loathes the pedagogic commitment of a modern, clinical subject such as “Communications 201”, and who yet is unthinkingly enamoured by notions of the “soul”, (not to mention his “service” to the God of Eros!). In short, he is an isolate figure, and has failed to modernise. And if Lurie is (at least in this one sense) a “Romantic” man, Disgrace, and its representation of South Africa, (I believe) tend towards the enactment of the crucial point of encounter between the romantic paradigm (or more broadly speaking, a set of ideals hailing from the European Industrial Enlightenment) and the modern, post-colonial state of Africa; one whose black inhabitants do not share such an industrial, philosophical (or indeed, canonical) history. Lurie is “stuck in the past”, precisely because he is marooned on the continent, stubbornly cleaving to a political identity that is retrospectively of a greater canonical renown than his African counterparts’; an endorsement whose structure ultimately necessitates his peril.
I notice there is some question as to whether the novel is moral or “good”; whether its characters possess any redeeming features, or are simply abhorrent and/or dislikeable (?).
If I could begin with David Lurie himself, I would posit that – as hinted above – the novel’s underpinning motif subtly oozes an obliquely didactic quality, in that Lurie’s “Fall” (as it were) signifies the failure of the Romantic paradigm, as well as his refusal to operate within a conventionally moral order; his callous mistreatment of women (under the pretext of a possession by the divine spirit of Eros) the most obvious example of this. Whilst it does not appear that Lurie learns very much from his wrongdoings, he is significantly punished, retribution sought by both Mr Isaacs (Melanie’s father) and (perhaps more obliquely) the three men eventually guilty of rape and attempted arson; the rape here arguably performed as part of a symbolic retaliation to, and the legacy of, colonial oppression (itself a culturally penetrative act and comparable to rape). To suggest that Coetzee endeavours to elicit empathy with such a character is to ignore the formulative distancing he imposes by way of a limited 3[SUP]rd[/SUP] person narrator. Perhaps this objection would be more tenable had the character been written in 1[SUP]st[/SUP] person. Regardless, I feel it is imperative to note that – in post-modernity (indeed in modernity, also) – a novelist is (thankfully) no longer required to present his/her chief protagonist as one whose lineage connotes a kind of moral ascent. Rather, a progressively greater onus befalls the readership in deciding the ever-morphing, ever-shifting, cultural (or political) significance of such a plight (such as is indicated in post-structural works by the likes of Roland Barthes and Jacques Derrida). It is in this context irrelevant whether or not one consummately empathizes with Lurie, for perhaps he is merely a lamentable formulation of Romantic attitudes towards coloniality. And whilst I believe it is inevitable that one empathizes with regard to the infectious properties of Lurie’s desire (perhaps only to the minutest of degrees, then), it is not at all necessary for a full appreciation of his character’s realism or political function within the novel. Perhaps it is rather pessimistic of me to say so, but I entirely concur with Coetzee’s formulation here, and regard Lurie’s character (at least in this one sense) a realistic (if negative) representation in the context of modern, racially divided South Africa. After all is said and done – casting personal preference aside – is not a villain (or flawed character) more often compelling than his heroic foil; more conducive to debate than the bulk of his moral counterparts? If not more so, then equally so, at the very least sufficiently worthy of critical insight and a high-level fictive exposition, such as this one.
A final point about Lurie’s character is that, as far as I can remember, the novel’s closing scene implies an affiliation of his with the dog he has chosen to put down. Whilst I haven’t spent much time understanding the significance of this, I did notice a type of psychological evolution of Lurie’s with regard to his symbolic proximity to the abject and more-or-less doomed realm of the kanine. I think perhaps his acceptance of this abjection connotes a style of redemption that is separate from conventional theological modes; one that is symbolic, or pictorial, linguistic, and that contrives to produce the obliquely didactic effect that I have already said I think pervades the novel (more analysis needed!).
In terms of Coetzee’s women then, perhaps it is Lucy who is the most important consideration of the novel (critically speaking). Many readers of Disgrace have found her apparent passivity fascinating, occasionally frustrating and decidedly unbelievable.
I would argue then, once more, the case for a post-colonial reading of the text; one that notes the novel’s assertion that the rapists are much like conduits, “history speaking through them” (to paraphrase). A counterpoint to this instance of historical transference is precisely Lucy’s passivity, or, rather, her wilful disobedience of patriarchal oppression and instruction (in the form of David’s dialogue with her). Unfortunately, for Lucy, Petrus and his wives, as well as the raping arsonists (!), embody yet another type of oppression, the women herein but once again mere commodities, closer to stock than beings of free will and agency (for Petrus has multiple wives, offering human protection to Lucy in exchange for her land). The reality then, for Lucy, is a bleak and unfortunate part of the legacy her European forebears have left. Whilst it appears that she has rejected her ancestors (her lesbianism perhaps even poignantly symbolic of defiance in the face of David’s generational patriarch), the undesirable choice between her father’s instruction and a life in close proximity to the people who raped her, denotes a kind of less-of-two-evils scenario. The key to understanding the empowerment of Lucy lies in noting her refusal to play the game, for neither does she succumb to Lurie’s instruction, nor does she functionally evade her attackers; instead, she simply stays, forbidding the discourse of patriarch the crux of its legitimating rhetoric: male physicality and superiority, and the consequent dominance it entails. “They can rape me, they can instruct me,” she seems to say, “but they can never alter my conviction to remain here”. For Lucy to have decamped and left her land to Petrus, would have rendered her character servile to the masculine impetus for patriarch on both sides of the racial divide.
As was mentioned earlier on in the thread, the character of (Soraya?) the prostitute at the beginning of the novel, is also defiant in the face of Lurie’s pursuance. Her defiance, however, relies on the mechanics of the escort agency’s refusal of information giving, and is thus a less powerful example than Lucy’s...
To conclude, Coetzee, whilst seemingly a negative voice, (in my view) succinctly demonstrates a capacity for the subtle, often hidden, tensions that prevail in the mores and platitudes of cultural legacy. His writing very rarely leaves unaccounted for the marginalised voice, and yet those not reading deeply enough will often find the seemingly absurd actions of his characters frustrating, hence the inherently divisive nature of his fiction.
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JTolle
Reader
I'm glad someone else has expressed such admiration, because I too felt deeply and hauntingly impacted by Coetzee's Disgrace.
Perhaps it's a combination of my (re)reading certain of Geoffrey Hill's essays - essays that often argue for language to "enact" the moral battleground commonly thought to be the province of "ideas" alone - and having watched, while in the midst of Disgrace, the documentary Derrida (2002) - thinking esp. of the scene from his lecture at the University of Western Cape on "reconciliation and forgiveness"; but I think I see in Coetzee's novel both a criticism of the role of language (one that results from being crucially aware of its gravity and its limitations), and also a complex, unflinching engagement with the (im)possibility of reconciliation in South Africa.
Now, though I'm attracted to these issues and consider them pivotal to the novel, I'll step back and say plainly that I love Disgrace for Coetzee's unadorned, allusive prose and for his masterful evocation of character. Also, it's so well-paced it almost does injustice to the subtlety of much of what takes place - on the surface as well as subterraneanly.
Just to make a few points: when Lucy suggests that maybe the rape is her "tax" for living in East Cape, it's just that, a suggestion, a supposition, not a definitive answer. And it goes some way to illuminating another perspective on "reconciliation", a view of it that immediately reminded me of Eldridge Cleaver's and LeRoi Jones' notorious claims that the rape of white women was an historically sanctioned act of retribution. There's little evidence to argue that this is the way of reconciliation taken up by the novel or any of its characters. In fact, it seems more like one of many attempts to discover a method of "suitable redemption". Which leads me to my next point.
David and Lucy Lurie are constantly trying on (and rejecting) or having applied to them new modes of redemption. "Confession," when David is at his inquiry; "sacrifice," symbolized by David's (almost) immolation; "submission," in two variations: (1) the "punishment" of Lucy at the hands of the rapists, and (2) the ritualistic/religious submission of David to Desiree and Mrs. Isaacs in his genuflection towards them. Further permutations of this theme, for which I don't have ready names, include Lucy's relation to the "field," and David's self-effacement with Bev Shaw, and his work at the clinic.
And, to return to the question of Coetzee's prose-style: to me, it seem as if his language has been pared down primarily in response to the inability of the written word to adequately address certain aspects of lived experience. For example, I commend Coetzee for not even daring to describe Lucy's rape as it happens. When David is shut in, shut away, shut off from his daughter - so is Coetzee - and so are we, necessarily.
Now, both the subject of "perfectives" and a continual recourse to the weighted words and phrases of Italian, German, and Afrikaans, are two hints, in my opinion, to the level of importance Coetzee places on word choice and grammatical structure. It is an attention to detail I take to be indicative of Coetzee's admission that these devices are capable of handling moral dilemmas more readily than a plethora of adjectives, or having characters blather philosophically to one another. In David's use of the German word "lösung," meaning "solution," when speaking about his and Bev's work at the clinic, Coetzee prods us by its connection to the "Final Solution" of the Holocaust. He problematizes and re-orients our understanding of David's meditations on "increase," "sowing the seed," and "population growth," which in turn reconnects to the dropped phrase, "because we are too menny", Jude's suicide note in Hardy's Jude the Obscure.*
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Remora
Reader
I wasn't sure about that sequence and that particular scene as well. At first, I thought the bowing to Melanie's mother and sister was going on strictly in Lurie's mind. But I just reread the scene, and yeah, that's what he's really doing, which is, as you say, preposterous. And I suppose the father is a borderline religious zealot--and not a very convincing one.
Still, the novel is powerful. When the ANC was gaining a firm foothold and Apartheid was on the decline, I heard snippets of news of the atrocities committed against white farmers. Disgrace really crystallizes what was going on in South Africa. In a way it reminds me of Melville's "Benito Cereno," the tendency of oppression and violence to boomerang in forms more horrible than the intitial oppression and violence.
Liam
Administrator
In actuality, it is little Father Time's suicide note, not Jude's. Learn your lines, young man,
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