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.