Disgrace: Coetzee, South Africa, and an atrophied world

Things can go wrong. Perhaps this possibility excites us and keeps us striving for the good, the positive, and the redeemed. J.M. Coetzee never portrays any semblance of naïve optimism—his oeuvre is staunchly rooted in the realm of isolated man in an unforgiving world—yet not all is perdition. Not expecting much leaves us pleasantly surprised. This axiom might be a bit too rudimentary, but Coetzee finds a cornucopia of material within this intentionally limited outlook. Disgrace is no different. Its exterior seems a straightforward enough story. It is the interior that resonates—that artfully meanders through psychological, cultural, and familial aspects—leaving the exterior improved and well supported.
            Disgrace follows the downfall of David Lurie: twice divorced literature professor, father, and mid-fifties Don Juan. An acolyte of the Romantic poets, Lurie struggles to come to terms with the pragmatization of his world. His traditional academic existence has been replaced with a more vocation school approach coupled with the replacement of the jovial academic fraternity in exchange for a troop of politically correct administrators. This tension is exacerbated by the realization that his physical appeal is diminishing. No longer capable of wooing seaside tourists, he settles for a weekly visit to Soraya, his lady of the night. How does one respond to the deterioration of his comfortable existence? Lurie wrestles with what his life and his South Africa have become. Coetzee’s earlier work, Waiting for the Barbarians, also reflects this predicament. Both the magistrate of Barbarians and Lurie struggle in a culture that has passed them up. They flounder with their obligations and their desires.
Discontent and frustrated, a tryst with one of his students sets the novel in motion. Lurie’s emotions throughout the relationship remain ambiguous and beg the question: can desire ever be passionless? Can a relationship between a fifty-two year old professor and his nineteen year-old student ever be anything but exploitative? The relationship eventually precipitates his dismissal.
Lurie might engage in self-criticism upon crawling out of bed, but he reminds us “In the heat of the act there are no doubts.” Shrewd? Yes, but who truly considers much else during? Do doubts creep into the mind removed from the act, or can one remain resolute throughout? Lurie perches atop this wire. His actions are exploitative, but whether through the artistry of Coetzee, or perhaps something more nebulous, Lurie warrants empathy.
            Forced to leave his professorial post (and subsequently Cape Town), Lurie heads to his daughter’s homestead on the South African veld. Previously sheltered from class and racially driven identity issues, he is confronted with a different, simultaneously simpler and complex social arrangement. Black South Africans own land next to White South Africans. Not all is pastoral. Residual issues remain shallowly below the surface of all interactions.  As most of us would, he struggles with acculturation to a new social arrangement. His academic training now worthless, Lurie attempts life as a farmer.
Philip Roth pens billowing sentences illuminating and dissecting characters and their social milieu. Coetzee comes across much more simplistic; however, simply because a writer’s structure is incredibly tight, rather than extended, does not discount the work. His sparse—yet incredibly rich—monosyllabic style once stitched together conveys complex struggles of redemption, strife, and convoluted growth. Coetzee’s writing is masterfully emaciated; stripped, leaving only the most fecund and powerful. One has the feeling that he writes winding, superfluous sentences, only to chisel away at them until he is satisfied with the remaining pulsating, taut construction. The unnecessary shards chipped away from the piece bear no use for Coetzee.
So many disgraced aspects appear throughout the novel. Lurie, his daughter, their land, their family, their culture, and their nation have all been disgraced. Yet, they do not wither. Neither do they sore. They survive. They plod along, each in their own recuperative way, intent upon continued existence. While South Africa is not explicitly discussed, by the time all the disgraced elements are accounted for, one cannot help but see Coetzee’s national critique: the amalgamation of all things disgraced leaves a nation disgraced. However, it would be reductive to dilute Disgrace to an allegory of national politics. It is much more. The individual and the political reflect each other. The good fortunes of each travel linked trajectories. Class disparities are prevalent throughout, but the ultimate preoccupation (and struggle) is with the individual.
We cannot expect grand personal transformations from Coetzee; his artistry resides within the minute: “One gets used to things getting harder; one ceases to be surprised that what used to be as hard as hard can be grows harder yet.” Acceptance of this maxim allows the individual to thrive, albeit in a decidedly slow and incremental manner. Through recognition of personal and societal faults, the characters are empowered to make positive strides. Worlds change, lives respond, and new existences are carved from the old.
By no means grandiose, a simple glimpse of redemption peaks forth from the last few pages. It is redemption of an individual nature, but a nation cannot be redeemed if its people are not first. Redemption, while not guaranteed, is possible. This tersely vague axiom is the marrow that Coetzee harvests; while redemption is possible, so too is damnation.

Blair Parsons

SHELFLIFEMAGAZINE ARCHIVES: issue #001