-The New Yorker
Disgraceby J. M. Coetzee
Written with austere clarity , Disgrace explores the downfall of one man and dramatizes with unforgettable, almost unbearable vividness the plight of South Africa-a country caught in the chaotic aftermath of the overthrow of Apartheid.
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Coming in 2009, the major motion picture starring John Malkovich
Written with austere clarity , Disgrace explores the downfall of one man and dramatizes with unforgettable, almost unbearable vividness the plight of South Africa-a country caught in the chaotic aftermath of the overthrow of Apartheid.
-The New Yorker
"Another incident in the great campaign of redistribution," mutters the protagonist of J. M. Coetzee's Booker Prize-winning novel, Disgrace, as he discovers that his house has been ransacked and looted during a long absence. This incidental muttering, almost an afterthought, lies at the thematic and emotional center of this short but powerful novel. As with all of Coetzee's work, the new South Africa is a looming presence, both literally, as the story's setting, and thematically, as its characters struggle to adapt to a culture that has been remade, often violently, from the bottom up. And while Disgrace offers a lot on the larger themes of power, redistribution, reformation, forgiveness, and more, it is at heart a finely tuned and often bleak portrayal of one man who realizes that he has become outmoded and outdated.
Professor David Lurie bears no small resemblance to Coetzee himself: a late-middle-aged white South African professor with more than a little charm. It is therefore somewhat alarming when we discover, in the novel's opening pages, that Professor Lurie has taken to visiting prostitutes after the disintegration of two marriages and that he makes a habit of seducing his students. Like the opening of Mike Leigh's film "Naked" (when we witness the protagonist's attempt to rape a woman in an alley), the latest affair with a girl in his class on the Romantic poets is not viewed through rose-tinted lenses: "She does not resist. All she does is avert herself." Coetzee leaves little room for doubt that the professor is using his power and influence over the girl, against her wishes; and when his career swiftly unravels after she lodges a formal complaint, it's hard to feel much sympathy for him. This, then, must be the "disgrace" of the title, thinks the reader, and in a simpler novel, it might be. But this is only the beginning, as Lurie travels into the countryside to find refuge with a daughter who is managing a farm on her own in a dangerously isolated part of South Africa. It is in this new setting where the real disgrace occurs; Professor Lurie's troubles have only just begun.
It doesn't take long to grasp the larger implications of a story about a South African white man being judged by a culture that no longer accepts behavior that has been accepted for years. These implications become more complicated when a series of black characters, beginning with Lurie's daughter's neighbor, Petrus, appear. Disgrace is filled with power dynamicsbetween men and women, whites and blacks, even humans and dogsand Coetzee is skilled at giving just enough detail and analysis to outline the issues without lecturing us.
Even when Coetzee does outright instruct, it's well worth it: "Scapegoating worked in practice while it still had religious power behind it. You loaded the sins of the city on to the goat's back and drove it out, and the city was cleansed. It worked because everyone knew how to read this ritual, including the gods. Then the gods died, and all of a sudden you had to clean out the city without divine help. Real actions were demanded instead of symbolism." It is this new setting, where the gods have died and symbolismincluding that of his beloved Romanticsoften falls on deaf eyes and ears, where Professor Lurie finds himself; and Disgrace portrays his efforts to make sense of this strange, atonal place.
Coetzee is a master stylist, able to integrate themes into the movement of his story in ways that will cause envy in novelists of lesser powers. To incorporate Coetzee's chosen themes seamlessly into a novel triple Disgrace's length would be an accomplishment; to do so in 200 pages without ever seeming heavy-handedpartly thanks to a brilliant subplot of Lurie's efforts to write an opera based on Byronis nothing short of a miracle. Disgrace is one of those rare books that will satisfy a reader on nearly every level, from the universal issues of power and retribution to the more local versions specific to the new South Africa to the truly personal: the trials of one man who is certainly no saint but perhaps not so different from many of us.
Book Magazine March/April 2000
In his sober, searing and even cynical little book Disgrace, J.M. Coetzee tells us something we all suspect and fear -- that political change can do almost nothing to eliminate human misery. What it can do, he suggests, is reorder it a little and half-accidentally introduce a few new varieties. This view should not surprise any of the great South African novelist's readers. In his early-1980s masterpieces Waiting for the Barbarians and Life & Times of Michael K -- indeed, in all of his work -- political and historical forces blow through the lives of individuals like nasty weather systems, bringing with them a destruction that is all the more cruel for being impersonal. Disgrace is Coetzee's first book to deal explicitly with post-apartheid South Africa, and the picture it paints is a cheerless one that will comfort no one, no matter what race, nationality or viewpoint.
Disgrace was awarded the Booker Prize, and it has undeniable echoes of Michael K, Coetzee's 1983 Booker winner. In both books a man is broken down almost to nothing before he finds some tiny measure of redemption in his forced acceptance of the realities of life and death. But Professor David Lurie, the protagonist of Disgrace, has farther to fall than Michael K, an unsophisticated Cape Town gardener. And the clarity David comes to at the end grows largely from his accepting an ever-increasing portion of pain. "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," he reflects. That sentence also describes Coetzee's notion of life in the new South Africa, where, as he portrays it, brutal tyranny has been replaced by brutal anarchy.
A middle-aged, divorced scholar of Romantic poetry, David would have undoubtedly been a pathetic figure under the old regime -- one imagines an ineffectual white liberal teaching Wordsworth to bored Afrikaners while largely ignoring the atrocities perpetrated in his name. But in the Mandela era, David has become a victim of "the great rationalization": His university has been remade into a technical college, and he teaches courses in "communication skills" that he finds nonsensical. He is such a nonentity that the prostitute he patronizes weekly -- and for whom he has begun buying gifts -- stops receiving him. He imagines her and her colleagues shuddering over him "as one shudders at a cockroach in a washbasin in the middle of the night" and wonders if he can ask his doctor to castrate him as one neuters a domestic animal.
This is the first of the many comparisons of human and animal existence in Disgrace. Coetzee has always situated his characters in extreme situations that compel them to explore what it means to be human, and before this novel is over, David must endure both psychological abasement and physical torment. But Coetzee has never before asked so clearly what it is not to be human. Later in the novel, after David has fallen into disgrace and fled Cape Town for his daughter Lucy's remote farm, she tells him, "This is the only life there is. Which we share with animals."
If David is reduced at times almost to an animal existence and finally to becoming a caretaker for dying animals, it is the mendacity of language that leads him there. Toward the end of the story, he reflects that the language he and others use has become "tired, friable, eaten from the inside as if by termites" and that he, an expert practitioner, is also hollow, "like a fly-casing in a spiderweb." When he is hauled before an academic tribunal after a misbegotten affair with a student, he refuses to defend himself against charges of sexual harassment. At first he resists the spectacle of public "prurience and sentiment" the committee expects. When he finally blurts out an apology, members of the tribunal refuse to be satisfied, demanding to know whether it reflects his sincere feelings and comes from his heart.
Coetzee seems to be attacking the New Age tyranny of therapeutic discourse here, but David's own language doesn't seem much more trustworthy. He rashly tells his judges that his liaison with the pretty and almost totally passive Melanie transformed him, if only briefly: "I was no longer a fifty-year-old divorcé at a loose end. I became a servant of Eros." Readers may well be repelled by David's arrogance, and his conduct with Melanie has fallen only a little short of rape. But judging him is not a simple matter. He is a student of Romanticism whose unrealized ambition is to write a chamber opera about Byron's life in Italy. No matter how little of our sympathy David may command, he has a point: If he genuinely believed his passion for Melanie was the real thing, the flame he had been waiting his whole life to feel, then how could he not pursue her avidly?
There is something fundamentally cryptic and unsummarizable about Disgrace, but I read it as an almost metaphysical journey from this Romantic variety of love to the harsher, leaner strain David eventually learns from life on and around Lucy's farm. In Coetzee's fiction the stark and beautiful South African countryside has always played a half-allegorical role as both a destructive and a regenerative environment. He certainly can't be accused of sentimentalizing rural life; shortly after David goes to live with Lucy, a stolid lesbian who, like him, seems to have been abandoned by the world, they become victims of a vicious criminal assault that may not be as random as it first appears. Their relations with Petrus, the African farmer who is their nearest neighbor, become increasingly troubled and ambiguous. David volunteers to work for Bev, a friend of Lucy's who runs the local veterinary clinic, and comes to realize that Bev's primary role, in this impoverished land, is not to heal animals but to kill them with as much love and mercy as she can summon.
In the wake of the outrages committed against him and his daughter, David still struggles with language. His angry demands for justice get no response from the overstretched police, and his attempts to confront one of the assailants -- whom Petrus is apparently protecting -- produce only stony silences and baldfaced lies. Lucy seems to understand what David cannot: that to live where she lives she must tolerate brutalization and humiliation and simply keep going. "Perhaps that is what I must learn to accept," she tells her father. "To start at ground level. With nothing... No cards, no weapons, no property, no rights, no dignity...Like a dog." If David actually reclaims some dignity by the end of Disgrace, it is only because he gives up everything, gives up more than a dog ever could -- his daughter, his ideas about justice and language, his dream of the opera on Byron and even the dying animals he has learned to love without reservation, without thought for himself.
His latest, and last, conquest is a demure young woman from his Romantic course who yields to his strenuous efforts to seduce her, but not fully. In a line that will prove to haunt Lurie later on, Coetzee describes their consummation as "not rape, not quite that, but undesired nonetheless, undesired to the core." When she reports his actions to the school board, he's cold and unrepentant, refusing to even feign contrition in order to keep his job. But the tables turn once he retreats from Cape Town to his daughter Lucy's isolated smallholding in a dangerous rural area. Though humbled enough by his peasant lifestyle, his spirits are broken one evening when three black intruders beat him near death, leaving him helpless to prevent them from raping his daughter. It's a horrifying turn of events, but what's most shocking to Lurie (and the reader) is her refusal to either report the men to the police or leave with him to a safer place.
Coetzee is obviously playing with some incendiary racial politics here, but he's skillful about situating the entire story within the context of parable. In his eyes, Lucy's violation and suffering is also South Africa's, before and after apartheid. Its effects cannot be shaken or escaped, so the only sensible recourse is to grow accustomed to it and try to be a good person. That's about as much hope as Coetzee can bring himself to offer, but Disgrace unfolds with such hardened wisdom and assurance that its arid beauty sinks into your bones.
Onion A.V. Club
This novel stands as one of the few I know in which the writer's use of the present tense is in itself enough to shape the structure and form of the book as a whole. Even though it presents an almost unrelieved series of grim moments, "Disgrace" isn't claustrophobic or depressing, as some of Coetzee's earlier work has been. Its grammar allows for the sublime exhilaration of accident and surprise, and so the fate of its characters - and perhaps indeed of their country - seems not determined but improvised. Improvised in the way that our own lives are; improvised in a way that recalls the subject of Coetzee's 1994 novel, The Master of Petersburg, the novelist whom we know as Dostoyevsky.
Coetzee won an earlier Booker prize for Life & Times of Michael K. Last month's award made him the only writer ever to win it twice. "Disgrace" surely deserves such recognition. But that may, in time, come to seem among the least of this extraordinary novel's distinctions. -- (New York Times Book Review
Christian Science Monitor
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Read an Excerpt
FOR. A MAN of his age, fifty-two, divorced, he has, to his mind,solved the problem of sex rather well. On Thursday afternoons hedrives to Green Point. Punctually at two p.m. he presses the buzzerat the entrance to Windsor Mansions, speaks his name, and enters.Waiting for him at the door of No. II3 is Soraya. He goes straightthrough to the bedroom, which is pleasant-smelling and softly lit,and undresses. Soraya emerges from the bathroom, drops her robe,slides into bed beside him. 'Have you missed me?' she asks. 'I missyou all the time,' he replies. He strokes her honey-brown body,unmarked by the sun; he stretches her out, kisses her breasts; theymake love.
Soraya is tall and slim, with long black hair and dark, liquid eyes.Technically he is old enough to be her father; but then,technically, one can be a father at twelve. He has been on herbooks for over a year; he finds her entirely satisfactory. In thedesert of the week Thursday has become an oasis of luxe et velupté.
In bed Soraya is not effusive. Her temperament is in fact ratherquiet, quiet and docile. In her general opinions she is surprisinglymoralistic. She is offended by tourists who bare their breasts('udders', she calls them) on public beaches; she thinks vagabondsshould be rounded up and put to work sweeping the streets. How she reconciles her opinions with her line of business he does not ask.
Because he takes pleasure in her, because his pleasure isunfailing, an affection has grown up in him for her. To somedegree, he believes, this affection is reciprocated. Affection maynot be love, but it is at least its cousin. Given their unpromisingbeginnings, they have been lucky, the two of them: he to havefound her, she to have found him.
His sentiments are, he is aware, complacent, even uxorious.Nevertheless he does not cease to hold to them.
For a ninety-minute session he pays her R4oo, of which halfgoes to Discreet Escorts. It seems a pity that Discreet Escortsshould get so much. But they own No. II3 and other flats inWindsor Mansions; in a sense they own Soraya too, this part ofher, this function.
He has toyed with the idea of asking her to see him in her owntime. He would like to spend an evening with her, perhaps even awhole night. But not the morning after. He knows too muchabout himself to subject her to a morning after, when he will becold, surly, impatient to be alone.
That is his temperament. His temperament is not going to change,he is too old for that. His temperament is fixed, set. The skull, followed by the temperament: the two hardest parts of the body.
Follow your temperament. It is not a philosophy, he would notdignity it with that name. It is a rule, like the Rule of St Benedict.He is in good health, his mind is clear. By profession he is, orhas been, a scholar, and scholarship still engages, intermittently, thecore of him. He lives within his income, within his temperament,within his emotional means. Is he happy? By most measurements,yes, he believes he is. However, he has not forgotten the lastchorus of Oedipus: Call no man happy until he is dead.
In the field of sex his temperament, though intense, has neverbeen passionate. Were he to choose a totem, it would be the snake.Intercourse between Soraya and himself must be, he imagines, rather like the copulation of snakes: lengthy, absorbed, but ratherabstract, rather dry, even at its hottest.
Is Soraya's totem the snake too? No doubt with other men shebecomes another woman: lu donna é mobile. Yet at the level oftemperament her affinity with him can surely not be feigned.Though by occupation she is a loose woman he trusts her,within limits. During their sessions he speaks to her with a certainfreedom, even on occasion unburdens himself She knows the factsof his life. She has heard the stories of his two marriages, knowsabout his daughter and his daughter's ups and downs. She knowsmany of his opinions.
Of her life outside Windsor Mansions Soraya reveals nothing.Soraya is not her real name, that he is sure of. There are signs shehas borne a child, or children. It may be that she is not aprofessional at all. She may work for the agency only one or twoafternoons a week, and for the rest live a respectable life in thesuburbs, in Rylands or Athlone. That would be unusual for aMuslim, but all things are possible these days.
About his own job he says little, not wanting to-bore her. Heearns his living at the Cape Technical University, formerly CapeTown University College. Once a professor of modern languages,he has been, since Classics and Modern Languages were closeddown as part of the great rationalization, adjunct professor ofcommunications. Like all rationalized personnel, he is allowed tooffer one special-field course a year, irrespective of enrolment,because that is good for morale. This year he is offering a course inthe Romantic poets. For the rest he teaches Communications I0I,'Communication Skills' and Communications 20I, 'AdvancedCommunication Skills'.
Although he devotes hours of each day to his new discipline, hefinds its first premise, as enunciated in the Communications I0Ihandbook, preposterous: 'Human society has created language in order that we may communicate our thoughts, feelings andintentions to each other.' His own opinion, which he does not air,is that the origins of speech lie in song, and the origins of song inthe need to fill out with sound the overlarge and rather emptyhuman soul.
In the course of a career stretching back a quarter of a centuryhe has published three books, none of which has caused a stir oreven a ripple: the first on opera (Boito and the Faust Legend: TheGenesis of Mefistofele), the second on vision as eros (The Vision ofRichard of St. Victor), the third on Wordsworth and history(Wordsworth and the Burden of the Post}.
In the past few years he has been playing with the idea of a workon Byron. At first he had thought it would be another book,another critical opus. But all his sallies at writing it have boggeddown in tedium. The truth is, he is tired of criticism, tired of' prosemeasured by the yard. What he wants to write is music: Byron inItaly, a meditation on love between the sexes in the form of achamber opera.
Through his mind, while he faces his Communications classes, fit phrases, tunes, fragments of song from the unwritten work. Hehas never been much of a teacher; in this transformed and, to hismind, emasculated institution of learning he is more out of place than ever. But then, so are other of his colleagues from the olddays, burdened with upbringings inappropriate to the tasks they areset to perform; clerks in a post-religious age.
Because he has no respect for the material he teaches, he makesno impression on his students. They look through him when hespeaks, forget his name. Their indifference galls him more than hewill admit. Nevertheless he fulfils to the letter his obligationstoward them, their parents, and the state. Month after month hesets, collects, reads, and annotates their assignments, correctinglapses in punctuation, spelling and usage, interrogating weak arguments, appending to each paper a brief, considered critique.
He continues to teach because it provides him with a livelihood;also because it teaches him humility, brings it home to him whohe is in the world. The irony does not escape him: that the onewho comes to teach learns the keenest of lessons, while those whocome to learn learn nothing. It is a feature of his profession onwhich he does not remark to Soraya. He doubts there is an ironyto match it in hers.
In the kitchen of the flat in Green Point there are a kettle, plasticcups, a jar of instant coffee, a bowl with sachets of sugar. Therefrigerator holds a supply of bottled water. In the bathroom thereis soap and a pile of towels, in the cupboard clean bed linen. Sorayakeeps her makeup in an overnight bag. A place of assignation,nothing more, functional, clean, well regulated.
The first time Soraya received him she wore vermilion lipstickand heavy eyeshadow. Not liking the stickiness of the makeup, heasked her to wipe it off. She obeyed, and has never worn it since.A ready learner, compliant, pliant.
He likes giving her presents. At New Year he gave her anenamelled bracelet, at Eid a little malachite heron that caught hiseye in a curio shop. He enjoys her pleasure, which is quiteunaffected.
It surprises him that ninety minutes a week of a woman'scompany are enough to make him happy, who used to think heneeded a wife, a home, a marriage. His needs turn out to be quitelight, after all, light and fleeting, like those of a butterfly. Noemotion, or none but the deepest, the most unguessed-at: aground bass of contentedness, like the hum of traffic that lulls thecity—dweller to sleep, or like the silence of the night to countryfolk.
He thinks of Emma Bovary, coming home sated, glazen-eyed,from an afternoon of reckless fucking. So this is bliss!, says Emma, marvelling at herself in the mirror. So this is the bliss the poets speakof? Well, if poor ghostly Emma were ever to find her way to CapeTown, he would bring her along one Thursday afternoon to showher what bliss can be: a moderate bliss, a moderated bliss.
Then one Saturday morning everything changes. He is in the cityon business; he is walking down St George's Street when his eyesfall on a slim figure ahead of him in the crowd. It is Soraya,unmistakably, flanked by two children, two boys. They arecarrying parcels; they have been shopping.
He hesitates, then follows at a distance. They disappear intoCaptain Dorego's Fish Inn. The boys have Soraya's lustrous hairand dark eyes. They can only be her sons.
He walks on, turns back, passes Captain Dorego's a second time.The three are seated at a table in the window. For an instant,through the glass, Soraya's eyes meet his.
He has always been a man of the city, at home amid a flux ofbodies where eros stalks and glances flash like arrows. But thisglance between himself and Soraya he regrets at once.
At their rendezvous the next Thursday neither mentions theincident. Nonetheless, the memory hangs uneasily over them. Hehas no wish to upset what must be, for Soraya, a precarious doublelife. He is all for double lives, triple lives, lives lived incompartments. Indeed, he feels, if anything, greater tenderness forher. Your secret is safe with me, he would like to say.
But neither he nor she can put aside what has happened. Thetwo little boys become presences between them, playing quiet asshadows in a corner of the room where their mother and thestrange man couple. In Soraya's arms he becomes, fleetingly, theirfather: foster-father, step-father, shadow-father. Leaving her bedafterwards, he feels their eyes flicker over him covertly, curiously.
His thoughts turn, despite himself to the other father, the real one. Does he have any inkling of what his wife is up to, or has heelected the bliss of ignorance?
He himself has no son. His childhood was spent in a family ofwomen. As mother, aunts, sisters fell away, they were replaced indue course by mistresses, wives, a daughter. The company ofwomen made of him a lover of women and, to an extent, awomanizer. With his height, his good bones, his olive skin, hisFlowing hair, he could always count on a degree of magnetism. Ifhe looked at a woman in a certain way, with a certain intent, shewould return his look, he could rely on that. That was how helived; for years, for decades, that was the backbone of his life.
Then one day it all ended. Without warning his powers fled.Glances that would once have responded to his slid over, past, throughhim. Overnight he became a ghost. If he wanted a woman he had tolearn to pursue her; often, in one way or another, to buy her.
He existed in an anxious hurry of promiscuity. He had affairswith the wives of colleagues; he picked up tourists in bars on the waterfront or at the Club Italia; he slept with whores.
His introduction to Soraya took place in a dim little sitting-room off the front office of Discreet Escorts, with Venetian blindsover the windows, pot plants in the corners, stale smoke hangingin the air. She was on their books under 'Exotic'. The photographshowed her with a red passion-flower in her hair and the faintestof lines at the corners of her eyes. The entry said 'Afternoons only'.That was what decided him: the promise of shuttered rooms, coolsheets, stolen hours.
From the beginning it was satisfactory, just what he wanted. Abull's eye. In a year he has not needed to go back to the agency.Then the accident in St George's Street, and the strangeness thathas followed. Though Soraya still keeps her appointments, he feelsa growing coolness as she transforms herself into just anotherwoman and him into just another client.
He has a shrewd idea of how prostitutes speak among them-selves about the men who frequent them, the older men inparticular. They tell stories, they laugh, but they shudder too, asone shudders at a cockroach in a washbasin in the middle of' thenight. Soon, daintily, maliciously, he will be shuddered over. It isa fate he cannot escape.
On the fourth Thursday after the incident, as he is leaving theapartment, Soraya makes the announcement he has been steelinghimself against. 'My mother is ill. I'm going to take a break to lookafter her. I won't be here next week.'
'Will I see you the week after?'
'I'm not sure. It depends on how she gets on. You had betterphone first.'
'I don't have a number.'
'Phone the agency. They'll know.'
He waits a few days, then telephones the agency. Soraya? Sorayahas left us, says the man. No, we cannot put you in touch with her,that would be against house rules. Would you like an introductionto another of our hostesses? Lots of exotics to choose from — Malaysian, Thai, Chinese, you name it.
He spends an evening with another Soraya — Soraya hasbecome, it seems, a popular nom de commerce — in a hotel room inLong Street. This one is no more than eighteen, unpractised, to hismind coarse. 'So what do you do?' she says as she slips off herclothes. 'Export-import,' he says. "You don't say,' she says.
There is a new secretary in his department. He takes her tolunch at a restaurant a discreet distance from the campus andlistens while, over shrimp salad, she complains about her sons'school. Drug-pedlars hang around the playing-fields, she says, andthe police do nothing. For the past three years she and herhusband have had their name on a list at the New Zealandconsulate, to emigrate. 'You people had it easier. I mean, whatever the rights and wrongs of the situation, at least you knewwhere you were.'
'You people? he says. 'What people?'
'I mean your generation. Now people just pick and choosewhich laws they want to obey. It's anarchy. How can you bring upchildren when there's anarchy all around?'
Her name is Dawn. The second time he takes her out they stop at his house and have sex. It is a failure. Bucking and clawing, sheworks herself into a froth of excitement that in the end only repelshim. He lends her a comb, drives her back to the campus.
After that he avoids her, taking care to skirt the office where sheworks. In return she gives him a hurt look, then snubs him.
He ought to give up, retire from the game. At what age, hewonders, did Origen castrate himself? Not the most graceful ofsolutions, but then ageing is not a graceful business. A clearing ofthe decks, at least, so that one can turn one's mind to the properbusiness of the old: preparing to die.
Might one approach a doctor and ask for it? A simple enoughoperation, surely: they do it to animals every clay, and animalssurvive well enough, if one ignores a certain residue of sadness.Severing, tying off: with local anesthetic and a steady hand and amodicum of phlegm one might even do it oneself, out of atextbook. A man on a chair snipping away at himself: an ugly sight,but no more ugly, from a certain point of view, than the same manexercising himself on the body of a woman.
There is still Soraya. He ought to close that chapter. Instead, hepays a detective agency to track her down. Within days he has herreal name, her address, her telephone number. He telephones atnine in the morning, when the husband and children will be out.'Soraya? he says. 'This is David. How are you? When can I seeyou again?
A long silence before she speaks. 'I don't know who you are she says. 'You are harassing me in my own house. I demand you will never phone me here again, never.'
Demand. She means command. Her shrillness surprises him: therehas been no intimation of it before. But then, what should apredator expect when he intrudes into the vixen's nest, into thehome of her cubs?
He puts down the telephone. A shadow of envy passes over himfor the husband he has never seen.
What People are saying about this
“A subtly brilliant commentary on the nature and balance of power in his homeland…. Disgrace is a mini-opera without music by a writer at the top of his form.”Time “Mr. Coetzee, in prose lean yet simmering with feeling, has indeed achieved a lasting work: a novel as haunting and powerful as Albert Camus’s The Stranger.” The Wall Street Journal
“A tough, sad, stunning novel.”Baltimore Sun
Meet the Author
Born in Cape Town, South Africa, on February 9, 1940, John Michael Coetzee studied first at Cape Town and later at the University of Texas at Austin, where he earned a Ph.D. degree in literature. In 1972 he returned to South Africa and joined the faculty of the University of Cape Town. His works of fiction include Dusklands, Waiting for the Barbarians, which won South Africa’s highest literary honor, the Central News Agency Literary Award, and the Life and Times of Michael K., for which Coetzee was awarded his first Booker Prize in 1983. He has also published a memoir, Boyhood: Scenes From a Provincial Life, and several essays collections. He has won many other literary prizes including the Lannan Award for Fiction, the Jerusalem Prize and The Irish Times International Fiction Prize. In 1999 he again won Britain’s prestigious Booker Prize for Disgrace, becoming the first author to win the award twice in its 31-year history. In 2003, Coetzee was awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature.
- Adelaide, Australia
- Date of Birth:
- February 9, 1940
- Place of Birth:
- Cape Town, South Africa
- B.A., University of Cape Town, 1960; M.A., 1963; Ph.D. in Literature, University of Texas, Austin, 1969
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J.M. Coetzee's 'Disgrace' is a complex and moving tale about a middle-aged professor who realizes that his best days are behind him. Like many men who go through a mid-life crisis, he tries to convince himself that he is still full of desire and passion and that women still find him desirable. 'Disgrace,' however, is about much more than a man who simply fears growing old. It is also a commentary on social relations between people: between men and women, father and daughter, races, cultures, lifestyles, and of the social structures in post apartheid South Africa. The novel's protagonist, David Lurie, goes on a journey to rediscover who he is and to find meaning in his life. What he discovers and doesn't discover about life is for the reader to figure out. 'Disgrace' is a very compelling and well-written novel by an author at the top of his form. Coetzee's characterizations and witty dialogue are, in particular, to be commended.
I enjoyed reading Disgrace and took it slow not wanting to miss a thing. Coetzee is a powerful writer who doesn't beat around the bush with long drawn out sentences. He writes with integrity and courage. The 220 pages were packed with grim truth and intelligent potency.
To those unfamiliar with South African writer J.M. Coetzee, DISGRACE is a powerful introduction to this Nobel Prize and two-time Booker Prize-winning author. In the best tradition of those writers who seem to chisel their words with great care -- in order to elicit the most meaning and effect -- Coetzee has fashioned a modern gem that challenges readers to explore themes and issues they might find disturbing and difficult to confront: sexuality, retribution, racial tensions, generational conflict, violence, human indifference, and profound shame. Amid all these strifes, at its core DISGRACE is about forgiveness -- a forgiveness that many Americans and other Westerners could find hard to understand. In the end, "disgraced" Professor David Lurie and his shareholding daughter are forced to confront their most basic and brutal personal tragedy in the larger context of an equally violent societal holocaust -- and somehow make their separate peace. DISGRACE is one of those books that lives with you long after the last page is turned, and in your hearts of hearts you know you must revisit again.
easy to read, entertaining and intelligent . good for all readers of literature and also for adults (18+) who prefer something a little lighter. Younger readers might not relate to the characters. all around it was profound and beautiful in its simplicity, a huge accomplishment for any writer.
David Lurie, is a middle-aged, twice-divorced Afrikaner Professor of Romantic poetry at the Technical University of Cape Town, grappling with the dawn of old age. Not quite yet ready to throw in the towel, he doggedly pursues a female student, with whom he has an affair that goes bad. After she files a complaint against him with the administration, he admits guilt but opts to resign rather than publicly repent. David then goes to spend some time with his daughter, Lucy, on her farm. But just as he is settling in and putting his life back together, he and Lucy are savagely attacked by three African youths. In this Booker Prize-winning classic, Nobel Literature Laureate Coetzee takes us on David's odyssey of self-realization, a journey he seemed to feel too old and a little too all-knowing, to take. As the world around him collapses, and a new post-Apartheid South Africa emerges, he realizes that the survival tools he has all along kitted himself with have now become obsolete and he has only one choice: to adapt or lose what he values most - his daughter. Voted in 2006 as "the greatest novel of the last 25 years", Disgrace is not a book you hurriedly skim over, as each of Coetzee's words is bold, potent and very deserving of the readers' attention that it commands. His exemplary craftsmanship, partly stems from the fact that he doesn't shy away from the full exploration of the emotional core and psyche of his characters, never once allowing his concern for the exterior to eclipse his attention to the interior by hiding underneath layers upon layers of descriptive detail, as some authors do. As a result, Coetzee has achieved a piercing elegance with Disgrace; one that raises the bar very high for all future novelists.
Reading this, I found the topic and content came second to the sheer skill of the author. The writer flowed so seamlessly that I was able to sit back and almost "watch" the plot play out. The words seem to come so easily to the characters and the writer described things so well. Often, I could really understand exactly how the character felt without it being described to me. In the writing, I could feel it.