by Lindsay on 20 May 2012
Romanian-born German novelist Herta Müller, best known for her 1994 novel The Land of Green Plums, won the 2009 Nobel Prize in Literature for her writings on the disposessed.
In her latest book, The Hunger Angel, translated from the German by Philip Boehm, Müller moves away from a subject that has so far dominated her work – life in Romania under Nicolae Ceausescu. The Hunger Angel focus on a trauma experienced by her parents’ generation, the deportation of thousands of German Romanians to Soviet Union labour camps during World War Two.
Read an extract from the opening of The Hunger Angel, courtesy NPR:
On Packing Suitcases
All that I have I carry on me.
Or: All that is mine I carry with me.
I carried all I had, but it wasn’t mine. Everything either came from someone else or wasn’t what it was supposed to be. A gramophone box served as a pigskin suitcase. The light overcoat came from my father. The fancy coat with the velvet collar from my grandfather. The knickers from Uncle Edwin. The leather gaiters came from our neighbor Herr Carp, the green woolen gloves from Aunt Fini. Only the burgundy silk scarf and the toilet kit belonged to me, presents from the previous Christmas.
Alan Cheuse reviews The Hunger Angel:
For the sake of full disclosure, I’ll tell you that I had not read Herta Muller for a number of reasons before the appearance of Nadirs, her brilliant collection of short takes about a family of German-speakers living in the Romanian countryside. I don’t know that I would have picked it up if Muller, a Romanian-born writer who works in German, had not won the Nobel Prize in Literature in 2009. I can tell you I was pretty happy that I did. Nadirs was — is — a terrific work of short fiction, showing off Muller’s powers as a world-class creator of fiction driven by visionary power. I was ready when her latest novel, The Hunger Angel, arrived in the mail. It’s a latecomer to the crowd of books written about internment during World War II — doubly so, because the war ends when the internment of the main character begins.
Larry Rohter speaks to Herta Muller for The New York Times:
As a child growing up in a tiny, German-speaking village in Romania, on the edge of Transylvania, Herta Müller was assigned chores that included herding cows. Out in the pastures with little to do, she amused herself by giving names and personalities to the flowers she collected and the clouds that drifted by, or imagined a future as a seamstress, like her aunt, or perhaps as a hairdresser.
But a career as a writer, much less one who would win the Nobel Prize in Literature? She could not imagine such a thing, living as she did in linguistic isolation and under surveillance as part of a suspect German minority under the drab Communist dictatorship that came to be ruled by the megalomaniacal Nicolae Ceausescu.
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Photo courtesy The New York Times
by Amy on 18 May 2012
The Mail & Guardian recently published an edited extract from Ashraf Kagee’s debut novel, Khalil’s Journey, which won him the 2012 European Union Literary Award.
In Khalil’s Journey, Kagee evokes the richly-textured beauty of everyday life of the last century’s Cape Malay and Indian cultures, and deftly captures the lyrical resonance of voices long forgotten by history:
The southeaster was howling madly as it usually did in the afternoons when the sun did its disappearing trick behind the immense wall of Table Mountain. Not only howling, mind you, but blasting itself around with a frenzied urgency, almost as if it was making one last mad dash around the peninsula before the day closed for business and night-time set in. Usually a friendly wind, the southeaster had a mean streak that occasionally showed itself. Quite unprovoked, it would sometimes maliciously slam a door shut on a child’s hand, unkindly close a car boot on an innocent forehead that was foolish enough to be in the way and on one occasion, according to the Cape Argus, form a hapless cyclist to veer uncontrollably into an oncoming truck.
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by Sophy on 17 May 2012
Next month, London-based publishing company Holland Park Press will release the debut novel from Books LIVE friend Karen Jennings. In Finding Soutbek, Jennings creates a moving story around the fictional town of Soutbek and its quirky inhabitants. Jennings won the 2009 Maskew Miller Longman Literature Award for her short story “The Shark” and is currently working towards her PhD in Creative Writing at the University of KwaZulu-Natal.
Finding Soutbek will be launched at The Book Lounge in Cape Town next month.
The focal point of the novel is the small town of Soutbek. Its troubles, hardships and corruption, but also its kindness, strong community and friendships, are introduced to us in a series of stories about intriguingly interlinked relationships.
Contemporary Soutbek is still a divided town – the upper town destitute, and the lower town rich, largely ignorant – and Finding Soutbek is a novel about the real conditions that shape the lives of ordinary, marginalised people.
Karen Jennings’ focus on the quiet but necessary heroism of the poor and disadvantaged makes her work universal.
Holland Park Press invites you to read two passages from Finding Soutbek:
Introducing the mayor
Outside it was dim, the sky lightening at the horizon and broadening over the waves. Already gulls were flying low, calling. The mayor rolled over in bed and pushed his face into the pillow, his knees brushing against those of his wife. He felt her body stiffen as he moved towards her and then the shifting of the bed as she turned from him, rising quietly, leaving the room. He did not lift his face from the pillow. He felt the warmth of his own breath on his nose and lips and went back to sleep.
When he woke again the day was light through the curtains. He stood slowly, placing each foot carefully on the ground. In the bathroom she had left the window open and the room was cool, his bare feet cold on the tiled floor. He went to the basin and ran the water until it was warm, washing his face and lathering it with shaving cream. Then he picked up his razor and slid it along his cheek, down to his jawline and below.
Life among the Namaqua
In the days that followed, the explorers began to feel stronger and well fed. As guests to the kraal, they did no work, and so they spent their days sitting in the sun outside their huts, watching the activity going on around them. They slept much of the time, for they were still tired from their journey, and the luxury of having nothing to do soon encouraged laziness. It became common practice that some of the senior men of the tribe would come and join the men outside their huts to partake in tobacco and brandy. The explorers had not forgotten their search for the wealthy Monomotapa, and so they continuously asked the Namaqua elders the origin of their ‘‡ei’ (copper) and ‘/urib’ (iron). These questions the Namaqua pretended not to understand, or answered evasively. Van Meerman and his men determined that it would take some time to win the tribe’s complete trust.
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by Chris on 16 May 2012
Willie Esterhuyse bewaar steeds die notatjie wat Thabo Mbeki tydens ‘n geheime ontmoeting in 1989 in Londen aan hom oorhandig het.
“Wat ook vir my fantasties was, en ek raak daaroor wel ’n bietjie sentimenteel, is hy skryf toe vir my in Afrikaans,” het Esterhuyse aan Murray la Vita gesê tydens ‘n onderhoud oor sy boek Eindstryd: Geheime gesprekke en die einde van Apartheid.
Esterhuyse was een van die lede van die Afrikaanse “binnekring” wat op versoek van die Nasionale Intelligensiediens geheime gesprekke met ANC-leiers gevoer het, as voorloper tot die onderhandelinge wat tot die nuwe Suid-Afrika gelei het:
’n Oproep uit Pretoria het ’n Stellenbosse filosoof se lewe, en die koers van die Suid-Afrikaanse geskiedenis, onherroeplik verander.
Prof. Willie Esterhuyse staan in sy studeerkamer met ’n wit plastiekroomysbak in die hand.
Daaruit haal hy twee stukke papier. Een is ’n A4-groot gelinieerde vel aan albei kante gevul met woorde in swart ink. Dit is sy handskrif.
Lees uittreksels uit Eindstryd waarin Esterhuyse onder meer beskryf hoe Winnie Mandela op ‘n vliegtuig met NP-minister Kobie Coetsee gaan gesels het, waarna hy besluit het om Nelson Mandela in die hospitaal te gaan besoek:
Dis een van die groot historiese ironieë van Suid-Afrika se oorgangsproses na ’n inklusiewe demokrasie: Die vurige en charismatiese Winnie Mandela, toe nog die vrou van die politieke gevangene Nelson Mandela, gooi ’n tou uit na die NP-minister Kobie Coetsee, ’n gebeurtenis wat eindelik sou lei tot Mandela se ontmoeting met P.W. Botha in Tuynhuys, Kaapstad, op 5 Julie 1989.
Winnie Mandela, op pad om haar man in die hospitaal te gaan besoek (Mandela is in November 1985 in die Volkshospitaal in Kaapstad opgeneem vir ’n prostaatoperasie), was op dieselfde vliegtuig as Kobie Coetsee, wat by Jimmy Kruger as minister van justisie, polisie en gevangenisse oorgeneem het. (Kruger het Winnie Mandela in 1977 na Brandfort, ongeveer 60 kilometer vanaf Bloemfontein, verban.)
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Foto te danke aan Beeld
by Claire on 10 May 2012
Chris Wadman’s debut novel, The Unlikely Genius of Dr Cuthbert Kambazuma, is a brilliant satirical work that uses humour to addresses the tragedy in Zimbabwe’s political history and present. Read an extract from the book, enticingly titled “In Flagrante Delicto”:
* * * * * * * *
At a quarter to seven, the sound of a man clearing his throat with a stately ‘Ahem’ drifted across the yard outside, but Thomas remained oblivious – the brown arcs of Jimmy Moverley-Smith’s archaic hearing apparatus were resting sedately on the bedside table next to him. A frosty circle, the size of a modest milk tart, appeared on a window pane, with a pink dot in the middle where Reverend Harold Hardcastle pressed his pitted parson’s snoot unparsimoniously against the glass, squinting inquisitively to see inside. Ignorant of any notion of respect for personal privacy, the reverend remained ever true to his seminary nickname, ‘The bull in the Bible shop’.
As his eyes adjusted to the dim light within, the reverend rapped his knuckles impatiently against the window. Startled, Leviticus poked Thomas in the back. Thomas shot up with a start, just as the reverend’s vision adjusted. He – Thomas, that is – was raising his hand in greeting when Leviticus also sat up, unclothed from the waist up on account of the fever, and glistening with sweat, as if from some extraordinary exertion. The reverend’s expression instantly mimicked Thomas’s well-known look of surprise. He uttered a peculiar croon, as if he had just slipped off a bicycle seat and landed awkwardly on the crossbar – a sound which slowly transformed to that of a man choking on a kipper. Thomas jumped up in his threadbare Spiderman pyjamas and waved cheerfully at the reverend. He seldom, if ever, had visitors these days.
‘Reverend! Morning, come in for some tea. Please.’
The reverend curled his lip in contempt and sprang back from the window. His ankle caught the side of a flower bed and he toppled over in a near-somersault, which all but lost its symmetry in the final stages of execution. He landed on his hip with a thud, his tweed jacket covered in leaves and dried grass.
‘Are you all right, Reverend?’ Thomas cried out in alarm. ‘Please come in!’
The reverend struggled to his feet.
‘Not bloody likely!’ he called out as he turned briskly toward his red parish Anglia, followed by inaudible mutterings of disgust which included the phrases, ‘Filthy sodomists!’ and ‘If old Reginald had only known!’ liberally interspersed with an outraged ‘God help us, whatever next!’
Thomas ran through to the lounge, but only managed to catch a glimpse of flaring nostrils and piously puckered lips which extended into a full pout oscillating from side to side of the reverend’s puce face as the Anglia completed a full turn before disappearing out the driveway.
Perplexed at the reverend’s sudden appearance and dramatic departure, Thomas prepared porridge and tea for their breakfast, then quickly dressed so as not to be late for the Eucharist at St Luke’s at eight. Settling into his regular seat in the back left corner of the church, where he had always felt close enough to be included but not so close as to feel threatened, he lost himself in the ritual, chanting the responses that he knew so well. The subtleties of reverend Hardcastle’s stirring rhetoric on the shameful descent into immorality among today’s youth was lost on him as he yawned occasionally, his eyelids heavy from lack of sleep. By the end of the service, the peculiar incident with the reverend earlier that morning had become a vague memory.
The remains of St Luke’s ever-dwindling congregation collected in a line at the rear of the church to shake hands with the reverend. Thomas joined the end of the queue and was the last to greet him. The reverend’s face turned crimson. He blinked furiously, his brow deeply furrowed. With a vice-like grip on Thomas’s hand, which threated to crush his fingers, he pulled Thomas towards him, whispering forcefully. ‘Young man, whilst there may be those in our church – in America, even some in England, God forbid – who condone such heinous acts, here at St Luke’s we stand firm in our opposition!’
Thomas looked blank. He had no idea what the reverend was referring to. ‘What do you mean, Reverend?’
Reverend Hardcastle snarled, and showers of spittle rained over Thomas’s face. ‘Do you take me for an ass, young Threscothic?’
‘No, Reverend, I –’
‘I caught you, dammit – red-handed – in flagrante delicto, as they say. With that garden boy of your mother’s, by Jove! In your mother’s bedroom, of all places. I should’ve hauled you out and given you a jolly good hiding, there and then!’
‘But Reverend, you’re quite wrong. That man is very ill, he needed a bed, he –’ Thomas stopped himself in mid-sentence. The reverend’s misunderstanding suddenly hit him. Even if he were a homosexual, a concept that had always vaguely unsettled him, the church had no right to turn him away. Why should he have to explain himself? Had not wars been fought in this country, and across this continent, to end discrimination? What was the difference now?
‘You are wrong Reverend, in more ways than one,’ Thomas said calmly.
Trying to keep his cool, he wrenched his hand free and moved to the tea table. With a cup and saucer in his hand, he turned to greet some of his mother’s friends. The congregation had dispersed into several circles, engaged in lively discussion, all glancing in his direction, shaking their heads and smirking. He stood there defiantly, sipping his tea, staring back at each of them. When he had finished his tea, he poured himself another cup and again turned to face them. To pass the time, he pulled apart a Romany Cream biscuit and licked the icing off, slowly, with the tip of his tongue. Everyone was watching, but he would not be driven away. He would go when he felt like going – after his tea, after his biscuit. And he would never return. Not to this church, nor to any other that practised discrimination of any sort.
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by Thando on 10 May 2012
Jay Naidoo, author of Fighting for Justice, wrote the foreword to the new edition of Emma Mashinini’s autobiography Strikes Have Followed Me All My Life, released by Picador Africa last month and launched at Constitution Hill last week. On his website, Naidoo invites you to read the foreword, in which he recalls his first encounter with the “indomitable Ma Emma”:
I clearly remember my first encounter with Emma Mashinini. The indomitable Ma Emma was standing in the hall at Khotso House, the headquarters of the South African Council of Churches – one of the few places we were able to meet – surrounded and dwarfed by workers. She spotted Jayendra Naidoo first, who was then working as an organiser in the Commercial, Catering and Allied Workers’ Union of South Africa (CCAWUSA), and she embraced him warmly. She turned to hug me, too, and as she did, I felt her intense compassion and warmth as she whispered, ‘Welcome my son. Welcome to our family.’ It was, and has remained ever since, an intense and powerful connection.
Strikes Have Followed Me All My Life was first published in the United Kingdom in 1989. This autobiography of an inspiring individual started off as an attempt by Ma Emma to deal with the torture and devastation she had experienced under the apartheid system. Her friend Betty Wolpert suggested that it might be therapeutic for her to trace her journey and to find closure to a difficult past. In doing so, Ma Emma gives us insight into the life of a courageous woman: wife, mother, factory worker, trade unionist and friend who found herself at the centre of the fight for equal rights in the workplace.
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