We writers, would-be writers, all must care about something, right? I love Nadine Gordimer. Her shrewd penetration. Her immersion in the fundamental, the tricky, the ephemeral aspects of life. She does not deny individual, nor society. She does not dodge politics nor poverty. No one is safe from her gaze--least of all herself, I believe--but neither does anyone escape her tenderness, her knowing. This is the sense I get from Jump.
I have seen pictures of her online. She has an old woman's loveliness. Lined face, soft eyes, long, un-dyed hair. She seems gentle but unafraid.
I don't want to talk to her, to know her as a person. That kind of interaction with its layers of artifice and politeness and secretive judgment could only disappoint when I can see her mind so clearly through her novels. Yes, I would probably find her superior, flippant, or severe in face-to-face life. Better the reality of fiction. There she shows me her best self.
K. put me on to her, but I don't know if he appreciates her the way I do--that is, beyond language and thought. Some visceral part of me recognizes her truth, and I react in a flood of yes, yes, yes! Can I imagine him doing that, cold fish that he is?
Gordimer is still alive. Coetzee, too. Are they friends, I wonder. I can see them so. Despite undeniable differences, they are quite similar. I like Gordimer more. (But don't tell Coetzee.)
No comments:
Post a Comment