رمان «دشمن» نوعی بازنویسی رابینسون کروزو از رمان دفو‌ است که‌ در این بازنویسی زنی به داستان اضافه شده، جمعه از سخن گفتن عاجز است و خود رابینسون کروزو علاقه‌ای به مکتوب کردن خاطراتش ندارد. در رمان شخصی به نام فو داستان شخصیت زنی که اضافه شده را می‌نویسد و در این حین درس‌هایی در باب چطور نوشتن می‌دهد. من کتاب را دوست نداشتم چون هم از بازنویسی داستان‌ها یا نوشتن ادامه‌ای برایشان خوشم نمی‌آید. ضمن اینکه دوست ندارم حین خواندن داستان آموزش ببینم. چه فلسفی، چه مذهبی و چه نگارش. در انتهای کتاب هم نقدی آورده شده که به نظرم خیلی طولانی و کمی پیچیده بود.

4.5 stars.

سوزان به کروزو می‌گوید: «وقتی از دوردورها به زندگی نگاه می‌کنی یواش‌یواش دیگر چیز خاصی در آن نمی‌بینی. کشتی‌شکسته‌ها همه عین هم می‌شوند و پناه‌آورده‌ها به جزایر عین هم، همه آفتاب‌سوخته، تنها، با لباسی از پوست حیواناتی که کشته‌اند. چیزی که ماجرای تو را فقط مختص خودت می‌کند و تو را از ملوان‌های کهنی که پای آتش، افسانه‌های هیولاها و پری‌های دریایی را سینه‌به‌سینه نقل می‌کنند جدا می‌کند، هزاران کار کوچکی است که شاید امروز به‌نظر بی‌اهمیت باشند.»
کروزو به این حرف‌ها بی‌اعتناست: «هر چه ارزش به یاد ماندن داشته باشد فراموش نکرده‌ام.» ظاهراً همین‌قدر هم بی‌علاقه است که به فکر گریختن از جزیره بیفتد: «شاید بهتر است که او این‌جا باشد و من این‌جا باشم و تو هم این‌جا باشی، گیرم ما جور دیگری فکر کنیم.»

In the spirit of Foe, a story about this book... I bought this book at a recent $5 A Bag book sale at the library. Having walked away with 4 bags of books, it seemed like a pretty successful sale in and of itself. However, fate intervenes (dun dun DUN) and, picking it up to read tonight, I see a very familiar name scrawled in the front cover, a date/locale, and a seal imprinted on the title page. None other than the name of my favorite teacher back in high school and the date of my graduation. A favorite teacher that has since passed away but is sorely missed. Coincidence might be the invention of the storyteller here, but it's a coincidence I'm very happy about.

The book itself was interesting, both as a reinvention of Crusoe and a stand-alone. I was almost expecting a The Yellow Wallpaper twist to come into play. Definitely worth the read.

In recent readings of Coetzee's Defoe-pastiche, I have become facinated with the figure of Friday's "empty" mouth. Obviously the open-O, the unvoiced scream, the signs arranged on the beach as evidence of Friday's voice as it is both silenced and withheld, speaks to the trope of subaltern. That said, I believe Coetzee is more interested in our assumption that Friday is without a speech organ, tongue-less. Recall that the only evidence of this tonguelessness comes from the travel narrative that Crusoe gives where he imagines Friday's suffering at the hands of slave-traders and other "savages", as well, in each instance of Susan's quest to see the "stub", the remains, she turns away from what she imagines will be too physical and too evocative fleshy remnants. What does it mean that we fill in the gap in the gape? Friday is tongueless because we agree to the imagining protocol that names him as such?

People are extraneous, people are absent... Maestro Coetzee is complicated & this short novella is one of his earlier best... except for the ingloriously vapid ending. Hated it! But all the questions posed by J.M. Coetzee, mainly about fiction vs. Biography, & existential conundrums that arise, create a maudlin cloud... the pathos the reader deserves & also craves.

I had to read this for a class centering around Robinson Crusoe and I thought this was absolutely deplorable. It reads like a bad fanfiction with a MarySue for a protagonist. Her adventures are bizarre and difficult to follow. If I had not been made to read this for a class, I'd never have read past the first few pages, let alone picked it up to begin with.

This book is sheer poetry. The language, the pacing, the images - a feast for the mind!
As I see it Coetzee is the most important writer of our times. It is almost ridiculous to praise his style, as the way he formulates the questions and ideas of his writing is so perfectly self-contained and self-explanatory. Unaffected simplicity and clarity translate into utmost sophistication.
At the centre of his work lies the idea of compassion: for animals, for the ones left behind by society, for the crippled, for the ridiculous, for the invisible. A light is cast upon them in his writing by most naturally granting them the position of visible characters - no slick tricks, no handy word games. One of the most humbling of Coetzee's gifts.

I will keep coming back to this book, just like I do with all of Coetzee's books, in hope to prevent myself from forgetting their questions and at the same time to grant myself relief though his unparalleled art of conveying them.

Atmospheric and thought-provoking, but ultimately too reticent to be either satisfying or fully engaging.

Foe is a consciously literary novel. The first section is exquisitely rendered, but as soon as the metafiction really kicks in, I found it obtrusive. The exploration of the blurred lines between fiction and reality, power and language, Friday’s story and the notion of double consciousness (and of being a stranger everywhere, even his own homeland, were he to return) is fascinating – it’s a shame the narrative descends into the pretentious, only to drown in its own artifice. (That ending, though?!)

I disliked the way Coetzee depicted women here. Quite frankly, I wanted to throttle Susan for her subservience, whining and bizarre decisions. Perhaps the worst, however, was the visitations of the muse. (Ugh.) It is interesting that Coetzee chose to introduce a woman into the narrative, but it becomes clear fairly early on that it is only so she can serve the functions traditionally assigned to females; procreation, inspiration, being disbelieved/exploited/dismissed. It gives a pretty unambiguous idea of what a woman’s purpose is perceived to be.

Disappointing, but certainly an improvement on the original.

What is the inspiration for a story? Whose story is it? What is real? How do facts become fictions? What is fact?

All of these questions lie at the back of Foe, ostensibly the story of a woman who was marooned on an island where the "real" Robinson Cruso and his man Friday already had established themselves for many years.

Once rescued and brought back to England, she wants to tell/sell her story, and she chooses the hack Daniel Foe (Defoe was born Foe). He is concerned about making it a popular book and she must be aware that all of the details will not jibe with her experience.

When he disappears (fleeing creditors), she wonders and wanders, unsure that her story is being told, living a story that she herself tells. She is also made to wonder about her own sanity and the reality of her experience, as a young woman appears who claims to be the daughter she'd long ago lost and was the reason for her journey to Brazil (and subsequent marooning with Cruso).

She and Foe reunite, collaborate, and the mute slave Cruso lingers close by, his story untold.

Coetze does his allegorical thing well, and the characters are limned just sufficiently to bring them to the foreground, where they shimmer with possibilities and meanings beyond themselves.

This is a parallel novel to Daniel Defoe's Robinson Crusoe. Yet the parallel lines are drawn free handed and with much liberty. Coetzee steps boldly in the story - unafraid that we might see him. He dares us to see him. Dares us to question his tale. He'll tell us the story he wants us to hear. Yeah, so there is a "real" story. There's got to be more to it. You know there is something that Susan is not sharing. And Friday ain't telling us anything. Robinson Crusoe is dead - so what choice does he have? The cannibals are there though. They were too good to erase.

Ok, avem o rescriere a mitului lui Robinson Crusoe; iar pt a-mi exprima parerea despre această rescriere îl voi cita pe Vito Corleone: "Look how they massacred my boy".
Poate pt că am crescut citind si recitind varianta scrisa de Daniel DeFOE, varianta lui Coetzee nu mi-a fost pe plac. Nici faptul că este o narațiune la persoana întâi nu m-a ajutat prea mult. Câteva pasaje bune pe ici, pe colo, o femeie care pe tot parcursul cărții mi-a dat senzația ca as avea un pacient cu demență în față. Cam atât. Un fel de Robinson Crusoe după o lună în Vaslui (că tot îmi place să abuzez de comparația asta)