Youth

*edited on 28.04.19

Normal people, when they feel badness flare up within them, drink, swear, commit violence. Badness to them like a fever: they want it out of their system, they want to go back to being normal. But artists have to live with their fever, whatever its nature, good or bad. The fever is what makes them artists; the fever must be kept alive. That is why artists can never be wholly present to the world: one eye has always to be turned inward

Is darkness quintessential for a writer to be great? For misery and darkness provide food to the part of consciousness where creative muscles flex them. Is misery necessary to wrench heart of an author so much so that he feels as if insanity takes over him and to get rid of the insanity he needs to express himself and that’s how literature takes birth, one express oneself to get rid of insanity in life. The naïve words must pass through furnace of personal tragedy wherein there are processed to form condensed sentences which are potent to enough to express what the author has to say to his readers. Are all these pretensions, under the sheath of which an abominable, misogynist young man conceals his pompousness? Does an author want to say anything to his reader? Perhaps not. For he is just expressing the turmoil he feels in consciousness, though he may choose different ways to do it- sometimes words are simply used to render the tumult and turbulence he might be going through while sometimes words are deftly used to concoct an escapade which may indirectly covey his thoughts. And that’s how new art movements have taken birth in the realm of literature. Do words exist on their own- their being represents an authentic existence and do not require reference- without the authors? Structuralists might say they do but then post-structuralists might come upon fiercely and repudiate it. Youth is perhaps one of the most important phases of life- for it marks one’s outbreak to the world. The exuberance of youth makes you feel that there is no such thing in life which is not possible; you may conquer the whole world as if you’ve dawned on earth for it.

Misery is his element. He is at home in misery like a fish in water. If misery were to be abolished, he would not know what to do with himself.



There exist a few authors who have masterly fused their personal experiences with elements of fiction to bring up great creations of art built upon tightly woven narrative- Coetzee is one of them. The book has got all traits and logic of fiction - Coetzee creates a believable world and allows autonomous creations to move freely in it. In fact, Youth is less a work of imagination than a stylized memoir, in which Coetzee revisits the humiliation and struggle of his early years as a restless student in London.


John, a young man with lofty literary aspirations through a mathematics degree, a move from a politically unstable South Africa to London where he works towards a Masters degree in literature and begins work as a computer programmer. It is torturous tale which is hallmark of youth- the desire for glory, for greatness, for artistic achievement and admiration without the tedious work of application; as we see normally happens- aspirations of people are built on shallow buildings of disregard, inaction and passivity which is shredded to ruin of wishful cravings as soon as quivering of reality struck.


Coetzee picks up John and the story moves on in third person narrative in present tense which gives it somewhat surreal touch. The reader is being taken up into dark recesses of consciousness which constitutes our hero or rather anti-hero- John; wherein the reader is thrown into the abominable soup of disregard, misogyny, self-obsession, prejudice, out of which a sharp mirror, which tears apart imaginary artistic tarpaulin of John by profound beams of truth, emerges for him to reflect upon his guilt and shame. He has several lovers- or should we say infatuations and he writes an awful lot of verse, scarcely any of which we ever see. Coetzee here maintains a measured distance from the reader in which everything is told and relayed through the thick filter of John’s thoughts. Almost all people, whom John meets, act just as objects for achievement of his poetic greatness, as if all those do not have voice of their own, their existence is endowed upon the mercy of John.

In a perfect world he would sleep only with perfect women, women of perfect femininity yet with a certain darkness at their core that will respond to his own darker self.



Coetzee’s greatness lies in the fact that under the calm veneer of anecdotal narrative of a self- absorbed young man he surreptitiously embark upon a tornedo of turmoil in the background of racism, civil war and guilt. There is the Sharpeville massacre in South Africa, protest marches, the Cold War, and the prelude to the Vietnam war. At one point, John even writes to the Chinese Embassy in London offering to teach English in China in an attempt to engage himself in something, which emanates a feeling from his heart to do something positive. Africa remains pretty much an unhealed wound in the consciousness of John throughout the story- he is being constantly torn between his cravings about money oriented west world and his inability to do something purposeful which gives birth to guilt and shame.

The pass laws to which Africans and Africans alone are subjected are being tightened even further, and protests are breaking out everywhere. In the Transvaal the police fire shots into a crowd, then, in their mad way, go on firing into backs of fleeing men, women and children.

He knows his mother’s opinions. She thinks South Africa is misunderstood by the world. Blacks in South Africa are better off than anywhere else in Africa. The strikes and protests are fomented by communist agitators. As for farm labourers who are paid their wages in the form of mealie-meal and have to dress their children in jute bags against the winter cold, his mother concedes that this is a disgrace. But such things happen only in Transvaal. It is the Afrikaners of the Transvaal, with their sullen hatreds and their hard hearts, who give the country such a bad name.


This is my very first encounter with Coetzee but sufficiently convinced me that he is a writer of deep intelligence which is built upon closely inter woven threads of symbolism and allegory. I find his prose somewhat similar to that of Kafka wherein his characters do not follow any moral standards and there is only thing they follow and this to exist, and perhaps in isolation. As if they are being thrown into this cruel world of purposelessness by the very first crime of the life and which is birth itelf. The prose of Coetzee reminds me of Beckett as his style is built upon concise, condensed sentences (which looks like a perfectly tuned musical note, for if you go slightly lower you may not enjoy it, if you go slightly higher it may sound coarse) formed out of concentrated meditation about the narrative, like minimalism of Beckett. We may say that Coetzee's student, is sustained by immortal longings but for whom truth and beauty are always tantalizingly elsewhere.

n  n    4/5n  n

Postales de un joven en Londres (Enumeración, 2020)

1.tEl hijo hace todo lo posible por apartarse del padre y de la madre. Cuando puede se muda fuera, vive como estudiante, le obsesiona el dinero. Lee, sigue una carrera en matemáticas. Aprende a sumar.

2.tRelaciones amorosas al borde de la locura. El misterio del sexo enlazado al misterio del amor. Confusas ideas de la creación asociada al acto amoroso: el amor de la mujer debe redimirlo de sus culpas. No lo hace.

3.tUna torpeza apática lo rodea. No consigue apasionarse, es tibio apenas, como arena bajo el sol de la mañana, apenas comenzando a calentar. No consigue comprometerse, o enfadarse, u odiar.

4.tDespués de la universidad de muda a Londres. La gran metrópoli debe tener algo que ofrecer. Se vuelve oficinista. Programa con tarjetas perforadas en IBM. Le falta valor para pedirle algo más a la vida.

5.tSu vergüenza le acompaña. Siempre. Hay una sombra en todo lo que hace. No consigue conectar con nadie. Es un solitario porque no es capaz de tender puentes, de amarrar lazos. Es egoísta.

6.tVive a base de salchichas picantes y trozos de pan. Se alimenta a la manera de los estoicos. A veces va a cine. Anhela un mundo de misterios que no se abre para él. Que él es incapaz de abrir.

7.tCuando salta al vacío lo hace con paracaídas. Se despide de la ciudad, en la periferia construye rutinas. Su mayor mística es la soledad de madrugada con una supercomputadora. El oráculo de consolación.

8.tSiente que la vida debe ser algo más. Piensa que la vida debe ser algo más. Le exige a la vida que sea algo más. Pero sentimiento, pensamiento y exigencia no tienen fuerza suficiente. Es lo que es.

9.tEn el colmo del aburrimiento reconoce el privilegio, el mimo que siempre ha acolchado su existencia. Entonces comprende, o empieza a comprender, la culpa inmensa que carga sin saberlo del todo.

10.tLee sobre el pasado de su patria. Siente la palabra patria. Imagina un regreso. Imagina escribir un mito. Imagina fundar una ciudad imaginaria donde consiga conjurar sus fantasmas para conseguir el perdón.

”... al centro delle poesie c’è lui stesso – intrappolato, solo, infelice...”


[Forse era meglio non sapere...]

Forse, quando nutriamo grande passione per uno scrittore, non dovremmo sollecitare la curiosità per il suo privato leggendo biografie e/o autobiografie.
Ho letto spesso commenti ai romanzi dello scrittore sudafricano J.M. Coetzee, che lamentavano una scrittura fredda, una mancanza di calore.
Leggendo “Gioventù...”, non solo possiamo inquadrare la personalità algida dell’autore ma ne abbiamo, addirittura, una piena consapevolezza ed ammissione.

Dopo aver affrontato in “Infanzia” i primi anni (dai 9 ai 13 circa) della sua vita sudafricana, qui troviamo un ragazzo più cresciuto fisicamente (dai 19 ai 24 circa) ma con paure, debolezze ed insicurezze ancora molto infantili.
Scritto sempre in terza persona come a prendere le distanze da se stesso, ci racconta gli anni universitari e le prime esperienze nel mondo del lavoro spostandosi dal Sud Africa alla Gran Bretagna.
Il gelido distacco con cui scrive è fastidioso e non solo per l’estraniazione da se stesso ma per le frasi secche, perentorie che, spesso, danno quasi l’idea di un mero elenco di azioni.

Coetzee, futuro vincitore del Premio Nobel per la Letteratura (2003) è un giovane matematico che troverà impiego nella nascente industria informatica inglese come programmatore.
In segreto, però sogna di diventare un poeta e di trovare la Donna Ideale.
Il suo disprezzo per l’immagine dello sregolato artista bohémien lo porta ad abbracciare uno stile di vita strettamente regolato.
Seguendo l’idea che per generare Arte si debba soffrire decide di sopportare un’opprimente vita di ufficio dove si reca ogni giorno costretto nel suo completo di flanella.
Sono gli anni ’60, la guerra fredda e i cambiamenti sociali in vista non scalfiscono la sua determinazione a prendere le distanze da tutto ciò che è anche solo vagamente politico:

” Solo l’amore e l’arte sono, secondo lui, degni di dedizione assoluta.”

Incastrato dietro ad una scrivania vive la vergogna del retaggio sudafricano, cerca di annullare di ogni legame con la sua terra e soprattutto con il soffocante amore della madre.

Per almeno metà libro mi sono ripetuta che «forse era meglio non sapere.» perché io, che sto a centellinare la lettura dei suoi romanzi per assorbirne con calma ogni fibra, non avrei voluto prendermi carico della sua mancanza di calore, della sua legnosità, del suo fuggire di fronte ai problemi sociali, e, soprattutto non avrei voluto sapere di come, spesso e volentieri abbia usato le donne con comportamenti disgustosi...

Arrivata, tuttavia, a metà lettura ho avuto un momento d’improvvisa lucidità (?).
Sono riuscita anch’io a distanziarmi e a vedere questo giovane ragazzo per quello che era:
incastrato tra un passato che lo metteva fortemente a disagio, solo, con un senso dell’autostima distorto, con una mancanza di visione completa.
Un qualsiasi John, un ragazzo, in lotta con se stesso e in cerca della sua strada per diventare adulto.



” C’è un altro modo, ancor piú brutale, di dire la stessa cosa. In realtà, ci sono centinaia di modi: potrebbe passare il resto della vita a elencarli. Ma il modo piú brutale è dire che ha paura: paura di scrivere, paura delle donne. “

Seguito di Infanzia, Coetzee in questa opera prosegue l'autobiografia scritta in terza persona. Anche qui lo scrittore espone senza nessun ritegno le parti più recondite dei suoi pensieri e dei suoi sentimenti. Si sdraia sul tavolo d'acciaio dell'anatomopatologo e procede ad una minuziosa dissezione del suo Io.
Gli eventi lo hanno portato a Londra, dove trova lavoro, ma nel cuore persiste l'aspirazione a divenire poeta. Il Sudafrica è una ferita dentro di lui che non smette di sanguinare. Non sa a cosa credere, non sa qual è il suo posto nella vita, lui che "ha talento solo per l'infelicità". Ci presenta i suoi sentimenti con una prosa semplice, diretta, riflessioni profonde, parole allineate come stelle in cielo e fredde come cristalli di ghiaccio. E' questa la forza del libro.

A masterpiece! Very few writers have examined their personal life and works with this kind of dauntless honesty. Coetzee's ruminations are so deep and profound. It is undoubtedly a treat for all those who value the life of the mind.

Well, just a fabulous book. I absolutely whizzed through it. Read it.

Una de las novelas más ñoñas jamás escritas. Los escritores suelen hacerlo en sus memorias, pero tiene sentido: no todos los escritores son Burroughs ni todos se pasaron la mitad de su vida enajenados con una bolsa de correspondencia al hombro. Las confesiones de juventud (ficticias o reales, no me importa) suelen ser una ñoñería, sin embargo esto no significa que no estén escritas con una prosa bien lograda, como de una persona que ha trabajado en su voz narrativa (tiene un Nobel, coño).
Juventud es la narración en segunda persona de la vida de un joven escritor sudafricano que vive en Londres, luchando contra la rutina que puede convertirse en la enemiga de sus ambiciones literarias y explorando el mundo más allá de los límites de su colonia. En otras palabras, es el comodín de la novela del escritor poscolonial, sin embargo no llega a los niveles poéticos de Naipaul.

Así pues, recomiendo este libro de Coetzee como "lectura de anteojos" (para descansar entre libros densos). Y, a pesar de mis reservas, tiene párrafos sublimes como este:

"Así es como se hace, así es como funciona e mundo. Y un día, estos hombres, estos poetas, estos amantes, tendrán suerte: la chica, no importa la excelencia de su belleza, les responderá, y una cosa llevará a la otra y sus vidas se transformarán, las de ambos, y punto. ¿Qué más hace falta sino una especie de obstinación estúpida e insensata como amante y escritor unida a la buena disposición para fracasar una y otra vez?"

I could tell why Angela Carter called Coetzee "that boring South African" whilst reading "Youth". A certain coldness, a matter-of-factness to his writing that can come off a bit unexciting.

Our hero, John, barely into his twenties, has fled South Africa to London in hopes of being a poet, an artist because of the political unrest of his home country. We are talking about the 1950s and the unrest being: Apartheid. He wants to detach himself from this supposed political noise and move to London because, he believes, it's easier to be a poet in cities like London and Paris. Only later does he realise he'll need a real job to survive before he can devote anytime to write. He takes up boring jobs in hopes that this boredom would enable him to write. That this monotony is the prerequisite sufferings all artists must go through before writing anything of worth. But his days are quickly moving away from him. Days, weeks, months go by before he realises he hasn't written a word in ages despite it being central to his existence.

Yet, central here is the failed artist. John fails not because his art is worthless but he's so scared to fail he fails to create his art. Because it's twenties there aren't any epiphanies here; But it's a novel that spoke to me on many levels. Temporary people being temporary and populating life with people who come and go, leaving no trace. Not devoting anytime to write but constantly thinking about the act of writing. Too relatable and without firm resolutions, that ending a bit too foreseeable for my liking.

Living in London, in my twenties, i spend a lot of time alone, unintentionally. I too roam this big city by myself, stopping by at bookshops instead of reading what I have in my flat. Probably why the novel didn't work for me all that well because all of it was too not so unusual for me.