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In the introduction to Summer in Baden-Baden, Susan Sontag mentions The Master of Petersburg in relation to Tsypkin’s work. Being on a Dostoevsky-themed streak, and wanting to read everything written about the man anyway, I immediately ordered Coetzee’s work. I finished Tspykin’s exceptional novel only a week or so before starting Coetzee’s, so it was still fresh and alive in my mind when I began reading The Master of Petersburg. Perhaps it was the beauty of Tsypkin - so vivid to me still - that made me react with such vehement dislike to the first chapters of Coetzee’s work. It struck me as the antithesis to Tspykin: insincere, forced, superficial, the work of a professional novelist who decided to write a novel based on a theme. I could both see the ideas that Coetzee had, and feel him striking the wrong chords – or, at least, they did not resonate with me. It made me genuinely sad to read it, and part of me just wanted to put the book down (which happens to me very rarely). Yet I didn’t. I kept on reading, and eventually the story held my interest enough to make the reading more enjoyable. The novel never truly took off, though; it was awkward in places, marred by the occasional cliché, and Coetzee’s aim and vision overall were obscure – at least to me - to the point of nonexistence. It certainly did not reach the artistic heights of Summer in Baden-Baden; and, unlike Tsypkin in that work, Coetzee conveys no compelling sense of urgency in writing. Coetzee’s son died at 23 in a mysterious falling accident, and the idea of falling hovers over the novel; all the stranger, then, that it left a naturally empathetic and sentimental reader like myself untouched.
Or perhaps, just perhaps, my low estimation of the novel has more to do with the fact that I neither accepted nor appreciated Coetzee's portrayal of Dostoevsky.
Or perhaps, just perhaps, my low estimation of the novel has more to do with the fact that I neither accepted nor appreciated Coetzee's portrayal of Dostoevsky.