ISSN 0258-2279
L ITE R A T O R 10
No. 1
A pr. 1989
Laraine O ’Connell
J.M. Coetzee’s Life and Times o f Michael K
and Foe as Postmodernist Allegories
Opsomming
J.M . C oetzee is een van die kontem porêre skrywers vir wie postm odernistiese
allegoric ’n bruikbare m etafoor geword het. Sy verhale karteer die geaardheid,
implikasies en gevolge van die misbruik van mag, en die mite van kolonialisme word
ontleed en onthul.
Life and Times o f Michael K kan op die universele sowel as op die spesifiek
Suid-Afrikaanse vlak geinterpreteer word. Michael K word die simbool van die mens
se persoonlike vryheid, persoonlike identiteit en waardigheid. Sy stryd om vryheid is
ironies in die lig van die feit dat die oorlog w aaraan hy probeer ontkom , geveg word
juis om m inderheidsgroepe inspraak in hulle toekom s te verseker.
Foe ondersoek die verhouding van vertelling en gebeure, waarheid en fiksie. Friday
se stilte word ’n manifestasie van die eksistensiële niet. Soos dit in hierdie rom an
ontplooi, is dit die taak van die skrywer om die gem eenskap aan hom self te openbaar,
sodat die spraaklose weer resonasie gegee word.
A llegory has held an im p o rtan t place in S outh A frican literatu re from a very
early stage in its history, in A frik aan s literatu re developing from th e naively
didactic novellas of J. L ion C ach et, to th e sophisticated m odern allegories of
au th o rs like E tie n n e L ero u x , B erta Sm it and A n n a M . Louw . In E nglish
S outh A frican literatu re C herry W ilhelm traces allegory as far back as O live
S ch rein er’s fictions. In h er A u etsa p a p e r (1979) W ilhelm says th a t S chreiner’s
fictions “can b est be u n d ersto o d as m o d ern allegories, as ex ten d ed n arrativ e
m etap h o rs for th e sou l’s tim eless quest for th e tru th , b u t m odified by the
p articu lar dilem m a of th e n in eteen th -cen tu ry soul, which n ee d ed to m ove o u t
o f th e confining guilts of a punitive theology to the freer air of a new
philosophical o r artistic synthesis” (65).
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C ertain tren d s have m anifested them selves w ithin the system to w hich the
S outh A frican novel belongs. T h e re is gen eral dissatisfaction with the presen t
social o rd e r. Significantly, religion as a th em e seem s to have d isap p eared
from th e literary scene. A u th o rs have begun to ex p erim ent with point o f view,
and fantasy and surrealism have becom e im p o rtan t devices. Irony and satire
have becom e far m o re pervasive th an in th e past.
G a re th C ornw ell (1983:24) m akes th e ten tativ e suggestion th at the fro n t rank
o f S outh A frican w riters - C o etzee, G o rd im er, G ray , B rin k , P e te r W ilhelm
- is tu rn in g aw ay from th e p resen t to an im agined fu tu re, a re-an im ated past
o r a tim eless zone outside history in its search for a w orkable m etap h o r.
P ostm o d ern ist allegory appears to provide a w orkable m etap h o r for these
w riters.
C o etzee m eets th e m od ern re a d e r’s d em an d for realism . H is realism is
fan tastic, yet n evertheless frighteningly real. In charting th e n a tu re , im plica­
tions and consequences of th e im position o f pow er, the W estern m yth of
colonialism in all its form s is dissected and rev ealed fo r w hat it is. All
C o e tz e e ’s fictions re ite ra te th e basic political allegory defined by H egel (1949)
in an essay e n titled ‘In d ep en d en ce an d D ep en d en ce o f Self-C onsciousness,
L ordship and B o n d ag e’ in The P henom enology o f the M ind. In this essay
H egel p ro p o ses th a t the m aster and th e servant are m utually d e p e n d e n t, but
th a t th e serv an t, n o t th e m aster, em bodies the poten tial for renew al: the
m a ste r inevitably grows less p roductive as he grow s m ore d e p e n d e n t, and the
se rv a n t’s grow th in po w er is directly p ro p o rtio n a te to his aw areness o f his
m a ste r’s grow ing depen d en ce.
L ife a n d Tim es o f M ichael K is an allegory th a t can be in te rp re te d on at least
tw o levels, th e universal, and th e specifically S outh A frican. T h e stree ts, the
Sea P oint beach fro n t and th e rem o te P rince A lb e rt district are all recognisably South A frican , and C oetzee m anages to evoke th ro u g h his spare
n arra tiv e th e harshness o f th e C ape w in ter and the aridity b u t singular beauty
o f th e K aro o w ith a sureness o f touch only possible for one intim ately fam iliar
w ith th e region.
B ut the landscape travelled by M ichael K is a cold, unfriendly one. It is a
landscape o f ab an d o n ed beach -fro n t flats, d eserted farm s, convoys and
cam ps. T h e restrictio n o f perm its, curfew s and cam ps o f a w ar-stricken
co u ntry could be anyw here in th e w orld, b u t th e S outh A frican re a d e r cannot
escape th e im plications o f th e story for S outh A frican society. T h e ch aracters
and th e action are strip p ed dow n to th e b arest essentials. T h e loo ters,
d e se rte rs an d b u reau crats he com es across are all in som e way o r th e o th e r
atte m p tin g to effect com prom ises in o rd e r to survive.
M ichael K ’s K afkaesque nam e p re p a re s th e re a d e r fo r th e universality o f the
issues to be ex am in ed , b u t M ichael also m eans “like G o d ” , and he becom es
th e sym bol fo r m a n ’s p erso n al freed o m , p erso n al identity and dignity (M uller,
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1985:41), which he m anages to retain inviolate in spite of all the hardships he
suffers. H e is a skeletal figure, a universal nobody w hom w e can never know
intim ately, though we m ay feel as he does (Sm ith, 1983:28).
D espite his nam e, M ichael K is given a very personal identity in the first lines
o f the novel. H e is b orn with a h arelip, a lip curling like a snail’s foot, and a
gaping left nostril. H e is n eith er w elcom e n o r loved, and his first years, spent
with his m o th er, are dev o ted to learning to be quiet. By an accident of birth
he is “ but one of a m u ltitude in the second-class” (C oetzee, 1983:187). H e
becom es a co n d em n atio n , not only of th e racist n atu re of th e South A frican
political system , but of oppression of th e individual, regardless o f colour or
race.
W hile this novel m ight ap p ear to be occupied w ith som ething d ifferen t, it
exam ines an aspect o f colonialism as well. Its protago n ist is in tent on avoiding
colonisation in any form , and he em bodies th e m ajo r them e of th e novel. It
is this drive of th e individual to assert his in d ep en d en ce, through flight or
throug h n o n -co o p eratio n , th at raises th e novel to a m anifestation o f a m ore
prevailing “universal tru th ” .
His childhood is spent at H uis N orenius, a hom e for variously handicapped
children, w here he learns th e skills th a t will suit him for his second-class life.
H aving been discharged from H uis N orenius at th e age o f fifteen, he is soon
revealed as a c reatu re of solitude, shadow and dam p, like the snail th a t is
suggested by his h arelip , preferring to w ork in th e parks with th e tall pines
and dim ag ap an th u s walks (C o etzee, 1983:5).
T he conditions in th e city are sketched with ju st sufficient detail to suggest a
landscape o f w ar. T he hospital in which his m o th er is being tre a te d fo r dropsy
is in u n d ated w ith w ar casualties. T he irregularity of the bus service serves to
convey the n ev er overtly stated disruption caused by civil w ar w hich is a
vaguely d elin eated but persisten t b ack d ro p to events.
T he jo u rn e y they decide to u n d ertak e to escape the city is one o f the oldest
allegorical devices, allow ing ch aracters to be in tro duced to changing circum ­
stances, and revealing d evelopm ent of character.
T h e idea o f retu rn in g to th e K aroo of A n n a ’s b irth by train has to be given up
although M ichael has b ought th e tickets, because of th e im possibility of
p e n etratin g th e K afkaesque b ureaucracy, com plicated by th e w ar conditions.
M ichael builds a barrow in which to push his m o th e r, and begins th e jo u rn ey ,
which becom es an infernal ordeal. T hey are tu rn e d back, harassed by
w ould-be ro b b ers, laughed at by passers-by and only once offered a lift, w hile
A n n a becom es progressively w eaker. A t S tellenbosch he has to give up and
take h er to hospital.
A fter his m o th e r’s d eath and crem atio n , he w anders aro u n d w ith his barrow
and h er ashes, relu ctan t to m ove on. R o b b ed first o f his barrow and th en of
his m oney, he discards everything except his m o th e r’s coat and h e r ashes. H e
is system atically being strip p ed of his m aterial possessions, as his body is
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being strip p ed o f flesh by th e p rivations o f his jou rn ey. “ Living off th e lan d ”
(63) b u t m ostly going hungry, he feels a strange affinity with this d esolate and
b a rre n country.
H e has a basic sense of th e p erm an en ce of n a tu re . W hen his m o th e r rem arks
o f a m agazine p ictu re th at “People d o n ’t e a t like th at any m o re ” (21), he
disagrees. “ T h e pigs d o n ’t know th ere is a w ar o n ,’ he said. ‘T he pineapples
d o n ’t know th e re is a w ar on. F o o d keeps grow ing’” (21). O n th e d e serted
V isagie farm he acknow ledges to him self th a t he is a g ard en e r, and ex p eri­
ences inten se joy in th e activity of tending his little g arden and irrigating it
from th e dam . H e ap p ears to be existing in “a p ocket outside tim e” (82).
R ed u ced to eatin g insects w hile tending his p um pkin plan ts, and feeling no
a p p e tite , he tells him self th at w hen food com es o u t o f th e e a rth he will
recover his a p p e tite , for such food will have savour (139).
W hen he arrives on th e farm for th e first tim e, he thinks o f one o f th e parks
w here he w o rk ed , and p resum es th a t th e grass has n o t sto p p ed grow ing
because th e re is a w ar. B ut he has lost his affinity for th e d ark and dam p. H e
has em erg ed into th e sunlight o f th e K aroo and found g re a te r affinity w ith th e
hard n ess, th e dry yellow and red o f his m o th e r’s country.
W hen he retu rn s to the farm , how ever, he is gradually com pelled to becom e
a c re a tu re o f th e night once again, m oving on th e d ark e st of nights w ith the
confidence o f a blind p erso n , taking care o f his p lants, chasing away th e wild
goats th a t tram p le them . T h e th o u g h t th a t p rev en ts him from joining th e m en
from th e m o u n tain s is th a t enough m en h ad gone off to th e w ar saying th a t the
tim e fo r g ardening was over. H e has th e m ystical aw areness th a t co n tact with
the e a rth m ust be m ain tain ed , “because once th a t cord was b ro k e n , th e e arth
w ould grow h ard and forget h e r ch ild ren ” (150).
E atin g th e first fruit o f his lab o u r is an intensely sensual exp erien ce, bringing
tears to his eyes, his h e a rt brim m ing o v er w ith gratitu d e. B ut th e dam age to
his body has p ro g ressed to o far, sym bolising th e irre p a rab le dam age d o n e to
the individual by being dep riv ed o f his id en tity , and w hen the soldiers arrive
again, he has no d efen ce, beyond tak in g w ith him a p ack et o f seed.
T h e indiv id u al’s right to freed o m , th e freed o m insisted upon by even this
m ost m inim al o f beings, is em phasised th ro u g h o u t th e novel. A t W orcester
M ichael is picked up for not having a p e rm it, an d is assigned to a gang to clear
the railw ay line, until he all but collapses, yet finds th e energy to assert his
rights, “W hy have I got to w ork h e re ? ” (58). T h e next day, quietly and
u n n o ticed , he m ingles w ith a n o th e r gang of w o rkers and bo ard s th e n o rth ­
b o und train w ith them .
T h e first real kindness he experiences is th a t of th e fam ily th a t gives him food
and sh e lte r for a night in L aingsburg. T h e m an expresses his code o f decency:
“ P eo ple m ust help each o th e r, th a t’s w hat I b eliev e” (65). L a te r K is th e only
one w ho reacts w hen th e ir fo rm er g u ard is stab b ed in th e leg - p erh ap s he is
afte r all o n e of th o se w ho believe in helping o th ers.
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T he arrival on th e farm of th e o w n er’s grandson ends his illusion of freed o m ,
and w hen th ere is a n o th e r assault on his right to his ow n identity, he m oves
on. H e refuses to be m ade into a servant by th e young d eserte r, and tak es to
the road once m ore.
H aving to quit th e m ountain cam p w hen th e h u n g er becom es too acu te, he is
tak en to a resettlem en t cam p, a nightm are retu rn to his childhood, to H uis
N orenius.
R o b e rt’s com m ents on th e cam p system are a b itte r in dictm ent of conditions
in South A frica, caused am ong o th e r things by ap arth eid and th e G ro u p
A reas A ct: “W h at they w ould really like . . . is for the cam p to be m iles away
in the m iddle o f th e K oup o u t of sight. T hen we could com e on tip to e in the
m iddle o f the night like fairies to do th eir w ork, dig th eir gardens, w ash th eir
pots, and be gone in th e m orning leaving everything nice and clean ” (112). H e
also m entions th e system as a source of cheap lab o u r, “and at the end of the
day the truck fetches them and they are gone and he d o esn ’t have to w orry
ab o u t them o r th e ir fam ilies, they can starve, they can be cold, he know s
nothin g , it’s n one of his business” (112).
M ichael is com pletely egocentric in his attitu d e , unaw are of anything th at
does not directly affect his ow n freedom . H e has no u n d erstanding of and no
in terest in this w ar which persists in dogging him . R o b e rt’s is th e voice slowly
p en e tra tin g his sluggish m ind, m aking him conscious, so th at looking at the
girl w ho has lost h er baby, it seem s th a t scene after scene is playing itself out
b efore him and th at the scenes all coalesce. H e has a presen tim en t o f a single
m eaning upon which they are converging, but he does n o t yet know w hat the
m eaning m ight be (122). Slowly M ichael’s thoughts begin to w aken as the
seed th a t R o b e rt has p lan ted begins to grow and he recognises the intrinsic
tru th of m any of his com m ents. T h e im age of planting and grow th is
continu ed and he ‘w atches’ th e thou g h t tak e shape in his m ind and grow , like
a plant.
It is ironic th a t th e w rath visited upon the cam p by the police officer is the
result of an explosion in tow n after which the resu ltant fire sp read to the
cultural history m useum and b u rn t it to th e ground - ironic because it suggests
th at th a t which is p reserved in m useum s is p erh ap s all th at is left o f South
A frican culture.
W hen M ichael clim bs over the fence of the cam p to claim his freed o m once
again, he describes th e ground outside as being very m uch like th e ground
inside, suggesting th a t th e w hole country has becom e a p rison, and th at
freedom is not necessarily physical freedom . B ack on the farm he is wary of
com m itting the sam e m istakes as his predecessors. H e resists the tem p tatio n
to carry th e V isagies’ rubbish to his hom e, although he has use for m ost o f the
things. “T h e w orst m istake, he told him self, w ould be to try to found a new
house, a rival line, on his small beginnings o u t at the dam . E ven his tools
should be o f w ood and leath er and gut, m aterials the insects w ould e a t w hen
one day he no longer n eed ed th e m ” (143).
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A s in his o th e r novels, C oetzee explores th e H egelian th em e o f m astery and
slavery, rev ealed in th e oppression o f one section of the in h ab itan ts by the
o th er. A n o th e r version is M ichael’s speculation on the role o f p arasite and
host. “ It was no longer obvious which was p arasite, cam p o r tow n . . . W hat
if the hosts w ere far o u tn u m b e re d by th e p arasites . . . could the parasites then
still be called p arasites? . . . P erh ap s in tru th w h eth er the cam p was declared
a parasite on th e tow n o r th e tow n a p arasite on th e cam p d ep en d ed on no
m o re th an on w ho m ade his voice h eard lo u d e st” (1 5 9 -1 6 0 ). B ut M ichael’s
voice is to o soft to be h eard . H e is p erh ap s w hat M agda (C oetzee: 1977)
desired to b e , not m aster o r slave, b u t th e bridge in betw een.
T he second p a rt of th e novel is a p resen tatio n of a w ide range of South
A frican a ttitu d es. T h e w om en o v erh eard in th e can teen are expressing th eir
bittern ess at having b een ev acu ated , and th e ir fears are those th a t are
expressed ab o u t th e b arb arian s in Waiting fo r the Barbarians: “In her dream s
o f h e r ab an d o n e d hom e a strange m an spraw ls on th e sheets with his bo o ts o n ,
o r o p en s th e deep -freeze and spits into th e ice-cream ” (C o e tze e, 1983:183).
T he do cto r and his friend re p re se n t “th e en lig hten ed liberal w hose h u m an i­
ta ria n efforts fall short of tru e C hristianity because he rem ains tra p p e d w ithin
the system ” (M uller, 1985:41). A t th e opp o site ex trem e is th e callous
S erg eant A lb rech ts w ho justifies his cruel inhum anity by saying th a t he is only
acting in accordance w ith th e rules.
M ichael is now know n as M ichaels, despite his insistence th a t his nam e is
M ichael, sym bolising even the d o c to r’s refusal to recognise his individuality.
T he w orld has no respect for M ichael K ’s freedo m and identity. T he do cto r
w ants to flesh him o u t to becom e M ichaels; they a tte m p t to m ake him ad o p t
the id en tity of a crim inal siding w ith the insurgents, but he refuses to be
categorised.
M ichael ap p ears to th e d o cto r to have tran scen d ed the condition of w ar in the
country . H e recognises th e irony o f M ichael’s being d eta in ed as an insurgent
w hen he barely know s th a t th e re is a w ar on. W hen M ichael d eclares, “I am
w hat I a m ” , he is taking his stan d for freed o m against these w ell-m eaning
b u rea u c rats w ho are still attem p tin g to categorise him . H e is as u naffected by
w hat has h a p p e n e d to him as a sto n e , “a p ebble th a t, having lain aro u n d
quietly m inding its ow n business since th e daw n o f tim e, is now suddenly
picked up and tossed random ly from h an d to h a n d ” (185). H is reply to a
renew ed b o u t of in terro g atio n is sim ply, “ I am not in the w ar” (189). B ut the
w arning is th e re - th e re is no hom e left fo r the universal souls (207), and
com prom ise is th e only way to survive.
M ichael resists th eir attem p ts to fatten him u p , p erh ap s because he know s
th a t th e p u rp o se is not to give him his fre e d o m , but to m ake him fit fo r cam p
life. E ven th e ir exagg erated concern he shakes off im p atiently, because too
close a tte n tio n also im plies cu rtailm en t o f his freed o m . H e insists th a t he is
no t going to d ie, b u t th a t he sim ply can n o t e a t th e cam p food.
T h e d o c to r visualises M ichael as th e ru d im en tary , e lem e n tal, universal m an,
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w ho has m anaged “ [to pass] through th e bow els of the state undigested; he
has em erged from its cam ps as intact as he em erged from its schools and
o rp h an a g es” (221). T he intense irony of th eir inability to accom m odate
M ichael and his claim to identity is revealed w hen the do cto r asks why they
are fighting the w ar, and N oël replies th a t it is “so th a t m inorities will have a
say in th eir destin ies” (215). To claim th a t right M ichael has to escape, and by
his escape he succeeds at least in revealing to th e doctor th a t the only
acceptable life is a life of freedom .
In this second p a rt M ichael’s likeness to C hrist, as suggested by his n am e, is
also em phasised. Soon after his arrival at th e hospital, the do cto r rem ark s th at
“I am not sure he is wholly of o u r w orld” (178). W hen M ichael insists th at “ I
am w hat I am ” (179), th e analogy w ith th e identity claim ed by G o d , “ I am ” ,
is evident. H e is th e obscurist of th e o bscure, “so obscure as to be a prodigy”
(195). T h e d ark pools of his eyes seem to look at th e do cto r from beyond the
grave.
T he d o c to r’s agonizing after M ichael has d isap p eared com es closest to
revealing th e C hrist-im age th at he has becom e, at least to th e d o cto r. H e
desires intensely to accom pany M ichael, to be able to m ove w ith him into a
space outside history, betw een th e cam ps, belonging to no cam p. H e im agines
saying to M ichael, “Y our stay in the cam p was m erely an allegory - speaking
at the highest level - of how scandalously, how outrageously a m eaning can
take up residence in a system w ithout becom ing a term in it. D id you not
notice how , w h enever I tried to pin you dow n, you slipped aw ay?” (228).
In the th ird section M ichael’s freedom is com prom ised once again by the
charity of th e v agrants he runs into. T hey to o refuse to recognise his identity,
and he is called M r T reefeller, after the nam e em blazoned on his stolen
overalls. T hey give him food and drin k , w rap him in a plastic sh ee t for his
night w ith th em in th e o p en , u n d er th e pine trees on the m ou n tain sid e, and
atte m p t to ro b him in the night. T hey succeed only in scattering his pum pkin
seeds, but he m anages to recover som e of th em to tak e w ith him again. T hey
catch up w ith him on th e beach, but he rem ains strangely in n o cen t and
inviolate despite th e twin tem p tatio n s of alcohol and sex th a t they offer him .
B ack in his m o th e r’s ro o m , the circular jo u rn ey , the odyssey, has been
com pleted . M ichael has travelled from now here to now here. H e has not
experien ced an advance in learning, o r a grow th o f selfaw areness, b u t he has
survived, above all, w ith his spirit intact. H e recognises th a t he is essentially
a g ard en er. M any seeds from one is w hat he calls “th e bounty o f th e e a rth ”
(162), and he feels th a t th e one m istake he m ade was not to have m ore seeds,
m any kinds, hid d en ab o u t his p erso n , to escape th e eyes and hands of
rob bers.
Lying w rap p ed in a n o th e r m a n ’s b lan k et in his m o th e r’s old room he
fantasizes ab o u t u n d ertak in g a retu rn to th e farm with this (im agined) old
m an to w hom th e b lan k et belongs, to p lan t his seeds. It d o esn ’t m a tte r th at
the re a d e r recognizes th a t this will not h a p p en , th a t M ichael K is dying. W hat
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does m a tte r is th at he has survived th e K afkaesque m achinery o f oppression
and asserted his right to freed o m , no m a tte r how m inim al th a t freedom is.
M ichael K is an individual, but also th e w hole black people o f S outh A frica,
an d , at a fu rth e r narrative level, th e d ep riv ed , o p p ressed , second-class people
o f the w orld. His perso n al destiny figures th e destiny of th e collective. T he
final application o f th e allegory is th a t th e tru e salvation of society lies in the
recognition of the basic eq u ality , hum anity and individual freedom th a t
M ichael K sym bolises (M uller: 43). T he au th o r seem s to be asking, “Shall the
m eek in h erit th e e a rth ? ” (B lak e, 1984:56). B ut Uke any o th e r pro fo u n d
allegory, L ife a nd Tim es o f M ichael K leaves th e question unan sw ered , and
M ichael K him self rem ains a hau n tin g enigm a.
Foe, C o e tz e e ’s latest novel, is an allegory which considers them es th a t have
b een view ed from o th e r perspectives in his earlier novels, and w hich extends
his ex p lo ratio n of language and m eaning, colonialism , sexuality, dom inance
and su bservience, and the p red icam en t of the au to b io g rap h er/w riter of
stories. Foe ap p ears to be an investigation of the slippery n a tu re o f tru th and
its relatio n to story-telling, th e n atu re o f fiction and historicity, and w riting
itself.
In L o rd o f the Flies G olding reoccupies R .M . B allan ty n e’s coral island, and
show s B allan ty n e’s p o rtray al of th e fo u r “English boys” to be false, by
rep o p u latin g th e island w ith boys w ho are not idealised, b u t carry w ithin
them selves th e essential evil th a t is in h e re n t in m an. In Foe C oetzee
reoccupies a n o th e r island, this tim e D e fo e ’s, with a m orose m aster w ho has
tau g h t his slave only sufficient E nglish for him to u n d e rstan d th e basic
instru ctio n s necessary to carry o u t th e sim ple activities on th e island, and
Friday him self, a far m ore realistic prim itive th an D e fo e ’s W alt D isney-type
b arb a ria n .
Foe consists o f fo u r p arts, each em ploying a change in tim e, place, ch aracters
and n a rra tio n a l style. T he first p a rt tells th e p retex t R obinson C rusoe, from
a fresh p erspective. R o b in so n Crusoe is generally recognised as the first novel
in E nglish lite ra tu re , w hich m akes it a particu larly suitable choice for
C o e tz e e ’s p u rp o se. His history differs significantly from th e original, allow ing
him to p u rsu e ex p lo ratio n of such pro b lem s as tran slatio n and in terp reta tio n .
To th e tw o m en on th e island, he adds a w o m an , Susan B a rto n , w ho takes
o ver th e n arrativ e from D e fo e ’s C ru so e, and a sub d u ed b u t co n stan t n o te of
sexuality is in tro d u ced which was ab sen t from th e original.
T he novel begins w ith a story being told. Susan B arton is relating to Foe the
story o f h e r arrival and so jo u rn on th e island. She m akes a p o in t o f indicating
th e difference b etw een reality and im agination w hen she focuses atte n tio n on
the difference b etw een th e p o p u lar conception o f the d esert isle w ith its soft
sands an d shady tre e s, “w here b ro o k s run to quench the castaw ay’s th irst and
ripe fruit falls in to his h an d , w here no m ore is asked o f him th an to drow se the
days aw ay till a ship calls to fetch him h o m e ” (C o e tz ee , 1986:7), and th e rocky
island w here she lands, d o tte d w ith d rab bushes, with evil-sm elling off-shore
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beds o f seaw eed and sw arm s o f fleas, and also lizards, apes and birds (7).
T h ere is also an ironic contrast betw een th e rom anticized castaw ay’s
“drow sing th e days aw ay” and h er u tte r b oredom and depression.
H er first action after taking care of h er m ost elem en tary needs for survival,
drinking w ater and ending the pain in h er foot by rem oving a th o rn , is to
p ro ceed to tell C ruso and Friday the story of h er life. In this n arra tio n , a story
w ithin a story, she provides h er story w ith a past in relation to the im m ediate
presen t; she tells of h er futile search for her d au g h ter in B ahia, h e r jo urney
to Portugal which was never com p leted , th e m utiny, and being cast away near
the island (1 0 -1 1 ). H aving told h er story, she is draw n into the o rd er u n d er
which C ruso lives as m aster, and Friday as slave, Susan being relegated to the
undefined position of a kind of second slave in the island hierarchy.
C ruso is unw illing to tell his story, and w hen he does relate fragm ents, he tells
a n u m b er of versions, which suggest th eir fictionality. Susan insists th a t he
should have w ritten his history dow n, w ith the individual details th a t w ould
m ake th e story his p articular story, and not m erely som e universal castaw ay’s
narrative th a t could have been an y o n e’s. Friday has no to n g u e, so th a t his
story can n o t be told.
T he question o f F riday’s having no tongue leads to an ex tended discussion
betw een C ruso and Susan. H e gives a m ultiplicity o f reasons why F riday’s
captors m ight have d one such a thing. C ruso tells Friday to sing, and calls the
low, tuneless hum m ing sound “th e voice o f m a n ” , suggesting the inarticulacy
of m an in th e m e ta p h o r of th e universe. F riday’s experience, his w hole voice
w hereby his history m ight be expressed has been erased w ithin the m ental
fram ew ork of colonialism , redu ced at least to th e inarticulate hum m ing th at
reveals his p resen ce, but conveys no m eaning, a sound o f infinite sadness.
This discussion leads to a n o th e r, the q uestion of th e necessity o f slaves, to the
existence o f w hom Providence has shut its eyes. “ If Providence w ere to w atch
over all of us . . . w ho w ould be left to pick the cotton and cut the
sugar-can e?” (23). This cynical rem ark reveals C ruso’s expansionist,
colonising-m ercantilist backg ro u n d , and th e econom ic considerations behind
the “civilizing” m yth o f colonialism . S kinner suggests th at th e analogy of
South A frica’s im perialistic nationalism presen ts a relatively accessible com ­
plex o f allegorical possibilities. “ [C oetzee’s] choice o f re-visioning D efoe and
his w orks of p o stm o d ern palim psest is a highly effective use o f historical
resonances, allow ing him to continue his ex ploration of colonialism and
pow er in a tem porally ex ten d ed co n tex t, not m erely in th eir c u rre n t and local
fo rm ” (1986a:86).
This conversation aw akens in Susan, who has previously paid as little
atten tio n to Friday as to th e houseslaves in B razil, an intense aw areness o f the
inarticulate slave, which is not a feeling of affinity for som eone in a plight
sim ilar to h e r ow n, as slave to C ruso, but a feeling of revulsion.
H aving m ade fo r herself a cap w ith earshields, and m aking use of plugs to shut
o ut the sound of th e w ind, Susan becom es as d e a f as Friday is m ute - “W hat
47
difference did it m ake on an island w here no o n e spoice?” (35). This absence
o f com m unication has a bestializing effect on h e r, and for a w hile her life
d eg e n e ra tes into the sub-hum an. C ruso im presses a m orose silence on her
life, yet has p atience w ith h er m oods. W h at effect the silence has on Friday
can n ot be judged.
C ruso has no stories to tell o f th e life he led as a tra d e r and p la n te r before the
shipw reck. H e is not in te re ste d in S usan ’s stories and seem s n o t to h e a r them .
H e ap p ears to w ant to p re te n d th a t th e ir stories begin and end on th e island.
H e is n o t in terested in anything b u t survival: “We sleep, we e a t, we live. We
have no n eed of to o ls” (32), indicative p erh ap s of the tunnel-vision suffered
by m any latter-d ay colonialists. A ll C ru so ’s tim e and energy a p p ea r to be
engaged in constructing terraces. T h e re are tw elve levels, tw enty paces d eep ,
b an k ed w ith stone walls a yard thick, at th e highest the height o f a m an. A
h u n d re d th o u san d o r m ore stones have gone in to th e construction. C ruso has
p re p a re d the seed beds, b u t “th e p lanting is not for us. W e have nothing to
plan t - th a t is o u r m isfortune . . . T h e planting is reserved for those w ho com e
afte r us and have th e foresight to bring seed. I only clear th e g round for th e m ”
(33). T his sen tim en t suggests C o e tz e e ’s feeling for history, th a t no era is ever
self-contained, but m erely serves as a seed b ed for the seed o f the next era.
T h e re is irony in th e suggestion th a t in D e fo e ’s e ra th e seed b ed for
colonialism is p re p a red w ith th e silent co llab o ration of the slave, in w hich the
seed o f neo-colonialism and eventually o f a p a rth e id is sow n, and from which
its d ark fruit is h arvested.
A fte r m o re th an a y ear has elap sed , a m erch an tm an , the Jo h n H obart
‘rescu es’ th e th ree castaw ays. In fact, only Susan is rescued. T h e m en are
rem o ved against th e ir will, C ruso because he is to o ill to resist strongly
en o u g h , and Friday because he has no choice. C ruso suffers from a recurring
fev er, but he dies of w oe, for the kingdom he has been deprived o f (43), the
kingdom o f co m p lete, unchallenged p o w er, which is the colonialist’s d ream .
S usan tells C ap tain Sm ith h er story, an d he urges h er to set it dow n b u t she
indicates th e difference b etw een o ral an d w ritten literatu re: “A liveliness is
lost in th e w riting dow n which m ust be su p p h ed by a r t” (40). W hen the
cap tain suggests th at a w riter m ay be h ired w ho will add a dash o f co lo u r, she
insists th a t “I will not have any lies to ld ” (40), which im m ediately in troduces
fascinating glim pses o f levels o f n a rra tiv e , th e essential difference betw een
experien ce an d th e n arratio n of th a t experience. “If I can n o t com e forw ard,
as a u th o r, an d sw ear to th e tru th o f m y ta le , w hat will be th e w orth o f it? I
m ight as well have d ream ed it in a snug b ed in C h ich ester” (40). T his last is
an ironic referen ce to th e fact th a t D efo e, th e au th o r o f th e p re-tex t, had
nev er trav elled a b ro ad b u t had b ased his novel on th e published account of
th e ex periences o f o n e A lex an d er Selkirk.
In th e fascinating m eta-tex t, C o etzee explores the relatio n sh ip betw een
sou rce and a u th o r, tru th an d fiction. H e describes th e various stages betw een
th e actual events upon which a novel is based and th e re a d e r’s percep tio n of
48
the w ords in prin t. T he process becom es even m ore interesting w hen one
considers Foe in relatio n to D e fo e ’s R o binson Crusoe, even going so far as to
im agine a relationship betw een the idea on which R o binson Cruso is based,
and the m od ern re a d er o f Foe H ough, 1987:12).
T he second p a rt of th e novel takes the form of letters w ritten to Foe,
containing references to th e self-consciousness of th e au th o r as c re a to r, and
his pow er to m ake choices: “I thin k of you as a steersm an steering th e great
hulk o f th e house th ro u g h th e nights and days, p eering ah ead for signs o f the
sto rm ” (50). H e r letters com m unicate th e p roblem s th a t she and Friday
en co u n ter in th eir fight for survival, but m ore im p o rtan t are h e r atte m p ts to
com e to term s with th e relationship betw een n arrativ e and fact, betw een
history, and th e tim e in w hich th e event actually to o k place. She describes the
w ritten account o f the year on th e island: “It is a sorry, lim ping affair (the
history, not th e tim e itself)” (47).
She im agines th e in terio r of F o e’s attic, even to th e ripple in the glass o f the
w indow . This ripple becom es an im age of the ease w ith which perspective
m ay chang e, and w ith it th e en tire aspect of th e event to be n a rra te d . H is view
of the landscape m ay be changed by som ething as insignificant as a m ovem ent
of th e head . In th e light of this it is clear th a t she cannot tell C ru so ’s story, for
only he can tell it from his particu lar perspective. She feels th a t she should
have co n cen trated to a g reater ex ten t on h er ow n story, telling m ore about
herself, less ab o u t him , and she then proceeds to nam e a bew ildering n um ber
of details and perspectives th at she m ight have em ployed, revealing the
infinite array of choices with which the a u th o r is continually c o n fro n ted ,
to g e th e r with th e wholly contingent n atu re of “ reality ” .
T h e p le th o ra o f choices into which h e r desire to w rite h er island history has
p recip itated h e r, appears to dissolve h er very life into ep h em erality , robbing
her o f her ow n substantiality, “F or though my story gives the tru th , it does not
give the substance of th e tru th ” (51).
She com es to certain insights, recognising as th e essence o f creativity the
ability to rem ove the self to th e im agined w orld. She also u n d erstan d s th at in
w riting th e re is m o re at stak e th an th e history, for it m ust not only tell the
tru th , but also please its read ers. T h ere is som e suggestion o f th e a u th o r’s
inability to d eterm in e th e precise identity of his re a d e r, w hen she tosses the
pages o f one of h er letters to Foe out of th e w indow , to be read by w hoever
will.
F ederm an (1973:43) has th e follow ing to say ab o u t w riting: “W hile p reten d in g
to be telling th e story o f his life, o r the story of any life, the fiction w riter can
at the sam e tim e tell th e story of th e story he is telling, the story of the
language he is em ploying, the story of th e m eth o d s he is using, the story o f the
pencil o r th e ty p ew riter he is using to w rite his story, th e story o f the fiction
he is inventing, and even the story o f th e anguish (o r joy) he is feeling w hile
telling his sto ry ” . This is in effect w hat C oetzee is doing in this novel, and
w hat Susan does w hen she sits dow n at F o e’s b u reau : “ I sat at your b u rea u this
49
m orning . . . and to o k o u t a clean sheet of p a p e r and dipped pen in inii - your
p en , your ink, I know , but som ehow th e p en becom es m ine w hile I w rite with
it, as th o u g h grow ing out of my h a n d ” (66—67).
T h e q u estio n o f d om ination and subservience is considered in this novel, and
not only in relatio n to C ruso and his m an Friday. W hen Susan pleads to be
tak en into F o e ’s hou se, offering to be his servant, C o etzee suggests th a t
slavery, degrading as it is, is often e n te re d in to v oluntarily, purely as a m eans
o f survival.
Susan is bou n d to Friday by h er com passion, an d her feeling of responsibility.
His silence is a co nstan t source o f confusion to h e r, being unable to in te rp re t
o r u n d e rsta n d it. She believes th a t to live in silence is to drift in an ocean like
a w hale, o r to sit like a spider in th e h e a rt o f his w eb, u n d er the
m isap p reh en sio n th a t his w eb is th e w hole w orld (59).
A tte m p tin g to b reak th ro u g h his silence to his u n d erstan d in g , she tells Friday
ab o u t th e b o o k Foe is w riting ab o u t th e y ear th e th ree o f them spent to g e th e r
on the island, an d ab o u t as m uch else as C ruso told h er ab o u t th e ir life prio r
to th e ir arrival. H er desire is to build a bridge of w ords over which he may
cross to th e tim e b efore he lost his ton g u e (60). She also adm its, th o u g h , th a t
alth o ugh she tells herself th a t she talks to Friday to ed u cate him o u t of
d ark n ess an d silence, she often uses w ords as the sh o rtest way to su b ject him
to h e r will, and she u n d erstan d s why C ruso p referred n o t to disturb his
m u ten ess, she can u n d erstan d why m an will choose to be a slaveow ner
(6 0 - 6 1 ) . N ev erth eless, she adm its h er com m itm ent: “A w om an m ay b e a r a
child she does n o t w ant, and re a r it w ith o u t loving it, yet be ready to defend
it w ith h e r life . . . I do not love him [Friday], but he is m in e” (111).
C onsidering th e story she has to tell, Susan recognises th e paucity of
in terestin g d etail, an d considers those th a t m ight be a d d e d , w hich are strongly
rem iniscent o f details in D e fo e ’s novel. A n inno vation is the arrival o f a
g o ld en-h aired stran g er w ith a sack o f corn to plant on th e terraces (67),
suggesting p erh ap s the E u ro p e a n co lonizer, in the guise o f a golden-haired
saviour.
G oing o v er th e m ysteries of h er sto ry , she asks h erself th e questions th a t a
re a d e r m ight ask, and considers th e various ways in which th ese questions
m ight be answ ered. T he q u estions she raises concern the futile n a tu re of
C ru so ’s w ork on the island, th e reason for F riday’s subm ission to slavery, her
ow n failure to excite desire in C ru so , an d w hat Friday was ab o u t w hen he
p ad d led o u t to strew p etals on th e w ater. T he m ultiplicity o f possible answ ers
illustrates once again th e m any choices o p en to th e a u th o r, w hile th e lim ited
n u m b e r of events suggest th a t th e historians o f ea rlie r castaw ays have had to
m ak e u p lies in d esp air (88). She uses th e im age o f a p a in te r grouping
to g e th e r figures in positions and co m binations w hich m ay be tru e on one day
and not on a n o th e r, m erely to re n d e r his com position lively. She feels th a t the
task o f th e sto ry -teller is m ore com plex: “T h e sto ry teller, by c o n tr a s t. . . m ust
divine which episodes o f his history hold prom ise o f fullness, and tra ce from
50
them th eir hidden m eanings, braiding these to g e th e r as one braids ro p e ”
(8 8 -8 9 ).
T he advent of th e d au g h ter rep resen ts a n o th e r story: “She is m o re your
dau g h ter [figm ent] than she ever was m ine” (75), she w rites to Foe. T he
‘d a u g h te r’ tells a story which Susan denies as it has no relation to the tru th of
h er life (76). She denies the probability of th e sto ry ’s tru th on the grounds th a t
th ere is no p re-tex t for it: “T h e w orld is full of stories o f m others searching for
sons and dau g h ters they gave away once, long ago. B ut th ere are n o t stories
of daugh ters searching for m o th ers” (77). She tells th e girl, “you are
fath er-b o rn . You have no m o th e r” (91), the fa th e r being the a u th o r, the
m o th er the pre-text.
In the th ird section Susan has traced Foe to his h id eo u t, once again in an attic
which is n o t quite as she im agined it w ould be. A lthough Foe gives Susan and
Friday food and sh elter, although he tak es Susan to his b ed , he is h e r enem y,
as his nam e im plies, because he suppresses h e r creative im pulse, attem pting
to confine it w ithin his own narrow politics and puritanism . T he incident of
the d au g h te r reveals th at Foe is a d evotee of th e trad itio n al style in which
coincidence plays an im p o rtan t role (H o u g h , 1987:12). H e is less in terested in
the island story th an in th e possibilities offered by th e story o f the lost
dau g h ter w ho tu rn s up. This d au g h ter provides a prom ising basis for a
traditionally rom antic story. A ccording to F o e ’s th eo ry , a novel consists of
th ree parts; loss, q u est, and recovery, o r, beginning, m iddle and end. T he
story he w ants to tell is the loss of the d a u g h ter, the quest in B razil, the
ab an d o n m en t o f the qu est, the adven tu re of th e island, the quest by the
d au g h ter, and th e reun io n of m o th er and d au g h ter. T h e island episode is to
be red u ced to a m ere novelty (117). Foe attem p ts to explain: “T h e island is
not a story in itself, . . . We can bring it to life only by setting it w ithin a larger
story” (117), which em phasises th e im portance o f context.
Susan insists on th e right to be fath er to h e r own story. She asks F o e, “ D o you
know the story of th e M use? . . . T he M use is a w om an, a goddess, w ho visits
poets in th e night and begets stories upon th e m ” (126). W hen she literally
m ounts Foe in th e m an n er of the M use w hen she visits h er p o ets, she asserts
her right to d ictate th e n atu re of h er story, “to fa th e r her offspring” (140).
H er lam ent at th e re not being a m an-m use is reflected in her acknow ledge­
m ent o f failure: “ I w rote my m em oir by candlelight in a w indow less room ,
with the p a p e r on my knee. Is th at th e reaso n , do you th in k , why my story was
so dull - th a t m y vision was blocked, th at I could not see ?” (127).
Susan revolts against becom ing a m ere receptacle of w hatever story is stuffed
in h er, so th at she becom es m erely a hollow house of w ords, w ith no
substance. She says, “ I am not a story, M r Foe. I m ay im press you as a story
because I began my account of m yself w ithout p ream b le, slipping o v e rb o ard
into the w ater and striking out for shore. B ut my life did not begin in the
w aves . . . not even to you do I ow e p ro o f th a t I am a substantial being with
a substantial history in the w o rld ” (131).
51
In spite of this assertio n , Susan is full of d o u b t: “W ho is speaking m e? A m I
a ph an to m too? To w hat o rd e r do I belong? A n d you; w ho are y o u ?” F o e ’s
reply to this is to assure h er th a t no m an has reason to believe th at th e re is any
m o re design in life th an in th e whim sical ad v en tures o f the im agination (135).
F rid ay ’s enigm atic silence is th e pivotal p o in t o f the novel. Susan im agines this
silence to be like a b u tto n h o le neatly cross-stitched ro u n d , but w aiting for the
b u tto n (121). “T he story of F rid ay ’s tongue is a story unable to be to ld , or
u nab le to be told by m e. T h a t is to say, m any stories can be told of F riday’s
to n g u e , but th e tru e story is b u ried w ithin F riday, w ho is m ute. T he tru e story
will n o t be h e a rd till by art we have found a m eans of giving voice to F riday”
(118).
R eferrin g to the incident w hen Friday pad d les his log to w here th e ship
supposedly san k , and scatters p etals on th e w ater. Foe uses the im age o f a
g reat eye, across th e dark pupil of which Friday paddles his log w ith im punity.
T he pupil re p resen ts th e silent cen tre of th e story , and it is left to the w riter,
to Foe and to Susan, to descend into th a t eye. If they d o n ’t do this, they “sail
across th e surface an d com e ash o re n one th e w iser, and resum e [their] old
lives, an d sleep w ithout dream in g , like b a b e s” (141). T his suggests the
su p rem e task of the au th o r: th a t he should n o t only look a t events and relate
th em tru th fu lly , but th a t he should descend into them and in te rp re t th eir
m eanin g , so th a t he and the re a d e r will em erg e th e w iser fo r the experience.
T he fo u rth section is different from th e rest of the novel, dream like and
visionary. It offers th re e possible endings. T h e q uestion raised by M ackie,
“did Susan drow n w ith h er captain at sea? O r in the arm s o f D efo e? Is she the
M use, visiting th e a u th o r, and is h e r story all a d re a m ? ” (1986:6), can n o t be
answ ered w ith any certain ty , and n e ith e r is it necessary to do so. A s it stands,
the story has p resen ted a w ealth o f th o u g h t-p rov o king m aterial in w hich the
‘rea lity ’ o f th e end is th e least im p o rtan t factor. It is th e speechless Friday w ho
is th e cen tre o f th e w o rk , and his is th e last w ord, as from his m outh issues the
u n b ro k e n stream th a t fleetingly brushes S usan ’s face.
In this novel C oetzee has revealed th e spurious n a tu re of m any of the m yths
ostensibly governing W estern beh av io u r. T h e m yth o f R o binson C ru so e, the
first fo rm u lato r o f th e rom antic colonial m yth, is p roved to be false, having
falsified its source to begin w ith. This original colonizer does not m anage to
“m ake th e d esert b lo o m ” (C o etzee, 1983:217), but keeps him self occupied
w ith futile e ffo rt, prep arin g b a rre n terraces. D espite the p resence o f a w om an
he feels no desire and fails to m ultiply and fill his colony. H e dies w hen
rem o ved from this ‘colonial p a ra d ise ’. T h e tru e n atu re and spirit o f colonial­
ism has been p ro v ed to be d o m in atio n , not d ev elo p m en t, its driving force a
q u estio n o f econom ics, not a b urning desire to sp read civilization.
In C o e tz e e ’s novel Friday does not kneel and place C ru so ’s fo o t on his head
to sym bolize his subm ission, b u t has his tongue cut o u t and is red u ced to
silence. T h e cynicism o f m od ern attitu d e s is revealed: “We d ep lo re the
b arb arism o f w hoever m aim ed him , yet have w e, his later m asters, n o t reason
52
to be secretly grateful? F or as long as he is dum b we can tell ourselves his
desires are d ark to us, and continue to use him as we w ish” (148).
Finally, th e im portance of th e w riter in society is stressed. Skinner says th at
“T h e im portance of J.M . C o etzee’s fiction resides in his insights into the
historical and philosophical context of o u r being, and its extension o f our
sensibilities” (1985a:113). It is th e task of the w riter to p e n e tra te th e dark
pupil of the eye, and reveal society to itself. This d ark pupil is also the b ottom
o f th e sea, am ong th e w recks, from w here the m ute voice m ust be given back
its resonan ce and allow ed to ascend.
Bibliography
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Survey Series 2. Censal and Nelm. Johannesburg: A d. D onker. p. 23 - 25)
Federm an, I.R . 1973. Surfiction - a position. Partisan Review, 40(3):427-432.
H egel, G.W .F. 1949. The Phenom enology o f the M ind. Translated by J.B . Baillie. New York:
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