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| LitNet is ’n onafhanklike joernaal op die Internet, en word as gesamentlike onderneming deur Ligitprops 3042 BK en Media24 bedryf. |
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Feedback by Ivan Vladislavic
First report
General comments
Geoffrey’s Bike — Shaun Gatter
Discovering the Parasites — Brandon Hamber
Taxi talk — Liz Kuhns
The Discreet Charm of Nairobbers — Rasik Shah
Who shoved Humpty Dumpty? — Buntu Siwisa
General comments
There are interesting points of comparison between the stories explored here. One hijacking occurs in the piece by Gatter, two hijackings in the piece by Shah — and Kuhns’ narrator is ‘hijacked’ in a different way. While the convenors of this workshop have clearly chosen work that allows for comparison, the choice of subject matter is also revealing about our pre-occupations.
All three of the writers mentioned have chosen a difficult, confined space in which to unfold a story, and their texts demonstrate some of the problems and solutions. One of the solutions is that peculiarly modern interaction — eye contact in the rear-view mirror.
Gatter makes the most of the space. There is a key moment in his story when the central character forces himself to lean over the car seat to look at the face of the hijacked man concealed in the back. This story is full of action and movement. Kuhns loses sight of the journey somewhat, but effectively conveys the one-sided conversation with the insistent, infuriating taxi driver. In Shah’s story, the interior of the plane in the first hijacking limits his perspective and the way he moves the characters around. In the later car hijacking, the cramped interior and the physical closeness it imposes upon the criminals and the hijacked women, help to establish a sense of fear and helplessness.
Hamber’s island and Siwisa’s courtroom are more open spaces, imaginative expansions or re-inventions of spaces we might recognize from the world. These open spaces give them a freer hand in some ways, more room for play and discovery, but also make their own demands.
Some of these stories feel more complete than others, but there is promising writing in all of them. If I have one general comment about the quality of the work, it is that the writers try to do too much. Often there’s too much description, too much interpretation from within the text. The story would say more if the writer said less.
One other general thing: the writers should look at their titles again. Kuhns’ ‘Taxi talk’ has a ring to it and captures the story, but none of the others grab my attention.
In these reports, I’ve sometimes focused on broader structural questions, where it seemed to me that the basic shape of the text needed to be resolved before the detail could be addressed. Where I comment on specifics, I’m sometimes pointing to a problem that seems to occur more generally. If the writers agree with the specific comments, they might usefully apply them to the rest of the piece.
to the top
This piece explores a situation of concern to many South Africans from an unexpected ‘insider’ perspective, with the crime story form providing a framework for psychological and moral questioning. Despite a structure that’s fairly complicated for a short text, with frequent time shifts, the mood and tension are sustained. There’s some vivid descriptive writing about states of mind and body. Thabang’s sense of detachment from his own actions and from the world, especially during the actual hijacking, is powerfully conveyed.
- With the title: perhaps it would be better not to emphasise the key symbol? The return of the old bicycle, clanking over the hill at the end, might be more effective if the symbol hasn’t already been underlined.
- On the whole, the flashbacks are well managed, and the text moves Thabang in and out of the past quite seamlessly. But in two places the movement bothers me.
- In the scene where Jeremiah kills the barman (‘When Elias had finally called Thabang ...’). There’s too much going on here, too many new names and relationships all at once — Elias, Petrus, Jeremiah’s girl, the barman, Thabang’s mother. Simplify, perhaps. (I have problems with the language here too, which I’ll deal with in the next point.)
- In the first flashback to Geoffrey’s world (‘Thabang hadn’t been to the Northern suburbs ...’). Again there’s too much new information packed in. Split into two flashbacks and take more slowly? He first remembers the house and playing with Geoffrey; and then a little later he remembers the bicycle?
- There’s some fresh, original writing here, but in places, the text lapses into the ready-made formulations of crime fiction. I felt this especially in the two most violent moments — where Jeremiah ‘sprayed brains and blood all over the barman’ and later where Jeremiah himself is shot and his ‘face suddenly disappeared in a spray of red’. These are difficult things to write about without relying on the stock phrasing. Take a look at how these descriptions work. Is there a different way of doing this? Wouldn’t it be more effective if Jeremiah’s death is the first truly violent scene Thabang witnesses?
As I’ve said, I think the barman flashback is too busy anyway, so simplifying it might solve two problems at once.
- Of the five pieces assembled here, I find this one the most tightly written. But it never harms to trim a few adjectives. Occasionally, a description is pushed too far and spoilt. Look at the description of Jeremiah (‘Jeremiah was thin ...’). The image of the cheekbones sharp as elbows is original, and so are the long lips that always seem to be smiling. Then the unusual ‘His eyes were long and thin’ takes it too far. Rather say a bit less in these descriptions.
- There’s a great moment where the gun acquires a memory, almost a mind of its own (‘This gun knows more than me ...’). And later: ‘It felt like the gun wanted to go off ...’ Perhaps this idea could be taken further — Thabang’s sense of the gun as animate, somehow willing and contesting his actions. The first mention of the gun — where it feels ‘like a friend’ — seems too obvious in comparison to the more subtle treatment later.
- With reference to the blending of the kwaito lyrics and Jeremiah’s threats to Pretorius, I suppose this is intended to convey a kind of nonchalance, but it seems heavy-handed. It’s enough to know that Jeremiah has changed the station, that he’s calling the tune.
- A couple of comments on the action:
- during the actual hijacking: after Jeremiah orders the driver out of the car — add a line to describe him getting out. Otherwise, we assume he’s still behind the wheel, and it’s odd when J. suddenly throws him into the back seat.
- when the security guards appear at the end: perhaps the detail about the vests could be dealt with later? Let him see two men first, then register the details of their clothing etc.
to the top
‘Fantastical and real.’ The narrator uses the phrase about Renato’s stories, but it applies equally to his own. It’s magical realism close to the source — an island off the coast of Brazil. The story uses the established symbolism of the sea, and the creatures in its depths, to express a struggle with the unknown or the unconscious: the narrator’s small and invisible descritivel (amusingly written with a small letter) symbolises the unspeakable, whereas the large and equally invisible shark comes to symbolise the more profoundly ineffable — and faith itself. The writer is bravely swimming in the same sea as some of the literary heavyweights (Melville’s Moby, Hemingway’s marlin), but has a charming, ironic freestyle of his own.
First a couple of major points about the structure, and then a few smaller things.
- Where is Renato’s story? The narrator leads us up to Renato’s story to the boys, with their hearts ‘crying out to be filled with history’; he tells us that the two of them ‘danced’ and ‘waltzed’ through the story. And then he leaps to the end of the ‘long tale’ and gives us no more than the rather detailed climax.
I’ve tried to persuade myself that this absence is right, but I still feel denied. I want to see some of the wrestling with the shark, share some of the narrator’s sense that he’s been on a ‘wild journey’. Giving us more of the heroic story here will help the account of the second shark hunt too, where the boat is unceremoniously smashed to pieces.
- The last couple of paragraphs seem redundant. The paragraph that starts ‘Then, almost instinctively ...’ brings back the descritivel, neatly looping us back to the beginning of the story; and at the same time cleverly shifts the focus of the whole narrative to belief. But the material from ‘Renato did not move ...’ dilutes the end. Even though it picks up on references to ‘hands’ earlier, the writer could perhaps think about ending sooner.
- There’s a fair amount of repetition. Sometimes it’s functional. The exchanges between the narrator and Renato — when they are lying on the beach for instance (‘We were both facing upward ...’) — have an eccentric and amusing rhythm in which repetition plays a part. Elsewhere the text simply seems cluttered. Are there things that could be tightened? Take a systematic look at the text. Here are some examples of what I mean:
- Could the paragraph starting ‘Other islanders say that the repellent bug ...’ be trimmed?
- Perhaps the description of the island’s location (‘The circular island subsists ...’) is too detailed? The last sentence especially (‘The island was anchored ...’) is vague.
- The conversation with Juan, amusing as it is, drags for me in places. Does he need to repeat ‘I thought I would never see one’ at the end?
- In the paragraph already mentioned (‘Other islanders ...’) the text moves from ‘intruders’ to ‘foreigners’ to ‘colonists’ to ‘newcomers’. Rather than just using the terms interchangeably, establish some sort of progression. At one point the intruders may have been colonists, now they are merely visitors like the narrator. (In the next paragraph he refers to the ‘colonist of old’.)
- In the paragraph that starts ‘And so Renato began at the very beginning ...’: do we need the snake as well as the jaguar?
- Take a look at the expression carefully and try to sharpen the focus. Some examples:
- In the paragraph that starts: ‘Like these unknowing trespassers ...’, perhaps a better word than ‘recipe’ could be used?
- In the paragraph starting: ‘As his voice grew closer ...’: the sentence describing Juan needs to be reshaped.
- There may be a better word for ‘indistinguishable’, a few lines later.
- In the paragraph that starts ‘ “Doctor”, he said. “Please sit and have some coffee ...” ‘: clarify the last couple of sentences (‘The air was holding me captive ...’) Is this a reference to slavery?
- After the shark smashes the boat: ‘he was transformed back into his unnerved self’. The meaning of ‘unnerved’ is unclear.
- ‘I, of course, was devastated ...’ The ironic tone isn’t registered at first, and may be unnecessary. It could be recast more straightforwardly.
to the top
After a shaky start, the captive narrator of this piece had all my sympathy and attention. The writer has a good ear for colloquial speech. On my first reading, I thought the ‘broken English’ palled, but on my second, I found it more sustained, and noticed some of the clever touches. My comments deal largely with the descriptive commentary rather than the driver’s patter, which stands up well enough.
- The opening page or so is cluttered. There is too much information in the first descriptive paragraph (‘From South Africa ...’). This could be simplified radically without losing anything: we know the narrator is at O’Hare, so we don’t need to hear at once that she’s on a trip in America or that she’s in Chicago. These details emerge later anyway, or can be built in less obtrusively once the narrative gets going. It also doesn’t make sense to comment about the driver’s adeptness in traffic before they’ve driven anywhere.
Also: keep back the information that the narrator is from South Africa — it’s more interesting if the reader finds this out at the same time as the driver, a little later.
So the opening paragraph can be kept very simple, just establish the situation: woman — driver — going downtown.
- The digression on Arizona is also too detailed. It distracts us before the story gets going. Shorten?
- Once we’re through that sticky opening section, and the dialogue kicks in, the story starts to move.
There’s some finely observed detail throughout the piece — hand gestures, intonations. But I have some reservations.
- There’s too much interpretation within the text.
Look at the paragraph that starts ‘His free hand pointed out the window ...’: the narrator underlines the difference between her perspective and the taxi driver’s (‘I followed his gesture, and not having his sentiment, instead saw old ...’). Why not just let her describe what she sees? Let the reader notice the difference, and come to the conclusion that she thinks and feels differently to the driver.
Similarly, the paragraph that starts ‘The smile on his face and lilt in his voice ...’: we’ve already seen that he’s forgotten about his wife — we don’t need to be told too.
- There’s something mechanical in the orchestration of speech and commentary. Try to be a bit more selective and varied.
Look at the passage that starts ‘For a brief moment he let go of the steering wheel ...’ The basic movement is between a line or two of speech and then a description of tone or gesture — a high-pitched voice, a snort of indignation, a shake of the head, a furrowed brow, a grunt. The passage that starts ‘My friend, he has book with pictures of girls ...’ follows the same pattern. There’s too much description, some of it telling us the same thing — e.g. stroking imaginary hair and outlining a womanly shape. Being more selective about these details, choosing the things that really build a character, will allow us to see him more clearly. As it is, he’s disappearing behind all this detail.
Sometimes the dialogue works perfectly well without the added description. ‘Oh ...’ gives us the narrator’s surprise already — we don’t need ‘was all that could come out my mouth’.
- Perhaps the pivotal moment of the story is when the narrator starts thinking about her friends at home. Before this, she has been no more than a slightly suspicious and ironic observer, but now we see something of her world, her thinking. You might make more of this.
As it stands the friends are an odd mix: some are treated as types (‘the Clifton type’, ‘my holistic friends’, ‘some women’) and one as an individual (‘my dear loveable, huggable friend’). I much prefer this specific, individualised friend. She’s more interesting and lively. Why not embody the other ‘types’ in characters, perhaps name them? One advantage might be that the narrator would then be presenting ‘real women’, in contrast to the stereotypes the taxi driver deals in.
Another thought on this: the last paragraph of this section (‘Some women do not age well ...’) has a more general feeling than any of the other ‘types’; it’s not so much a type as a speculation about the future, about growing old and embittered. Why not embody these fears, anxieties — whatever they are — in a woman too? Get rid of the rolling pin — which is too much of a cliché — and think more inventively about this dissatisfied, unhappy woman. Let the narrator think less about the driver and more about this imaginary woman. Why should she care whether this boorish, overbearing man has a ‘fair chance’ in such a marriage? Could the narrator be thinking about herself here? There’s the possibility of introducing a different tone into the story at this point and giving the narrator a different sort of interior life.
to the top
This ambitious story brings two hijackings, under different circumstances, into relationship with one another and explores how conflict is dealt with in each case. It raises interesting questions about identity, cultural difference, violence, and loss. There is the basis for a very striking text here.
- Problems with the structure. The story is in three parts: the hijacking of an aeroplane by Sikh militants; the hijacking of a car by criminals in Nairobi; a visit to Nairobi by Dharam, the brother of one of the women hijacked. The parts are yoked together into a continuous narrative, through the character of Dharam, but this produces an awkward structure. There’s an uncomfortable conjunction of two visits to Nairobi, at the end of the first part and the start of the second, and a somewhat confusing chronological leap of fifteen years. Although the parts relate to one another thematically, and contain interesting things on their own, the narrative constructed to hold them together is inadequate.
- Solutions? For me, the opening and closing parts feel more like arguments than stories; the meat of the matter — I’m tempted to say the ‘real story’ — is in the second part. This contains some fascinating ideas, a moving and complex confrontation, and the best writing in the text. Initially, I thought of proposing that the writer cut the Sikh hijacking (which in fact feels like it was written separately) as well as the epilogue in which Dharam visits his sister, and focus on the story of Pratima and Chris. But this is radical surgery. For the purposes of this exercise, it may be more valuable to try and resolve the text as a whole. Rather than focusing on details, I’m going to suggest fairly extensive restructuring. The aim is to eliminate the forced structure and create three sections, which are more self-contained and stand in a freer, more associative relationship. The sections could be numbered or separated by a line space. Let’s take them in turn.
- The first section. This runs from ‘The hijackers were very young ...’ to ‘... breaking down crying as the hijacking had ended.’
- I like the start very much — the strangely ritualised forgiveness scene inverts all our expectations. Why not stage more of this in dialogue though to give it immediacy and pace? ‘What is your name?’ ‘Kuldeep Kaur.’ etc
- Jolley’s various statements and the pilot’s announcement would also be better in direct speech. Too much of this section is reported after it’s happened, rather than being shown as it’s happening.
- Too much to-ing and fro-ing — into the galley and out, into the cabin and out. Trim.
Cut the two paragraphs that start ‘Dharam landed in Nairobi ...’ and ‘It was to be another 15 years ...’ Some of the information about the family’s status and wealth might be built into section 2 or 3.
The second section. Start at ‘Pratima and her married friend Manju ...’ and run to ‘The children waved goodbye.’
Cut the two references to Dharam near the beginning of this sequence and focus on Pratima and Manju — it’s their story, and he doesn’t need to be part of it. Later in the section the fact that Dharam is Pratima’s brother could be kept — to link him to the other two sections.
In the paragraph where the hijacker reminds Pratima of her son, the sentence ‘It was to be her saving grace ...’ spoils the twist later. Cut?
Some of the wealth and status detail could be built into the paragraph about Pratima’s family (‘It was a good life ...’)
The central scene of this, where Pratima declares Chris her son, is remarkable. Look at how much of this happens in dialogue and interaction between the characters. By comparison, the earlier hijacking scene on the aeroplane seems flat and colourless.
- The third section. From ‘Dharam was apprehensive ...’ to the end.
This section would bring the two previous strands together in the person of Dharam. It would have to be introduced in a different way — ‘It was fifteen years since Dharam had been in Nairobi ...’
This sequence hints at, but doesn’t explore questions of cultural distance, social class etc, which would help us to understand the hijacking and its resolution. Perhaps draw these out a bit in the interaction between Pratima and Dharam?
Think about cutting the last sentence, which does not do justice to the complex drama of the confrontation between Pratima and Chris in the forest. In that scene there isn’t a warm and friendly hug at all — when she tries to embrace him, he pulls away. Rather leave us with the complex questions you’ve already raised there than with a warm feeling.
to the top
This is an inventive satirical allegory about apartheid, its overthrow and persistence. The writer has a light and witty touch and there is some delightful word play. It’s interesting, by the way, that Humpty Dumpty, like many apparently innocent nursery rhymes, may have had its origins in political commentary in the first place — sometimes Humpty is taken to be Charles I, the English king who lost his head. In a sense, the writer has returned the rhyme to its origins by applying it to the South African political situation.
- Occasionally the language is a little archaic and convoluted. Often the old-fashioned, rhetorical turns of phrase work well: they help to create a strange, fabulous world, in keeping with the references to nursery rhymes, and allow for the manipulation of the world to allegorical purposes. But sometimes the archaism gets in the way of the meaning — for example, the inversion of word order in ‘mankind had broken to shrapnels of shells the Egg Regime’; or in ‘Second nature, this, his vice, had become’. Perhaps there are simply too many flourishes in ‘Unsurpassed passion pierced Mr Msindo’s mouth to an unbearably sweet smile’ or ‘So conned the advocate’. Some editing would produce a more readable text. But it’s not a question of straightening everything out! There are some wonderful inventions — Bumpty Dumpty ‘castled around’ by guards for instance (to take the last example on my list).
- There’s some witty word play on the idea of eggs earlier on — ‘the yolk of unease’, for instance, or ‘a pinch of political correctness’. This more subtle verbal game nicely balances the more obvious visual jokes about the egg and the wall and so on. Perhaps there’s more scope for verbal humour later on? For me, ‘egg hell’ — which I suppose is playing on ‘egg shell’? — tries too hard.
- In most of the longer direct speeches, the speaker is introduced too late. Take a look at Mr Pillay’s speech, which goes on for several sentences before we know who’s speaking. Rather: ‘Just to think of it!’ thought Mr Pillay, as the judge etc. ‘My family had owned these shops...’
- The start of the paragraph about Mr Msindo (‘His was bliss and fat ...’) is jumbled. Perhaps leave the introduction of the eggs till later? First describe Msindo’s blissful life and then let the eggs disrupt it. (But look at the following point first, because it may affect your treatment of Msindo.)
- I have a general problem with the conceptual scheme. The story invites us to read it as a racial parable: we see apartheid in the wall, the overthrow of the apartheid government or perhaps ‘the white minority’ in the great fall of Humpty Dumpty, the betrayal of this revolution by a new black elite in the selfish behaviour of Bumpty Dumpty. In this reading, the three defendants represent races or ‘population groups’ — Mr Msindo, Mr Pillay and Mr Bosman are ‘Africans’, ‘Indians’ and ‘Coloureds’. There’s a broader breakdown into black ‘humans’ and white ‘eggs’ (with some ‘sensible and sympathetic eggs’ among them).
But the allegorical scheme breaks down when we look at how the different players are treated. Mr Pillay has a fairly ‘human’ history — his great-great-grandfather came from Bombay, his family owned a shopping complex etc. Mr Bosman also has a ‘past’ although it’s sketchier. Mr Msindo and Humpty Dumpty, on the other hand, have a more purely symbolic life. Whereas Mr Pillay and Mr Bosman are in history, Mr Msindo and Humpty Dumpty seem to represent history — the whole movement from colonisation (the arrival of the eggs) to apartheid (the building of the wall) to its overthrow (the great fall) is embodied in their life-spans.
I think Msindo at least should be in the same symbolic dimension as the other ‘humans’? Let Mr Msindo be the last of a line of farmers whose wealth has been destroyed by the eggs. Look again at Mr Bosman too. If he is indeed ‘Coloured people’ in the conceptual scheme, shouldn’t he have some ‘egg’ in his background?
As for Humpty, it may be fine for him to maintain a different sort of existence (he is an egg after all). But the allegory — and the satire — may make more sense if Humpty’s existence fits with that of the ‘humans’. Why not let Humpty Dumpty be the last in a line of eggs, rather than ‘egghood’ in general. The writer’s initial impulse to treat colonisation as the arrival of the eggs (‘Until the eggs came’) was better than the second thought of embodying it in one figure (‘Now all that disappeared to nothingness with the coming of Sir Humpty Dumpty’).
Should clarity in the conceptual framework be so important? I think so. Half the pleasure of reading this kind of text lies in recognition of the target. Readers should be able to find their way around in the allegory more surely.
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