amaan

a reflective read. I found it overly-wordy at times, verging on pretentious. the ideas themselves are interesting. enjoyed how much other literature and ideas were referenced, even if some of those mentions seemed half-baked. the ethnofictive form of this book does help the reader follow a train of thought which otherwise may be easy to get lost in. it's an effective way of introducing characters (like the old woman or the friend who owns the boat) that exemplify certain ideas and characterise varying view points.

I did, though, find a lot of it to be intensely narcissistic. as a result of the form—of its fictionalised nature—people are become paradigms instead of people.

a lot of it is simply the self-flagellatory musings of a privileged individual. the fictional narrative form does not do any favours to this book's focus on theory; I ended it feeling like the messaging of the book is void of any meaningful action.

good collection of short stories! wouldn't say it's a light read, as it explores some heavy themes and there are mentions of very upsetting things (check the content warnings on this review), but it is by and far an easy read if you go in prepared. I loved the reflections chapter at the end, that was great.

enjoyed this a lot! it's a mixed bag but there are some serious gems. loved the story of the tampax book deal

So then if it wasn't me, then who was it? God? That's right. Because there was only God and me seeing how it happened. We were the only other ones who saw the look in her eyes, saw the baby's head peeping over her shoulder! So if it wasn't me, was it Him? God Almighty, who was stupid enough to make this bloody world in seven days. Yes. Miss Conradie. Stupid. Because I certainly wouldn't. But as it so happens, Miss Conradie, God was only a witness, because it was Roelf Visagie who was tramping down so hard on the brake so that the wheels was screeching on the tracks. It was Roelf Visagie not God there in the cab screaming to her to get out of the fucking way.

“She was very sick just before she dies so she always ask me to sit with her and sing. She also tell me I got good voice for singing. But when I sing always she cries. Even with the happy songs. ‘Grandma,' I ask, ‘why you cry?' She just shake her head and tell me: ‘Go to America, my carino. Is no good in Mexico now. When you are big go to America.'

HENRY: I get it now. When I first walked in here last Christmas and you saw another borracho perdido... and you saw Roberto. Right?
ADELA (Again defensively): Sí... because I no like borracho perdido.
HENRY: Relax, Adela. Nobody does.

HENRY: There... gouged out in the tarmac surface in front of one of the parking bays, and obviously intended for the car and its occupants that had been parked there, was the Star of David... Do you know what that is, Adela?
(He goes to the chalkboard menu, wipes away what was written, then takes a piece of chalk and draws the Star of David.)
ADELA: (Reluctantly nodding) Sí.
HENRY: And next to it, gouged out with the same precise and vicious determination, were three words.
(He writes on the menu chalkboard. “Fuck You Jew.” He does not speak them. Nobody in this play speaks them.)”

HENRY: Forgive me. Please forgive me.
SOLLY (Nodding his head slowly.) Of course I forgive you. What did you do?
HENRY: I hated you.
SOLLY: I know. (Pause. They look unflinchingly into each other's eyes.) But why?
HENRY: You were ugly... you were a Jew...
SOLLY: I still am.

I knew it for what it was and it was mine. I wasn't going to touch it with words. All I can tell you for sure is that the journey from hate to love was the shortest one my heart has ever made.

The second act packed a much greater punch.