Among J.M. Coetzee’s earlier novels, Foe is a favorite for myself; yet, I am struggling to figure out exactly why. From the onset, I have been intrigued by Coetzee’s use of language, his eloquent yet harsh and below-the-surface style, his intricate way of description without specific detail, his commentary on particular specifics while simultaneously addressing universal agendas and his self-critiquing style of facilitating argument around strategy and trustworthiness of discourse, storytelling and authorship, including his own - and that being in direct correlation to the retelling of individual and political histories. Coetzee forces the reader’s brain to work, to contemplate and figure; however, he also leaves the reader’s thought process in a continual pattern of non-resolution, as, thus far, Coetzee leaves his endings open for further reader engagement. He leaves the future situations in his narratives as pliable realities, though sometimes extraordinarily resistant to the idea of pliability as well. The best that I can figure out is that my enjoyment of Foe comes from Coetzee’s transition into a more simplistic, or lamentable, form of narration, as in this respect, the voice and word usage in Foe differs significantly from his prior four novels. But in this structure of simplicity lies a mesmerizing labyrinth of realities – of myths, of alienations and of manipulation; “necessary” creations are involved within the storytelling process and within the struggle for power in authorship. The tension involved within this process and struggle is fore- fronted at many levels in Coetzee’s Foe, and one most obvious to the reader is the division of speaker, perspective and narrative style among the four sections in the text.
With each section, I am left wishing for more. Thoroughly enjoying Susan’s experience on the island and the individual characteristics, as she displays them, of Cruso and Friday, this is a section that Coetzee leaves the reader, or perhaps just me, feeling unfulfilled. The epistolary format of the second section is deeply embedded with one of Coetzee’s primary focuses – that on authorship and power therein. The third section follows suit with this focus and dives more deeply into ideas of paternalism and role reversal while leaving the epistolary format behind. The final section, however, is quite troubling. In a succinct five pages, Coetzee dismantles any assumptions, theories or reader reflection revolving around the ideas of power, silence, voice, speaker, storytelling – of history, others, or simple continuation of a narrative – and authorship. It is not clear who the speaker is in this last section or exactly what events are happening nor why. I can only draw my own conclusion that it is Foe speaking. However, regardless of who the speaker is, Coetzee has succeeded in monumental form with this novel, and with its last section, in confirming a continuum of discussion among readers, authors and critics. One critics describes one appropriate thought that may be felt by many upon reading Coetzee’s Foe:
“When a reader finishes Foe, she does not long for Coetzee’s next novel before she wonders if in Foe Coetzee has not effectively silenced himself” (Bishop 56).
Bishop, Scott. "J.M. Coetzee's Foe: A Culmination and a Solution to a Problem of White
Identity." World Literature Today 64.1 (1990): 54-57. Print.
I found the last section of the book fascinating as well. The whole tone shifts. Stylistically it comes across as aerial and fluid. In fact, of all the Coetzee I have read to this point this is the most lyrical. You mention how it "dismantles" what has preceded it. I feel that stylistic choice/shift is the first step in that dismantling. There continues a reduction of the elements that to this point have been seen as pivotal to the items you list (power, voice, speaker, story-telling). All of which arises from the image being the concern especially since, "…this is not a place of words." Going back over this section again and again I ask myself what does it mean to narrative sources in general? Is this a revelation of their impotency? Is this place the origin of all communication? Is this the place that remains when we strip down our forms of articulation that are concerned with words to an absolute minimum? The placement of this section within the book would suggest that this place lurks beneath the superlative weight of language. It does, for me anyway, have intonations of freedom. It makes me wonder if I were to reread the novel if pieces of this place would begin to quietly assert themselves. After this section it causes me to reexamine Friday and reinterpret the dancing, the wearing of the wig etc… What do they symbolize in regards to this place we are told "…is the home of Friday." I agree Kelley, it is troubling. It is only five pages, yet to me this where the implication lies, revealing the heart of the novel.
ReplyDelete_-Daniel Linton
Kelley, you address so many interesting aspects of the novel that I, too, found intriguing and thought provoking. Throughout the book, Susan is constantly calling into question her ability and authority to tell the story of Cruso and Friday on the island. I especially found Susan's examination of Friday most complicated because, on the one hand she tries to explain Friday's behaviour in terms of his disability, while on the other, we never really hear Friday's side because he has no ability to speak. However, when you examine those same words from the persepective of Coetzee as author, I think it completely changes the idea of authority and who really has the "right" to tell the story. You have definitely hit onto something about this being a simplistic style novel, that I also found more enjoyable than the first few novels. I agree with you that, despite the simplicity of the writing style of FOE, there is a definite level of deeper thinking Coetzee seems to be demanding from the reader that makes this work particularly insightful and, at the same time, very complicated and twisted.
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