Diary of a BAD Year--really?

Looking at the hardcover copy of J. M. Coetzee’s novel, Diary of a Bad Year, one cannot help but to first notice all of the accolades used to sell the work of such a seasoned writer. “WINNER OF THE NOBEL PRIZE,” and “author of DISGRACE,” are emblazoned on the cover, along with my favorite identifier, which comes right after the title, the smaller, all-capped font that reads--“FICTION.” This diminutive word sets up the reader for what promises to be an inventive story and a challenging read. Coetzee’s writing in this installment then is reminiscent of Jorge Luis Borges’ The Book of Sand who in his twilight years, captures the emotive response to old age and fleeting, youthful desire.

The book is narrated from the perspectives of three characters: a Cartesian named Señor C, or Mr. C, a clever euphemism for Coetzee as well as Senior Citizen; Anya, the Filipina lust interest of Mr. C; and Alan, her white, Australian cynic and beau. The pages themselves recount this tri-partite style quite uniquely, so that each page contains a passage of narration from the point of view of all three characters, the segments themselves separated by two thin lines. Here, the reader is faced with two main choices: read all three narratives at the same time, or read one narrative strand and then return to the subsequent narratives. Reading the narratives together provides a much richer experience; it allows the book to excite as it entertains, offering political philosophy amidst the running thread of sexual tension, old male desire and youthful, female performance.

The structure allows the text to engage with itself, presenting a varied discourse that bleeds, or travels from the top of the page down. At the top of any given page is an offering from Mr. C’s commissioned book on “strong opinions,” which is heading into press release in the German language. Such offerings from Mr. C’s book include: “On the origins of the state,” “On democracy,” “On Machiavelli,” “On national shame,” “On paedophilia,” “On the body,” and even “On Zeno.” Mr. C is seventy-two years of age, living in Australia, and has “commissioned” Anya to type-edit the work. She is twenty-nine, and quite attractive. The true brilliance of the book, however, is not all of its philosophical entries within the embedded textual frame, but the way Coetzee allows the reader to “see” the formation of Mr. C’s book. He not only talks about the book project; we are front and center observers of his smaller text forming within the novel’s larger [con]text. Again, such a creative move makes for a challenging, but rewarding read. To add more tension to the narrative, Alan, 42 years of age, provides what seems to be the cynical voice of Coetzee, as if the writer is speaking to the aged version of himself, Señor C. He reminds Anya of the true and shameful intent of Mr. C’s lustful designs. When Mr. C commissions Anya as a type setter, Alan is quick to suggest a motive:

Why not? Maybe that is how he gets his kicks: making the woman read his fantasies
about her. It is logical, in a back-to-front way. It is a means of exercising power over a woman when you can’t fuck any more.

Our aged protagonist, Mr. C, indirectly fires back at this indictment with the rhetoric of a writer’s craft, revealing that the power dynamic inherent in writing a book is even more complex than either Alan or Anya tend to believe:

To write a novel you have to be like Atlas, holding up a whole world on your shoulders and supporting it there for months and years while its affairs work themselves out.

Diary of a Bad Year is truly a God-like feat, managing to create a space for “strong opinions” and self-indictment alongside classic story-telling. Mr. C lusts for Anya, but carefully frames his intent via employer—employee relations; Alan, the misanthropist, blames Mr. C for his disgraceful mannerisms, and Anya is the love/lust interest of both men. As readers, it really does feel as if Coetzee is holding the world on his shoulders while it works itself out, and the author reinforces this by claiming that “Stories tell themselves, they don’t get told.”

In addition to the triptych narrative on each page, as mentioned prior, the novel is further divided into two sections. The first section is entitled: “Strong Opinions: 12 September 2005-31 May 2006”; the second section follows with the softer label: “Second Diary,” and is non-dated. The first half of the novel introduces the book project and Mr. C’s strong, philosophical assertions. In the second half of the book, however, Coetzee seems more concerned with mortality and ontology. He begins with the chapter, “A dream,” wherein the “I” has “died but had not left the world.” This perhaps is Coetzee’s attempt at coming to grips with his own mortality, while at the same time hopeful for some type of legacy. This “I,” assumed to be Mr. C, is not alone in this section, but “was in the company of a woman, one of the living, younger than myself.” Though Mr. C is old, aging and closer to death—he is not unaccompanied, for in his dream the young woman represents some sort of tie to the living world. In this way, his existence finds contextual meaning in her identity. The old exists in the context of the young, the aging with the youthful, and the dying with the living.

Those who have read Coetzee’s earlier works, especially Waiting for the Barbarians and Disgrace, will find his pathos concerning unrequited love/lust between the old male and the young female quite familiar. Waiting for the Barbarians is framed between an old, male Magistrate and a young, female barbarian captive; Disgrace concerns an old professor who falls from the Ivory tower due to unwise sexual relations with a much younger student. Both set up the similar character and theme positions of Coetzee’s familiar binary: old male lust alongside youthful female capture and pity. As Anya puts it in Diary of a Bad Year: “I was the one he was in love with, in his old man’s way, which I never minded as long as it did not go too far.” This attempt by Anya to place some sort of boundary around Mr. C’s flirtatious attempts is typical of Coetzee, but here we have the added context of a writer’s craft. Recall, it is Alan who suggests that Mr. C is getting his “kicks” by writing her [Anya] into his book project. The message: a writer has no true boundaries. Coetzee illustrates this repeatedly through the style, structure, and content of his narrative. And as such, Diary of a Bad Year has no boundaries—only multiple centers.

Read this book then, in light of its irregular framing, and its colliery for reflection. Appreciate its pathos and weigh its message: the importance of recognizing your station in life, albeit from an old or young perspective. Coetzee asks us all to be grateful for what we will leave behind, whether it be documented, [mis]interpreted, or judged. In short, although Diary of a Bad Year feels altogether unfamiliar and provides a challenging territory—like a minefield—there is something equally disturbing in its morose ability to capture truth. Tread accordingly.

J. M. Coetzee
Diary of a Bad Year
Viking Penguin Group, 2007
ISBN: 978-0-670-01875-8
231 pages
U.S. $24.95