By J. M. Coetzee
A tender English biographer is operating on a ebook in regards to the past due author, John Coetzee. He plans to target a interval within the seventies while, the biographer senses, Coetzee used to be 'finding his ft as a writer'. He embarks on a chain of interviews with those that have been vital to Coetzee - a married lady with whom he had an affair, his favorite cousin Margot, a Brazilian dancer whose daughter had English classes with him, former neighbors and associates. hence emerges a portrait of the younger Coetzee as a clumsy, bookish person, considered as an intruder in the relatives. His insistence on doing guide paintings, his lengthy hair and beard, and rumours that he writes poetry evoke not anything yet suspicion within the South Africa of the time.
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Extra info for Summertime (Scenes from Provincial Life, Book 3)
Eddie finished dressing, then finished the beer. I found a pen and wrote my address down. ” He took the slip of paper, put it in his pocket and walked out the door. That’s about all there was to that reading except I met Slim de Bouffe and his girlfriend in this bar later, they were going to get me to the airport and I told them the story as we drank green beer in a place they were mopping up with a very strong disinfectant and we almost vomited together. ” asked de Bouffe. “I couldn’t take him,” I answered.
She said. ” “My son, Gary,” said Mrs. LeMon, sitting down. ” “I told you he’s competent. ” “You’re not. ” “Pull your dress higher. ” Mrs. LeMon pulled her dress higher. Harry bent down and kissed one of her knees. Then he spread her legs and bit her hard four or five inches above the knee. ” “I told you to go in and piss. ” Harry put the bottle down and slapped Mrs. LeMon across the face, hard. “Oh, don’t do that . ” “I told you what to do! ” Mrs. LeMon went to the bathroom. Harry finished his beer and brought out two more, opened them, put them on the coffee table.
Harry walked into the bedroom. It was dark in there. But he did have his drink with him. He finished his drink and rolled the glass across the rug. He unlaced his shoes and stretched out on the bed. It was one of those neighborhoods where you could hear the crickets rubbing their legs together. He listened to the rubbing of the legs. It made things seem fairly all right. Then he wondered, should I take this stuff off and wait for her or should I let her undress me? It was the first bit of uncalculated, mathematical wisdom he had come upon in some days of weeks, but he still hoped she’d bring one last good drink.
Summertime (Scenes from Provincial Life, Book 3) by J. M. Coetzee