Empathy in the works of J.M. Coetzee

In Doubling the Point: Essays and Interviews, edited by David Attwell, author J. M. Coetzee says of his upbringing in apartheid South Africa that in his youth “he ha[d] perhaps seen more of cruelty and violence than should have been allowed to a child” (394). Perhaps this is why in many of his novels, speeches and non-fiction works, Coetzee explores the human capacity for cruelty and violence – against animals, against Hottentots, against barbarians – or perhaps more accurately the lack of empathy needed to carry out acts of cruelty and violence. In Coetzee’s The Lives of Animals, a publication of Coetzee’s 1997-98 Tanner Lectures at Princeton University, he addresses the issue of empathy through a metanarrative in which a character, author Elizabeth Costello, debates the issue of animal cruelty at a series of academic lectures. In one academic speech, Costello makes a comparison between the killings of Jews in the Holocaust to the killings of animals in slaughterhouses. Costello, via Coetzee’s words, contends that in both cases it is lack of empathy that allows humans to treat Jews and animals in these inhumane ways.

Coetzee addresses the lack of empathy inherent in those who commit acts of violence in his fictional works, as well. In Dusklands, the character Jacobus describes a rural tribe of Hottentots in animalistic terms, thereby rendering them subhuman and worthy of death and cruelty. In Waiting for the Barbarians, Colonel Joll reduces the “barbarians,” to subhuman status in order to justify his acts of torture against them. In the novel In the Heart of the Country, Magda compares herself to rats as a way to justify her father’s cruel treatment. In all of these works, the common thread is the connection between lack of empathy and inhumane treatment. Coetzee contends that humans must dissociate themselves from the feelings of others in order to execute acts of violence without conscience. This is shown through lack of empathy, rationalization and reduction of the subject to subhuman status.

Coetzee contends that humans must separate themselves from human suffering in order to commit acts of violence. In The Lives of Animals, Elizabeth Costello contends that this lack of empathy stems from people’s inability to imagine themselves as sufferers of inhumane treatment – whether they are Jews in concentration camps or animals in cattle-cars: “The horror is that the killers refused to think themselves into the place of their victims, as did everyone else. They said, ‘It is they in those cattle-cars rattling past.’ They did not say, ‘How would it be if it were I in that cattle-car?’” (34). This inability of others to step into the shoes of their victims, Coetzee contends, is what allows people to turn a blind eye to cruelty. In the same way, Jacobus in Dusklands has no sympathy for the Hottentots he tortures. He says of a Hottentot victim whom he is torturing that “His eyes apologized like a dog’s. I was not upset. He was coming along” (103). This statement shows not only Jacobus’ lack of empathy but his sadistic enjoyment of power over another. The Empire soldiers that torture the Magistrate in Waiting for the Barbarians also lack empathy for pain: “My torturers were not interested in degrees of pain. They were interested only in demonstrating to me what it meant to live in a body … which very soon forgets [notions of justice] when its head is gripped and a pipe is pushed down its gullet” (115). In other words, the Empire soldiers have no empathy for the Magistrate’s suffering. They are interested only in punishing the Magistrate for his subversive acts. Finally, in the novel In the Heart of the Country, Magda shows her father’s lack of empathy to her suffering through her relating of his actions toward her: “I was absent. I was not missed. My father pays no attention to my absence. To my father, I have been an absence all my life” (2). The fact that Magda’s father “pays no attention to her,” shows his lack of empathy to her loneliness and suffering.

Coetzee also asserts that perpetrators of violence must rationalize their acts of violence in order to live with their consequences. In The Lives of Animals, Costello gives many rationalizations for the poor treatment of animals, the most prominent being that animals lack human awareness; therefore they are expendable: “[Animals] have no consciousness therefore. Therefore what? Therefore we are free to use them for our own ends? Therefore we are free to kill them?” (44). Here, Costello points out the folly of the rationalization that animals are worthy of killing because they have no consciousness. By the same token, in Dusklands, “Jacobus” convinces himself that the Hottentots have no awareness because it allows him to treat them like objects. Jacobus says of his servant Klawer, for example, that “we had lived much the same outward life; but he understood nothing. I dismissed him” (80). Jacobus rationalizes his cruel treatment of Klawer by contending that “he understood nothing,” an indication that Jacobus believes Klawer to lack normal human awareness. Similarly, in Waiting for the Barbarians, Colonel Joll rationalizes his torturous acts is by saying that in order to protect his people, he must force the truth from the barbarians: “I am probing for the truth, in which I have to exert pressure to find it. First I get lies, you see – this is what happens – first lies, then pressure, then more lies, then more pressure, then the break, then more pressure, then the truth” (5). If the Colonel convinces himself that the barbarians are lying and that by extracting the truth from them he can protect his people, then he can justify in his own mind, his barbarous acts. In a similar way, Magda in the novel In the Heart of the Country, demonizes herself as a way of justifying her father’s cruel treatment: “He believes that he will begin to prosper once I am out of the way. Though he dare not say so, he would like me to take to my bedchamber with a migraine and stay there” (34). By rationalizing her father’s cruelty with her own justifications, she can understand, though in a warped way, the reasons for his neglect.

A final way that Coetzee contends that humans dissociate themselves from the feelings of others in order to commit acts of cruelty is in the way that perpetrators reduce their victims to subhuman status. In Costello’s speech in The Lives of Animals, she discusses this practice with regard to animal cruelty in many ways. She quotes Descartes as saying: “An animal lives … as a machine lives” (33), thereby implying that the animal is an object and is therefore expendable. Jacobus in Dusklands does the same thing to the Hottentots – he refers to them as animals so he can justify his treatment of them: “Heartless as baboons they are, and the only way to treat them is like beasts” (58). By reducing people to animal-like status, Jacobus objectifies them and therefore condemns them to subhuman treatment. In Waiting for the Barbarians, Colonel Joll reduces the barbarians to subhuman status first by calling them “barbarians,” which implies that they are wild, untamable and therefore a subhuman threat to humanity. In addition, he reduces the barbarians to subhuman status by treating them like animals: “At the end of the rope, tied neck to neck comes a file of men, barbarians, stark naked, holding their hands up to their faces in an odd way as though one and all are suffering from toothache … a simple loop of wire runs through the flesh of each man’s hands and through holes pierced in his cheeks” (103). The way in which the men are corralled together, stripped naked and subjected to inhumane treatment shows that Joll does not see them as equal to him in human stature. In a similar fashion, in the novel In the Heart of the Country, Magda reduces herself to subhuman status as a result of her father’s cruel treatment. When daydreaming about having children, for example, she says of their birth: “emerging into the light of day at the head of a litter of ratlike, runty girls, all the spit image of myself” (42). Here, her comparison of herself and her children to “rats” implies that her father’s treatment has given her the impression that she is in fact subhuman and therefore deserves the cruelty he inflicts.

Nearly all of Coetzee’s works examine the subject of empathy in some fashion, but it is through his two speeches in The Lives of Animals that he truly brings the issue into acute focus. Perhaps it is because the fictional metanarrative, which ties the two talks together, is not a complex story but more of a forum in which to engage in philosophical discussion. This forum then gives Coetzee more freedom to focus on the single topic of animal cruelty and to debate the larger related topic of empathy freely instead of using it as a thematic backdrop for a larger narrative account. Regardless of the reason, the examination of empathy in The Lives of Animals brings clarity to the examination of the same topic in Coetzee’s larger fictional works, thereby unifying his body of work with a single overriding thematic focus. But as always, in all of these works Coetzee does not provide answers to the question of empathy and its role in society. He merely opens the topic up for discussion -- and leaves the audience to form their own conclusions.

Works Cited

Coetzee, J.M. Dusklands. 1974. United States of America: Penguin Books, 1983. Print.

---. In The Heart of the Country. 1976. United States of America: Penguin Books, 1982. Print.

---. The Lives of Animals. New Jersey: Princeton University Press, 1999. Print.

---. Waiting for the Barbarians. 1980. United States of America: Penguin Books, 1982. Print.

Who's Narrating the Last Chapter of J. M. Coetzee's Foe?

J. M. Coetzee’s novel Foe starts out in a straightforward fashion like any other novel. It is the telling of Susan Barton, a woman shipwrecked on the same island with Robinson Crusoe.

Part II of the novel raises questions as to whether or not the rest of Susan’s story is real or imagined, particularly when Susan sees the mysterious young girl who claims to be her daughter (but, according to Susan looks nothing like her). Did Susan in fact escape the island? Or, desperate for escape, did she invent a rescue to cure her loneliness? Did she invent Foe as a way to satiate her desire to have her story told and her fear that she might die alone on the island in relative oblivion? And then, as she was inventing the story of her life back in civilization, did she bring her daughter into the picture, only to realize it had been so long since she had seen her that she could not remember what she looked like? And, was the fact that the daughter’s name was also Susan Barton an indication of Susan’s own deteriorating mental health after being stranded on the island so long.

These questions begin to come into play because her life back in England is so much like her life on the island. She is desperately lonely. She’s dirty and has no food. She has no one to talk to. (Perhaps Cruso did in fact die on the island, bringing about a further need for her to invent a life in civilization?) For example, she writes: “’Days pass. Nothing changes. We hear no word from you, and the townsfolk pay us no more heed than if we were ghosts" (87). The character of Foe, too, is curiously absent through much of the novel, and then when he does appear in Part III he is like Cruso, though with a slightly kinder persona (that she perhaps added because she wanted and needed Cruso to be that way?): “’The island is not a story in itself,’ said Foe gently, laying a hand on my knee.” Additionally, there is the scene in which the young girl Susan Barton and the nurse woman Amy come to visit Foe’s house and Susan refers to them as ghosts. “I say to myself that this child, who calls herself by my name, is a ghost, a substantial ghost, if such beings exist, who haunts me for reasons I cannot understand, and brings other ghosts in tow” (132). This, again, makes the story seem fictional and Susan herself to seem confused and bewildered. (One additional curiosity in Part III is the fact that this part, unlike parts I and II, does not start with a single quotation mark. Does this mean that someone other than Susan is writing it?)

All of these surreal, other-worldly issues point to a tone and style in the book that may help to explain the dream-like sequence in Part IV of the novel. It is similar in tone to the first three parts and yet it is distinctly different as well. Could it be that this is because it is Friday writing this part of the novel? There is an indication that this could be true: “… I begin to hear the faintest faraway roar: as she said, the roar of waves in a seashell …” (154). The words “as she said” indicate that Friday may be trying to imitate his teacher. Additionally, the narrator writes “With a sigh, making barely a splash, I slip overboard" (155). This is the same line that Susan herself writes on pages five and 11, again indicating mimicry. Also, there is a line about his appearance that seems slightly out of place. “About his neck – I had not observed this before – is a scar like a necklace, left by a rope or chain" (155). This seems to be something Friday is adding about himself and the words “I had not observed this before” may be referring to something Susan had failed to notice, rather than himself.

But, it is the references he makes to speech in the last few pages that further support the idea that Friday is writing this final chapter: “His teeth part. I press closer, and with an ear to his mouth lie waiting … I begin to hear the faintest faraway roar … Closer I press, listening for other sounds: the chirp of sparrows, the thud of a mattock, the call of a voice. From his mouth, without a breath, issue the sounds of the island (154). Perhaps this is his interpretation of his own voice or his way of showing that though he does not communicate with words, he communicates through other means.

Further on, there is an additional reference to speech: “’Friday, I say, I try to say, kneeling over him …” (157). The words “I try to say” could be an indication of Friday’s frustration over not being able to speak. Then, further down the page, he writes first “But this is not a place of words … It is the home of Friday" (157). This seems to be an indication of Friday’s world, his acceptance of his world without words and his interpretation of it. Finally, the passage which reads: “His mouth opens. From inside him comes a slow stream, without breath, without interruption … it passes through the cabin, throughout the wreck; washing the cliffs and shores of the island …” (157) seems to be his final attempt at conveying his world to others.

An additional hint that Friday may be the narrator of the final chapter is the way the final chapter is split up into two separate parts, first in the house and then in the ship. Perhaps this could be a way of showing that Friday thinks and communicates in different ways than Susan and Cruso because he has not been able to express himself through speech. Perhaps it is two dreams Friday had. Or, perhaps they are hallucinations brought on by the death of the only other two people on the island.

One additional way of interpreting this chapter on a larger scale is that it represents the relationship between the natives and the colonialists in Africa. Perhaps Friday represents the natives who communicate differently than the colonialists and are therefore deemed unintelligent or inferior (the way Susan judges Friday). With this interpretation then, Susan acts like the colonialists, teaching Friday her way of communicating (writing and speech) with the belief that she is helping him to express himself in a better way. This is like the colonialists that came in and forced the natives to speak and write their language and to accept their religion. Perhaps the natives of Africa felt mute and therefore helpless like Friday, to resist the colonialists’ teachings.

Work Cited

Coetzee, J. M. Foe. United States of America: Penguin Books, 1987. Print.

The Search for the Meaning of Life in Coetzee's The Life & Times of Michael K

The search for the meaning of life is an oft explored theme among authors and critical theorists. Nietzsche contends that human beings arrogantly deceive themselves into thinking that they can understand the Truth of existence: “the constant fluttering of human beings around the one flame of vanity is so much the rule and the law that there is virtually nothing which defies understanding so much as the fact that an honest and pure drive towards truth should ever have emerged in them” (875). Samuel Beckett asserts in Waiting for Godot that human beings wait their whole lives for someone (Godot) to impart to them words that give their lives meaning in a meaningless world. Herman Hesse claims in Siddhartha that enlightenment comes from living in the present without thought for the past or the future. J.M. Coetzee adds to the complexity of the discussion with his 1983 novel The Life & Times of Michael K, contending that happiness comes from abandoning meaning in favor of simplicity and silence. This is shown in the way Michael finds bliss in minimalism – burrowing into a self-made cave-like home, eating just enough food from his garden to subsist, sleeping and being at one with nature.

When Michael first discovers the abandoned Visagie farm, he tries to make himself useful: “In his first days in the mountains he went for walks, turned over stones, nibbled at roots and bulbs” (68). But he discovers after awhile a kind of existential ecstasy in simply existing, without desire for food, purpose, time or action: “He ceased to make an adventure of eating and drinking. He did not explore his new world. He did not turn his cave into a home or keep a record of the passage of days … he wondered if he were living in what was known as bliss” (68). He attributes this pleasure to his abandonment of desire and embracing of tranquility: “Then he had grown older and stopped wanting. Whatever the nature of the beast that had howled inside him, it was starved into stillness” (68). Michael’s discovery here of the value of minimalism in part encapsulates Nietzsche, Beckett and Hesse’s contentions about the meaning of life as well. It points to Nietzsche’s line of reasoning that “nowhere does [human] perception lead into truth” (875). It embraces Beckett’s assertion that the search for meaning is futile because life has no meaning and it elaborates on Hesse’s contention that bliss comes from simply being fully present in the here and now. Therefore, via Michael’s existential discovery of the value of simplicity, Coetzee both unites and elaborates on the assertions of other authors, thereby strengthening his contention that happiness comes from abandoning meaning in favor of minimalism.

Michael also finds comfort in silence. Throughout the novel, others such as the doctor in the infirmary at the work camp, impel Michael to speak in order to assert himself in the world: “No one is going to remember you but me, unless you yield and at last open your mouth. I appeal to you, Michaels, yield!” (152). But Michael has no desire, like other men, “to be remembered” because this would require him to attach meaning to his existence and Michael is beyond that. This frustrates the doctor and Noel and others around him because they are still searching for meaning just as Nietzsche, Beckett and Hesse contend that most men do. But, Michael doesn’t care. He is beyond this desire to be “seen” in the world. He is content to be left alone with himself, his thoughts, and his silence: “I was mute and stupid in the beginning, I will be mute and stupid at the end. There is nothing to be ashamed of in being simple” (182). In other words, he accepts the fact he is like a “mole … that does not tell stories because it lives in silence” (182). His acceptance of this fact and his contentment with his silence show that he is agreeing with Nietzsche, Beckett and Hesse’s contentions that the search for meaning in life is futile and that instead men should find contentment in the realization that life has no meaning, that to be happy all one must do is take pleasure in existing. In this way, once again, Coetzee uses Michael’s character to unite the contentions of other authors while strengthening his own argument that bliss comes from abandoning meaning in favor of silence.

Many authors have entered the debate about the search for the meaning of life. Nietzsche contends that man cannot know the Truth of nature and is arrogant to believe that he can. Beckett contends that people wait their whole lives for meaning that does not exist. Hesse contends that it is the abandonment of attachment to meaning that frees the spirit. Each of these authors takes a different stance on the same overriding theme, that life in fact has no meaning. Coetzee unites and adds his own perspective on the arguments of these authors with his novel The Life & Times of Michael K. In it, his central character comes to the realization that bliss comes from abandoning a search for meaning in favor of simplicity and silence. In discovering this, Michael frees himself from the constraints of time, purpose and meaning, giving himself instead “time enough for everything” (183). While I appreciate Coetzee’s stark take on this discussion, I find Michael’s quiet, resigned response to be depressing. His contention that “Perhaps the truth is that it is enough to be out of the camps, out of all the camps at the same time. Perhaps that is enough of an achievement, for the time being” (182) is so passive that it makes me question and reject his form of paradise. I much prefer Siddhartha’s joyous response to his enlightenment: “As time went on, his smile began to resemble the ferryman’s, was almost equally radiant, almost equally full of happiness, equally lighting up through a thousand little wrinkles” (108). Though both Michael and Siddhartha have found their own kind of ecstasy, Siddhartha’s outward expression of delight seems much more desirable than Michael’s calm, acquiescent life of solitude.

Works Cited and Consulted

Beckett, Samuel. Waiting for Godot. Chelsea House, 2008. Print.

Coetzee, J. M. The Life & Times of Michael K. United States: Viking Penguin, Inc., 1985. Print.

Hesse, Herman. Siddhartha. New York: Bantam, 1971. Print.

Nietzsche, Friedrich. “From On Truth and Lying in a Non-moral Sense.” The Norton Anthology of Literary Criticism. Eds Vincent B. Leitch, William E. Cain, Laurie A. Finke, Barbara E. Johnson, John McGowan, Jeffrey J. Williams. New York: W. W. Norton & Company, Inc., 2001. 874-884. Print.

Contemplating the Inhumanity of Cruel Regimes in Waiting for the Barbarians

The fact that J. M. Coetzee does not use a specific setting, ruling entity or named protagonist in his 1980 novel Waiting for the Barbarians indicates that he is using his work to make a universal interrogation of inhumane regimes, including the system of Apartheid in his home country of South Africa. Coetzee facilitates this examination via his protagonist, a white Magistrate who becomes disillusioned with his “easy years” (9) in a rural settlement, when a high-ranking officer from the Empire tortures and kills an obviously harmless elderly man and traumatizes a young boy. The officer, named Colonel Joll, insists that the man and the boy were thieves who simply needed “pressure” (5) in order to admit their crimes, but the Magistrate knows better. When the Magistrate confirms his suspicions about the Colonel’s torturous tactics, the Magistrate’s life and outlook on the colonizer/colonized relationship is forever changed, sparking in him a great desire for understanding of himself, the barbarians and the merciless Empire soldiers.

The atrocities committed against the elderly man and the boy make the Magistrate question his own identity as a "servant of the Empire" (16). He says of the event that “I know somewhat too much; and from this knowledge, once one has been infected, there seems to be no recovering” (21). In other words, he can no longer claim to be ignorant of the Empire’s tactics after witnessing their barbarous effects. From there, he begins to realize his own unwitting role in the Empire’s actions, confiding that “never before have I had the feeling of not living my own life on my own terms” (40). In other words, despite his distaste for the Empire’s dealings, his own role as magistrate makes him at least partially complicit in those acts. It is only after he leaves his post to meet with the barbarians and is subsequently jailed for treason against the Empire, that he finally feels as though he has broken free of his ties to the ruling entity: “I am aware of the source of my elation: my alliance with the guardians of the Empire is over. I have set myself in opposition, the bond is broken. I am a free man” (78). Coetzee presents interesting irony here. The Magistrate is happier to be jailed and free from his ties to the Empire than to be free but forced to associate with a ruling ideology with which he does not agree.

But, the Magistrate’s quest for understanding does not stop with himself, it reaches beyond himself to the barbarians, as well. He understands that he cannot fully comprehend his role in the colonizer/colonized relationship until he truly understands the “other” in all its complexity. In an effort to come to this understanding, the Magistrate takes in a barbarian woman who has been crippled and blinded by the Empire soldiers. But he learns more about himself than her in the process of trying to help her. He realizes that in fact, “the distance between myself and her torturers ... is negligible” (27). In other words, despite his kindness, he is still a white man who is in a remote way associated with the men who tortured her; therefore she can never truly relate to him as anything but an accomplice. Once again, despite the Magistrate’s decent nature, his interactions with the barbarian woman make it clear that he cannot deny his previous ties to the Empire or his partial culpability for the Empire’s actions.

This leads him to his quest for understanding of Colonel Joll and the Empire soldiers themselves. After the Colonel’s “interrogations,” for example, the Magistrate wonders: “Looking at him I wonder how he felt the very first time: did he … shudder even a little to know that at that instant he was trespassing into the forbidden? I find myself wondering too whether he has a private ritual of purification, carried out behind closed doors, to enable him to return and break bread with other men” (12). The Magistrate here exhibits his own humanity through his examination of Colonel Joll’s lack of it. Here, via the Magistrate’s words, Coetzee voices the thoughts of anyone who reads about or bears witness to these kinds of cruel acts. How can they do it? How can they live with themselves? By using the Magistrate to voice these questions, Coetzee questions all inhumane regimes, including Apartheid.

Work Cited

Coetzee, J.M. Waiting for the Barbarians. United States: Penguin Books, 1982. Print.

Stream of Consciousness as Vehicle for Postmodernist Examination of Perception

In his 1974 collection of two short stories, titled Dusklands, and his 1977 novel In the Heart of the Country, J. M. Coetzee writes in a stream-of-consciousness narrative mode as a way to explore the psyches of his characters and their distorted ways of perceiving the world. As a result of this narrative style, which puts the reader inside the mind of the protagonists in each novel, the reliability of the narrators comes into question when gaps in the narrators’ thinking patterns indicates that their perceptions may be unsound. In this way, Coetzee plays with the idea of reality and consciousness, inferring that perception is untrustworthy because it is subjectively filtered through the thoughts and feelings of the observer. In other words, Coetzee takes a postmodernist look at reality, questioning whether there is one “reality” or whether reality is simply an individual construct based on perception.

In “The Narrative of Jacobus Coetzee,” the second story in Dusklands, the narrator’s reliability falters when in one paragraph he indicates that the Hottentot he is traveling with has died: “[he] went to his death bearing the blanket roll and all the food” (94) and in the next paragraph, he continues the narrative as if the Hottentot were still alive: “The crossing took all of an hour, for we had to probe the bottom before each step…” (94). This break in reality instantly causes the reader to question the narrator’s sanity and the reliability of the rest of the story.

Similarly, in the novel In the Heart of the Country, Magda’s narrative account centers on the death of her father -- how she murdered him, how she buried him and how her life changed after his death. But, seventeen pages from the end of the novel, the narrative shifts and Magda’s thoughts read: “Perhaps I have been mistaken all the time, perhaps my father is not dead after all” (122). From this point forward in the novel, Magda’s narration and the events that transpire are written as if her father is alive. This once again calls into question Magda’s reliability as a narrator and her sanity, leaving the reader to wonder whether the narration up to this point has been merely a series of fantasies or whether the ending is the fantasy and the rest of the novel the truth. Either way, Coetzee’s purpose has been achieved – the lines between reality and fantasy have been blurred. The reader can no longer tell what is truth and what is fiction. In this way, Coetzee’s stream-of-consciousness narrative style is the perfect conduit through which to contemplate the concept of “reality” and the role of individual perception and fantasy in the formation of subjective "truth."

Another way Coetzee achieves this blurring of reality is through the use of repetition – both of events and words. Several times in the novel, Magda contemplates a series of seemingly plausible versions of real scenarios without telling the reader which one is in fact the true occurrence. In Section 236 of the novel, for example, Magda contemplates three explanations for Hendrik’s refusal to return home. In the first scenario, Magda thinks: “Perhaps they did not shoot them out of hand” (122). In the second, she says: “Perhaps they did indeed bring Hendrik back to the farm, to confront me, and I have forgotten” (122) and in the final scenario Magda says: “Perhaps I have been mistaken all the time, perhaps my father is not dead after all” (122). Coetzee’s use of repeated accounts of events here indicates that Magda’s mind is not operating on the level of reality, but on the level of fantasy. The repetition of the word “perhaps” furthers this explanation for her thoughts since the word itself is used to indicate uncertainty. But, does this mean she is mad? Or, like everyone, is she engaging in daydreams as a way to pass the time or create a more pleasurable reality? These are the questions that arise from Coetzee's stream-of-consciousness narrative mode. This narrative style also once again calls into question the authenticity of the story being told and of the sanity of the narrator herself.

One final way that Coetzee plays with reality is through his examination of time. Magda says at one point that she cannot remember what happened the day before: “A day must have intervened here … perhaps I spent it asleep” (79). Once again, her lack of touch with a sense of real time indicates that her way of thinking may be unstable. On the other hand, perhaps the monotony of her life on the farm has merely made the days blend together so that one day seems like the next and no day is particularly memorable. Either way, once again, a “true” explanation of reality is not discernible because Coetzee does not offer it.

Coetzee’s stream of consciousness narrative style calls into question not just Magda and Jacobus’ perception of reality but reality for all of humanity, encouraging readers to contemplate questions such as: Is there any truth to our perceptions or are our perceptions tainted by our consciousness? Or, is there ever really one reality or is it dependent upon the eyes of the beholder? Only by taking his narration inside the minds of his protagonists can Coetzee examine these kinds of postmodernist philosophical questions from such an intimate angle. Ultimately therefore, Coetzee achieves with his stream-of-consciousness narrative form, a richer forum for thought and speculation, thereby raising reader consciousness to a higher level – if indeed “consciousness” really exists.

Works Cited

Coetzee, J.M. Dusklands. New York: Penguin Books, 1974. Print.

---. In the Heart of the Country. United States: Penguin Books, 1982. Print.

Psychological Dissociation in J.M. Coetzee's Dusklands

Dusklands is my favorite of Coetzee's novels and probably the one that I will use for my final project. As a result, I have put together a one-page short posting and a longer, fleshed-out essay. I will post both. Feel free to comment on either.

Dusklands posting -- short

Psychological Dissociation in J.M. Coetzee’s Dusklands

In the opening pages of J.M. Coetzee’s 1974 collection of two short stories, titled Dusklands, a quote from Herman Kahn reads: “It is unreasonable to expect the U.S. Government to obtain [military] pilots who are so appalled by the damage they may be doing that they cannot carry out their missions or become excessively depressed or guilt-ridden." This quote alludes to the emotional and psychological detachment that must occur in order for people to commit extreme acts of violence. Eugene Dawn in “The Vietnam Project” and Jacobus Coetzee in “The Narrative of Jacobus Coetzee” both exemplify this dissociative mentality. By focusing on the psychological defense mechanisms exhibited by characters who commit violent acts, Coetzee is able to critique warfare and its effects on the human psyche. Coetzee uses the characters’ distorted psychology to illustrate that humans must dissociate from reality in order to carry out acts of violence without conscience. This dissociation comes in the form of desensitization, self absorption and delusions of grandeur, inflated sense of purpose and lack of empathy.

Both men speak of their violent acts in a methodical, detached, clinical way. This shows the extent to which they have disconnected from their feelings in order to live with their actions. Both men blame and criticize others while aggrandizing their own sense of self importance, also as a way to justify their violent actions. Both men also insist that their actions do not stem from bloodlust but from a desire to do good in the world. In this way, in their minds their violent acts become not only justified but desirable and even admirable. Finally, both men exhibit a lack of empathy for their victims. By numbing themselves to the suffering of others, they can conduct violent acts without guilt.

Acting without guilt, however, is also the defining trait of sociopaths and psychopaths. Perhaps this is Coetzee’s point – and his criticism. If those who commit acts of violence in warfare are psychopathic, then where is the line between “savage” and “civilized”?

Dusklands posting -- longer

Psychological Dissociation in J.M. Coetzee’s Dusklands

In the opening pages of J.M. Coetzee’s 1974 collection of two short stories, titled Dusklands, a quote from Herman Kahn reads: “It is unreasonable to expect the U.S. Government to obtain [military] pilots who are so appalled by the damage they may be doing that they cannot carry out their missions or become excessively depressed or guilt-ridden." This quote alludes to the emotional and psychological detachment that must occur in order for men to commit extreme acts of violence. Eugene Dawn in “The Vietnam Project” and Jacobus Coetzee in “The Narrative of Jacobus Coetzee,” both exemplify this dissociative mentality. By focusing on the psychological defense mechanisms exhibited by characters who commit violent acts, Coetzee is able to critique warfare and its effects on the human psyche. Coetzee uses the characters’ distorted psychology to illustrate that humans must dissociate from reality in order to carry out acts of violence without conscience. This dissociation comes in the form of desensitization, self absorption and delusions of grandeur, inflated sense of purpose and lack of empathy.

One way Coetzee critiques the effects of warfare on the human psyche is to show the desensitization the two characters exhibit when speaking of their violent acts. The most obvious example of Eugene’s desensitization comes when he stabs his son. He speaks of his actions in a disconnected, clinical way: “Holding it like a pencil, I push the knife in. The child kicks and flails. A long, flat ice-sheet of sound takes place” (42). The fact that he refers to his son as “the child” shows his desensitization. In addition, his detailed description of the way he holds the knife “like a pencil” and his focus on the sound of the knife going in, shows his lack of emotional involvement in the act itself. By speaking of his acts in a neutral, disconnected way and focusing instead on such things as sound and the placement of the knife in his hand, he can downplay the significance of his acts and his part in their consequences. “Jacobus,” too, is desensitized to violence. For example, when speaking of a Bushman he has killed, “Jacobus” says with emotionally unattached finality: “I killed him with a ball through the throat” (60). The matter-of-fact nature of his words here, shows the psychological numbing that has occurred as a result of his repeated violent acts. Like Eugene, “Jacobus” disconnects from the significance of his words as a way to prevent himself from acknowledging the meaning behind their utterances. Coetzee depicts the characters’ desensitization in this way as a means of critiquing the psychological costs of those who commit violent acts.

Coetzee also uses the characters’ self absorption to illustrate the psychological consequences of warfare. For Eugene and “Jacobus,” their self-centeredness and delusions of grandeur help them to psychologically justify their violent actions. The most obvious example of Eugene’s self absorption comes when he stabs his son. When he hears his wife scream, he is so focused on himself, he assumes it is because of her concern for himself: “She need not worry, I am all right” (42). By shifting the focus from his violent act (the stabbing) to his own sense of well-being, he is able to dissociate from his present actions. This self absorption then prevents him from seeing the true reality of his actions and the pain he is causing others.

For “Jacobus,” self absorption comes in the form of delusions of grandeur. By aggrandizing his self worth, he gives himself psychological permission to exert power and violence over others. He becomes so enamored with his own inflated sense of importance, for example, that he adopts a kind of God-like stance when speaking about killing the Hottentots: “I then pronounced sentence of death” (101). Here, his proclamation shows the control and power he has over the lives of others. This power then gives him a sense of entitlement and importance that overrides any kind of rational guilt which might accompany his acts. An even more pronounced example of this comes when he kills an innocent lamb: “Like God in a whirlwind I fell upon a lamb, an innocent little fellow who had never seen his master and was thinking only of a good night’s sleep, and slit his throat” (100). Here, his ability to take the life of another makes him feel all-powerful, even God-like and invincible, thereby preventing any remorse he might feel for his actions. This again illustrates the warped psychology of those who commit repeated acts of violence.

Additionally, both Eugene and “Jacobus” convince themselves of the righteousness of their violent acts as a way to avoid blame for their exploits. This is an additional defense mechanism that Coetzee uses to show the consequences of violence on the human psyche. Eugene, for example, claims that he “hate[s] war as deeply as the next man” but that he “gave [himself] to the war on Vietnam only because I wanted to see it end. I wanted an end to strife and rebellion so that I could be happy, so that we could all be happy” (48). By convincing himself that his actions are purposeful and positive in this way, he can avert culpability for his actions. “Jacobus,” too, claims that he is not a violent man at heart: “no more than any other man do I enjoy killing” (106). Instead, he considers his acts a kind of service to the world: “I have taken it upon myself to be the one to pull the trigger, performing this sacrifice for myself and my countrymen, who exist, and committing upon the dark folk the murders we have all wished. All are guilty, without exception” (106). These words are the ultimate show of justification for his violent acts. If Jacobus can convince himself that “all” are guilty and that his acts are what “all” of society has wished for, then his acts are not only justified but desired and even admirable. Coetzee uses the characters’ inflated sense of purpose as a way of critiquing the psychological consequences of violence and warfare.

Finally, Coetzee uses the characters’ lack of empathy and guilt to show the inherent psychological distortions present in those who perform violent acts. Eugene declares freely that “I have no sense of shame” (46) and that “the design of war made me callous to suffering” (48). With these statements, Eugene admits to distancing himself from the pain of his victims, thereby giving voice to Coetzee’s contention that lack of empathy is a psychological consequence of warfare brutality. Eugene’s lack of empathy becomes even more obvious in the way he treats his son: “Sometimes he cries, sometimes he throws tantrums. When he is too loud I shut him up in the bathroom. Perhaps I am harsh; but I am in no mood for irrational behavior” (38). By blocking himself to his son’s suffering, he can act in cruel ways without regret. “Jacobus” is equally unsympathetic to the suffering of his victims. He says of a Hottentot victim whom he is torturing that “His eyes apologized like a dog’s. I was not upset. He was coming along” (103). This statement shows not only Jacobus’ lack of empathy but his sadistic enjoyment of power over another. By dehumanizing his victim and blocking his own “upset” feelings, “Jacobus” can justify his acts and revel instead in the sense of power the acts give him. By showing the characters’ lack of empathy for others, Coetzee critiques warfare and the psychological ramifications of violent actions.

Each character’s desensitization, self absorption, delusions of grandeur, inflated sense of purpose and lack of empathy prove Coetzee’s point that in order for humanity to commit violent acts, they must dissociate from reality. Moreover, by showing the similar psychological defense mechanisms of two violent characters from different time periods, Coetzee strengthens his argument and shows its universality.

Work Cited

Coetzee, J. M. Dusklands. New York: Penguin Books, 1974. Print.

About Keli Rowley

I am in my last year as an English M.A. student and Teaching Associate at California State University – Northridge. I first became interested in J. M. Coetzee’s work in Dr. Barnard’s African Film and Literature course where we not only examined Coetzee’s work Foe, but also the works of African authors Chinua Achebe, Ousmane Sembène and Ama Ata Aidoo. I am very excited to learn more about Coetzee and his diverse range of works in this seminar class. I also have an interest in South African playwright Athol Fugard’s work, in Donald Woods’ book Biko and in Mark Mathabane’s book Kaffir Boy: An Autobiography – The True Story of a Black Youth’s Coming of Age in Apartheid South Africa.

I am particularly excited to learn about South African culture in relation to Coetzee’s work because I will be vacationing in South Africa for 4 weeks in January. It has been a dream of mine to travel there for many years.

My current research interests include Transnational Africa/African Diaspora Studies, Film and Visual Culture, Culture and Theory, Psychoanalytic theory, Literature of Human Rights, Representations of Evil in Literature, Dystopian Sci-Fi and Pedagogy. I plan to begin a Ph.D. program in literature in Fall 2012.