I wonder why it is that the life of poverty is regarded as more real than any other life. In books and films, the slice of life traditionally is cut from the lower crust; in almost all of us with full bellies, whose personal struggles are above the sustenance level, there is a nervous, even a respectful feeling that life may be elsewhere. The poor man has got it, he staggers beneath its violent weight, of course; one wouldn't wish to be in his shoes -- but he has it...What do we mean by real life? That which is closest to the basic trinity, shared by all creatures: survival, food, reproduction? Then we indulge in romantic fallacy, stemming from some atavistic guilt, because, in life, reality is not an absolute, but consists of one set of conditions or another. To regard total pre-occupation with survival, food, and reproduction as the criterion of reality is to ignore other needs that men have created for themselves, and which, in combination with the basic ones, make men's reality. In a society where laws takes care of a man's survival among his fellows, his part in commerce and industry ensures that he will eat as a matter of course, and his reproductive function is secured by the special mating system of marriage, the greatest reality of his life may consist in his meeting the growth of the financial empire which his brain and energy have created. The greatest reality, for the scientist, must lie in his patient onslaught on the opposition of the formula he can't get right; for an artist, in accepting that no one, at present, will accept his particular vision. That is 'real life'; for each man, the demands of his own condition.I decided that possibly life in the townships seemed more 'real' simply because there were fewer distractions, far fewer vicarious means for spending passion, or boredom. To each human being there, the demands of his or her own condition came baldly. The reality was nearer the surface. There was nothing for the frustrated man to do but grumble in the street; there was nothing for the deserted girl to do but sit on the step and wait for the bastard to be born; there was nothing to be done with the drunk but let him lie in the yard until he'd got over it. Among the people I met with Cecil, frustrated men threw themselves into golf and horse-racing, girls who had had broken love affairs went off to Europe, drunks were called alcoholics, and underwent expensive cures. That was all. That was the only difference.But was it? With so much to comfort and distract them, don't people perhaps learn, at last, to feel a little less? And doesn't that make life that much less 'real'? -- But again, this sounded convincing, but seemed disproved in actual fact. For the people who frequented The High House (and also myself, my friends and acquaintances in England) made a great deal of their feelings, nervous breakdowns and other long-drawn-out miseries followed on their misadventures, and they knew that life very easily comes to a standstill; but the men and women of the townships, after brief and public mourning, wiped their noses with the backs of their hands, as it were, and did the next thing, knowing that nothing could interrupt life (157-158)"Toby, man, the black skin's not the thing. If you know anybody who wants to know what it's like to be a black man, this is it. No matter how much you manage to do for yourself, it's not enough. If you've got a decent job with decent money it can't do you much good, because it's got to spread so far. You're always a rich man compared with your sister or your brother, or your wife's cousins. You can't ever get out of debt while there's one member of the family who has to pay a fine or get sick and go to hospital. And so it goes on. If I get an increase, what'll it help me? Someone'll have to have it to pay tax or get a set of false teeth" (255).I had not been to the Alexanders' for weeks. I couldn't go there any more, that was all. Steven's death had provided a check, a pause, when the strain of the kind of life I had been living for months broke in upon me. While I had kept going, simply carried along, I had not consciously been aware of the enormous strain of such a way of life, where one set of loyalties and interests made claims in direct conflict with another set, equally strong; where not only did I have to keep my friends physically apart, but could not even speak to one group about the others (257-258).
The book starts off slowly. The plot itself is presented in a rather subtle manner. Perhaps as a post-apartheid reader its easier to identify the disparity between the two worlds presented. The last quarter of the book picks up the pace. The conclusion is far more dramatic than the rest of the book and I'm not sure it fits as well as it could.I found the book compelling and would recommend it as light reading. I would have liked some real criticism on Gordimers part, but I suspect that the time the book was written in didn't really encourage a radical critique in any sense. Regardless its well written and is a good account of the time.
What do You think about World Of Strangers (2002)?
Gostei! Este livro ensinou-me muito sobre a vida na África do Sul há umas décadas: as diferenças e os problemas de quem aceitava essas diferenças. É um livro que fala de amizades e preconceitos, tudo vivido na primeira pessoa. Mas nada está escarrapachado no papel! Esta senhora conseguiu descrever situações que me provocaram sentimentos estranhos, enquanto que há muito autores que descrevem exaustivamente esses sentimentos e o leitor continua sem perceber muito bem o que raio é que o personagem está a sentir.
—Joana Gomes
Being over 50 years old and set in apartheid South Africa, there's a temptation to think this book might seem a bit dated for today's readers. However, its themes of race, identity, class and tolerance are as vital today as they've ever been. Add to the weighty subject matter, Gordimer's sublimely crafted words and the host of convincing and engaging characters, and you have the ingredients for a great read. The plot is probably the weakest aspect, and though 'stuff happens', by the end you feel like you've only had a small window into the protagonists' lives, and there are as many questions being asked as there have been answered.
—fluffy_mike
