WILFRED BARETT DAMON

Ek vermoed dat die Ierse skrywer James Joyce sy skryfkuns as ‘n soort self-terapie aangewend het. Ek self skryf teen ‘n stadige, oorwegende pas oor onderwerpe wat my motiveer om my gedagtes daaroor in iets leesbaars te omvorm, soos ek vermoed Joyce aan Ulysses geskryf het terwyl hy aan daardie groot werk van hom gewerk het.

I suspect that the Irish writer James Joyce used his writing as a kind of self-therapy. I myself write at a slow, deliberate pace about subjects that motivate me to transform my thoughts about them into something readable, as I suspect Joyce wrote Ulysses while he was working on that great work of his.

Afrikaans is my moedertaal. Soos Joyce in die Engelse vasalstaat wat Ierland in sy tyd was, het ek ook as vasal in die destydse Kaapkolonie van die Unie van Suid-Afrika die eerste lewenslig gesien, en op tienjarige ouderdom my jong vasalskap moes oordra aan die Republiek van Suid-Afrika. Deesdae is Afrikaans my gesprekstaal van keuse in die Nuwe Suid-Afrika. Miskien praat ek die taal nou met meer vrymoedigheid, ‘n vrymoedigheid gegrond in die besef dat die taal tog ook heeltemal myne geword het met die aanbreek van die breër demokrasie in die land. En as my dialekklanke deurslaan wanneer ek in my Vlaktedialek praat – daardie versigtige, verskonenende en selfbewuste vasalle klankie wat my en my mense in Stellenbosch onderskei het van die ander Afrikaanssprekendes van die dorp – hoef ek vir niemand meer verskoning te vra daarvoor nie. Dit was immers die klank van my Afrikaans vir ‘n belangrikste deel van my gesprekslewe en bly die basis van my gesproke Afrikaans.

Afrikaans is my mother tongue. Like Joyce in the English vassal state that Ireland was in his time, I also saw the first light of life as a vassal in the then Cape Colony of the Union of South Africa, and at the age of ten had to transfer my young vassalage to the Republic of South Africa. These days, Afrikaans is my conversational language of choice in the New South Africa. Perhaps I now speak the language with more boldness, a boldness based on the realization that the language also became completely mine with the dawn of broader democracy in the country. And if my dialect sounds come through when I speak in my Vlakte dialect – that careful, apologetic and self-conscious vassal sound that distinguished me and my people in Stellenbosch from the other Afrikaans-speakers of the town – I no longer have to apologize to anyone for that. After all, it was the sound of my Afrikaans for a most important part of my conversational life and remains the basis of my spoken Afrikaans.

Tog is ek gebore en het ek grootgeword in die tyd van Die Wonder van Afrikaans, ‘n taalwonder wat in my lewe geskuif het toe ek in die voorlaaste jaar van die 1950’s formeel kennis maak met skool-Afrikaans in die klas van my sub-A juffrou Gail King by die St Mary’s EC primêre skool in Joubertstraat aan die oostelike grens van die Vlakte woonbuurt. Dit was ook ‘n verwarrende kennismaking, want die skoolklanke van die taal was só anders as my Afrikaanse huisklanke! Daardie Wonder was ongelukkig die uitsluitlike en ongeskrewe kultuurbesit van die Afrikaner, ‘n kultuurskat waaraan hulle steeds hard gewerk en jaloers gehandhaaf het in daardie tyd. Dit was die tyd toe die apartheidshegemonie sy beslag gekry het. Die taal het in ‘n politieke gewaad verskyn toe dit destyds gekaap is om ‘n spreukbuis van Afrikaner-nasionalisme te word. Dit het verander in ‘n skeidende heersersinstrument, ‘n sjibbolet so kragdadig soos een vanuit die tyd van die strydende Israelitiese stamme self. Dit was ‘n sneller wat nie net onderskeiding tussen mense aangedui het nie, maar ook die fisiese skeiding van rasse in die land kon bewerkstellig saam met al die ander rasgebonde elemente soos afkoms en voorkoms, haarkleur, liggaamsbou, sosiale status, nering, die gesondheidstoestand van die tande in ‘n persoon se mond, en al die ander onsinnighede wat ‘n donker skaduwee oor menslike verdraagsaamheid en aanvaarding gewerp het en enige gesonde toekomstige volkereverhoudings tussen die mense  in die land fataal gekniehalter het. Ja, so het die taal verander in ‘n geleibuis wat die ander skeidingsmeganismes van die apartheidswêreld gevestig het en gehelp het om dit in stand te hou, om natuurlike gespreksinteraksie tussen wit en bruin Afrikaanssprekendes in Stellenbosch en oral elders in die land te belemmer, en spontane taalkontak tussen mense van die verskillende rasse in agterdog en wantroue te hul. En as daar enige waarheid in die idee is dat die mens instinktief, vir sy eie oorlewing, wonderlik aanpasbaar is, dan is dit ook waar dat ek as bruin seun daardie taalskeiding – daardie onsigbare en ondeurdringbare metaforiese betonmuur – ervaar, deurleef én oorleef het.

Yet I was born and I grew up in the time of Die Wonder van Afrikaans, a language miracle that moved into my life when I formally became acquainted with school Afrikaans in the class of my sub-A in the penultimate year of the 1950s teacher Gail King at the St Mary’s EC primary school in Joubert Street on the eastern border of the Vlakte neighbourhood. It was also a confusing introduction, because the school sounds of the language were so different from my Afrikaans home sounds! That Wonder of Afrikaans was unfortunately the exclusive and unwritten cultural property of the Afrikaner, a cultural treasure that they still worked hard on and jealously maintained at that time. This was the time when the apartheid hegemony took hold. The language appeared in a political garb when it was hijacked to become a slogan of Afrikaner nationalism. It turned into a divisive ruling instrument, a shibboleth as powerful as one from the time of the warring Israelite tribes themselves. It was a trigger that not only indicated distinction between people, but could also bring about the physical separation of races in the country along with all the other racial elements such as descent and appearance, hair color, physique, social status, vocation, the state of health of the teeth in a person’s mouth, and all the other nonsense that cast a dark shadow over human tolerance and acceptance and fatally hampered any healthy future people relations between the people of the country. Yes, so the language turned into a conduit that established and helped maintain the other separation mechanisms of the apartheid world, to hinder natural conversational interaction between white and colored Afrikaans speakers in Stellenbosch and everywhere else in the country, and to shroud spontaneous language contact between people of different races in suspicion and mistrust. And if there is any truth in the idea that man is instinctively, for his own survival, wonderfully adaptable, then it is also true that as a brown boy I experienced, lived through and survived that language divide – that invisible and impenetrable metaphorical concrete wall.

Die grootste slagoffer van daardie skeidingsmuur was natuurlik die taal self. Wat as ‘n wonder deur die Afrikanerbevolking beskou is, iets waarvoor hulle oorreed kon word om selfs die lewe neer te lê, was minder van ‘n wonder vir die vasalle gebruikers van Afrikaans, Afrikaanssprekende mense soos my Vlakte gemeenskap in Stellenbosch. Die taal was vir hulle soos ‘n gebruiksartikel, ‘n lewensbelangrike kommunikasiemiddel die esoteriese waarde waarvan dit hulle soms ontgaan het. Afrikaans was nie vir hulle so verstrengel met die idee van vaderlandsliefde soos dit by die Afrikaners was nie. ‘n Volksbesef was nie iets wat hulle veronderstel was om oor te peins nie: hul slawegeskiedenis en die koloniale tradisie waarin ook hulle hul lewens gevoer het, het verhoed dat hulle Afrikaans só kon sien en ervaar. Dat hulle later in die uitsprake van apartheidsdemagoge ‘n ‘nasie-in-wording’ genoem is, om die apartheidspil meer oplosbaar te maak, kon hulle hulself ook nie juis oor bekommer nie. Daar was vir hulle belangriker dinge om hulself oor te bekommer –  sake wat gegaan het om ten brode en die ontsnapping uit hul geskiedenis van honderde jare van pagterskap, verdrukking en sosiale marginalisering.

The biggest victim of that dividing wall was of course the language itself. What was considered a miracle by the Afrikaner population, something for which they could be persuaded to lay down their lives, was less of a miracle for the vassal users of Afrikaans, Afrikaans-speaking people like my Vlakte community in Stellenbosch. For them, the language was like an article of use, a vital means of communication, the esoteric value of which sometimes escaped them. For them, Afrikaans was not as intertwined with the idea of ​​patriotism as it was with the Afrikaners. A folk consciousness was not something they were supposed to think about: their slave history and the colonial tradition in which they also led their lives prevented them from being able to see and experience Afrikaans in this way. That they were later called a ‘nation-in-the-making’ in the statements of apartheid demagogues, in order to make the apartheid pill easier to swallow, they couldn’t really worry about either. There were more important things for them to concern themselves with – matters that went to waste and the escape from their history of hundreds of years of feudalism, oppression and social marginalization.

Dat Afrikaans ‘n belangrike skoolvak was vir selfs die vasalle leerders daarvan, was ook doelmatig in diens van die Afrikaner heerserklas van die land. Afrikaanse boeke moes gedruk, verkoop en versprei word in die skole van die land; die taal moes in skole aangewend word, literêr uitgebou word, selfs en veral onder die bruin bevolking van die nuutgeproklameerde Republiek van Suid-Afrika. Inderdaad ook ‘n gelukkige bron van welvaartskepping vir diesulkes onder daardie heersersklas wat die taal ook vir hierdie doel kon aanwend. Die formele gebruik van Afrikaans onder sy vasalle sprekers was dus grootliks beperk tot die lees van die taal. Die Bybel, Afrikaanse stories, prosa en poësie, en die Afrikaanse koerante en tydskrifte was almal absoluut formele vorms van die taal. Boonop het die lees van die taal nie juis té hoorbaar ‘n stem gehad nie. Formele lees-Afrikaans was beskikbaar vir alle gebruikers van die taal, sonder dialek-sjibboletbeperkings: die enigste vereiste daarvoor was leesvaardigheid. Lees-Afrikaans was dus nie ‘n direkte bedreiging vir die eienaarskap van die taal nie.

That Afrikaans was an important school subject for even its vassal learners was also useful in the service of the Afrikaner ruling class of the country. Afrikaans books had to be printed, sold and distributed in the schools of the country; the language had to be used in schools, developed as literature, even and especially among the colored population of the newly proclaimed Republic of South Africa. Indeed also a happy source of wealth creation for those among that ruling class who were also able to use the language for this purpose. The formal use of Afrikaans among his vassal speakers was thus largely limited to reading the language. The Bible, Afrikaans stories, prose and poetry, and the Afrikaans newspapers and magazines were all absolutely formal forms of the language. Moreover, the reading of the language did not have a very audible voice. Formal reading Afrikaans was available to all users of the language, without dialect-shibboleth restrictions: the only requirement for it was reading ability. Reading Afrikaans was therefore not a direct threat to the ownership of the language.

Afrikaans was die taal van die Afrikaner, en so moes dit bly tot in lengte van dae. En sou prosa of poësie deur ‘n vasal voorgedra word, het sulke voordragsessies ook die taalhegemonie gedien en versterk: hoor hoe pragtig dra hy ons literêre skeppinge voor in ons taal! Maar om die taal te lees was meer gewens: dit het die passiewe vasalle interaksie met die suiwerste vorm van die taal geïmpliseer. Suiwer Afrikaans is dus voorgehou as die regte manier om die taal te besig. By implikasie was al die ander spraakvariante van die taal, veral dié van die vasalgebruikers, sub-standaard Afrikaans. Ja, die logika maak wye draaie wanneer dit in diens staan van onsinnige retoriek. En ek en my mede-vasalle gebruikers van die taal moes aanvaar dat ons slegs gebruikersreg daarop gehad het.

Afrikaans was the language of the Afrikaner, and it was to remain so until the end of days. And should prose or poetry be recited by a vassal, such recitation sessions also served and strengthened the linguistic hegemony: hear how beautifully he recites our literary creations in our language! But reading the language was more desirable: it implied the passive vassal interaction with the purest form of the language. “Pure” Afrikaans was thus presented as the right way to learn the language. By implication, all the other speech variants of the language, especially those of the vassal users, were sub-standard Afrikaans. Yes, the logic takes wide turns when it is in the service of nonsensical rhetoric. And I and my fellow vassal users of the language had to accept that we only had user rights to it.

Skooljare in die 1950’s en 1960’s was Afrikaanse skooljare en die huise van die Vlakte se kinders was gevul met Afrikaanse skoolboeke en leesboeke uitgehaal by die munisipale biblioteek in Idasvallei. Die ander biblioteek van die dorp in Pleinstraat, was naas die nasionale biblioteek in die goewerneurstuine in Kaapstad, een van die oudste biblioteke in die land, maar toe reeds ‘n verbode leesterrein vir die bruinmense van die dorp. Naas my tiener voorkeur vir die Amerikaanse comics en die weeklikse Beano en Engelse war comics was die avonture van Trompie en die Boksombende van Topsy Smith, die speurverhale van Doc Immelman en Karel Kielblock se intriges wat afgespeel het in die vervloë tye toe die Kaap nog letterlik Hollands was en Tafelbaai die vasmeerplek vir die VOC se handelskaravele, vir my genotvolle leesvermaak tot in my hoërskooljare. Daardie avontuurverhale was jeugverhale en storieboeke vanuit ‘n trotse Afrikaanse taalkultuur wat soos wydverspreide reënbuie ook oor die taal se ander gebruikers uitgesak het. Het ek die wêreld van ‘n wit kind in Suid-Afrika betree elke keer wanneer ek daardie storieboeke oopgemaak en begin lees het? Ek moes dit gedoen het. Dit was imperatief dat ek daardie kopskuif in my verbeelding moes maak, ‘n voorvereiste vir my inlewing in daardie verhale. My leesontvlugting was dus ook op ‘n vreemde manier ‘n literȇr-politieke proses, en ‘n ontkennende ontvlugting van alles wat nydig, afgunstig en benadelend was wat in die land besig was om te gebeur, ‘n nydigheid, afgunstigheid en nadeligheid wat verweef was in  die politiek van die dag. Die afwesigheid van bruin helde in daardie wonderlike Afrikaanse fiksieverhaalwêreld was die olifantkalfie in die kamer, wat by tye met ‘n sug van onvermoëndheid uit die gedagtes verban is elke keer wanneer ‘n lekker Afrikaanse leesboek opgetel en gelees is om van die ander groter lewenswerklikhede van die dag te kan ontsnap, en die witmenswêreld van daardie verhale betree moes word. Daardie wȇreld is natuurlik ‘n uitvloeiing van die verhaalskrywers se eie lewensondervindinge in sy beleefde wȇreld, en bruin verhaalhelde in Afrikaanse boeke van enige aard kon dus ook geskep word sou ‘n bruin skrywer aan die skryf gaan en stukkies van sy wȇreld boekstaaf. Wat het verhoed dat so-iets in die middeldekades van die vorige eeu nooit ontstaan het nie? Dat daar nie ‘n bruin skrywerskultuur was nie, is ‘n gegewe, en tog ook ‘n jammerte.

School years in the 1950s and 1960s were Afrikaans school years and the homes of the Vlakte’s children were filled with Afrikaans schoolbooks and reading books taken from the municipal library in Idas Valley. The other library of the town in Plein Street, next to the national library in the governor’s gardens in Cape Town, was one of the oldest libraries in the country, but then already a forbidden reading area for the brown people of the town. Next to my teenage preference for the American comics and the weekly Beano and English war comics were the adventures of Trompie and the Boxing gang of Topsy Smith, the detective stories of Doc Immelman and Karel Kielblock’s intrigues that took place in the bygone times when the Cape was still literally Hollands and Tafel Bay were the mooring place for the VOC’s merchant caravels, for my enjoyable reading entertainment until my high school years. Those adventure stories were youth stories and storybooks from a proud Afrikaans language culture that also fell like widespread rain showers on the other users of Afrikaans. Did I enter the world of a white child in South Africa every time I opened those storybooks and started reading? I did. It was imperative that I had to make that shift in my imagination, a prerequisite for my integration into those stories. My escape from reading was therefore also in a strange way a literary-political process, and an escape from everything that was jealous, envious and harmful that was happening in the country, a jealousy, envy and disadvantage that was interwoven in the politics of the day. The absence of brown heroes in that wonderful Afrikaans fictional story world was the elephant calf in the room, banished from the mind at times with a sigh of incapacity every time a nice Afrikaans reading book was picked up and read to avoid some of the other larger realities of life. To be able to escape the day the white man’s world of those stories had to be entered. That world is of course an outgrowth of the story writers’ own life experiences in their lived world, and brown story heroes in Afrikaans books of any kind could therefore also be created if a brown writer started writing and recorded bits of his world. What prevented something like this from ever arising in the middle decades of the last century? That there was no brown writer culture is a given, and yet also a pity.

Was hul bestaanstryd destyds so groot dat nȇrens ‘n bruin skryfliggie aangesteek kon word nie? Kon geen skryfinspirasie uit hul geledere gegenereer word nie, ondanks al die politiek-sosiale uitdagings van die dag? Dalk was die Afrikaanse verhalende skryfmodel vir latente bruin skrywers ‘n afskrikmiddel wat die geboorte van spontane skrywery onder hulle gekortwiek het. Daardie spook tussen die Afrikaanse drukperse is nie heeltemal tot rus gelȇ nie, want hy is vir ‘n lang tyd onderskraag deur ‘n magtige en trotse publikasiemasjien wat geen moemenswaardige prikkels hoef te weerstaan het om vir ander skryfgeeste ruimte te skep nie. Enkele bruin skrywers en denkers het in Engels geskryf, artikels wat meesal in ‘n polities-sosiale baadjie verskyn het. Maar lekker Afrikaanse stories en kortverhale oor bruinmense, hul lewenswyse, drome en daaglikse uitdagings was daar nie. Was die gespanne Suid-Afrikaanse zeitgeist van daardie jare so ‘n onoorkomelike struikelblok vir bruin verhalende lektuur dat geen kreatiewe denker onder hul geledere daarvan kon ontsnap nie? Het Nietzsche se ‘God-is-dood’ teorie ook vir hulle gegeld? Jakobus Oliphant en sy Mense was tog in die laat 1970’s ‘n weeklikse rubriek in die Eikestadnuus watlesers in Idasvallei en die Vlakte graag gelees het. En in die Vlakte se skole was die opstelboek van elke leerling tog die vrug van hul kreatiewe betrokkenheid met Afrikaans, ‘n teelaarde wat met ‘n bietjie aanmoediging ook miskien sy plek kon ingeneem het in die sterk Afrikaner skrywershegemonie. Die Afrikaanse Woordelys en Spelreëls, ‘n kroonjuweel in die SA Akademie vir Wetenskap en Kuns se wapenskild, wat in 1917 die eerste keer die lig gesien het en so onlangs as 2009 met sy tiende hersiene uitgawe kan spog, was tog ook ‘n belangrike taal- en skryfbron in bruin Afrikaanse skole. Dat hegemoniële strukture ook weerloos is teen elemente van verandering, ook in die taalwetenskap, word algemeen aanvaar, soos die pennevrugte in ‘Kaaps’-Afrikaans van  digter-dramaturg Adam Small en die kordate Nathan Trantraal kan getuig. En tog het die roem van sokkerhelde, krieketsterre en atletiekgeeste ‘n skadu oor die pogings van goeie bruin opstelskrywers en – die hemele behoede – digters gegooi waarmee boekpublikasies en die vrystelling van enige verhalende skryfwerk in die Afrikaanssprekende bruin gemeenskappe van die Boland moes kompeteer. Enige kreatiewe skryfwerk moes ‘n plekkie kry naas die afgeslote bruin skrywer se werkspligte, as tyd en geleentheid dit toelaat. En terwyl enkele Nietzscheaanse ‘bloedskrywers’ onder hulle hul kreatiewe skryfwerk voortsit, flikker daardie liggie meesal steeds onseker voort.  

Was their struggle for existence at the time so great that nowhere could a brown writing light be lit? Could no writing inspiration be generated from their ranks, despite all the political-social challenges of the day? Perhaps the Afrikaans narrative writing model for latent brown writers was a deterrent that curtailed the birth of spontaneous writing among them. That ghost among the Afrikaans printing presses was not completely put to rest, because for a long time he was supported by a powerful and proud publishing machine that did not have to resist any imaginable incentives to create space for other writing minds. A few brown writers and thinkers wrote in English, articles that usually appeared in a political-social jacket. But nice Afrikaans stories and short stories about brown people, their way of life, dreams and daily challenges were not there. Was the tense South African zeitgeist of those years such an insurmountable obstacle for brown narrative literature that no creative thinker among their ranks could escape it? Did Nietzsche’s ‘God is dead’ theory also apply to them? In the late 1970s, Jakobus Oliphant and his People was a weekly column in the Eikestadnuus that readers in Idas Valley and the Vlakte liked to read. And in the Vlakte’s schools, the essay book of each student was the fruit of their creative involvement with Afrikaans, a breeding ground that with a little encouragement could also perhaps have taken its place in the strong Afrikaner writer hegemony. The Afrikaans Woordelys en Spelrëels, a crown jewel in the SA Academy of Science and Art’s coat of arms, which was first published in 1917 and can boast its tenth revised edition as recently as 2009, was also an important language – and writing source in brown Afrikaans schools. That hegemonic structures are also defenseless against elements of change, also in linguistics, is generally accepted, as the fruits in ‘Cape’ Afrikaans of poet-playwright Adam Small and contrite Nathan Trantraal can testify. And yet the fame of football heroes, cricket stars and athletic spirits cast a shadow over the efforts of good brown essay writers and – heaven forbid – poets with which book publications and the release of any narrative writing in the Afrikaans-speaking brown communities of the Boland had to compete. Any creative writing had to find a place next to the reclusive brown writer’s work duties, if time and opportunity allowed. And while a few Nietzschean ‘blood writers’ among them continue their creative writing, that light mostly flickers on uncertainly.

‘n Kort kennismaking met ‘n paar Nederlandse storieboeke in my laaste skooljare, asook die begin van ‘n  formele selfstudieprogram in die Duitse taal en letterkunde by dr. Gert Visser se Sukses Kollege het my leeswêreld verder verbreed. Semper prorsum, diemooi leuse van daardie Afrikaanse pionierkollege van afstandonderrig, was destyds ook my strewe na ‘n einddoel wat sy eie lewenswasigheid gehad het. Stijn Steuvels se De Oogst was in daardie jare die voorgeskrewe Nederlandse leesboekie wat die seniorklasse van die res van die skool onderskei het. Eerwaarde A.P. Hector het homself verlekker in die voorlees van die boek aan die klas en het daardie leesperiode omskep in een waartydens jy na daardie Nederlandse platteland kon ontvlug van die benoudheid van jou daaglikse bestaan tussen die skoolmure en selfs die wȇreld daar buite. Dat die openingsin ‘Rik lag plat uitgestrekt in ’t gras onder de linde en Wies zat, over de knieën gebogen, op het bol van een gevelden eik.’ niks met ‘lag’ te doen had nie, is gou genoeg aan ons verduideliken ons was gewillige gevangenes van die eerwaarde se mooi Nederlandse voorlesings. Alhoewel die hele spektrum van die emosionele ontdekkingsreis waarop ‘n eerste liefde vir Rik Busschaert plaas, ons weggevoer het na ‘n ander lewe in ‘n ander land waaroor ons net onseker kon droom, en ook ‘n traan gestort is oor sy dood op die koring oeslande, het die woorde van die taverneliedjie waarmee die verhaal afsluit tog ook die hart ‘n bietjie ligter gemaak:

A brief introduction to some Dutch storybooks in my last school years, as well as the beginning of a formal self-study program in the German language and literature with Dr. Gert Visser’s Success College further broadened my reading world. Semper prorsum, the beautiful motto of that African pioneer college of distance education, was also my pursuit of an end goal at the time that had its own uncertainties. In those years, Stijn Steuvels’ De Oogst was the prescribed Dutch reading book that distinguished the senior classes from the rest of the school. Reverend A.P. Hector enjoyed reading the book to the class and turned that reading period into one during which you could escape to that Dutch countryside from the stress of your daily existence between the school walls and even the world outside. That the opening sentence ‘Rik lag plat uitgestrekt in ’t gras onder de linde en Wies zat, over de knieën gebogen, op het bol van een gevelden eik.’ had nothing to do with ‘laughing’, was explained to us soon enough we were willing prisoners of the reverend’s beautiful Dutch readings. Although the entire spectrum of the emotional journey of discovery that a first love for Rik Busschaert takes us away to another life in another country that we could only vaguely dream about, and also a tear was shed over his death on the wheat harvest fields, the words of the tavern song with which the story ends also made the heart a little lighter:

Moedere doet open,
Uwe zoon is hier,
Hij heeft hem zat gezopen
aan een glaasje bier

Mother open the door
Your son is here,
He drank himself a babbalas
from a glass of beer.

Soortgelyke klasvoorlesings was ook die seniorklasse se voorreg in die Engelse klas van Miss H A Allen. Met haar voortreflike Engelse aksent het sy nie net die teatertaal van William Shakespeare vir hulle meer bereikbaar gemaak met die voorlees van Richard II se bewoë koningskap nie, maar kon sy sonder enige verdere verduideliking hulle tog ook aan die dink kry oor soveel morele kwellinge en menslike uitdagings wat in daardie stokou historiese Engelse karakters se dialoog opgesluit gelȇ het. Dat sy haar so kon inleef in die Engelse leefwyses en tradisies het ook baie verwondering afgedwing. John of Gaunt se profetiese sterwenswoorde oor die vergange glorie van sy Engeland was vir hulle meer as net ‘n illustrasie van Shakespeare se heroïse pentameters; inderdaad, dit laat hulle steeds dink aan daardie Afrikanerdogter Helena met ‘n English deportment wat min haar kon namaak:  

Similar class readings were also the privilege of the senior classes in Miss H A Allen’s English class. With her excellent English accent, she not only made the theatrical language of William Shakespeare more accessible to them with the reading of Richard II’s eventful kingship, but without any further explanation she was also able to get them to think about so many moral issues and human challenges that were locked in those old historical English characters’ dialogue. The fact that she was able to immerse herself in the English way of life and traditions also caused a lot of wonder. John of Gaunt’s prophetic dying words about the past glory of his England were for them more than just an illustration of Shakespeare’s heroic pentameters; indeed, it still reminds them of that Afrikaner daughter Helena with an English deportment that few could imitate:

This royal throne of kings, this sceptred isle,
This earth of majesty, this seat of Mars,
This other Eden, demi-paradise;
This fortress built by Nature for herself
Against infection and the hand of war;
This happy breed of men, this little world;
This precious stone set in the silver sea,
Which serves it in the office of a wall
Or as a moat defensive to a house,
Against the envy of less happier lands;
This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England…

Ná matriek het ek as onderwysstudent kontak verloor met die Afrikaanse literatuur, ‘n studieveld wat nie juis op skool ‘n groot stimulus vir my gehad het om verder as die skoolkennis diepte daarin te soek nie. Afrikaans onderwysers in bruin skole was ook seker maar geraak deur die stigma van vasalskap wat aan die taal gekoppel was, wat enige spontane eiening van die taal as instrument van persoonlike literêre verkenning met die oog om daarin te skryf of te dig feitlik ‘n saak van onmoontlikheid vir aspirante bruin skrywers gemaak het. Dat almal gereeld Afrikaanse gedigte vir meneer Freddie Polman moes voordra om ‘n mondelingpunt te verseker, en ook jou boekie met opsommings van gelese boeke altyd gereed moes hou vir inspeksie, was ook standaard kontak met die Afrikaanse literatuur, want ‘Pollie’ was op sy eie manier ‘n taalbewaker, ‘n grammatikus van die eerste waters, al kon hy weinig daarin slaag om ‘n ongekunstelde liefde vir die taal se fynhede by baie leerlinge te laat posvat. Tog het almal sy nougesette erns ten opsigte van Afrikaans as skoolvak ervaar en waardeer, al was die ander vorms van taalekspressie, die skryf van verhale en gedigte in Afrikaans, daardie gistingstof wat ‘n taal aan die lewe hou en sy gees laat floreer,  nie onder die Vlakte se mense te bespeur nie. Bruin skrywers en digters moes literȇre randfigure bly en kon vir ‘n lang tyd nie daardie taalgeskiedenis ontsnap nie. Etienne Leroux se Sewe dae by die Sillbersteins het vlugtig en in die verbygang in skindergesprekke opgekom, en miskien vir die verkeerde redes. En die gevreesde meneer Polman moes by geleentheid homself weerhou van kommentaar wanneer Jan FE Celliers se Dis al met ‘n skoot moedswilligheid, maar miskien ook onvermoë, aangebied word as voordraggediggie. So was spontane, aanlegtelike voordrag ook ondergeskik aan die vereistes van die skoolkurrikulum, en het arme ‘Pollie’ dit geweet. En onderwysers soos hy en eerwaarde A P Hector het die vaandel van die kultuur van Afrikaanse taalonderrig by daardie hoërskool in die Vlakte steeds hoog laat wapper, gerugsteun deur leerlinge se kopieë van Ons Moedertaal teksboekewat jaarliks met ‘n onderhandelde kooptransaksie van hand tot hand verwissel is, dankbaar as die taaloefeninge se antwoorde soms alreeds in die boek in potlood opgeskryf gestaan het. 

After matric, as a teaching student, I lost touch with Afrikaans literature, a field of study that didn’t exactly have a great stimulus for me at school to seek depth in it beyond the school knowledge. Afrikaans teachers in ‘Coloured schools’ were also certainly affected by the stigma of vassalage that was attached to the language, which made any spontaneous appropriation of the language as an instrument of personal literary exploration with a view to writing or composing in it practically a matter of impossibility for aspiring brown writers. That everyone regularly had to recite Afrikaans poems to Mr. Freddie Polman to secure an oral mark, and also always had to keep your book with summaries of books read ready for inspection, was also standard contact with Afrikaans literature, because ‘Pollie’ was in his own way a guardian of the language, a grammarian of the first waters, even if he could hardly succeed in instilling a love for the subtleties of the language in many pupils. Yet everyone experienced and appreciated his meticulous seriousness regarding Afrikaans as a school subject, even if the other forms of language expression, the writing of stories and poems in Afrikaans, that yeast that keeps a language alive and makes its spirit flourish, were not among the Vlakte people. Brown writers and poets had to remain literary fringe figures and could not escape that literary challenge for a long time. Etienne Leroux’s Sewe dae by die Sillbersteins came up in gossip conversations fleetingly and in passing, and perhaps for the wrong reasons. And the dreaded Mr. Polman had to refrain from commenting on occasion when Jan FE Celliers’s Dis al was presented as a recital poem with a dash of willfulness, but perhaps also inability. So spontaneous, natural recitation was also subordinated to the requirements of the school curriculum, and poor ‘Pollie’ knew it. And teachers like him and the Reverend A P Hector kept the flag of the culture of Afrikaans language education flying high at that high school in the Vlakte, backed by pupils’ copies of Ons Moedertaal textbooks which were exchanged from hand to hand annually with a negotiated purchase transaction, grateful if the answers to the language exercises were sometimes already written in pencil in the book.

Op onderwyskollege was die lees van die voorgeskrewe Afrikaanse roman Die wilde loot van Elise Muller vir my ‘n sukkelstryd en ek kon tot my ewige skande nooit werklik ernstige aandag gee aan die boek se dieper intriges nie. Tog was sy een van die enkele skrywers van volwasse Afrikaanse leesstof van die vroeë 1950’s wat ‘n stem en menswaardige teenswoordigheid aan haar kortverhale se bruin karakters gegee het, kortverhale wat ek tog in later jare onder oë gekry en met verwonderde respek vir sulke skryf-uniekheid en literêre waagmoed gelees het. Toe ek in later jare by Unisa as BA-student inskryf, het ek gewapen met woordeboek en ‘n sagteband kopie van Roget’s Thesaurus my weg gevind deur Old English en Middle English tekste, asook ‘n inleiding tot die oneindigende Engelse skat van gedigte en die hele spektrum van Engelse  literȇre standards, verpligte leeswerkwat verder verlig en verduidelik was deur posafgelewerde Unisa studiegidse en tutorials, gehul in en streng beskermend van  tradisionle goeie Suid-Afrikaanse colonial universiteitstandaarde. Daardie tradisionele wit tersiêre onderrigstandaarde kon my onmag om sin te maak van die Engelse literatuurwêreldslegs en passant enmet meewarige empatie aanspreek. Dit was ‘n politieke ding waarvan ek nie kon wegkom nie.

At teaching college, reading the prescribed Afrikaans novel Die wilde loot by Elise Muller was a struggle for me and, to my eternal shame, I could never really pay serious attention to the book’s deeper intrigues. Yet she was one of the few writers of adult Afrikaans reading material of the early 1950s who gave a voice and humane presence to her short stories’ brown characters, short stories that I came across in later years and with amazed respect for such writing- uniqueness and literary daring. When I entered Unisa as a BA student in later years, armed with a dictionary and a paperback copy of Roget’s Thesaurus I found my way through Old English and Middle English texts, as well as an introduction to the infinite English treasure of poetry and the entire spectrum of English literary standards, compulsory reading that was further enlightened and explained by post-delivered Unisa study guides and tutorials, shrouded in and strictly protective of traditional good South African colonial university standards. Those traditional white tertiary teaching standards could only address my inability to make sense of the English literary world en passant and with sympathetic empathy. It was a political thing that I couldn’t get away from.

Alhoewel ‘n taal verweef is met die lewenssituasie van al sy gebruikers, was Afrikaans so ‘n onverbiddelike Afrikanersimbool dat die enkele bruin skrywers en digters van die vyftiger- en sestigerjare in hul eie gemeenskappe as eienaardig en hul werke soms as kunsmatige nabootsings ervaar is. En as hulle in bloed geskryf het, was hul bloedlatinge in die Afrikaanse literatuurwêreld te vlak om nie deur ‘n pleister toegeplak te kon word nie. So het ek Afrikaans as probleemtaal ervaar. Toe Afrikaans in 1976 as een van die hoofredes aangevoer is vir die kinders van Soweto se verwerping van die onderwysstelsel van die staat, het die ironie van daardie situasie my nie ontgaan nie. Hoe pynliker was my eie verwerping as vasalle Afrikaanssprekende nie as die gegriefde Soweto leerders s’n, wat daadwerklik op skool met die taal gesukkel het en uiteindelik niks daarmee te doen wou hê nie. En as dit ook destyds in die retoriek van die verbanne ANC se politieke arsenaal aangewend was en miskien vandag steeds ‘n stewige politieke baadjie dra, en ‘n ‘I’m sorry, I don’t understand the language.’ by Woolworths of PicknPay se betaalpunte mens noodsaak om in Engels vir jou inkopies te betaal, is ‘n beleefde, stilswyende  aanvaarding van daardie situasie die beste uitweg. Want so het die taal ook die sondebok van mislukte rasseverhoudings in die land geword. Hoe onverwags aangenaam was ek nie verras om die pragtigste Afrikaans uit die monde van Damaramense tydens ‘n besoek aan Swakopmund in die destydse Suidwes-Afrika te hoor nie, terwyl ek in ‘n staat van incommunicado met die Xhosasprekende trekarbeiders van die Stellenbosche munispaliteit was vir die duur van my opgroeijare. Ek sou nooit aanvaar word vir enige skeppingspogings in Afrikaans nie. En bruin skrywers se beste skryfpogings in Afrikaanse prosa of poësie sou vir lank nie aanvaarding kry as volwaardige Afrikaanssprekende Suid-Afrikaners nie. Adam Small het op 76-jarige ouderdom onder ‘n mate van kontensie ‘n aangepaste Hertzogprys ontvang vir sy lewensbydrae tot die Afrikaanse literatuurskat.

Although a language is intertwined with the life situation of all its users, Afrikaans was such an inexorable Afrikaner symbol that the few brown writers and poets of the fifties and sixties were perceived as peculiar in their own communities and their works were sometimes experienced as lightweight imitations. And if they wrote in blood, their bloodshed in the Afrikaans literary world was too shallow not to be covered by a plaster. So I experienced Afrikaans as a problem language. When, in 1976, Afrikaans was cited as one of the main reasons for the children of Soweto’s rejection of the state’s education system, the irony of that situation did not escape me. How much more painful was my own rejection as a vassal Afrikaans speaker than that of the aggrieved Soweto learners, who actually struggled with the language at school and ultimately wanted nothing to do with it. And if it was also used in the rhetoric of the exiled ANC’s political arsenal at the time and perhaps still wears a solid political jacket today, and an ‘I’m sorry, I don’t understand the language’ at Woolworths or PicknPay’s payment points one is forced to pay for one’s shopping in English, a polite, tacit acceptance of that situation is the best way out. Because in this way the language also became the scapegoat for failed race relations in the country. How unexpectedly pleasant it was for me  to hear the most beautiful Afrikaans from the mouths of Damara people during a visit to Swakopmund years ago in what was then South West Africa, while I was in a state of incommunicado with the Xhosa-speaking migrant workers of the Stellenbosch municipality for the duration of my growing up years. I would never be accepted for any creative efforts in Afrikaans. And brown writers’ best writing efforts in Afrikaans prose or poetry would not be accepted as full-fledged Afrikaans-speaking South Africans for a long time. At the age of 76, Adam Small received an adapted Hertzog prize for his life’s contribution to the Afrikaans literary treasure under some contention.

Daar was ook die verwarrende doelloosheid van al die jare van bemoeienis met die taal op skool. Waarom moes ek die fynskeppinge van die taal, van magiese kinderrympies tot sielsontblotende prosa- en poësiewerke, leer en onherroepelik deel maak van my vasalle bestaan? En – die hemele behoede – kon dit ‘n bedekte en arrogante strategie wees om die Afrikaner se onbesproke eienaarskap van die taal by ons andervolkige Afrikaanssprekendes tuis te bring? Die Afrikaanse literêre landskap van daardie tyd was immers die domein van Afrikaner skrywers, digters en filosowe, baie van wie lang en wye studiedraaie by Nederlandse universiteite gemaak het, en geharnas in hul voorvaderlike taal- en kultuurkennis, teruggekeer het na Suid-Afrika om hul literêre arbeid hier voort te sit. En soos Joyce seker soms moes gevoel het teenoor die Engelse taal en miskien in ‘n minder mate teenoor die Engelse literatuur, so was my gevoel van ambivalensie, wantroue en onsekerheid teenoor Afrikaans in die vyftiger- en sestigerjare. Die Afrikaner se bemoeienis met die behoud van hul taal in die eerste paar dekades van die vorige eeu was ook ‘n direkte teenwig vir die taal se aartsvyand, sir Alfred Milner, en sy  imperialistiese pogings om die Kaap en die res van die land totaal te ver-Engels.

There was also the confusing pointlessness of all the years of meddling with the language at school. Why did I have to learn the intricacies of the language, from magical nursery rhymes to soul-baring works of prose and poetry, and make them an irrevocable part of my vassal existence? And – heaven forbid – could it be a covert and arrogant strategy to bring the Afrikaner’s undisputed ownership of the language home to our ethnic Afrikaans speakers? After all, the Afrikaans literary landscape of that time was the domain of Afrikaner writers, poets and philosophers, many of whom made long and wide study tours at Dutch universities, and armed with their ancestral language and cultural knowledge, returned to South Africa to continue literary work here. And as Joyce must have sometimes felt towards the English language and perhaps to a lesser extent towards English literature, so was my feeling of ambivalence, mistrust and uncertainty towards Afrikaans in the fifties and sixties. The Afrikaner’s preoccupation with preserving their language in the first few decades of the last century was also a direct counterbalance to the language’s arch-enemy, Sir Alfred Milner, and his imperialist efforts to completely Anglicize the Cape and the rest of the country.

Daardie stryd was gestry sonder die nie-wit sprekers van Afrikaans. En as Engels destyds sy  beslag gevind het as die gebruikstaal van soveel bruinmense van Kaapstad, het die gemeenskap van die Vlakte in Stellenbosch en al die ander Bolandse bruin gemeenskappe relatief ongeskonde Afrikaans gebly in huis en skool. Ook die misnoeë van hul Engelse onderwysers, wat moes kopkrap as hulle The house was in light drawers in ‘n redelik belowende Engelse opstelletjie teëgekom het, was getemper met ‘n verdraagsaamheid wat sulke direkte vertalings verskoon het.  Bosman, Van der Merwe en Barnes se Tweetalige Skoolwoordeboek, daardie onmisbare woordkruk vir ‘n struikelende woordeskat, was immers ‘n noodsaaklikheid wat altyd sy plek op die skryftafel waardig was. Nie dat ‘n onwilligheid teenoor Engels te opvallend was nie, want hul Afrikaanse onderwystradisie was veilig gesetel. Die Wonder van Afrikaans het oorleef, ook onder sy bruin sprekers ver van die stad af, al moes daar steed na Engels oorgeslaan word wanneer daar by hul Kaaps-Engelse stadsfamilie gekuier word. En so lewe die Milnerspook steeds voort, terwyl die stadsjapies steeds sukkel met Afrikaans.

That battle was fought without the non-white speakers of Afrikaans. And if English found its way back then as the language of use for so many brown people in Cape Town, the community of the Vlakte in Stellenbosch and all the other Boland brown communities remained relatively intact Afrikaans at home and school. Also the displeasure of their English teachers, who had to scratch their heads when they encountered The house was in light drawers in a fairly promising English essay, was tempered with a tolerance that excused such direct translations. After all, Bosman, Van der Merwe and Barnes’ Afrikaans/English School Dictionary, that indispensable crutch for a stumbling vocabulary, was a necessity that always deserved its place on the writing table. Not that a reluctance towards English was too noticeable, because their Afrikaans educational tradition was firmly established. The Wonder of Afrikaans survived among its brown speakers far from the city, even if they had to switch to English when visiting their Cape English city relatives. And so the Milner’s ghost still lives on, while the city townspeople still struggle with Afrikaans.

Veral die Afrikaanse poësie was vir ons problematies. Hoe kon wonderlike natuurgedigte, tere gedigte oor die liefde, ontroerende verhale van menslike lyding en onverskrokke dapperheid so nou verbind wees aan slegs een taalgemeenskap, dat daar bitter min ruimte vir die vasalle gebruikers daarvan, met hul grotendeels onteiende slawe- en pagtersherkoms, te vinde is om ook hul eie identiteit daarin uit te leef? Dit was asof die Afrikaanse literatuur van daardie tyd ‘n tweekoppige muse geword het: die sublieme en verhewe wat so wonderlik in die taal uitdrukking kon vind, naas en in kompetisie met die enge maar magtige Afrikanernasietrots wat alles, ook die jong taal,  met hom meegesleur het op sy onsekere politieke pad. En Afrikaans was al in daardie tyd ‘n taal van die wetenskap wat vir geen ander taal hoef terug gestaan het nie.

Afrikaans poetry in particular was problematic for us. How could wonderful nature poems, tender poems about love, moving stories of human suffering and fearless bravery be so closely connected to only one language community, that there is very little room for its vassal users, with their largely dispossessed slave and tenant origins, to find its mark in the brown community? It was as if the Afrikaans literature of that time had become a two-headed muse: the sublime and exalted which could find expression so wonderfully in the language, next to and in competition with the narrow but mighty national pride of the Afrikaners that everything, including the young language, was swept away along its uncertain political path. And Afrikaans was already at that time a language of science that had no need to stand back for any other language.

Die Duitse navorser Karl Ernst von Baer het by geleentheid met ‘n mate van bitterheid opgemerk dat Charles Darwin se ewolusieteorie ook onderwerpe was aan die drie stadiums van alle teorieë: eerstens, volslae verwerping as ‘n onwaarheid; tweedens, as  kettery en laastens totale aanvaarding, veral deur diegene onder die wetenskaplikes wat hul stilswye afskud en skielik daarop aandring dat hulle lank bewus was van die geloofwaardigheid  daarvan. Alfred Wegener se geologiese theory of continental drift was aan die einde van die 1960’s nog wêreldwyd fel gedebatteer en  het ook daardie paadjie geloop. Die lywige Senior Aardrykskunde teksboek, ‘n bron van hoogstaande relevante informasie, moes die saak bekendstel toe daardie teorie tussen die eerste en tweede fases sy geveg moes voer. Dit het momenteel aandag geniet tydens die klas se besprekings oor die aard en werking van vulkane, en is wel klokhelder en met ‘n mate van wetenskaplike oorreding uiteengesit in dieskoolhandboek wat sy ster-status by ons seniors gekry het onder die hoogs begaafde leiding van meneer Lesley Bigum Bergstedt, in die dae toe daardie ster-onderwyser sy wit stofjas oor sy netjiese pak klere gedra het.

The German researcher Karl Ernst von Baer noted on occasion with some bitterness that Charles Darwin’s theory of evolution was also subject to the three stages of all theories: first, complete rejection as an untruth; secondly, as heresy and finally total acceptance, especially by those among the scientists who shake off their silence and suddenly insist that they have long been aware of its credibility. Alfred Wegener’s geological theory of continental drift was still fiercely debated worldwide at the end of the 1960s and also followed that path. The bulky Senior Geography textbook, a source of high-quality relevant information, had to introduce the case when that theory had to fight its battle between the first and second phases. It briefly received attention during the class discussions on the nature and workings of volcanoes, and was set out with crystal clarity and with some scientific persuasion in the school textbook which gained star status among us seniors under the highly gifted guidance of Mr. Lesley Bigum Bergstedt, in the days when that star teacher wore his white duster coat over his neat suit of clothes.

Ons kon ook ons weg met ‘n groot mate van sekerheid baan deur die gereelde skeikunde-proewe wat ons in die skeinatklasse moes doen, prosedures wat gerugsteun was deur ons betroubare skeikunde skoolhandleiding. Die meeste van ons het nie ons koppe te veel gekraak oor die moontlikheid verskuil tussen die lyne van die boek nie, naamlik om wetenskaplike navorsing te stimuleer. Die chemiese beskrywings, die elementetabel, daardie taksonomiese wonderwerk en memorisasie-nagmerrie, en die onkreukbare ou natuurwette waarsonder die wȇreld tot stilstand sou kom, was genoeg van ‘n uitdaging vir ons. Tersiȇre wetenskaplike en aardrykskundige ondersoek was beperk vir die bruin leerling; ons het dit almal geweet en dit met gelatenheid aanvaar. 

We were also able to make our way with a great deal of certainty through the regular chemistry tests we had to do in the Physics classes, procedures that were backed up by our trusty chemistry school manual. Most of us haven’t scratched our heads too much about the possibility lurking between the lines of the book, namely to stimulate scientific research. The chemical descriptions, the table of elements, that taxonomic miracle and memorization nightmare, and the incorruptible old laws of nature without which the world would come to a standstill, were enough of a challenge for us. Tertiary scientific and geographical investigation was limited for the brown pupil; we all knew it and accepted it with resignation.

Dat ek dus in my vroeë twintigerjare wel my rug op die Afrikaanse literatuur gekeer het, was geen toeval nie, maar ‘n besluit gebore uit radeloosheid teenoor die literêre eensydigheid en pseudo-wetenskaplike skynheiligheid wat in daardie reinblanke skrywerskampe geheers het. Uit nuuskierigheid het ek Andre P. Brink se Kennis van die Aand onder oë gekry. Die boek was deur die destydse sensuurraad as gevaarlike leesstof beskou en verban vanweë sy omstrede temas. Ek moes ‘n fotostatiese kopie daarvan lees, versteek in ‘n bruin kardoes. Dit het my nie beïndruk nie, maar eerder verwar, ondanks Brink se verbete pogings om ‘n deurmekaar realiteit vir sy verhaal uit ‘n onwerklike skrywerswaas te skep. Daar behoort tog ‘n direkte verband tussen ‘n boek se geloofwaardigheid en die skrywer se eie ervaringswêreld te wees, waaruit hy sy inspirasie kan put. Geloofwaardigheid bly die gemene faktor wat ‘n skrywer en sy leser bymekaar hou, ofsy die leesstof fiksie of nie-fiksie is. Ek het gesukkel deur Brink se boek met sy gepunkteerde sensasie-oomblikke en verbodenheid van opset, en het gewonder hoekom dit my bruin tydgenote so gaande gehad het. Was dit sy beskrywings van volksvreemde sekstonele wat maklik kon ontaard het in prulskrywery? Was dit Brink se beskrywing van moontlike menseverhoudings wat totaal onmoontlik was in ‘n tydperk waartydens sulke verhoudings oor die Suid-Afrikaanse kleurgrens, daardie bakermat van die sosiale opset waarop die land gebou is sedert die aankoms van die fortbouers en tuinmakers uit Nederland, konstant gestuit is? Was dit wensskrywery, verset teen die status quo? Ek het Brink se verdere skrywery in hierdie ingeslane genre van hom gelees in die hoop dat ek iets daarin kon vind om my eerste indrukke te verander of selfs te herroep. Ek kon dit nie vind in ‘n Oomblik in die wind, Gerugte van reën, ‘n Droë wit seisoen, Houd-den-Bek of enige van sy ander werke nie. Ek het min daarin gevind wat my aangegryp het. Intussen het ek my gekeer tot die Griekse mitologie en Engelse literatuur, leesekspedisies veilig genoeg verwyderd van my vasalle status om nie te veel skade daaraan te doen nie. Engels was tog immers die ander taal wat ek ken en met manmoedige leesdapperheid kon aandurf. Watter skade kon skrywersgeeste vanuit die vergane verlede my berokken, of die verbeeldingswêreld van Engelse skrywers en digters, min van wie die gevaarlike dieptes van die steenkoolmyne, die eentonigheid van die daaglikse boerderybedrywighede of die vuil binnekant van ‘n Engelse mill of ‘n tekstielfabriek geken het, om ook dáároor te skryf? 

That I therefore turned my back on Afrikaans literature in my early twenties was no coincidence, but a decision born of helplessness in the face of the literary one-sidedness and pseudo-scientific hypocrisy that prevailed in those pure white writers’ camps. Out of curiosity, I came across Andre P. Brink’s Kennis van die Aand. The book was considered dangerous reading material by the censorship board at the time and was banned because of its controversial themes. I had to read a photostatic copy of it, hidden in a brown paper bag. It did not impress me, but rather confused me, despite Brink’s best efforts to create a confused reality for his writing out of an unreal authorial haze. There should be a direct connection between a book’s credibility and the author’s own world of experience, from which he can draw his inspiration. Credibility remains the common factor that holds an author and his reader together, whether the reading material is fiction or non-fiction. I struggled through Brink’s book with its punctuated moments of sensation and forbidding intent, and wondered why it so delighted my brown contemporaries. Was it his descriptions of outlandish sex scenes that could easily have turned into pornographic drivel? Was it Brink’s description of possible human relationships that were totally impossible in a period during which such relationships across the South African colour line, that cradle of the social setup on which the country was built since the arrival of the fort builders and gardeners from the Netherlands, were constantly blocked? Was it wishful thinking, resistance to the status quo? I read Brink’s further writing in this established writing genre of his in the hope that I could find something in it to change or even revoke my first impressions. I could not find it in A Moment in the Wind, Rumors of Rain, A Dry White Season, Hold-den-Bek or any of his other works. I found little in it that appealed to me. Meanwhile, I turned to Greek mythology and English literature, reading expeditions safely enough removed from my vassal status not to do too much damage. After all, English was the only other language I knew and that I could tackle with manly reading prowess. What harm could the ghosts of writers from the bygone past do to me, or the world of English writers and poets, few of whom knew the dangerous depths of the coal mines, the monotony of daily farming operations, or the dirty interior of an English mill or a textile factory have, to write about that too?

Ek moes later tot my ontsteltenis verneem dat Brink se waansinvlugte in daardie tyd verpligte leesstof was by die Universiteit-Kollege van Wes-Kaapland in Bellville-Suid en dat studente aldaar semestertyd mors in voorgraadse besprekings en analises daarvan. Maar dit is nie my deel om Brink te ontmasker of hom aan die kaak te stel vir die kaak wat hy in sy ras- en klasgebonde romans kwytgeraak het nie. Inteendeel. En wie sou destyds kon dink dat die universiteitsopheffing van sy twyfelagtige ‘literêre’ werke ‘n onvoorspelde nadraai sou hê met die val van die apartheidstelsel en die koms van die nuutgetimmerde demokrasie in die land? Ek vermoed daardie werke van hom word nie meer so ywerig gelees soos destyds nie, en ek vermoed ook dat die snelle politieke veranderings ‘n interessante anachronistiese geur aan sy boeke gegee het waaroor hy op sy oudag nie so gelukkig kon gewees het nie. 

I later had to learn to my dismay that Brink’s flights of fancy were compulsory reading at the time at the University-College of the Western Cape in Bellville-South and that students there were wasting semester time in undergraduate discussions in analyzing them. But it is not my part to unmask Brink or to expose him for the ‘shite-and-onions’, to quote Joyce,  he has unleashed in his race- and class-bound novels. On the contrary. And who would have thought at the time that the university’s removal of his dubious ‘literary’ works would have an unforeseen consequence with the fall of the apartheid system and the arrival of the newly minted democracy in the country? I suspect that those works of his are no longer read as diligently as they were then, and I also suspect that the rapid political changes gave an interesting anachronistic flavor to his books, which he could not have been so happy about in his old age.

As ek self  in Afrikaans skryf, poog ek soos Joyce om ‘n hoë mate van juistheid van detail in my skryfwerk na te streef. Soos konkelbouwerk met ‘n swaar hamer ongedaan gemaak moet word om dit af te breek voordat herbouwerk kan geskied, is ‘n foutbedorwe geskrewe stuk soms ‘n moeilike saak om reg te maak ná die publikasie daarvan. In Ulysses het Joyce feitelike en teksfoutiewe irritasies probeer vermy. So byvoorbeeld versoek hy ‘n Ierse kennis per brief, een van ‘n menigte briewe wat hy oor die lange jare tydens die skryf van die roman aan vriende gerig het, om die aantal stoeptrappies by die ingang van ‘n sekere gebou in Dublin te tel. Só het hy gehoop om nie te fouteer as daardie trappies in die gesigsveld van sy skrywersoog kom terwyl hy die gebeure van ‘n oënskynlike doodgewone somersdag, meesterlik uniek uitgebeeld in die gedagtes, gesprekke, aksies, lyftaal, dit wat geëet, gedrink en gesing word in die tafereel van karakters, klanke en polsende bewegings in die colonial capital wat Dublin in daardie tye was, op papier vas te lê nie. As skrywer wat in bloed geskryf het, was Joyce daarvan bewus dat wat hy neerpen, nie heeltemaal aan die onsekere betroubaarheid van sy geheue oorgelaat mog word nie. Soms tree selfs wȇreldomstandighede tussenin om ‘n hand by sulke hersieningswerk te sit: daar word gesȇ dat die openingsopvoering van Giuseppe Verdi se opera Aïda ‘n jaar lank vertraag is as gevolg van die uitbreek van die Frans-Pruissiese Oorlog en die kostuums vir die rolverdeling nie vanaf Parys na die khedive van Egipte verskeep kon word nie. Verdi kon daardie tyd benut deur aan sy musiekrevisies van die alreeds voltooide opera te werk en sodoende die sjarme, passie en dramatiese stresmomente van die stuk verder te verfyn! 

When I write in Afrikaans, like Joyce in English, I strive to pursue a high degree of accuracy of detail in my writing. Just as convoluted construction work must be undone with a heavy hammer to break it down before rebuilding can take place, an error-tainted written piece is sometimes a difficult matter to fix after its publication. In Ulysses, Joyce tried to avoid factual and textual annoyances. For example, he requests an Irish acquaintance by letter, one of a multitude of letters he addressed to friends over the long years during the writing of the novel, to count the number of porch steps at the entrance to a certain building in Dublin . Thus he hoped not to make a mistake when those steps came into view of his writer’s eye as he recounted the events of an apparently ordinary summer day, masterfully and uniquely depicted in the thoughts, conversations, actions, body language, what was eaten, drunk and sung in the scene of characters, sounds and pulsating movements in the colonial capital that Dublin was in those times, to capture on paper. As a writer who wrote in blood, Joyce was aware that what he penned down could not be left entirely to the uncertain reliability of his memory. Sometimes even world circumstances intervene to lend a hand to such revision work: it is said that the opening performance of Giuseppe Verdi’s opera Aida was delayed for a year due to the outbreak of the Franco-Prussian War and the costumes for the cast could not be shipped from Paris to the khedive of Egypt. Verdi was able to use that time by working on his musical revisions of the already completed opera, thus further refining the charm, passion and dramatic moments of stress of the piece!

Wanneer Joyce die verlede in sy skryfwerke opgeroep het, wat hy natuurlik deurgaans in Ulysses gedoen het, het hy elke geheuebeeld nie net vir die juistheid daarvan nagegaan nie, maar ook terselfdertyd die kreatiewe waardetoepassing van die materiaal oorweeg voor insluiting in sy novelle. Hy het selfs sy kennisse in Dublin opgekommandeer om die tydsverloop van die loopafstande, tydroosters van trem- en perdekarritte tussen plekke vir hom aan te stuur, versoeke waaraan hulle met groterwordende traagheid voldoen het. ‘Wat sou Jimmy Joyce tog met sulke detail wou maak?’ moes baie van hulle telkemale gewonder het. Joyce se uitbeelding van die dag van die sestiende Junie 1904 kon natuurlik nie maklik sonder sulke detail omskep word in die ‘bloedrealiteit’ waarvoor Ulysses bekendheid verwerf het nie. En al daardie Dublinbeelde voldoen slegs aan sý vereistes. Hulle maak net ten volle sin vir hóm, en is die produk van sý katarsistiese skryfondervinding. Die leser ervaar slegs gedeeltelik die gewaarwordinge waaroor Joyce skryf, wat bladsy vir bladsy, paragraaf op paragraaf, sin vir sin en woordeliks vorm aanneem op die bladsye van die boek. So asof Joyce met beteulde argwaan en beskeie selftrots wil sê: ‘Kyk, Engelsman, kyk wat ek, ‘n vasaalgebruiker van jou taal, vermag daarmee!’

When Joyce evoked the past in his writings, which he obviously did throughout Ulysses, he checked each memory image not only for its accuracy, but also at the same time considered the creative value application of the material before inclusion in his novels. He even commandeered his acquaintances in Dublin to send him the time-lapse of the walking distances, timetables of tram and horse-carriage journeys between places, requests to which they complied with increasing indolence. ‘What would Jimmy Joyce want to do with such detail?’ many of them must have wondered at times. Joyce’s depiction of the day of the sixteenth of June 1904 could of course not easily be transformed without such detail into the ‘blood reality’ for which Ulysses became famous. And all those Dublin images only meet his requirements. They make complete sense to him, and are the product of his cathartic writing experience. The reader only partially experiences the sensations that Joyce writes about, which page by page, paragraph by paragraph, sentence by sentence and in carefully weighed words take form on the pages of the book. As if Joyce wanted to say with restrained suspicion and modest self-pride: ‘Look, Englishman, look what I, a vassal user of your language, can achieve with it!’

This article was first published in Afrikaans in an extended version by Klyntji.