All The Unheard Words

Issue 197

‎⁨Wicklow Head⁩, ⁨Ireland⁩, ⁨Irish Sea⁩ 2017

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J. M. Coetzee’s new novel, The Pole, contains a horrific scene. There are, in fact, a few horrific scenes, though they pass quickly, and I imagine that most readers won’t even spot the grisliness. Because what comes isn’t the violence that accompanies Coetzee’s most celebrated novel, Disgrace, nor anything that’s typically considered obscene, vulgar, or grotesque. It is a humdrum, conventional portrait of life, which I just happen to find horrific, as my description is, I admit, mostly personal.

Now I don’t really have any squeamishness about particular subjects, nor do I have any specific triggers, to use the contemporary cliché, that I attempt to avoid. Obviously there are subjects that I don’t relish, and, for wellbeing, it is best to minimize talk of genocide at breakfast, but I do prefer to confront rather than deflect: give me the bad news, the unsightly truths, let’s examine what’s ugly and repulsive and sinister. I would even go further—I am a bit suspicious whenever people suppress what’s most vile. I have come to learn, however, that perhaps I maintain one exception to this principle.