Summertime is the final part of J.M. Coetzee’s semi-autobiographical trilogy that began with Boyhood and continued with Youth. It was shortlisted for the Booker Prize this year, and would have given Coetzee his third win. Hilary Mantel’s Wolf Hall must be one hell of a book to have been chosen before a masterpiece like Summertime.
The first thing to say about Summertime is that it has a radically different structure than the previous two books in the trilogy. Broadly, there are two streams. First of these is a set of abortive notes that “Coetzee” made for the third in his semi-autobiographical series before his (fictional) death. The second is a series of interviews with people who have played a significant part in “Coetzee’s” private life, and who may or may not be the prototypes for figures in his fiction.
This structure is bold, and somewhat risky. It’s clearly a literary game, and sometimes authors’ literary ruminations tied up in post modern packaging can go awry. But not here. Coetzee (the real one) is such a wonderful writer that he is able to give us an accurate, honest and fascinating picture of his hero’s inner life without ever giving us access to his thoughts.
The “interviews” are mainly narratives given by the subjects, who are, in varying degrees, people who have been intimate with “Coetzee” or people whom he would have like to have been intimate with.
Whereas Youth was set mainly in London, for Summertime, “John Coetzee” is back in South Africa after a period of time spent in America. He has become a writer and has published his first novel – Dusklands – seemingly to almost no notice whatsoever. He lives with his father in a dilapidated house which he tries to seal against the elements himself. It’s a political position: he doesn’t want to hire black workers like everyone else would. Manual work is unseemly for a white man, so he treated as something of an oddity.
The core of the book is a story told by “Coetzee’s” cousin, who he invites to drive with him to a remote town, leaving the rest of the family on their farm. They break down on the way back and end up being carted back – literally – by one of the farm workers.
What’s remarkable is that Coetzee – the real, and still living author – does next to nothing to protect himself against a series of allegations levelled at his fictional alter ego. He lets the interviewees speak without rebuttal. And yet, we find him to be a wholly sympathetic figure, but more isolated and solitary than the version of himself he gives us in the earlier books, as though now that his writing has started, he must retreat from view.
Summertime is a great novel, structurally inventive and, as always with Coetzee, beautifully written. The entire trilogy is a masterpiece, and this final part is a fitting and fascinating conclusion. Taken as a whole, the trilogy is a portrait of a consummate artist as a young man.
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