Summertime - J.M. Coetzee

Mr. Vincent, to you John Coetzee is a great writer and a hero, I accept that, why else would you be here, why else would you be writing this book? To me, on the other hand - pardon me for saying this, but he is dead, so I cannot hurt his feelings - to me he is nothing. He is nothing, was nothing, just an irritation, an embarrassment. He was nothing and his words were nothing. I can see you are cross because I make him look like a fool. Nevertheless, to me he really was a fool.

As for his letters, writing letters to a woman does not prove you love her. This man was not in love with me, he was in love with some idea of me, some fantasy of a Latin mistress that he made up in his own mind. I wish, in stead of me, he had found some other writer, some other fantasist, to fall in love with. Then the two of them could have been happy, making love all day to their ideas of each other.

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This is a thoroughly enjoyable and wildly clever memoir. The story about the author assumes he is dead and has left behind some notebooks. A young author attempting to write a biography of Coetzee interviews persons found in the notebooks. Not only is the premise great, the writing is as well. The persons interviewed have differing takes on the Coetzee and present unique and largely unflattering glimpses into their interactions with the author. The interviewees are unconnected with each other, but the tales taken as a whole combine to present a more clear picture of the man. Each one left me more fascinated with the complexity and unassuming nature of the author. Without a doubt, this ranks as one of my favorite books. Clever, fun, and masterfully written.