This Then is My Story

I finished Coetzee's Elizabeth Costello a few days ago, and it has been bothering me ever since. It is part a collection of essays (written by Costello), part narrative of her travels by her son and herself, part resume of talks she has given. It ends rather confusingly with what I find the most interesting chapter, where Costello finds herself in some sort of limbo. She must write a statement to pass through the gates. But she is given no guidelines, and does not know what it is she will move on to. A board analyse her answers, and deems her claim of being excempt from belief faulty. Writing is not a legitimate profession, not the way she puts it to them.

Finally, a letter is quoted. From the wife of a nobelman whose name I've forgotten, discussing a letter her husband sent to a mutual friend. Google tells me this letter is authentic, and that the husband wrote of his inability to write. Which is a central theme in the book; Costello does not write, has not written for a long time. Except for a final confession of sorts, addressed to her sister. I wonder if she is dead, in the final chapter. I think she might be. Or perhaps it is simply her vision of what it would be like to be dead, her worst fears. I certainly prefer thinking that death is the end.

It is well written, not like Coetzee as I've encountered him in the other books I've read. It reads like Costello, not Coetzee. Which is a tremendous achievement. My uncle expressed something very interesting the last time we spoke: surprise at my judging a book by how it is written, as opposed to what is written about. I've never questioned it, it comes naturally to me.

Despite my conviction, I wonder what brought this book about. What inspired him to write this book? Some of the lectures reproduced in it have been published before, as pieces in their own rights. And I forgot to comment on the animal rights lecture, or part of the book. I found it longwinded and tiresome, and it seemed a bit rushed. That might owe to the fact that it was, Costello is not supposed to have thought her arguments through. It was at times very philosophical – unlike Coelho, he doesn't present common knowledge as groundbreaking philosophy, he puts thought into it.

Those YSL shoes I posted about will not become part of my wardrobe in the forseeable future, I'm sad to report. Vogue tells me they cost 1450 pounds, which I'm sure will translate to roughly 15000 NOK. Please, shoe deity, let there be good rip-offs. Or let them be on sale at Harrods next january. My D&G's originally cost somewhere along the lines of 6000 NOK, I got them for 2000.

This Then is My Story

I finished Coetzee's Elizabeth Costello a few days ago, and it has been bothering me ever since. It is part a collection of essays (written by Costello), part narrative of her travels by her son and herself, part resume of talks she has given. It ends rather confusingly with what I find the most interesting chapter, where Costello finds herself in some sort of limbo. She must write a statement to pass through the gates. But she is given no guidelines, and does not know what it is she will move on to. A board analyse her answers, and deems her claim of being excempt from belief faulty. Writing is not a legitimate profession, not the way she puts it to them.

Finally, a letter is quoted. From the wife of a nobelman whose name I've forgotten, discussing a letter her husband sent to a mutual friend. Google tells me this letter is authentic, and that the husband wrote of his inability to write. Which is a central theme in the book; Costello does not write, has not written for a long time. Except for a final confession of sorts, addressed to her sister. I wonder if she is dead, in the final chapter. I think she might be. Or perhaps it is simply her vision of what it would be like to be dead, her worst fears. I certainly prefer thinking that death is the end.

It is well written, not like Coetzee as I've encountered him in the other books I've read. It reads like Costello, not Coetzee. Which is a tremendous achievement. My uncle expressed something very interesting the last time we spoke: surprise at my judging a book by how it is written, as opposed to what is written about. I've never questioned it, it comes naturally to me.

Despite my conviction, I wonder what brought this book about. What inspired him to write this book? Some of the lectures reproduced in it have been published before, as pieces in their own rights. And I forgot to comment on the animal rights lecture, or part of the book. I found it longwinded and tiresome, and it seemed a bit rushed. That might owe to the fact that it was, Costello is not supposed to have thought her arguments through. It was at times very philosophical – unlike Coelho, he doesn't present common knowledge as groundbreaking philosophy, he puts thought into it.

Those YSL shoes I posted about will not become part of my wardrobe in the forseeable future, I'm sad to report. Vogue tells me they cost 1450 pounds, which I'm sure will translate to roughly 15000 NOK. Please, shoe deity, let there be good rip-offs. Or let them be on sale at Harrods next january. My D&G's originally cost somewhere along the lines of 6000 NOK, I got them for 2000.