Playing in the Light
A novel
(Sprache: Englisch)
"In her ambitious third novel, Wicomb explores South Africa's history through a woman's attempt to answer questions surrounding her past" (The New Yorker).
Set in a beautifully rendered 1990s Cape Town, Windham Campbell Prize winner Zoë...
Set in a beautifully rendered 1990s Cape Town, Windham Campbell Prize winner Zoë...
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Klappentext zu „Playing in the Light “
"In her ambitious third novel, Wicomb explores South Africa's history through a woman's attempt to answer questions surrounding her past" (The New Yorker).Set in a beautifully rendered 1990s Cape Town, Windham Campbell Prize winner Zoë Wicomb's celebrated novel revolves around Marion Campbell, who runs a travel agency but hates traveling, and who, in post-apartheid society, must negotiate the complexities of a knotty relationship with Brenda, her first black employee. As Alison McCulloch noted in the New York Times, "Wicomb deftly explores the ghastly soup of racism in all its unglory-denial, tradition, habit, stupidity, fear-and manages to do so without moralizing or becoming formulaic."
Caught in the narrow world of private interests and self-advancement, Marion eschews national politics until the Truth and Reconciliation Commission throws up information that brings into question not only her family's past but her identity and her rightful place in contemporary South African society. "Stylistically nuanced and psychologically astute," Playing in the Light is as powerful in its depiction of Marion's personal journey as it is in its depiction of South Africa's bizarre, brutal history (Kirkus Reviews, starred review).
"Post-apartheid South Africa is indeed a new world . . . With this novel, Wicomb proves a keen guide." -The New York Times
"Delectable . . . Wicomb's prose is as delightful and satisfying in its culmination as watching the sun set over the Atlantic Ocean." -The Christian Science Monitor
"[A] thoughtful, poetic novel." -The Times (London)
Lese-Probe zu „Playing in the Light “
It is on the balcony, the space both inside and out where she spends much of her time at home, that it happens. A bird, a speckled guinea fowl, comes flying at a dangerous angle, just missing the wall, and falls dead with a thud at Marion's feet. Amid scatter cushions and a coffee tray and the smell and roar of the sea, it lies on the brown ceramic tiles. There had been the usual squabbling, angry flapping and circling overhead, and then a heart attack in mid-flight, she supposes. Still warm with rage but undoubtedly dead, her bare foot decides. Marion bends down to check the eyes, bloodshot and staring, and the distinctive feathers, by no means as fine a plumage as it appears from a distance.There is silence overhead. Will the others, the enemies, line up on her balcony wall to pay their respects? Should she withdraw? She would like to toss the bird onto the communal gardens below, but she is squeamish about touching it; and besides, its landing is sure to be seen by someone who would calculate from the trajectory precisely which balcony it's been hurled from. Someone with the correct respect for property, who may well ring her doorbell, bird in hand, to return the fowl to its rightful owner. That someone would have to hold it by its feet, head hanging, so that the feathers billowed, the guinea fowl declassified by the ruffling of its black-and-white patterned plumage. Marion reaches for a shawl from the back of the rattan chair, spreads it on the tiles, rolls the bird over with her foot-it is surprisingly heavy-and wraps it in a shroud of sage green. Fortunately it is Thursday, cleaning day. She leaves the girl a note asking her to take the parcel of bird away. One never knows what uses such people might have for a dead guinea fowl.
A respect for property is precisely what this new luxury block on the beachfront at Bloubergstrand can guarantee. Residents are more than happy to pay for smartly uniformed attendants who monitor all and sundry entering the
... mehr
grounds. Every car owner must stop at the barricades to fill in a form recording the names of driver and passengers, registration number and purpose of visit. Security-you have to pay for it these days, especially if you are a woman on your own. No point in having a glorious outlook on the sea, with the classic view of Table Mountain on the left and Robben Island on the right, if you are not secure. Here, your property is inviolable.
Marion's apartment is modest-she has no need for more than one bedroom-but the flat is the fulfilment of an adolescent dream. There is a tingle of recognition when she flicks through Home and Garden magazines and her interiors seem to spring from the glossy pages. Thus the leather sofas arrived not with stiff, creaky newness, but with matt familiarity, settling into her home as comfortably as tabby cats. Or the four-poster bed, a house in itself, into which she can retreat from the larger one when she needs the cocoon of draped muslin after a hard day's work, the noise of the world dampened to a distant hum. She remembers distinctly when she first saw such an astoundingly luxurious thing: subtly lit photographs of a country house in an English magazine, and a bed that was hardly an item of furniture. Rather a bower for an egte fairy princess, who would lie for a hundred chaste years in gauzed limbo, waiting for the world to change into a better, a more hospitable place. Marion knows that the bed is extravagant, foolish perhaps for such a small flat-but what the hell, she deserves it, this marker of her success.
But lately, the four-poster has turned against her. There have been times, propped up with her magazines, when something buzzes in her ears, a sense of swarming that grows louder and louder, even as the sunset, which she can see from the bed, curls in serene pink and gold across the horizon
and the cool Atlantic laps at Robben Island. Then, for a moment, she seems to gag on metres of musli
Marion's apartment is modest-she has no need for more than one bedroom-but the flat is the fulfilment of an adolescent dream. There is a tingle of recognition when she flicks through Home and Garden magazines and her interiors seem to spring from the glossy pages. Thus the leather sofas arrived not with stiff, creaky newness, but with matt familiarity, settling into her home as comfortably as tabby cats. Or the four-poster bed, a house in itself, into which she can retreat from the larger one when she needs the cocoon of draped muslin after a hard day's work, the noise of the world dampened to a distant hum. She remembers distinctly when she first saw such an astoundingly luxurious thing: subtly lit photographs of a country house in an English magazine, and a bed that was hardly an item of furniture. Rather a bower for an egte fairy princess, who would lie for a hundred chaste years in gauzed limbo, waiting for the world to change into a better, a more hospitable place. Marion knows that the bed is extravagant, foolish perhaps for such a small flat-but what the hell, she deserves it, this marker of her success.
But lately, the four-poster has turned against her. There have been times, propped up with her magazines, when something buzzes in her ears, a sense of swarming that grows louder and louder, even as the sunset, which she can see from the bed, curls in serene pink and gold across the horizon
and the cool Atlantic laps at Robben Island. Then, for a moment, she seems to gag on metres of musli
... weniger
Autoren-Porträt von Zoe Wicomb
Zoë Wicomb was born in South Africa in 1948 and returned in 1991, after twenty years of voluntary exile, to teach at the University of the Western Cape. The author of two previous works of fiction, she currently lives in Glasgow and teaches at the University of Strathclyde, Scotland. She is the winner of a 2013 Windham Campbell Prize.Bibliographische Angaben
- Autor: Zoe Wicomb
- 2008, 218 Seiten, Maße: 14,1 x 21,1 cm, Kartoniert (TB), Englisch
- Verlag: New Press
- ISBN-10: 1595582215
- ISBN-13: 9781595582218
- Erscheinungsdatum: 13.04.2010
Sprache:
Englisch
Pressezitat
"Post-apartheid South Africa is indeed a new world. . . . With this novel, Wicomb proves a keen guide."-New York Times
"Delectable. . . . Wicomb's prose is as delightful and satisfying in its culmination as watching the sun set over the Atlantic Ocean."
-Christian Science Monitor
"[A] thoughtful, poetic novel."
-The Times (London)
"Deep and subtle. . . . This tight, dense novel gives complex history a human face."
-Kirkus
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