Resensie | Salman Rushdie - The Golden House (2017)

Salman Rushdie - The Golden House. Jonathan Cape, Vintage, 2017. ISBN 13: 9781787330153

Resensent: Joan Hambidge

Salman Rushdie is een van daardie begenadigde skrywers wat jou met elke roman verbaas. In elke roman herontdek hy die grense van waarheid en fiksie. Sy enorme verbeelding en spel met fundamentalisme het hom duur te staan gekom. The Satanic Verses in 1988 het gelei tot 'n fatwa en vir etlike jare het die Britte hom met polisiebewaking beskerm.

Die Moesliem-gemeenskap het nie goed op sy roman gereageer nie en ten spyte van kritici se geskrifte waarin die postmodernistiese aard en fiksionalisering uitgewys het, was hierdie gemeenskap ontstoke en het die boek as blasfemies ervaar.

In 2008 is Midnight’s Children vir die tweede keer aangewys as die “Best of Booker”.

Met The Golden House wat sopas verskyn  het, is sy verteller deur ‘n aspirant-filmmaker, René Unterlinden, ‘n voyeur wat die storie van Nero Golden vertel.

Hy is jonk (iewers in sy twintigerjare) en die seun van gestorwe Belgiese akademici. Hy is erg suspisieus oor Golden se verlede en die dood van sy vrou. Was dit ‘n terrorisme-aanval in ‘n hotel? Hy hou sy siening vir homself, want hy beoog ‘n film, ‘n thriller, met sy bure daarin (115).

Golden is ‘n eiendom-taikoen in New York. Hier woon hy met sy drie kinders en neem as immigrant Manhattan aan as sy nuwe tuiste met sy drie kinders wat Romeinse name kry. Die verteller betree die ruimte op ‘n voorspelbare manier om meer te wete te kom. Daar is spermskenking en alles wat daarmee gepaardgaan. (Hier wil ek nie verhaal verder klap nie.)

In die VSA kan ander identiteite aangeneem word: ons dink hier aan die Belg, Paul de Man, die dekonstruksie-kritikus se politieke verlede en sy nuwe lewe in die VSA. Blindness and Insight speel hier in op die teks, nes Hitchcock se Rear Window met René as afloerder.

Rushdie gebruik die politieke agtergrond van die VSA en as die weldoener-staat. ‘n Mens kan nie anders met al die filmverwysings om twee belangrike tekste in te lees nie, te wete Francis Ford Coppola se belangrike Godfather-films (Deel I het in 1972 verskyn) en die film-outobiografie van Francois Truffaut in gesprek met Alfred Hitchcock wat in 2015 verskyn het as Hitchcock/Truffaut (regisseur Kent Jones).

Die Corleones is hier sterk aanwesig met die impak van familieskap en verraad.

Die “greening of America” het verander in ‘n nagmerrie sedert 9/11 en nou met Trump bykans as ‘n grotekse karakter uit ‘n Don DeLillo-roman soos Underworld (1997).

Rushdie gebruik sowel Griekse mitologie as Indiese verhale en fabels uit die Shaivisme.

In hierdie roman word veral identiteit en die politiek daaromheen ondersoek. Indië, verneem ons op bladsy 103, het nog altyd androgeniteit begryp. Die moderne kwessie van naamgewing word beskryf: ze, ey, hir, xe, hen, ve, ne, per, thon, Mx.

Met thon as ‘n kombinasie van daardie en een (111).

New York self word ‘n stad vol verlore verhale (99) en die leser dink aan al die mitologiese vergestaltings in verse róndom die Brooklyn-brug. Waarskynlik is hierdie ambisieuse roman ‘n antwoord op Tom Wolfe se Bonfire of the Vanities (1987), daardie uitgesponne satire oor klas, ras en gierigheid. Rushdie vat dit verder en doen dit beter. Ons is nou in die era van gender-kwessies (performing gender, Judith Butler) en wêreldonrus.

Die verwysingsveld is ryk. New York as ‘n mikrokosmos waar ‘n Akhmatova-digbundel in Columbuspark vergeet word met Sjinese wat kaartspeel, rig die teks verder. Silence of the Lambs is hier, nes the Hunt for Red October.

Almal vind ‘n tuiste hier: tog bly ‘n mens ‘n ekspat wat murmureer:

The past is a broken cardboard suitcase full of photographs of things I no longer wish to see (89).

Die magistrale storieverteller Rushdie laat egter nooit dat sy slimmighede ‘n leesversperring raak nie. Hy kan argetipiese patrone raaksien in die wêreld waarin ons ons bevind. Hy verduidelik aanneemlik hoe die Baba Yaga funksioneer.

Terrorisme teenoor die gender-sone. Daar word verwys na die “melancholy void”, die ongeneesbare wond wat New York geword het. MTF en FTM, gender fluid, bigender, agender, trans, genderqueer (73) en ‘n sydelingse opmerking dat omdat ons so onseker is, word die spel met identiteit alles.

In ‘n briljante vinjet boots ‘n hijra (eunug) Michael Jackson na in Moembaai (102). Alles word nabootsing, net die oorspronklike pyn is outentiek. ‘n Beskrywing van genderverandering word raak beskryf.

In die slothoofstuk word David Cronenberg betrek. Die liefhebber van films kry ‘n roman met ‘n dubbele lading met sowel storieteks as filmteks, die sogenaamde double-entry in filmteorie. Hans Christian Andersen se kortverhaal “Die skadu”  word betrek van die man wie se skadu hom verlaat, ‘n lewe van sy eie kry, oorneem en dan die werklike man vermoor nadat hy met die prinses getrou het, word die donker ondergrond van die vertelling …

Sheppey (1933) van Somerset Maugham oor die afspraak met die dood wat die man besoek en dan wegvlug juis in sy dood in, word ook betrek. Bollywood, die mockumentary, Batman …

Met Vasilisa wat hierdie babushka van ‘n roman simboliseer: ‘n poppie binne-in ‘n poppie.

Wat vertelling, wat ‘n boek.  ‘n Verfilming van die roman met Al Pacino in die rol van Nero met Casey Affleck as die jong filmmaker-verteller …

Met Woody Allen as regisseur.

(Hierdie resensie word geplaas met vriendelike vergunning van Beeld)

Gedig | Joan Hambidge - Maria Callas (1923 - 1977)

A woman sings with her ovaries—you're only as good as your hormones.

Carol Neblett

La Divina,

temperamentis,

tessitura uniek;

die bybel van opera,

doop Leonard Bernstein

haar tereg.

Verewig

op 'n Griekse munt

uiteraard nadoods;

haar asse gestrooi

in die Egeïese see,

soos sy versoek.

Haar stem

onlosmaaklik

deel van haar lyf:

eers gewigtig,

dan afgeskaal;

uiteindelik, net-net tentatief.

Haar moeder, Evangelia,

te blameer glo

vir haar skuheid.

Sy sny haar los

van háár wat erkenning

en applous kleintyd terughou.

Die media en operahuise

word 'n temporêre vesting.

Nooit is dít genoeg;

telkens die terugtog

in herinnering

na die afwesige goedkeuring.

Giovanni Battista Meneghini

vergoed vir die vader onbestendig

en dan haar nemesis:

Onassis, betoweraar,

minnaar, woekeraar

tot Jacqueline Kennedy

op die toneel verskyn.

Haar lewe soos 'n opera:

liefde, verraad, skandaal

uitgespeel op die media-verhoog

waar almal kan hoon of klap

met haar terugkeer toe Ari,

'n glitz-bestaan, haar stem vunsig maak.

Die dénouement?

'n Gebreekte hart, 'n stem

wat skryn en skroei en stotter

tot 'n solo-bestaan

in die stad van lig en liefde,
ómhul met haar donkertes.

© Joan Hambidge

Foto | Johann de Lange & Joan Hambidge, 1990

Johann de Lange & Joan op die literêre sofa, DeKat 1990

Interview | Joan Hambidge in conversation with Beverly Rycroft (2017)

• Reflect on the importance of the Ingrid Jonker prize on your career.

The Jonker prize was, first of all, affirming. I was new to the craft-work (though not the writing), of poetry, and felt shy about publishing. Four years later, I feel I have learned much more about the craft (there were things in missing I would change now, if I could). But, primarily, the IJ prize encouraged me to keep reading and learning. And gave me the confidence to continue writing. It’s easy to forget how terrifying it is to start submitting poems for public scrutiny.

• Your title A Private Audience versus your working-title Spring Tide .

The theme of the sea, its moodiness and fluctuations, was picked up by Ben Grib, who illustrated the book. This despite us (Dryad Press and myself) having changed the title to A Private Audience by the time he received the manuscript. I was delighted Ben chose the imagery he did. The eponymous poem of the working-title Spring Tide looks at resistance and change through the extended metaphor of a tidal pool. From both personal and political aspects this felt like an apt title for the collection. But ultimately, A Private Audience, (taken from the last poem of the collection) signals more complexity and depth for me. It marks what Emily Dickinson refers to as the “hallowed” nature of what we enter when we approach poetry. Carol Anne Duffy says poetry is like a prayer. Beneath the “prayers” in this collection I hope readers will discover the sea in both its turmoil and serenity.

• Your poems centre on a private relationship with your family. Do you see this as a “betrayal” ?

I’m glad you asked this. I’m often questioned as to how I can write about such “personal” subjects. And I suppose there is a sense in which speaking about private relationships could be seen as a betrayal. (Though in this era of Facebook, Instagram and Twitter, it’s pretty difficult to keep secrets.)

Ultimately, it’s irrelevant to me whether something (or everything) in a poem really happened or not. Readers wishing to follow this route must draw their own conclusions. My chief concern is with the common humanity emanating from the individual situation that propels a poem. “Out of the quarrels with ourselves, “ Yeats wrote, “we make poetry.” I hope the particular situations and “quarrels” I use as a starting-point, have been crafted into something more universal.

If I don’t tap the inner wall of the secret, the unspeakable, the scary and sublime, I may as well not write poetry. My father – around whom many of the poems in this collection are centred, and to whom it’s dedicated – was a deeply complex man. His saving grace was that he was broad-minded enough to own to his imperfections. This was a tone he set for his family. I hope readers will find a rounded, conflicting, puzzling and ultimately compassionate picture of humanity (not just one human being) in them.

• List of your favourite poets

This fluctuates and expands, but here are some on the permanent list:

Emily Dickinson

Louise Glück

Philip Levine

Les Murray

Seamus Heaney

Sylvia Plath

Elizabeth Bishop

• How do you see the SA literary scene ?

Exciting. Enlivening. The advantage of having so many languages in this country is the spectrum of rich and fresh ideas, themes and imagery it provides. From the more established English and Afrikaans poets, to Nathan Trantraal and Ronelda Kamfer’s Kaaps collections, to writers in Xhosa and Zulu etc., there are some fascinating voices.

Afrikaans poetry, I’ve recently discovered, is involved in some lively collections and debates. It’s refreshing to see people become so passionate about poetry. Until now, I’d read mostly English poems or translations. I’ve rediscovered the privilege of reading another language. I’m also (very slowly) honing up my Xhosa to get to the point where I can read that more easily. At this stage, even translations are revelatory.

There are some dynamic new voices emerging. I’m looking forward to reading Koleka Putuma’s Collective Amnesia, as I’ve watched her recite “Water” on YouTube. I think she’s someone to watch.

If I have qualms, it’s about the craft of poetry often taking second place to the speediness of publication. Sometimes I’ll read a debut poet with an exciting new voice, but feel that a little more editing and crafting could have turned what remains a good collection, into something sensational.

Presses like Modjadji, Uhlanga and Dryad evince the passion for poetry in this country, and for finding new voices. Poetry is a tough sell, but these publishers refuse to be doused by cynicism, and are injecting new life into the project.

As an aside: I remain saddened that someone like Gus Ferguson, who put so much of his life (and savings) into poetry, remains unacknowledged by the larger public. Gus has been such a generous mentor to many poets, and his own works are no less skilled for their being so humorous. In my eyes, he should be declared a National Treasure.