May 19 - New York and Youth

Spent the morning of May 19 lazing around in New Haven, recovering from last night. Fortuitously made it to Old Campus in time to say goodbye to many of my friends. Went to a showing of Star Trek in the afternoon at the Criterion. It was very good for the first half, but lost its way a little bit when it dealt with traveling back and forth through time. The plot seemed better suited for a television mini-series, but I suppose that makes sense. Caught a train out of New Haven for New York at 7 with Liz Breit and Gideon, another Yale student.

Spent the first half the ride talking, the second reading 'Youth' a memoir by Coetzee. The book was fascinating. My usual problem with Coetzee's writing is that as a narrator, he seems so distant from his own characters. Everything is presented starkly and abstractly, and it is difficult to relate the men and women that people his books. I suppose this might also be a function of the sorts of characters he chooses to write about. 'Youth' was entirely different though. The main character is dissected in a methodical, merciless way by the author and, frankly, the character reminded me of myself when I was younger. More than anything, I was impressed with the level of self-examination, and fascinated by the idea of self-reliance, especially as it was connected with the how narrow the protagonist's world view was. The young man is obsessed with his studies and becoming an artist to such an extent that he barely weighs in on the dramatic politics of South Africa. It has always seemed to me that any profession worth pursuing ought to involve a moral aspect, and some way of affecting 'the world.' I don't mean to imply that being an artist necessarily involves a disconnection from morality and changing reality, nor do Imean to say that this inheres in politics. In 'Youth' the character appears to be concerned with art basically for the sake of his own ego. There is only a naked desire to be an important writer, and no impetus behind that ambition. I'm only about a quarter of the way through the book, and I'm interested to see whether Coetzee attempts to justify being a writer in this way, or if he holds a different view on what makes an occupation worthwhile and satisfying. As this blog itself is evidence of, I don't disdain a little indulgent self-examination or intellectual masturbation now and again, but I can't imagine spending my entire life at either of those things, and it seems that in many ways writing novels and poetry embodies both of them.