What did I read? March Edition

As I continued to work through my collection of unread books last month, I made the choice at the beginning of March to focus on fiction, not knowing that truth would, in fact, end up being stranger.

There was part of me that felt guilty forcing myself to read during these trying times, and to read fiction at that. I was deeply uncomfortable escaping into another person’s imagined story when my own real story—and that of my family, my friends, and my colleagues—was re-writing itself by the hour. And in a strange twist of fate, one of the books that I had picked to read was about a violent fall from grace and the other about the lingering psychological impacts of war. Certain days—certain chapters—felt like trading tragedy for tragedy.\

But before I get to that, I wanted to thank my colleague, Dionne Kumpe. Last month, Dionne tipped me off that my habit has a name in Japanese slang: tsundoku, which translates into "buying books and not reading them, or stockpiling books to read later." And here I was just thinking I was lazy. Thanks, Dionne!

I didn’t reach my goal of three books last month but considering everything else that was going on, I’m not disappointed. Both books were critically acclaimed award-winners, which is why I bought them in the first place if I remember correctly. I wanted to explore different voices that top writers take on, and how they play with structure and pace.

So, what did I read in March 2020? (Spoilers ahead: but hey, these books were published decades ago.)

Disgrace by J.M. Coetzee

David Laurie is a professor in post-apartheid Cape Town, running out the clock on a modest second act following the divorce and disillusionment of his 50s. After sleeping with a student, what little he’s managed to build for himself comes crumbling down, and he retreats to live with his daughter, Lucy, on her farm in the country. Her humble lifestyle and matter-of-fact optimism are a stark contrast to David's academic elitism and cosmopolitan vanity. He tries to reconcile his failures, his predatory sexuality, and his egotistical stubbornness, half-heartedly drafting an opera about Lord Byron. After a few weeks, David and his daughter are assaulted and robbed in their home in a seemingly planned attack. The aftermath—and the polar opposite ways in which David and Lucy respond to it—creates an even deeper divide between father and daughter. As Lucy retreats into herself, David grows suspicious of the neighboring Black farmers, particularly the handyman Petrus, but not before having another affair with a local woman who runs an animal shelter. After a failed attempt to return—perhaps even repair—life in Cape Town, David returns to Laurie’s farm, where she has become pregnant by one of the attackers and has stoically accepted the situation. In the closing pages of the book, David volunteers at the animal shelter and indifferently brings one of the stray dogs that has bonded with him to be euthanized.

As you can tell, I had a tough time connecting with David. Every time I felt pity for his circumstances, he said something arrogant, ignored an opportunity for empathy, or frankly did something stupid that highlighted just how self-destructive he was. I wanted to connect more with Lucy, but Coetzee kept her at arm’s length and only revealed little glimpses of her at a time, perhaps intentionally to emphasize the distance between her and David.

As I read Disgrace, David’s life fell apart while it felt like the real world was doing the same. But Coetzee’s writing kept me glued to the book. It was elegant in its simplicity, lucid and powerful. Scenes felt like dreams with evocative descriptions, poetic exchanges, and clever internal monologue, only to abruptly jump in the action to the next significant moment. In that way, it read more like the recollection of a memory than a first-person account.

While certainly not a feel-good respite from the times, Disgrace told a tragic story with grace and precision, reminding me that even the darkness holds beauty.

Regeneration by Pat Barker

From the interpersonal tension of South Africa to the sweeping misery of war-torn Scotland.

Regeneration is a quasi-historical account of a military psychiatric hospital during World War I, charged with rehabilitating soldiers suffering from “shell shock” to get them back to the front lines. Much of the story focuses on Dr. Rivers, a father-like interpretation of the actual pioneering psychiatrist, whose work laid the real foundation for the treatment of PTSD. Regeneration tells of Rivers’ evolving relationships with a handful of these patients over the course of several months. English poet Siegfried Sassoon (another caricature of a historical figure) is positioned as the main character at the onset of the book because he’s penned a bold public letter condemning the on-going war. The war office seeks to discredit him by getting him declared insane and unfit to serve. But Sassoon, who is introduced as a bleeding heart, becomes increasingly ambivalent and disappears into the background for much of the book, crafting poetry with an apprentice named Owen and visiting with passivist and active-duty friends.

Rivers treats a number of patients, each with a horrific memory of trench warfare that has left them mentally and/or physically broken. One such patient is the fictional Billy Prior, an asthmatic soldier who’s has lost his ability to speak. Initially distrustful of Rivers, Prior’s voice returns and a mutual—if not combative—respect slowly forms. Prior is soon healthy enough to venture into Edinburgh, where he meets and begins to date a woman who works in a munitions factory, giving him a taste of life outside the war. Rivers also treats Burns, who can’t eat since an explosion threw him through the belly of a German corpse; Anderson, a former surgeon that can no longer stomach the sight of blood; and Willard, whom Rivers suspects is subconsciously faking paralysis. At the end of the book, Sassoon is cleared by the medical board to return to active duty after rediscovering a sense of duty to the men in his charge, and Prior and Anderson are given desk jobs, much to their embarrassment and shame.

In the best possible way, Regeneration made me feel exiled to the hospital myself. I felt camaraderie with the various patients as they painfully explained what they were going through, and the ebb and flow of their progress. I voyeuristically sat in on Dr. Rivers’ fascinating psychoanalysis treatments. I third-wheeled with Prior on his dates that were so much more refreshing and relaxed than life at the hospital. In fact, part of the charm of the book is the pendulum swing between insightful musings on man’s ability to process trauma and the casual working-class banter of burned out soldiers in a tired city.

Regeneration is seen as a classic anti-war novel—and the first book of what would become a trilogy—but to me it read more pro-psychotherapy than anti-war. This is really highlighted later in the book when Rivers transfers to another hospital in London, where another doctor demonstrates his brutal practice of electroshock therapy, intended to utterly break a patient’s will so that it can be rebuilt. In the days after finishing the book, I found myself reflecting on the lasting impact that the trauma of war has on a human being, and how I would’ve responded in those circumstances.

For many reasons, March turned out to be a much more somber month than I had anticipated. In April, I’m going back to nonfiction to give myself an emotional boost! If you’ve read either of these—or if you are afflicted by tsundoku yourself—I’d love to hear your take.