Master of St. Petersburg

Author: J.M. Coetzee
Publisher:
Publish Date: 2004-04-01
Features: Winner of the 2003 Nobel Prize in Literature, J.M. Coetzee. His novels are characterized by intricate structures, witty dialogue, and profound philosophical depth. However, he is a morally principled skeptic who delivers merciless criticism to the shallow morality and brutal rationalism in contemporary Western civilization. With intellectual honesty, he dissolves the foundations of self-consolation, distancing himself from gaudy yet worthless dramatic revelations and confessions. Even when he expresses his beliefs in his works, such as defending the rights of animals, he clarifies his premises rather than making one-sided demands. Coetzee's interests lie more in situations where right and wrong are clear yet marked by frequent conflicts, much like the man in Margaret's famous painting staring at his neck in the mirror. At critical moments, characters in Coetzee's works always hesitate,, and shrink from action, unable to act impulsively. This passivity is both a veil hiding individuality and a gathering place facing humanity—the last refuge where people can refuse to carry out brutal orders on the grounds of being unable to achieve their goals. It is precisely in exploring human weaknesses and failures that Coetzee captures the sacred fire of humanity.
"Five kopecks." She skillfully rolled a conical paper tube, pinched the bottom tightly, filled it with sugar, weighed it, and folded the top. A pair of capable hands. "I just went to the police station. I asked them to return Bavel's documents to me." "Really?" "I didn’t expect it to be so complicated." "You can collect them. It will take time. Everything takes time." He felt that this remark held a hidden meaning for no apparent reason. If the old man hadn’t been behind her, he would have leaned over the counter to grasp her hand. "How much—?" "Five kopecks." When he took the tube, he deliberately or unintentionally touched her fingers. "You’ve cheered me up," he whispered, his voice so low that she probably didn’t hear it. He inclined his head, as if bowing to Avram Davidovich. Was he imagining it, or had he seen that man in a sheepskin coat and hat somewhere before? The man had been idly watching the workers unload bricks across the street earlier, and now, like him, he turned and walked toward Candle Street. And sugar. Why was he buying sugar for nothing? He wrote a short note to Apollo Maykov. "I’m in St. Petersburg. I’ve been to the cemetery," he wrote. "Thank you for handling everything for me. And thank you for taking care of Bavel over the years. I owe you a lifetime of gratitude." He signed the letter "Tolstoy."
Arranging a cautious meeting was not difficult. But he didn’t want to burden his old friend. Maykov was generous and understanding, he thought: I’m in mourning, and I should avoid contact with people during mourning. This was a good excuse, but it wasn’t true. He wasn’t in mourning. He hadn’t bid farewell to his son. He hadn’t given up hope. Instead, he wanted his son to be reborn. He wrote to his wife: "He’s still in his room. He’s terrified. He’s lost the right to stay in this world, but the other world is cold, colder than interstellar space, and utterly impersonal." He tore up the letter the moment he finished writing. It was too absurd; it also revealed what was still left between him and his son. His son was inside him, a dead baby buried in a metal box in the permafrost. He didn’t know how to bring the baby back to life, or he didn’t have the will to do so (which was the same as not knowing). He was paralyzed. Even when walking on the street, he believed himself paralyzed and unable to move. Every gesture he made was slow, as if frozen. He had no will; or rather, his will had turned into a hard stone, dragging him into the depths of silence with its dead weight. He knew what grief was. This wasn’t grief. It was death, an early death, not to crush or consume him, but to stay with him. It was like a large gray dog, blind and deaf, dull-witted and unemotional. When he slept, the dog slept; when he woke, the dog woke; when he left home, the dog limped behind him. His thoughts lingered slowly and obsessively around Anna Sergeyevna. Whenever he thought of her, he remembered the nimble fingers counting coins. Coins, stitches—they meant