Introduction To suggest that there is an untimeliness about M. Coetzee's latest sequence of anti-novels, from Youth (2002) through to Summertime (2009), is to observe a determinate lack of fit--perhaps even an unfitness--between the writing and its time, or times. There is an intransigent, albeit brittle, energy to these texts, a posture of refusal to conform to any standardized version of the form as dominates the market today: no rollicking adventures a la Chabon, nor Franzenesque discursiveness, nor liberal humanist levelheadedness in the McEwan vein--to say nothing of the fiction lists, stocked with translated epics of generational struggle, war-torn tragedies, and sentimental evocations of vanished village childhoods. The post-postmodern turn has flooded the world of letters with the larger narrative and discursive pleasures once barred from serious literature, and inundated us with the lures of the planetary exotic. It is a literary space in which, as Perry Anderson has recently observed, the once-degraded genre of the historical novel, in one of the most astonishing transformations in literary history (28) now enjoys predominance. And so, in every sense, Coetzee's is the studied inversion of what passes for the novel today. Minimal in world, abrasive in texture, irresolute in form, these books tamper irrevocably with the possibility of closure, and leave the audience more perplexed and unsettled than before (7), as Edward Said once observed of Ibsen's last plays. Are these works, then, throwbacks to an earlier and more overtly modernist phase of textual production, a kind of homeless late modern enterprise, stranded like silty, barren islets in an archipelago of indifference within the floodwaters of hysterical realism and postimperial romance? Is their untimeliness of that sort--reactive, backward-looking, formally nostalgic? Surely not. It would be preferable to argue that is less this circumambient literary context on which has now turned his back (for when, truly, was his back not turned to that context?), than the accumulated authorial identity associated with the J. M. Coetzee itself Here the award of the Nobel prize for literature in 2003, and Coetzee's move to Australia the year before, furnish material turning points around which his subsequent career can reasonably be plotted: a (doubtless welcome) dismantlement of habitual practices of and interpretation foisted on the work by the South-Africanness of his national origins, coinciding with the supreme act of consecration open to a living author, would inevitably result (for so spare and selfcritical a writer) in a searching act of formal self-inquisition. And what we find, we enter these texts, is virtually the negation of everything the Nobel tends to confer upon the author function as a semi-autonomous entity; the extirpation of that very aura of authority the Swedish Academy had officially endowed. Instead, we bear witness, over and again, to a protracted aesthetic moment when the artist who is fully in command of his medium nevertheless abandons communication with the established social order of which he is a part and achieves a contradictory, relationship with it (Said 8). Both in the stories they strive (and sometimes fail) to tell, and in the newly experimental forms through which those stories are made to allegorize themselves and their coming-into-being, these texts irascibly break the bonds that hold a readership together--above all by violating the aesthetic contract that had been drawn up between and his own established community of readers. Which is not to say that his readers have abandoned him, but simply to remark that this new alienated relationship with the text has presented them with challenges of an altogether distinct nature, and that the author function, Prosperolike, has abandoned much of the responsibility had previously assumed with regard to this contract, let alone to the assumed contract with the wider reading public itself. …
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