The third entry in J. M. Coetzee’s
series of fictionalized
memoirs stretches the
distance between author
and subject, even though
they are the same man.
The book is written as a succession of
invented postmortem interviews with
people who knew the author as a young
novelist in South Africa. Summertimeis navel-gazing founded on the daydream
of imagined death yet it’s still
immensely readable, and the structural
affectation is outweighed by the voices
of the eulogizers. Coetzee portrays his
younger self as scrawny and pretentious,
but even if this insistent humility is
just another form of self-aggrandizement,
the result is enthralling. A–
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