People of the book

CAPE TIMES, 11 OCTOBER 2002

GEE, IT MUST be fun being a novelist in South Africa. I say that, but I don’t really mean it. I am being sarcastic. I don’t like being sarcastic – sarcasm is a quality in print which, like sincerity, must be carefully handled if it is not to be extremely unattractive. I apologise for my sarcasm, but I was driven to it by an experience earlier this week. (Incidentally, it will gratify those Cape Town patriots who have been sending me misspelt hand-scrawled faxes yelling “Cape Town – luv it or leaf it!” to learn that this was not a Cape Town experience.)

I was in Johannesburg for the Alan Paton Book Awards, at which cash prizes are awarded for the best South African fiction and non-fiction of the past year. It is a rare joy to see a writer receiving money for something other than ad slogans or giving good service at a restaurant. The fiction award went to Ivan Vladislavic for his novel The Restless Supermarket. I was pleased because I know Ivan Vladislavic to be a good writer, and I was mildly ashamed not to have read the book.

Later in the week I trotted out to the nearest branch of a major book chain to buy a copy. They did not have a copy. Nor did the next branch I tried. “Have you sold out because of the sudden rush of interest?” I asked.

“No,” said the lout behind the till with the Metallica T-shirt and the earring in his eyebrow, “we just haven’t ordered any.”

At the third branch I was feeling testy. “Do you have The Restless Supermarket by Ivan Vladislavic?” I asked.

A shaven youth eyed me blankly. “That’s a strange name,” he said.

“Yes,” I agreed, “it is.”

“What’s it about?” said the shaven youth.

“I don’t know,” I replied. “I haven’t read it yet. I was hoping I might read the copy I am trying to purchase from you.”

“Huh,” said the shaven youth helpfully. “I wonder. So, is the author Russian?”

“No,” I said through narrow lips. “He may well prove to be of Eastern European descent, but he is South African, he lives two blocks away, and his book has just won a major literary award.”

“Huh,” said the youth. “Cool. No, nothing in stock.” He paused a moment in what passed for thought. “It must be cool to win a big literary prize, hey.”

“Yes,” I said, “it must make the world of difference to your sales.”

I was being sarcastic again. I don’t know Ivan Vladislavic, but I felt angry on his behalf. It must be difficult enough being a novelist in a society in which the majority of the few people who do buy books only seem to pop in once a year for the latest Naked Chef – you might expect a prize-winner to get a little extra help. I have seen next to nothing in the national media about The Restless Supermarket. I haven’t seen it advertised. I haven’t even seen it on sale. It is not this or that person’s fault – it is the mood of a society that doesn’t much care about its writers or its writing. If that is our mood, then I suppose we must be happy with the general quality of the writing in our magazines and newspapers and with watching Big Okes and Mr Bones, and with the fact that our best talents turn to advertising or producing corporate videos. We must be happy, but sometimes it turns me a little sarcastic.