Watermarks A Soul Illuminated by Stephen A. Mosca

J. M. Coetzee's novel Disgrace is, on the surface, the story of a wayward college professor, Dr. David Lurie, who is aging into a disrespectful decline. But this story tells of not only the strife and wrenching change that exist in the microcosm of Lurie's mind, but also the parallel themes that underlie the social, political, and ethical systems that are the reality of present day South Africa. As David Lurie interacts with people and creatures outside his normal milieu, the fault lines between his myopic view of the world and reality begin to crystallize with a disconcerting clarity.

"What goes on in your soul is dark to us... ." These words are emblematic of the willful ignorance used to justify the actions of people, governments and society in a number of unfortunate circumstances. The alienation endemic in such a phrase reinforces the notion that each of us is absolutely alone when it comes to matters of the soul. Often, this willful ignorance is the blindfold used to wrap one's conscious mind into a state of denial that permits the status quo to limp on.

If a society can be guilty of misanthropic behavior, then it must first exist on the individual level. It is in personal relationships that errors germinate and where true contrition belongs. The original context of this phrase is between Lurie and his college's disciplinary committee. Having been caught misusing his authority to seduce a young student, the professor is asked to explain. Repentance would go a long way toward absolving his sin, but he is defiant. Though it is acknowledged that "we have our weak moments, all of us, we are only human" (52), Lurie offers a confession but no contrition. As in Byron's Lara, a symbol of Lurie's desire to be an immortal romanticist, Lurie assumes the traits of the satanic figure who "does what he feels like. He doesn't care if it's good or bad, he just does it" (33). All pretense gone, the committee chair states the obvious; the shame requested of Lurie is but a fig leaf for appearance's sake. "What goes on in your soul is dark to us, as members of... a secular tribunal if not as fellow human beings" (58). This open acknowledgment that no one cares about the content or purity of Lurie's soul isolates him within society as well as from his own notion of self. Readers, if not Lurie himself, may begin to realize that they too are ignorant of what lies within their own souls and that this is the kernel of alienation.

Professed ignorance of the content of the soul of others is something often relied upon in societal relations between one group and another. The relationship between Lurie and his daughter Lucy's neighbor, Petrus, is quite symbolic of this. Petrus is a native Afrikaner who speaks in enigmatic, inflectionless fragments. Lurie is confronted with his presence and initially thinks he is willing to be friends, but finds the divide too great. Petrus' intent is inscrutable, his soul is initially dark to Lurie, and, though "there was a time when he thought he might become friends with Petrus... now he detests him" (152). This is the state of affairs between the races in general, so eager to find their differences irreconcilable, each so burdened with the weight of history, each perhaps unwilling to search their own soul. Simultaneously, each is jockeying with the master and slave role that is now so politically ambiguous. Lurie comes to believe that "Petrus has a vision of the future in which people like Lucy have no place" (118).

With political power so unbalanced for so long, the subjected group builds up such a passionate resentment of the other it becomes far easier for the roles, upon opportunity, to become reversed rather than equalized. Blacks are told they now have power in South Africa, though for most it is in word only. One way to express their accumulated rage and frustration is through tangible displays of physical power. When Lucy, a young liberal, is raped by three blacks, she assumes the burden of personifying the history of inequity. She rationalizes the rape not as something personal, but as a political debt. "What if that is the price one has to pay for staying on?" she asks (158). She recognizes that what they seek from her is "not slavery" but "subjection. Subjugation" (159). She is "prepared to do anything, make any sacrifice, for the sake of peace" (208). Lurie is by now sure that "Petrus is with them" (133). Like most of his generation, Lurie is "too old to heed, too old to change. Lucy may be able to bend to the tempest; he cannot, not with honour" (209). But honour and pride may be expendable when survival is threatened.

Lucy is more flexible than David because "perhaps history had the larger share" of her upbringing, larger even than parental influence (61). Such a shift within a single generation, on the individual level, is how eventual large scale change occurs, for better or worse. There is hope, perhaps false hope, residing in the willingness of Lucy to bear the weight of earlier wrongs, of Petrus being willing to marry Lucy instead of simply killing her, as apparently he could do if he pleased, to obtain her land, and of a new generation being created from a union of their blood. "History repeating itself, though in a more modest vein. Perhaps history has learned a lesson" (62).

But politics are intertwined with ethics, and ethics are an evolutionary concept connected intimately to hope. While hope may be evident, it is so to an unknown degree. While native peoples have been treated cruelly in South Africa for generations, animals, native longer than any people, have inhabited a place far below even the most wretched of humans. How we treat animals is a signpost on the state of our ethics. In some western cultures, animal ethics run from the sublime to the ridiculous; people will step over a man lying in his own urine to spit on someone wearing fur. It is not this sort of fanatical expression of concern for animals that is indicative of efficacious compassion, but more a general concern for their actual daily existence, an empathy, an acknowledgement of the soul, mortal, dark or otherwise. Animal ethicists seek to shed light on this soul by inserting normative values where facts are absent. Tellingly, in modern South Africa, "on the list of the nation's priorities, animals come nowhere" (73).

The conventional wisdom is that "animals do not own themselves, do not own their lives. They exist to be used, every last ounce of them, their flesh to be eaten, their bones to be crushed and fed to poultry. Nothing escapes..." (124). Lurie is asked if he likes animals. "Do I like animals? I eat them, so I suppose I must like them, some parts of them" (81). Lucy, in considering the rape as the cost of existence, accepts the role of Descartes' biological automata for herself when she doesn't for animals. Even though animals "do us the honor of treating us like gods and we respond by treating them like things" (78), that is precisely the political relationship she is accepting for herself. Seemingly resigned to this fate, she argues that "there is no higher life. This is the only life there is. Which we share with the animals." Lurie responds with, "by all means, let us be kind to them. But let us not lose perspective. We are of a different order of creation... not higher, necessarily, just different. If we are going to be kind, let it be out of simple generosity, not because we feel guilty or fear retribution" (74). Such language could just as easily be heard amongst any group of racists justifying their oppression or any being clinging to hope of superiority.

But such thinking misses the point entirely. Ethical standards stress metaphysical values, moral imperatives, the business of the soul. To follow the "right" one must often disregard the "good." This cannot be accomplished by simple generosity. And there may indeed be retribution, even if it is just poetic justice. When Lurie chides the efforts of animal sympathizers by saying, "[I]t's admirable, what you do... but to me animal-welfare people are... so cheerful and well intentioned that after a while you itch to go off and do some raping and pillaging" (73), he sees his daughter raped and their home pillaged. Individual attitudes are precursors of societal action. Helping animals, changing this mindset, as Lucy tells him, is "the example I try to follow" (74). David shows, by asking whether it makes her despondent to take on such a task, that he again misses her point. She concedes it is "a losing battle," but dismisses any negative impact it has on her as irrelevant. "Does it matter? The animals... aren't despondent. They are greatly relieved" (73). There is a hint that both history and animals may be credited with anthropomorphism, at times.

After repeated exposure to a world indifferent to his self-centered viewpoint, Lurie does not understand "what is happening to him... he cannot tell whether by nature he is cruel or kind" (143). He feels he is perhaps "simply nothing." But, he may be showing signs of what could be interpreted as guilt, manifested as recognition, at last, of the content of his own soul. He ponders the cognitive powers of beasts, becoming "convinced the dogs know their time has come" (143). He displays discomfort in "meeting" those animals intended for a meal: "I'm not sure I like... bringing the slaughter beasts home to acquaint them with the people who are going to eat them" (124). It is Lucy who must ironically point out reality by snapping, "[W]ake up, David... this is Africa" (124). Though he seems to be coming to terms with his true identity, the loss of perceived primacy is still "humiliating." The best he can do is identify with those he had been blind to before, human and animal alike. Lucy admits they have both in fact been reduced to having nothing, "no cards, no weapons, no property, no rights, no dignity."

"Like a dog."

"Yes, like a dog." (205)

But David Lurie has learned to have and to recognize dignity despite all indications to the contrary. The animals he tends all posses it as does he; he has learned to "concentrate all his attention on the animal they are killing, giving it what he no longer has difficulty in calling by its proper name: love" (219).

Coetzee, J. M. Disgrace. New York: Penguin Books, 2000.