Moments ago, I finished my latest Coetzee enterprise, Diary of a Bad Year. Upon completion, I experienced the kind of Aristotelian catharsis reserved to the writings of Tolstoy and Dostoevsky. It is that good. To leave aside the theoretical questions this volume suggests (and they are huge, and vast), its ethics and thematic concerns are enduring and epic. The story of an old man, managing himself in the twilight of his life. How to manage sexual attraction, how to move beyond it? How to still remain relevant, and not fade away into forgotten obscurity? How to be preserved, in relic and spirit? How to understand the fundamentals of our existence: love, compassion.
Something has been purged in my mood. Note to self: the requirement, the aim or measure, of all great art.
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