The Childhood of Jesus by J. M. Coetzee (review)

A certain pall hangs over J. M. Coetzee’s new novel, The Childhood of Jesus, and though it would be close to call it “culture shock,” the term wouldn’t quite encapsulate the homogenous discomfort and verbal itchiness that inhabits every character and scene. Culture shock would imply vibrancy of a new land and the abject isolation of the traveler, but what happens, as in Coetzee’s novel, when the culture has left and only the ubiquitous shock and seclusion remain?

The Childhood of Jesusfollows a man and a boy who arrive in a new, unnamed Spanish-speaking country looking to start their lives anew. They choose to call themselves Simón (the man) and David (the boy) and are similarly assigned estimated ages. Nameless is a theme throughout the novel, as David and Simón come from and arrive in nameless lands with vague and ambivalent landmarks like the “Centro de Reubicación Novilla,” a refugee center. Coetzee’s world is an intentionally skeletal construction, and its uncanny function as a quasi-real place only further isolates David, Simón, and the reader.

At times, the world feels dystopian, though not in a Huxleyan but rather immensely shabby way. When Simón approaches a shipyard for a job, the “wharves stretch upriver as far as the eye can see—they are strangely desolate. On only one quay does there seem to be activity: a freighter is being loaded or unloaded, men are ascending and descending a gangplank.” Lurking hints suggest that the country and world were once much more recognizable but have fallen into a contented state of disrepair and heavy bureaucracy. For example, David and Simón are assigned room “c-55,” but the required key is missing and the supervisor with the spare has gone home for the evening. The clerk’s response is “‘señora Weiss is the only one with a llave maestrafor Building C. Do you perhaps have a friend who can put you up for the night? Then you can come back in the morning and speak to señora Weiss.’” It seems that Simón is the only one who notices this unempathetic cloud, but for the reader it creates an eerie and universal disconnect.

This disconnect is based in the need of David, Simón, and their compatriots to rapidly learn and live in the second language of Spanish. With the exception of short phrases, the novel is in English, even though the characters “speak” Spanish. The result is that the dialogue is formal and stilted, and the characters talk past each other. Take this exchange during a debate between Simón and his fellow migrant, Elena. Simón says, “‘It is neither animosity nor prejudice, and to call it jealousy is even more absurd. I am trying to help you understand where this sacred intuition of yours comes from, which you trust above the evidence of your senses.’” Out of context, the dialogue is stuffy and unrealistic, but it’s a fantastic depiction of the forced formality and uncouth nature of trying to communicate in another language, a subtle, masterful, and succinct way to encapsulate a world of loneliness, frustration, and misunderstanding. Why Coetzee settled on Spanish is unclear.

David and Simón live in a peculiar and insulated moment in time, as none of the immigrants or citizens of this new country have any memories of their old lives, as if they’re washed away upon landing on the dock. While most characters accept this as a fact of existence, Simón is mildly troubled by it, asking Elena: “‘Have you ever asked yourself whether the price we pay for this new life, the price of forgetting, may not be too high?’” Though Simón recognizes that he has lost something, he does not retroactively value his old life or his memories. Instead he considers them vague rumblings of a time left behind. He tells us, “‘It is true: I have no memories. But images still persist, shades of images. How that is...