Flame in the Snow Page 2

  Jonker’s liberating influence on Brink, which he finds alluring and values very highly, does not, however, imply that he is able to throw off all his bonds instantaneously. From this point onwards, though, his writing became increasingly fearless, until his novel Kennis van die Aand (translated as Looking on Darkness) was eventually banned in 1973. From then on, he used the banning as an opportunity to conduct, in an even more scathing register, his struggle against the oppressiveness of Afrikaner nationalism, petit-bourgeois religion, and small-minded thinking. Eventually his critique broadened to include the consequences of not only colonialism, but also racial as well as gender discrimination. He was nevertheless careful, in this phase of his affair at least, not to jeopardise his marriage – partly for the sake of his young son, but also out of consideration for his aged, ill father, whom he did not wish to distress. He also felt sorry for his wife.

  The affair was not merely a case of Brink finding Jonker enchanting. Her admiration for him is equally clear. She describes him as a “magician”, and is especially admiring of his wide reading and broad insight. She often asks his advice on what to read. When Rook en Oker [Smoke and Ochre] appears, she relies entirely on Brink’s judgement to make changes for the volume’s second printing, which he does directly with the publisher and about which he mostly just informs her. What is especially revealing about the two writers is the self-doubt that they frequently confess to each other. She often expresses doubt about her own talent, while Brink wonders aloud whether he will ever be able to write anything that really matters.

  During the course of the correspondence, the reader is privy to much information about the habits and lifestyle of the lovers. Brink’s work rate is astonishing. Outside of the relationship, which plays such a large role in his life, he finds time to translate 6 000 words a week (from French and English into Afrikaans) in order to earn extra money. He does these translations while lecturing full-time, putting together new courses on aspects of literature he has never taught before, and marking student essays. At the same time, he edits the journals 60 and Sestiger, and mentions at one stage that he is preparing two articles for these. He comments, too, that between all this he gets up several times a night to see to his baby son, and that he is caught up in all manner of domestic and administrative duties. Throughout, however, he continues to read, quoting liberally from world literature and local writers, and delving into various theoretical works. Then, almost in passing, he writes that he is working on a new novel, or play.

  The letters of Jonker, the poet in the relationship, are generally not as prolix as the familiar prose of Brink. Although her letters are shorter, she often makes particularly sharp observations about people’s actions, and displays a special sensitivity to political prejudice and the exclusion of people on the basis of colour or class. In contrast to Brink, she refrains for the most part from engaging in lengthy philosophical discourse. Instead, she often gives a brief description of an event or uses a few powerful words that vividly demonstrate her political awareness. These letters make it clear that she was no social butterfly who flitted from one artist’s party to the next, almost incidentally writing a few good poems in the process. It becomes obvious, from certain brief references, that she takes immediate action (on a bus, at one point) to prevent injustice; moreover, resistance for her is not merely a theoretical matter (as it is, to a certain extent, for Brink), but something that must be actualised in one’s personal life.

  CENSORSHIP

  The factor that brought Brink and Jonker together in the first place was their shared resistance to the growing threat of censorship regulations at the time. This is a matter to which they frequently return in their letters. Jonker mentions several court cases she is attending – including the one where Wilbur Smith’s When the Lion Feeds was banned. She and Brink frequently discuss complaints concerning Lobola, along with the possibility that Brink’s novel might have to face a possible banning. They also often refer to sensational reports in the media following comments made by Brink about censorship – and they express disappointment about fellow writers who distance themselves from these opinions. (Brink mentions at one point that his mother has urged him to stop trying to explain his point of view in the media, since his friends understand him in any case while his enemies will refuse to give him his due – a rare moment that reflects positively on Brink’s family.)

  By the time Brink and Jonker met in 1963, the struggle against censorship in South Africa already had a long history; this resistance intensified in the early 1960s. In the 1940s, the main Afrikaans churches had requested that the government act against “pornography”. Shortly after the National Party came to power in 1948, a commission was established to investigate “undesirable publications”. Such matter was defined as any publication that was “indecent or obscene or offensive or harmful to public morals”, or merely damaging to “the feelings or convictions of Christians”. In practice, this might include any criticism of Christianity or its practices or any questioning of the policy of apartheid.

  The commission set up by government to look into the matter of censorship, under the chairmanship of Geoff Cronjé, had recommended in 1956 that a publications board be set up and that all publishers, printers and distributors of publications be required to have licences that could be withdrawn if they published material that did not have the prior approval of the publications board.

  The Cronjé commission recommended, inter alia, that the Prohibition of Mixed Marriages Act (1949) and the amended Immorality Act (1950) be made applicable to publications also; accordingly, any depiction of racial mixing would constitute a violation of those laws. The alarming powers that would thereby be given to the publications board were strongly resisted by opposition parties as well as many organisations and individuals: freedom of speech would be curtailed, and any criticism of the country’s race policy would be outlawed. Established poets such as N.P. Van Wyk Louw and D.J. Opperman joined younger “Sestigers” such as Brink and Jonker in their opposition to censorship. In 1960, discussions about censorship were still ongoing, but after the Sharpeville massacre that year (which gave rise to Jonker’s poem “The Child Who Was Shot Dead by Soldiers in Nyanga”), the Verwoerd government declared a State of Emergency and instituted draconian censorship measures – not only for books and films, but also for the press. Despite much protest, the Publications and Entertainments Act was passed in 1963 and the Publications Control Board brought into being.

  Jonker and Brink were clearly united in their struggle against censorship. Their political convictions also come to the fore in these letters. Jonker often sharply articulates her impatience with exclusions under apartheid legislation, now bitterly, now satirically (such as when she describes her father’s attempts to connect his surname to European forefathers while in fact Jonker could be traced back to a slave from Indonesia). Brink’s fighting spirit is evident when he writes: “The charge against Lobola has been withdrawn. I am sorry it didn’t go ahead. I so badly wanted to remove the taint from the book – and conduct a nice little fight.”

  The early 1960s were also years in which the government was increasingly taking action against the African National Congress (ANC): it was the time of the infamous Rivonia trial. Brink and Jonker make reference in their letters to the Park Station bomb, John Harris, Stephanie Kemp and Adrian Leftwich. Jonker is ruthless in her judgement of other writers’ political views. At one point, she remarks that Etienne Leroux’s politics are “a little off the mark, like Bartho’s”.

  New literary journals came into being during this period since there was no place in the older, more conservative journals for the new group of writers. In contrast with many other Afrikaans writers, Brink and Jonker were in the same camp as several English-speaking writers in their opposition to censorship. Both were aware of what was being written and published in English at the time (Jonker via Cope and the journal Contrast, which he edited, and Brink as part of his voracious general reading in many languages). Jon
ker occasionally published in Contrast and sometimes in 60, and it is obvious that neither she nor Brink wished to be restricted by the increasing polarisation between English and Afrikaans.

  SENSATIONALISM

  A publishing venture such as Flame in the Snow is a risky one, since it is open to accusations of sensationalism and prurience, feeding the apparently insatiable public appetite for juicy “scandal”. It might be accused of being a tasteless exposé of personal details about the lives of two famous writers. Indeed, the letters undeniably contain material that the media might be eager to report in a sensational manner. There are many intimate descriptions and details that might make some readers cringe. Examples include Brink’s nickname for Jonker, “Kokon” (“Cocoon”), “Kokontjie” or “Kontjie”, while she in turn uses the endearment “papie” (pupa) to describe his penis. There are also Brink’s frequent enquiries as to whether a “vlindertjie” (little butterfly) has yet taken residence inside her. Ejaculate is referred to as “secrets” that he leaves behind in her (at one point, Brink even puts a spot of semen on a page that he posts off to Jonker). Jonker’s genitals are referred to as a “chick”. The lovers discuss abrasions resulting from intercourse – in fact, in one letter Jonker notes that they had sex thirty-six times during a ten-day period. However, to excise this kind of detail from their correspondence would constitute bowdlerisation: it would be a betrayal of their joint struggle against censorship.

  Though certain readers may experience a degree of discomfort, it is important to realise that these two illustrious literary figures were ordinary flesh-and-blood human beings with the same desires, urges, needs and failings as the rest of us. For them, sex was an intense spiritual experience, and they were reluctant to conform to social expectations; their frankness in this regard was in itself an act of defiance against bourgeois values. In one particular letter, Brink recalls a question Jonker had put to him on a tape: “Why are people so afraid of passion? Why do they treat us like children?”

  Despite Jonker’s elevated status, and the passing of the decades, readers will experience that warm blood flowed through the hand that composed her poems. The words of poets and writers, especially those who are held in high esteem, can too easily be seen as bloodless and “exalted”. These letters remind the reader, however, of the passion and the ordinary human experiences from which their work arose.

  The fact that André Brink himself, fully aware of the risks involved, offered the correspondence to the publisher, may ease the qualms the reader may experience. Moreover, it is significant that, from the start, Brink kept carbon copies of his letters, thereby ensuring that he had in his possession a record of almost every letter he wrote to Jonker. One can only speculate about his reasons for doing so. Perhaps he anticipated that the material might be useful to him in his novel-writing, though he may also have believed that there might at some future point be public interest in the correspondence. When one examines the original letters, it is noteworthy that neither writer deleted or corrected much. Their style and word choice apparently hit the mark, without requiring revision, although Jonker’s style is often telegrammatic.

  Brink remarks in one of his letters that he is busy reading the correspondence between Lawrence Durrell and Henry Miller. He describes the letters as “a hefty collection that reads wonderfully. Personal insight into other peoples’ lives is always more ‘significant’ than that which has been turned into objective literature!”

  Flame in the Snow offers a very personal glimpse of two remarkable people during a specific period, thereby providing insight into their lives and their work. Even if these words are all the reader has, without the advantage of facial expression or touch, they nevertheless offer an experience that is “significant”.

  In the final analysis, the letters offer not only a peek into a phase of the lives of two exceptional people, they also serve as an articulation of life in its entirety: from falling in love and the experience of the enchanting, almost mystical liberation that can be found in intimacy with another human being, to shared idealism and candid exchanges of opinions, to hurtful clashes, and light-hearted fun. The age-old themes of forbidden love, betrayal and loyalty, of social pressure on individuals and reckless rebellion against propriety, not to mention the inexorability of death, are all uniquely considered and vividly expressed in the correspondence of the courageous young novelist and the sun-loving poet.

  Willie Burger

  UNIVERSITY OF PRETORIA

  WORKS CITED

  Brink, André P. 2009. A Fork in the Road. Cape Town: Human & Rousseau.

  Metelerkamp, Petrovna. 2003. Ingrid Jonker: Beeld van ’n Digterslewe. Hermanus: Hemel en See.

  Viljoen, Louise. 2012. Ingrid Jonker: A Jacana Pocket Biography. Auckland Park: Jacana.

  Grahamstown

  Sunday, 21 April 1963

  Delightful little creature,

  I needed some neutral “in transit” days between the Cape and being back again, just to make the transition more gradual. After the week – and especially those three days – of change, I feel very averse to enduring, all over again, that old threat of a settled, “safe”, bourgeois life. Respectability. Predetermined reactions to predetermined stimuli. There are people for whom such an existence will never be a threat because they’re too free within themselves ever to get caught up in it; but I must constantly resist this opiate precisely because it would be so easy just to let it take me. During the week in the Cape you at least provided something of an antidote. Should I politely say “thank you”? That would make it too banal. Especially “our” night. [T.S.] Eliot’s line – “poetry can communicate before it is understood” – also applies, in a certain sense, to people who come together, freely, through sex. It is precisely an act of communion that, thank God, remains beyond words. I mean, what would I include in my little inventory – especially in the clear light of day?: a scent; memories of your hands, hair and breasts; your voice; tears; cynicism; game-playing; red wine; two double brandies; eyes: mocking, saying no, cursing, showing contempt, playing with me, saying yes, sweet and happy, or the-hell-in and huffy …! All of this gets one nowhere. Luckily, however, these things are just starting points. Memories and bodies are mere titles of long poems; and our “sleeping together” is a sort of holy Mass, in which transubstantiation is complete. (Is this perhaps the most pure religion for us non-believers? Otherwise, why exactly would a person say “Lord God in heaven”? – Giuseppe di Lampedusa’s loveliest girl character does in fact say “Gesùmaria!”)

  Is a body itself capable of remembering? I think its recollection is better than unreliable “memory”. My body remembers yours. And it’s not because of those few strategic little pains or the mark on my shoulder. Also not – I hope! – because I have now become “part of your sorrow”; it’s more positive. The body’s memory, as opposed to the brain’s, is like imagery in the midst of matter-of-fact words.

  Okay, go ahead and say: “What nonsense!” Or worse. I’m not busy with a Simone de Beauvoir dissertation here. I’m actually just busy saying in a roundabout way what I’ve already said: thank you.

  Until such time as I get to see you again, I shall have to make do with your manuscript. (And please let me know when you think it’s time for it to be returned!) Luckily there is the unexpected prospect that my seeing you again might occur sooner than expected. Some or other study group in Stellenbosch has asked me to deliver three lectures there later this semester. Then I’ll be able to come and visit you on their account! This kind of lecturing gives me the shits. William Styron (have you read his Lie Down in Darkness?) said something like: “One thing I can’t stand is that a young writer, after having written one book, starts lecturing and giving pompous interviews on all sorts of subjects about which he knows nothing.” Long live Styron! But sometimes a collar is more precious than the dog that wears it.

  Christ Almighty, and this morning a ceremonious telegram arrives here announcing that it pleases the South African Academy of �
�Art” and Science to award me with a “Eugène Marais Encouragement Prize for Drama”. Now that my hilarity at hearing this news has died down, I find myself in quite a pickle: first of all, I don’t have a clue (and neither, apparently, does anyone else) what kind of an animal this prize is; I don’t even know on what grounds it’s being awarded, or what it’s worth. And now? Must I reply: deposit the prize up your anus? Or should I accept it tongue-in-cheek because I could use a few extra rands and don’t in any case have too many illusions about my abilities as a dramatist? Or would that be “dishonest”? You see, I have long hoped that the Kakkademy would award me a Hertzog Prize one day so I can refuse it on the grounds that they’re incapable of making any decisions about literary merit. (Or would that be ridiculous?)

  Meanwhile, my biggest task – and headache – right now is typing up Die Ambassadeur / Die Ongedurige Kind [The Ambassador / The Restless Child]. I want to finish it now – if there hadn’t been so many changes to add in the retyping process, I would have hired you as a professional typist. Now I’m sucking it all up myself – and there’s no use moaning about mistakes. I want you to meet Gillian and Nicolette. (Fortunately I know you won’t mince your words!) At least a fragment will be appearing in the second 60. But when will that be? Bartho [Smit] in fact sounded quite half-hearted about the journal’s financial prospects in his most recent letter. He’s arriving here in the next few days; I’ll be able to learn more at first hand then.