The dry, dusty and vast expanses of the Free State serve as a fine backdrop for the distances that can form between parents and their children. They grow up and form their identities in different worlds, different times, different places. And these create differences in the people they are and the people they become. But there is no love quite as strong as what a parent feels for their children. Even the affinity for one’s ‘people’, one’s tribe, cannot compare with that inherent love that strides between a parent and their child. Although the weak willed and well brainwashed may make decisions that override this natural rule.
In Blood’s Inner Rhyme Antjie Krog lays bare the intricacies and involvements between her and her mother. Punctuated with logs from her mother’s carers notes about how their patient is doing, the book maintains a solid structure, much like a few of the bowel movements mentioned, throughout. In between these salient and sometimes morose reminders of morality she threads stories of their histories, personal and cultural. Both of these women seem remarkable, not only in their skill with the written word, but also with their ability to see through the shallow shit that floats through our lives into the deep abyss of meaning that so many are quick to avoid and turn away from. Diving into meaningless ventures and values, entertainment and relationships. They’re real people and their reality is shown through this moving work.
It’s an exposition of what flows between a mother and daughter in that unique relationship. It is also a confrontation of what it means to grow old and die and what it means to watch someone grow old and die. Pleasantries are disposed of from the start and only the raw truth of true experience comes through. Not just their own (Antjie and her mom) but of the people who came before, who walked along beside them. Ancestors and contemporaries. Within that particular cultural milieu of South Africa. Even more particularly the locality of Kroonstad.
Having seen the effects of old age on loved ones myself, and feeling much of the frustration with the feelings of inadequacy and futility, I was moved to tears a few times while reading this book. It reached into my guts and my heart and squeezed. This may not be the experience many people want from reading a book. Sometimes some fantasy and fun and a little bit of escapism are the reason they reach for a title. But I find a deep satisfaction, maybe even joy, from having my soul bared by an author who reveals the truth of reality to their readers. It’s not necessarily fun to read about the effects of concentration camps or rape or war, but it is real. And that helps me deal with reality.
At a time in my life when I have to recalibrate what means what to me, this book came through to help remind me of what really matters. There will always be work, there will always be ‘fun’ – bars and booze and temporary escapes. But the people who love me, who loved me, who showed me what unconditional love means – they will always be worth more than a few moments of dulled pleasure. Principles will always matter more than performance. This book helped me find my feet in the real world when it all seemed like too much to bear or care about. When you look at the shit others have had to deal with, sometimes it puts into perspective the shit you’ve got to deal with. It equips you in some ethereal way. Their spirit gives you spirit. The light they shine on their own lives helps to illuminate yours. And somewhere amidst the madness of daily life and monumental events like death and a broken heart, you find your feet. I did, during the days that I read this book.
