cry, the beloved country

I just finished Cry, the Beloved Country, a much more readable novel than I had anticipated. I was expecting poignancy, significance, a little gut-wrenching...but I wasn't expecting the simplicity of method for getting me there. I'm very impressed. A new favorite.

A couple of favorite passages. First, after Kumalo and Msimangu first meet Kumalo's brother in Johansburg. Msimango reflects on the visit:

He stopped in the street and spoke quietly and earnestly to his companion. Because the white man has power, he said. But when a black man gets power, when he gets money, he is a great man if he is not corrupted. I have seen it often. He seeks power and money to put right what is wrong, and when he gets them, why, he enjoys the power and the money. Now he can gratify his lusts, now he can arrange ways to get white man's liquor, he can speak to thousands and hear them clap their hands. Some of us think when we have power, we shall revenge ourselves on the white man who has had power, and because our desire is corrupt, we are corrupted, and the power has no heart in it. But most white men do not know this truth about power, and they are afraid lest we get it.

He stood as though he was testing his exposition. Yes, that is right about power, he said. But there is only one thing that has power completely, and that is love. Because when a man loves, he seeks no power, and therefore he has power. I see only one hope for our country, and that is when white men and black men, desiring neither power nor money, but desiring only the good of their country, come together to work for it.

Simple. Almost obvious. But poignant. A passage which has nothing to do with race, but everything to do with social class, injustice, and power.

And this bit about love... The meta-lesson of Christianity, no? What tragedy that two millenia of pastoral corruption and pious self-righteousness has stripped the institution of Christianity of its Christian moors.

(I want to write more on this, but I'm fearful of being misunderstood. So I won't.)

...

A second passage. From the writings of Author Jarvis, who is killed by Stephen Kumalo's son.

It is hard to be born a South African. One can be born an Afrikaner, or an English-speaking South African, or a coloured man, or a Zulu. One can ride, as I rode when I was a boy, over green hills and into great valleys. One can see, as I saw when I was a boy, the reserves of the Bantu people and see nothing of what was happening there at all. One can hear, as I heard when I was a boy, that there are more Afrikaners than English-speaking peole in South Africa, and yet know nothing, see nothing, of them at all. One can read, as I read when I was a boy, the brochures about lovely South Africa, that land of sun and beauty sheltered from the storms of the world, and feel pride in it and love for it, and yet know nothing about it at all. It is only as one grows up that one learns that there are other things here than sun and gold and oranges. It is only then that one learns of the hates and fears of our country. It is only then that one's love grows deep and passionate, as a man may love a woman who is true, false, cold, loving, cruel and afraid.

I was born on a farm, brought up by honourable parents, given all that a child could need or desire. They were upright and kind and law-abiding; they taught me my prayers and took me regularly to church; they had no trouble with servants and my father was never short of labour. From them I learned all that a child should learn of honour and charity and generosity. But of South Africa I learned nothing at all.

I relate deeply to this passage.

As an American, I might write, one can read, as I read when I was a boy, the textbooks which extol the virtues of founding fathers, a land of plenty, of all; of the intelligent, the innovative, the moral, the courageous, the right; and pledge allegiance to its flag, with dignity and respect; and feel pride in it and love for it, and yet know nothing about it at all. It is only as one grows up that one learns that there are other things here than...the good.

And I might continue to write, I was brought up by honorable parents, given all that a child could need or desire.... From them I learned all that a child should learn of honor and charity and generosity. But of America I learned nothing at all.