So I am thinking that J. M. Coetzee is my new Hemingway—you know, the oh-so-masculine writer I should probably disparage for his treatment of women and his relentlessly introspective, self-absorbed (are those things different?) white male protagonists, but the truth is I love the dude. I read Disgrace first, and then quickly went through most of his other books (which creates an odd echo effect, since many of his protagonists are . . . strangely similar to each other). One of the few I missed was Elizabeth Costello, which could have been a bummer for me since she is a significant character in his newest book, Slow Man. But get this: reading SM made me less interested in reading EC, not more.

Other reviews I’ve read of SM have complained about Costello’s presence in this new title, but generally because they’re annoyed at the contrivance of her role (she is an author, and the protagonist believes she wants to use him as the subject for her next book). So maybe whining about the flatness of his female characters is passé? I don’t know. Either way, I kind of wish that, like an artist who draws all her figures with their hands in their pockets, Costello would leave his female characters to being the inscrutable slates I’ve grown accustomed to. I like hanging out in Paul Rayment’s head; I like his stiff, halting (but always straightforward and honest) voice. I like to go around speaking in it, saying things like “If it is not inappropriate for me to do so, I would like to ask you to consider my offer of a luncheon. It comes, I assure you, without any conditions attached and is proffered simply because I would like your company for this midday meal. If you think it necessary I would be glad to have the purchase of this luncheon arranged through a third party.” Coetzee’s (male) characters are stubborn. They struggle against their fates and they generally behave according to a private code of conduct, the hallmark of which is a kind of blunt, unblinking honesty which can get them into trouble but also redeems them (god, I hate typing a sentence like that—sorry). They see themselves pitilessly (though a lot of the time I’m just conscious of how much they are seeing themselves), and they seem like guys that would be fun to have a drink with.

So, while this could certainly generate some hate mail, I’ll just say it: I like Coetzee, like Hemingway, because he is what he is. I’m not going to try Elizabeth Costello because I figure it’s going to be too much of a stretch for him to pull off and the idea of seeing what he does with a female protagonist doesn’t interest me. Now, the hard part: would I ever, in a million years, say this sort of thing about a female author? Probably not, mainly because I don’t care about being “fair,” when, as it should be clear, the canon/the literary world in general hasn’t been “fair” to women writers. And finally, just to try to head off some of the hate mail, I’m not saying male writers can’t write convincing female characters—I’m just saying I don’t think Coetzee does. But I still love the dude. So read the book!