I picked up Summertime by J. M. Coetzee almost by accident. It had been sitting on my shelf for a while, quietly waiting, and in January I finally gave it the attention it deserved. I am very glad I did – it turned out to be one of my favourite reads in a long time.
Summertime is the third in Coetzee’s fictionalised autobiographical trilogy, following Boyhood and Youth. But it approaches autobiography in an entirely unexpected way. Instead of telling his own story directly, Coetzee imagines a biographer interviewing people who knew “John Coetzee” – a fictional version of himself – after his death. We hear from former lovers, a cousin, a colleague. Each has a distinct voice, a distinct memory, and a distinct judgement of who John was.
What I found remarkable was how Coetzee uses this structure to explore self-knowledge and its limits. These narrators do not all agree. They remember the same man differently, sometimes unfavourably. There is something both humbling and honest in the idea that we can never fully know how we appear to others – or how we will be remembered.
The writing is clean and precise in that way Coetzee always manages. Not a word wasted. And yet the book has an emotional undertow that catches you off guard. Particularly in the section with Julia – a woman who had an affair with John in the 1970s – there is a strange, bittersweet quality that stayed with me long after I had finished.
It is not an easy book. But it is a rewarding one, and a great first read for a new year.
Who should read it: Readers who like literary fiction, unreliable narrators, and books that make you think about memory and identity. If you have not read Coetzee before, this might not be the best starting point – but if you have, it is wonderful.
★★★★★
