Because, on a whim, we went to see Disgrace, because I had put the book down previously, uninterested, I started thinking again about time and space, about how significant the act of looking sometimes is to the shape and frame of a story, how it matters to see a landscape so immense, to see the familiar shifted.
Thinking this morning about the intensity and heave of anger, the strategies and moves to ignore, deny, repel, resist, repress that emotion, to claim instead the land and territory of more positive affect. That character who has stayed here, near, for a week, sorting out his relation to Byron, to Wordsworth, to nature, to rural scapes, who knows and denies and also does not know the relation to anger that he holds, that others hold, does not know the relation to privilege that is always already thickly present in every one of his moves, in every one of his actions that indicates both his naivete and his collusion, his participation. In the way the anger that he feels also already moves through and around a recognition that there were benefits he doesn’t want to acknowledge, benefits that included a right to expect the police to act on one’s behalf, even as he has grown up in a country in which the majority of humans never had that expectation.
I come away from the novel, feeling that intention, perhaps, to see humans as humans, as capable of savvy negotiations that always already involve violence and anger, that set the rules for violence and anger.