Disgrace by J. M. Coetzee

Christians of a certain kind. Everyone is so cheerful and well-intentioned that after a while you itch to go off and do some raping and pillaging. Or to kick a cat.’
    He is surprised by his outburst. He is not in a bad temper, not in the least.
    â€˜You think I ought to involve myself in more important things,’ says Lucy. They are on the open road; she drives without glancing at him. ‘You think, because I am your daughter, I ought to be doing something better with my life.’
    He is already shaking his head. ‘No . . . no . . . no,’ he murmurs.
    â€˜You think I ought to be painting still lives or teaching myself Russian. You don’t approve of friends like Bev and Bill Shaw because they are not going to lead me to a higher life.’
    â€˜That’s not true, Lucy.’
    â€˜But it is true. They are not going to lead me to a higher life, and the reason is, there is no higher life. This is the only life there is. Which we share with animals. That’s the example that people like Bev try to set. That’s the example I try to follow. To share some of our human privilege with the beasts. I don’t want to come back in another existence as a dog or a pig and have to live as dogs or pigs live under us.’
    â€˜Lucy, my dearest, don’t be cross. Yes, I agree, this is the only life there is. As for animals, by all means let us be kind to them. But let us not lose perspective. We are of a different order of creation from the animals. Not higher, necessarily, just different. So if we are going to be kind, let it be out of simple generosity, not because we feel guilty or fear retribution.’
    Lucy draws a breath. She seems about to respond to his homily, but then does not. They arrive at the house in silence.

NINE
    H E IS SITTING in the front room, watching soccer on television. The score is nil-all; neither team seems interested in winning.
    The commentary alternates between Sotho and Xhosa, languages of which he understands not a word. He turns the sound down to a murmur. Saturday afternoon in South Africa: a time consecrated to men and their pleasures. He nods off.
    When he awakes, Petrus is beside him on the sofa with a bottle of beer in his hand. He has turned the volume higher.
    â€˜Bushbucks,’ says Petrus. ‘My team. Bushbucks and Sundowns.’
    Sundowns take a corner. There is a mêlée in the goalmouth. Petrus groans and clasps his head. When the dust clears, the Bushbucks goalkeeper is lying on the ground with the ball under his chest. ‘He is good! He is good!’ says Petrus. ‘He is a good goalkeeper. They must keep him.’
    The game ends scoreless. Petrus switches channels. Boxing: two tiny men, so tiny that they barely come up to the referee’s chest, circle, leap in, belabour each other.
    He gets up, wanders through to the back of the house. Lucy is lying on her bed, reading. ‘What are you reading?’ he says. She looks at him quizzically, then takes the earplugs out of her ears. ‘What are you reading?’ he repeats; and then, ‘It’s not working out, is it? Shall I leave?’
    She smiles, lays her book aside. The Mystery of Edwin Drood : not what he would have expected. ‘Sit down,’ she says.
    He sits on the bed, idly fondles her bare foot. A good foot, shapely. Good bones, like her mother. A woman in the flower of her years, attractive despite the heaviness, despite the unflattering clothes.
    â€˜From my point of view, David, it is working out perfectly well. I’m glad to have you here. It takes a while to adjust to the pace of country life, that’s all. Once you find things to do you won’t be so bored.’
    He nods absentmindedly. Attractive, he is thinking, yet lost to men. Need he reproach himself, or would it have worked out like that anyway? From the day his daughter was born he has felt for her nothing but the most spontaneous, most unstinting love.