The Chameleon House , livre ebook
65
pages
English
Ebooks
2015
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65
pages
English
Ebooks
2015
Vous pourrez modifier la taille du texte de cet ouvrage
Obtenez un accès à la bibliothèque pour le consulter en ligne En savoir plus
Publié par
Date de parution
28 février 2015
Nombre de lectures
0
EAN13
9781928215011
Langue
English
Poids de l'ouvrage
2 Mo
Publié par
Date de parution
28 février 2015
EAN13
9781928215011
Langue
English
Poids de l'ouvrage
2 Mo
Table of Contents
A Letter to Bianca
The Inheritance
The New Equality
Dry Run
The Chameleon House
Mask
Security
Coelacanth
Home
Acknowledgements
Published in 2015 by Modjaji Books PO Box 385, Athlone, 7760, Cape Town, South Africa
www.modjajibooks.co.za
© 2015
Melissa de Villiers has asserted her right to be identified as the author of this work.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, mechanical or electronic, including photocopying or recording, or be stored in any information storage or retrieval system without permission from the publisher.
Edited by Andie Miller
Cover artwork by Carl Becker
Cover lettering by Jesse Breytenbach
Book layout by Andy Thesen
Printed and bound by Megadigital, Cape Town
ISBN 978-1-920590-89-5
Ebook ISBN 978-1-928215-01-1
To my father and mother:
Andre Rex Wepener de Villiers
Nova de Villiers, née Bezuidenhout
Contents
A Letter to Bianca
The Inheritance
The New Equality
Dry Run
The Chameleon House
Mask
Security
Coelacanth
Home
We look at the world once, in childhood.
The rest is memory.
– Louise Glück, Nostos
There are some things one remembers even though they may never have happened.
– Harold Pinter, Old Times
A Letter to Bianca
The old men running the apartheid regime finally threw up their hands and declared a state of emergency in 1985. By this time, my own emergency was already well underway. I had no qualifications and not a cent to my name, and a tormenting problem stood in the way of me acquiring any. I wanted to be a writer, although I hadn’t the courage to tell anyone just yet. The reason was simple: whenever I put pen to paper, the words evaporated. Deep in the dark root of me, something writhed and would not sit still. I couldn’t shake the queasy conviction that I had nothing original to say.
My father, tired of paying for university courses I wasn’t managing to finish, found me a six-week internship on the Baviaan’s Drift Bugle . I would be given board and lodging by Mr Ossendryver, an accountancy teacher. My father knew him from his own, far-off student days in a Boland town. They’d drunk beer and played rugby together, and it was there that the two of them first heeded bookkeeping’s siren call.
I have no idea why I agreed to this miserable venture. I didn’t want to leave the city for some godforsaken dorp in the middle of the Eastern Cape. Anyway, did desk jobs matter when a revolution was just around the bend? Anyone could see it was a touchpaper time, when to fuss over career prospects seemed at best, naïve; at worst, contemptible. There were stands to be taken, institutions to be overthrown. At parties in student flats, in city bars and back bedrooms, opinions flew from my lips in a jittery stream.
