By Andre Brink
On a farm close to the Cape Colony within the early 19th century, a slave uprising kills 3 and leaves 11 others condemned to loss of life. The rebellion’s chief, Galant, used to be raised along the lads who might turn into his masters. His first sufferer, Nicholas van der Merwe, could have been his brother. because the many layers of Andre Brink’s novel spread, it turns into transparent that the violent rebellion is as a lot a end result of family members tensions because it is an outcry opposed to the oppression of slavery. Spanning 3 generations and narrated within the voices of either the residing and the lifeless, a series of Voices is comparable to William Faulkner’s Absalom, Absalom!; it's a appealing and haunting representation of racism’s plague on South Africa.
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Footprints in search of runaway sheep or hunting down marauders, including that one lion. Footprints up to the dam, mine with those of Nicolaas and Barend, and Hester’s narrow ones. Barefoot, all four of us. Except for Sundays or visiting days, when their tracks show the marks of shoes. ” Tracks. Tracks. Across the mountains to Tulbagh, to Worcester, some of them marked with blood. Runaway tracks. Homeward tracks. Yet none of them visible, gone in wind and rain. They’re there, but you cannot see them.
But it’s not our place. ” And in the silence of that maddening newspaper, spread open on the flat hard rock, I hear those taunting words again: in silence the rows of black ants run across the paper, telling wild stories of the place that haunts my dreams. But all they say to me is: It’s not for you to ask. I start shouting abuse at them, but they give no answer. Here’s a curse for the bloody cunt of your own mother! The small black tracks remain unmoved. In rage I start tearing the paper to shreds, crumpling the bits, trampling on them, hurling them against the wind, winnowing them like chaff so that they may blow to the end of the earth, back to the Cape they came from, into the blue flames of the Oubaas’s own hell.
Women in outlandish clothes. Hottentots clustered on one side, smoking and staring through narrow eyeslits. It was Alida who took me there. A niece of Uncle Jan de Villiers 25 chainofvoices_internals 7/16/07 4:33 PM Page 26 ANDRÉ BRINK whose name Pa had mentioned long ago. (“Well, Alida, aren’t you going to show Piet the town? ”) Delicate, delightful little creature. Eyes shy yet mocking under the parasol. On the point of getting betrothed to a swaggering young foreigner; D’Alree in his natty clothes.