Although John Donne famously wrote “No man is an island”, Karen Jennings makes a convincing case for why the particular man at the centre of her novel can no longer be connected with the nation of his birth. For decades Samuel has lived a solitary existence on an island where he tends a lighthouse, keeps a meagre garden and occasionally buries the refugees who wash ashore. But, when Samuel is in his seventies, one day an unconscious young man that is barely alive appears on the beach. They don't speak the same language and become uneasy companions. His presence stirs thoughts of the past for Samuel who finds: “Memories were there too, coming fast that morning – things best forgotten now approaching as steadily as waves approach the shore.” In fragmented scenes we come to understand Samuel's impoverished beginnings in an African nation that underwent a violent revolution but whose utopian dream quickly faltered after the rise of a dictator that imprisoned many dissidents and protestors - including Samuel. Now that his fragile, circumscribed existence has been disturbed he struggles to accept the presence of another individual.
At first I found the way the narrative introduces slivers from Samuel's past to be too jarring as it's sometimes a struggle to understand what's happening. But I quickly came to understand that this was a result of Samuel's brittle state of mind as he's experienced a lot of trauma and devastating disappointment in his life. Gradually I came to see he's not so much a man that is driven by any definite convictions but, like many of us, he's jostled through life according to the dominant politics and ideologies of his society. In one period he might be progressive, in another he might reinforce prejudiced attitudes and when he's trapped in a prison he's willing to do whatever it takes to avoid torture. It's sympathetically shown how he simply wants a better life for himself: “Who didn't want to be more than they were, who didn't want to rise up out of the dirt and be something?” But, because of his circumstances, he finds it impossible to establish any secure existence. He's unable to commit physical violence and it's interesting to consider whether this is because of his own meekness or a determination not to harm other living beings.
Though it's easy to romantically daydream about a solitary life on an island, Jennings' vivid descriptions of Samuel's hard existence and deteriorating health bring to life the challenging reality of this situation. There's also a disturbing encounter described early in the novel when Samuel first found the bodies of refugees on his shore and the official he speaks to asks to know the colour of their skin. This brief reference evokes an enormous dilemma concerning nationhood and racism. Though the author is South African, I think it's clever how she avoids using any specific names of countries, leaders or political movements to show that this is really a universal situation and, given certain circumstances, these things can happen anywhere. Though new leadership is often invested with a lot of hope for change, Samuel sadly finds that “Power made men hateful. Power made men forget everyone but themselves.” The depths of his disillusionment and pain which has disconnected him from his family, loved ones and country make his solitary state feel not only reasonable but necessary. A late encounter he has with a woman that he once had an intense relationship with feels all the more tragic because rather than being a sentimental reunion it lays bare the desperate circumstances they've been reduced to. The ending of the novel is especially disturbing and haunting because after everything Samuel has gone through there’s a devastating logic to it. I desperately wanted the story to end another way and I still optimistically believe that no one has to be an island… but I haven’t experienced the gruelling torture that Samuel lived through.
I found it really powerful how Jennings writes an engaging specific story that gradually unfolds to ask much larger and universal questions about identity, nationhood and the meaning of our relationships. It also suggests that there are perhaps more interesting, less well known stories to be told. I’d like to read a companion novel to this book which gives the perspective of the other man that arrives on Samuel’s island, but this isn’t Jennings’ story to tell and, as much as I wanted to know more about his life, she was probably wise to avoid delving into his perspective. Instead we get a surface understanding of his state of mind through his gestures and reactions to Samuel’s erratic behaviour which allowed me to feel sympathy for him having to live alongside this deeply unstable older man. It’s interesting how “The Promise”, the other South African novel on the Booker Prize longlist, raises a similar dilemma in consciously not giving us many details about Salome’s life. As accomplished and moving as both these novels are, I can’t help feeling somewhat frustrated that as a reader I’m only getting white perspectives on a deeply racially divided nation that I’ve never personally visited. That’s not the fault of these writers or the book prize, but I think it raises larger issues concerning publishing, privilege and whose voices are given a public platform.
