Coming in at only 166 pages, this little volume barely constitutes a book, but it manages to just tip the scale between novella and novel. This is deliberate on the part of Coetzee who has opted for what is described as “late style.” This phrase was coined in 1937 by philosopher Theodor Adorno who described it this way: “The maturity of the late works does not resemble the kind one finds in fruit. They are for the most part not round, but furrowed, even ravaged. Devoid of sweetness, bitter and spiny, they do not surrender themselves to mere delectation.” In hindsight, that does perfectly summarize this book. We see an aging artist laid bare, stripped down to the raw and ravaged sinew of a once formidable body. Even the cover of the book is simple and abrupt. The keys of the piano as shown are reduced to one octave ranging from A to G. Even this seems to suggest the shortening of time as one inches closer to mortality.

The Pole is told from the perspective of Beatriz, a resident of Barcelona who becomes the fixation of the aging pianist Wittold Walccyzkiecz. Though Beatriz seems to find the pianist utterly unimpressive and almost odious, she allows herself to get swept into his world. At times her disdain for everything from his physical form to his music seems to border on cruelty, the reading of which becomes so uncomfortable. This man, admired by the rest of the world as a master musician and powerful presence, is reduced to seeming pathetic under the gaze of Beatriz who is content to take and take and take without giving even the slightest hint of affection in return. As we read more into Beatriz’s psyche, we can view this as her own delusion, an inability or unwillingness to admit to her feeling. Her life and her marriage are no longer satisfying to her, but she keeps up appearances to both herself and the rest of the world because that’s what she is programmed to believe she must do.

I want to hate Beatriz, but I can’t. I understand her to a certain extent. I think most of us can relate to the conflict of inner desire versus outward presentation. Defer, deflect, deny, even to oneself. Upon initially closing this book your initial thought will probably be, “well that was depressing.” Upon intense reflection you’re able to piece together just how psychological it all really is, which actually makes it even more depressing.

The format of this novel is quite unique. It’s broken up into chapters and then further into what I can only describe as stanzas, the paragraphs being numbered and separated into their own separate groupings. Admittedly, while I once had quite a bit of musical training, I really don’t remember much about the structure of classical music, but the structure of this novel does make me think that Coetzee is structuring it in a way to mimic the movements of a symphony or concerto. Were I inclined to put the same amount of work into it as I might a thesis, perhaps I’d explore this, but I have seven more reviews to catch up on so I’m going to punk out on that idea. Let’s not and say we did, shall we? Either way, I think this is a very clever device that I initially found jarring, but once I fell into the flow it made a bit more sense.

In the simplest of terms, I can’t say that I enjoyed reading this book, but I am glad that I did.

Published September 19, 2023 by Liveright. ISBN 9781324093862. Hardcover. 166 pages.