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, was once raised along the lads who might develop 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 fruits of relatives 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 useless, a sequence of Voices is similar to William Faulkner’s Absalom, Absalom!; it's a appealing and haunting representation of racism’s plague on South Africa.
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On a farm close to the Cape Colony within the early 19th century, a slave uprising kills 3 and leaves 11 others condemned to dying. The rebellion’s chief, Galant, was once raised along the men who might turn into his masters. His first sufferer, Nicholas van der Merwe, could have been his brother.
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Extra info for A Chain of Voices
All of a sudden there is something moving in a patch of dry protea shrubs, barely a hundred yards away. It can be anything. But you simply know it’s the lion, even though you’ve never seen one in your life. Nicolaas gives another step forward. The thing in the bushes utters a low, deep growling sound that causes the ground to tremble underfoot. The men with us drop their sticks and assegais in a wild stampede for the nearest shelter, a single thin dry tree. In a moment they hang from its branches as if a flock of large bats have swarmed into it.
All my life I got on very well without. It’s just looking for trouble. ” The Cape must be a wonderful place; and the newspaper is a truly wonderful thing. When they talk about it they call it the Gazette; and by the very name you can hear it doesn’t belong to these parts. There’s no telling when it will come, that depends on who’s going to Tulbagh and for what. Sometimes there’s only one; but when a long time has passed there may be a whole stack, all of them thin and mysteriously folded. Then the Oubaas puts on the small round glasses he uses to read the Book at supper, and he drags his chair outside the kitchen door, and there he sits reading, frowning and mumbling by himself, for many hours.
It feels so close, I can clutch it like a stone. The drowsy Sunday afternoon, the Oubaas and Ounooi gone to visit neighbors, the three of us roaming the mountainside, shouting at baboons on the upper cliffs, scaring each other with the forged footprints of a leopard. Then the storm, the sudden thundering peal as if the mountain itself is crashing down on us. We scuttle down the slope in fear, Barend and Nicolaas far ahead, lightfooted, leaving me behind to cope with Hester. “Let’s stay here,” she pleads.
A Chain of Voices by Andre Brink