Home, History, and the Postsecular: A Literary–Religious Inquiry of Disgrace

Abstract

In J.M. Coetzee’s Disgrace, the postsecular emerges as a critical framework to understand the characters’ search for home amidst the remnants of South Africa’s colonial legacy. This essay proposes an exploration of how the novel’s engagement with the postsecular scriptures and moments offers a nuanced perspective on the religious impulse within the literary form. I focus on the protagonist, Lurie, whose journey from a sexual scandal to a commitment to animal welfare symbolizes a broader quest for redemption and atonement. Contrasting Lurie’s postsecular odyssey is his daughter Lucy’s steadfast attachment to her farm, which becomes a battleground for historical racial tensions. Through a mythological critical approach, I interpret Lucy’s experience as a contemporary iteration of the scapegoat, embodying the sacrificial role in a society seeking reconciliation and healing. My analysis extends to the novel’s esthetic and ethical dimensions, examining how Coetzee’s narrative challenges and reframes traditional religious narratives. By situating my discussion within the fields of the sciences of religions, theology, and mythology, I contribute to the understanding of literature as a vital medium for engaging with religious and theological themes. The essay concludes with a reflection on the implications of Coetzee’s postsecular discourse for the individual’s search for home and belonging in a post-apartheid context.

1. Introduction

While Disgrace is frequently analyzed in the context of Coetzee’s skepticism towards post-apartheid South Africa, this essay will specifically examine the multifaceted theme of home as it manifests in the characters’ quests for belonging and identity. For Lurie, the concept of home is particularly elusive, as he grapples with the remnants of colonial legacy and navigates a society in transition. When history is too irredeemable for people to find their positions in both private and social spheres, they have no choice but to turn to different alternatives. Lurie commits himself to and is overwhelmed by sexuality as a substitute for a deeper belonging, and then he dramatically makes a private adjustment by devoting himself to animal welfare.1 To put it differently, Lurie’s initial rejection of traditional notions of home and family, and his subsequent experiences, including his sexual scandal and exile to Lucy’s farm, force a reevaluation of what home means to him. By the end of the novel, Lurie’s concept of home has transformed from a search for personal gratification to a recognition of the need for ethical responsibility and connection with others. This revised understanding of home is not merely a physical space but a state of being that encompasses moral, emotional, and social dimensions. His daughter, Lucy, is attached to the “smallholding” which she is determined to live off, and pays the price for this determination due to the consequences of this irredeemable history (Coetzee 1999, p. 59). Thus, Lucy’s concept of home, on the other hand, is more concretely tied to the farm lifestyle she chooses. Her attachment to the farm and the sacrifices she makes to live in accordance with her ideals highlight the tangible and emotional aspects of home that Lurie’s approach lacks. Lucy’s struggle to maintain her home in the face of violence and social upheaval serves as a stark contrast to Lurie’s more abstract and problematic pursuit of belonging.

In my reading of the novel, I aim to explore several key themes. First, how does Lurie justify his sexuality as a substitute for a sense of home within the context of various postsecular discourses, including the Rule of St. Benedict, the concept of Eros, and the theory of the scapegoat? Second, do these justifications reflect a complete commitment on Coetzee’s part to the principles of postsecularism? Third, as Lurie later turns to caring for stray dogs, how does this act transform his sexual desire into ethical considerations? Additionally, considering this ethical shift, particularly the opera’s refocus from Lord Byron to Teresa Guiccioli, what role does Lurie’s pursuit of esthetics play in his life? Furthermore, how is Lucy’s alternative home both related to and in opposition to Lurie’s attempts to make amends for his past? Lastly, to what extent does Coetzee distance himself from, yet also empathize with, Lurie in terms of his authorial stance?

In the intricate discourse of contemporary thought, the term postsecularism emerges as a complex and contested concept. I aim to navigate the nuanced landscape of postsecular theory, acknowledging its rich diversity without attempting a comprehensive historical account. Instead, it offers a concise overview to contextualize the forthcoming textual analysis of the novel, with a particular emphasis on the interplay between postsecularism and the themes within this specific work.

The genesis of secularism, a construct initially introduced by George Jacob Holyoake in the 19th century, was not inherently in opposition to Christianity. It proposed a framework that acknowledged secular truths within the societal fabric, offering an alternative lens for interpreting social phenomena without negating religious belief. The advent of secularism is closely linked to the rise of modernism, which sought to challenge the pervasive influence of religion through a process of disenchantment, as eloquently described by Max Weber. This process was perceived as an emancipatory gesture, liberating individuals from the constraints of religious dogma, with literature often assuming the role of a surrogate for the sacred, as Matthew Arnold presciently noted (Kaufmann 2007, p. 610).

However, the pursuit of modernization, with its utopian aspirations for peace, prosperity, and progress, has often fallen short of delivering on its grand promises. This shortfall has precipitated a critical reevaluation of the secular paradigms that once held unwavering sway over societal thought. Concurrently, there has been a notable emergence of postsecularism, a development that signals a significant shift in the way we understand and engage with the interplay between secular and religious narratives.2 Unlike a rejection of secularism, postsecularism fosters a dynamic dialog, acknowledging the convergence and divergence of these narratives. It challenges the binary oppositions that define secular and religious domains, much like postcolonialism’s reassessment of colonial influences.3

Simon During’s scholarly work, Exit Capitalism: Literary Culture, Theory, and Post-Secular Modernity, offers a perspective that views postsecularism as an internally complex discourse within the secular paradigm. His work helps us understand postsecularism as an inherent part of secular society, reflecting its multifaceted nature and the evolving dialog between the sacred and the profane. This perspective is crucial for analyzing Disgrace, where characters’ journeys reflect societal struggles with historical issues such as colonialism and apartheid.

In Disgrace, the postsecular framework is instrumental in facilitating the characters’ search for a sense of home and belonging in the context of South Africa’s colonial legacy. The protagonist, Lurie, undergoes a transformation from being entangled in a sexual scandal to dedicating himself to animal welfare, which emblematizes a postsecular journey. This journey is indicative of a deeper quest for redemption and atonement that goes beyond the secular boundaries of his initial worldview. Lucy’s steadfast commitment to her farm, which becomes a site of historical racial conflicts, can be interpreted through a postsecular lens as a contemporary iteration of the scapegoat, embodying a sacrificial role in a society seeking reconciliation and healing.

2. Postsecular Discourse and the Literary Institution

The intricate interweaving of J.M. Coetzee’s personal views on religion with his literary output presents a complex narrative that defies simplistic categorization, echoing the multifaceted nature of postsecular discourse. During’s conceptualization of literature as a social institution provides a framework for understanding how Disgrace reflects and shapes societal attitudes and values. During posits that literature is not merely a collection of texts but an institution with “specifiable material interests, organizational structures, and social functions” (During 2010, p. 3). This perspective allows us to appreciate how the novel navigates the intricate interplay between secular and religious narratives, embodying the postsecular condition where the sacred and the secular coexist in a dynamic and complex relationship.

Coetzee’s own life experiences, marked by a lack of religious practice at home yet deeply influenced by Christian traditions through his education, offer a backdrop that enriches our understanding of the postsecular elements in his work.4 In the novel, the protagonist’s journey mirrors the broader societal struggle to reconcile with a history influenced by colonialism and apartheid. During’s concept of literature as a social institution is instrumental in understanding how the novel critiques and perpetuates postsecular discourse, embodying the material interests and social functions of its era.

During’s analysis also highlights a significant shift in the literary field, from “polite learning” to one that emphasizes “sympathetic imagination and the suspension of disbelief” (During 2010, p. 3). This transformation is evident in Disgrace, as the novel delves into the ethical and emotional complexities of seeking spiritual fulfillment in a secular age. The narrative invites readers to engage with the characters’ struggles and aspirations on a deeper, more empathetic level, aligning with During’s observation that literature has expanded its scope to encompass themes that may be marginalized by a strictly secular worldview.

For Lurie and Lucy, the notion of home transcends a mere noun, a stable and fixed place of dwelling; instead, it represents an ever-elusive quest, a continuous process of seeking and establishing a sense of belonging. It is an endeavor to home what has been “unhomed”, a journey that perpetually remains just beyond their reach, reflecting their struggle to find or create a space that serves as a reliable foundation for their lives in both secular and postsecular sense. Coetzee’s portrayal of this struggle reflects the broader human condition, where distinctions between the religious and the secular, home and homelessness, are continually renegotiated. Colin Jager’s observation that Coetzee’s writings offer “resources for negotiating a world that constantly subverts easy distinctions” (Jager 2016, p. 442) is particularly apt in this context. The novel’s exploration of postsecular discourse as a social institution demonstrates literature’s capacity to not only reflect but also reshape our understanding of these complex concepts.

3. Lurie’s Postsecular Excuses

Lurie’s existential predicament is deeply intertwined with his personal interpretation and application of religious texts, reflecting an individualized approach to faith as described by Charles Taylor and analyzed by During (During 2010, pp. 115–19). At the outset of the novel, we learn of Lurie’s divorced status, which is central to his “problem of sex” (Coetzee 1999, p. 1). His complex family situation, including a daughter from his first marriage living on a farm in the Eastern Cape, and his displacement from his academic profession, contribute to his sense of rootlessness.

Lurie’s search for a traditional home and marriage leads him to engage with a prostitute, Soraya, seeking an ideal solution to his yearning. This interaction prompts him to abandon the notion that “he needed a wife, a home, a marriage” (Coetzee 1999, p. 5, emphasis mine), instead pursuing sexual desire as a fulfillment of his quest for home. Lurie’s use of religious discourse to justify his actions is a clear example of the individualization of faith, where he selectively interprets scriptures to serve his personal narrative, a tendency that During suggests is a hallmark of modern spiritual exploration (During 2010, p. 116). The paradox of Lurie’s character is that while he cites religious scriptures, his actions often contradict the religious disciplines he claims to uphold. Coetzee, through Lurie’s misinterpretations, explores the interplay between belief and intellectual dishonesty, highlighting the human tendency to manipulate religious narratives for personal ends. This manipulation is particularly poignant given Lurie’s role as a professor of Romantic literature, a position that grants him the authority to interpret and present religious texts in a way that aligns with his individualized faith journey.

Scholars have often attributed Lurie’s religious moments to his profession, noting his references to Romantic poets like William Wordsworth.5 However, this interpretation falls short of fully explaining the religious dimension present in the narrative. Coetzee’s intentional crafting of Lurie as a character who misreads religious moments may be a commentary on the postsecular condition, where traditional religious beliefs are renegotiated in the context of personal experiences and contemporary society.

Lurie’s rationalization of his promiscuity through a religious lens, while simultaneously refusing to adhere to the moral codes of religion, suggests a deeper exploration of faith beyond the confines of organized religion. This approach to faith is individualized and privatized, reflecting Taylor’s notion of spiritual hunger felt individually and During’s discussion of the privatization of religious experience in the modern world (During 2010, p. 116). Lurie’s character embodies the complex interplay between personal faith, intellectual dishonesty, and the reinterpretation of religious narratives in a postsecular context. His journey is a testament to the individualization of faith, where spiritual exploration is deeply personal and often at odds with traditional religious doctrines. Coetzee’s portrayal of Lurie invites a critical examination of how characters in post-apartheid South Africa, and in the broader modern world, grapple with issues of home, identity, and spirituality in ways that reflect the shifting landscape of faith and belief.

3.1. The Rule of St Benedict

The first privatized religious discipline appears when Lurie tries to persuade himself that he should follow his “temperament” as strictly as a rule requires, “like the Rule of St Benedict” (Coetzee 1999, p. 2). Lurie’s “temperament”, namely that he casually thinks about the possibility of a private transaction with Soraya involving spending some of the night or the whole night, but staying no later than the next morning (Coetzee 1999, p. 2), explicitly discloses his loneliness and desperation to find an alternative home.

The alternative is, of course, his absurd and dogged search for sexual satisfaction. Lurie does not elevate it into “a philosophy” but deems it “a rule” (Coetzee 1999, p. 2), which one must abide by no matter whether one likes it or not. The Rule of St Benedict is presented in the narrative to justify his choice of this alternative to home. The Rule of St Benedict was written by Benedict of Nursia, a Christian saint in the sixth century, to set forth principles to regulate the monastic life. One core principle of these rules was to enable the Christian monks, by living an ascetic life, to “make progress in the Christian virtues and to gain eternal life”, and thus create “a harmonious community of individuals” (Benedict of Nursia 2008, p. 9), so there is little hint that it advocates sexual indulgence; rather, it implicitly rejects it. Lurie indulges himself, as Hawkins notes, in “an epistemology of a new kind of bliss” (Hawkins 2009, p. 151). Moreover, he decides to make his sexual desire dominate his life as the rigorous doctrines outline the monks’ life modes. The ironical contrast is telling because, firstly, it puts more weight on the absurdity of Lurie’s claims; and, secondly, it implies that his violation of the original requirements of these doctrines will eventually be punished, just as the Rule of St Benedict addresses the question of discipline: a monk’s wrongdoing will be corrected by a series of measures, ranging from private reprimands from the abbot to expulsion from the monastery. As we can see, after refusing to make public confession for the charge pressed against him, Lurie is expelled from the academic community and retreats to stay with his daughter, Lucy, on her farm near Salem in the Eastern Cape, a home of a different kind.

However, this retreat reinforces the frustration in his homecoming, both spiritually and materially. After spending several months with Lucy on her farm and then returning to his house in Cape Town, he finds that not only is the house wrecked, but also “it does not feel like a homecoming”: he is ostracized by former colleagues, snubbed by neighbors, and still has nowhere to settle down after the roaming (Coetzee 1999, p. 175, emphasis mine). His banishment from his community and academic career in the university is also in tune with his feeling of being “out of place” after he is rationalized from being a professor of modern languages to adjunct professor of communication (Coetzee 1999, p. 4). With this background, the futility of his academic learning and lack of authority gives Lurie enough reasons to deride himself as one of the “clerks in a post-religious age” (Coetzee 1999, p. 4), who feel displaced in the current of university transformation sweeping South Africa in the 1990s, a campaign mainly aiming for economic and political rationality.6 For Lurie, teaching, as he tells Bev in the farm-based part of the novel, is “never a vocation” (Coetzee 1999, p. 162), but a way of earning his living and of recognizing his value in the secular world. In the narrator’s words, it “brings it home to him who he is in the world” (Coetzee 1999, p. 5), rather than “teach[ing] people how to live” (Coetzee 1999, p. 162). Without any identification and enthusiasm in his teaching career, especially after the transformation, Lurie is eager to find compensation in his private life, and it makes sense that every Thursday when he and Soraya meet, it becomes “an oasis of luxe et volupté” “in the desert of the week” (Coetzee 1999, p. 1). To put it differently, he seeks the comforts of home and, more broadly, his hopes for a fulfilled life, in a weekly meeting with a prostitute.

Despite self-identifying more as a scholar than a teacher, Lurie’s academic contributions have not garnered the recognition he desires. His devotion is particularly drawn to a project that stands out in his academic life: composing an opera centered on Lord Byron’s romantic liaison with Teresa Guiccioli, the poet’s 18-year old admirer, during his Italian exile. This creative endeavor is described as “a meditation on love between the sexes” (Coetzee 1999, p. 4), which parallels Lurie’s own inclination to substitute the comfort of home with the pursuit of sexual relationships. The opera serves as a thematic reflection of Lurie’s personal journey, as noted by Kai Easton, who observes the significance of “the historical and fictional implications of Coetzee’s authorial choice to situate Byron during the time of his exile in Italy” (Easton 2007, p. 115).

The concept of the mundane as discussed by During, refers to the everyday realities and experiences that exist outside the strict binary of secular and religious categorizations (During 2010, p. 121). It is a philosophical category that encapsulates the ordinary aspects of life which do not adhere to traditional religious or secular frameworks. In the context of Lurie’s journey, the opera becomes a medium through which he explores the mundane, grappling with the everyday struggles and the search for meaning beyond the confines of his personal and professional displacement.

As the story unfolds, particularly in the latter part of the novel set on the farm, the significance of the opera evolves. It becomes juxtaposed with Lurie’s growing ethical engagement with animal welfare, indicating a shift from a self-centered esthetic pursuit to a more altruistic concern for the well-being of others. This ethical turn in Lurie’s character development is indicative of a broader transformation, where his initial quest for sexual fulfillment is gradually overshadowed by a deeper, more compassionate understanding of life. The process of writing the opera, which remains unfinished, mirrors Lurie’s own journey from a state of self-absorption towards a recognition of the ethical implications of his actions and the need for a more profound connection with the world around him. The exploration of the mundane in Lurie’s life and work highlights the novel’s broader engagement with the challenges of navigating a world where traditional frameworks of understanding often fall short, and where individuals must wrestle with the complexities of their own ethical and existential choices.

Lurie’s smooth relationship with Soraya is clouded by the episode in which the two bump into each other in the town, a hint implying Lurie’s further invasion into, and his being unwelcome in, Soraya’s private life. The incident leads to the end of their transactions, but later, Lurie acts as an intruder into Soraya’s home by hiring a private detective to track down her personal information. The intrusion reaches its climax when Lurie shamefully enquires into further meetings with Soraya by phoning her home. Soraya’s harsh warning that “you are harassing me in my own house” haunts the narrative (Coetzee 1999, p. 10), and is transformed into more catastrophic disgraces in the subsequent cases of Lurie’s illicit affair with Melanie Isaacs, his colored student, and the gang-rape of Lucy by the three black men.

Given Lurie’s unwavering commitment to justifying and pursuing sexual relationships, his involvement with Soraya represents neither the inaugural nor the ultimate chapter in his quest for a surrogate for home. Soraya’s narrative emerges as a pivotal episode in Lurie’s life, highlighting his pattern of promiscuity through encounters with estranged wives, transient tourists, and even his department’s new secretary. This episode is particularly striking as it exemplifies the extent of Lurie’s search for fulfillment outside the confines of a traditional home. Lurie’s introspection reveals a flicker of remorse for his lifestyle, culminating in contemplations of castration (Coetzee 1999, p. 9). This notion of self-castration symbolizes an extreme form of self-imposed asceticism, a stark departure from the hedonistic pursuits that characterized his earlier life. The concept is further developed in the context of his subsequent immersion in caring for stray dogs on Lucy’s farm, suggesting a transformative phase in his character.

The contemplation of castration by Lurie as an extreme manifestation of asceticism presents a sharp contrast to the principles outlined in the Rule of St. Benedict. The Rule, while promoting monastic discipline and self-denial, stops short of endorsing such a severe act of bodily renunciation. Lurie’s introspective journey into asceticism prompts an engagement with the early Christian theologian Origen. Origen, an ascetic living three hundred years earlier than Benedict of Nursia, was “one of the most significant Platonists of the early church” (Ross 2012, p. 20), which indicates this ascetic’s endorsement of Plato’s dualism regarding the relationship between body and soul. In Origen’s opinion, the body becomes an obstacle for one to attain the salvation of the soul, and thus, “abstinence from sex would hasten a person’s progress” (Ross 2012, p. 20). Though there are lots of controversies whether Origen’s self-castration is true or not, it is beyond any doubt that Lurie, as a secular professor, has little hope of following these models of martyrdom. These models of righteousness are so transient that they are dwarfed by his commitment to the idea of “temperament” and his compliance with his own version of the Benedictine rule.

Lurie’s preoccupation with the concept of self-castration symbolizes his grappling with the inherent conflict between his sexual longings and his quest for a purer, more disciplined existence. The reference to Origen serves to highlight the complexity of Lurie’s internal struggle, as he seeks to reconcile the spiritual aspirations of asceticism with the corporeal realities of his desires. In the context of the novel, Lurie’s engagement with these historical and theological perspectives is reflective of his broader existential crisis. His contemplation of castration is not merely a physical act but a metaphorical representation of his desire to exert control over his sexual urges and to forge a new path towards redemption and self-discovery.

Due to the obvious contradiction between the ways Lurie uses this postsecular doctrine and its original implications, it is truer to say that Coetzee’s manipulation of postsecular language is out of irony rather than being fully investigated in terms of religious scriptures. In so doing, he manages to frame a cultural way of being—that is to say, Lurie is a carrier of cultural tensions incurred by colonial history, rather than an incarnation of Christian faith. It not only answers the above question concerning Lurie’s misreading of the religious discourse but also enables the discourse to act as a writing strategy for Coetzee to dramatize the theme of home, transcendentally and culturally. This dramatization conveys, and conversely deconstructs, Lurie’s colonial mentality, a legacy of white supremacy closely tied with the dissemination of Afrikaner Calvinism. As one of the foundations for Afrikaner nationalism and apartheid, this Calvinism significantly contributed to racist sentiment, a submerged thread in both Lurie’s relationships with Soraya, a Muslim prostitute, and Melanie Isaacs, a “dark” student in his Romantics course (Coetzee 1999, p. 18). With the decline of apartheid, this white supremacy was greatly challenged, but Lurie still stubbornly holds on to his own principle of sexuality without reconsideration of the racial issue. The pretension will find its way into his following sexual adventures, continuously and religiously.

3.2. A Servant of Eros

Then, we see Lurie’s next prey, Melanie Isaacs, step into his life. Lurie’s infatuation with Melanie Isaacs is framed within a complex tapestry of religious and philosophical allusions. Lurie attempts to sanctify his affair with Melanie by invoking Eros, the Greek god of love, positioning himself as a “servant of Eros” (Coetzee 1999, pp. 52, 89), which is his second privatized religious doctrine. This self-representation as a virtuous figure in the pursuit of love is a strategic maneuver to rationalize his actions within a Christian context that would otherwise condemn them.

Coetzee’s narrative places Lurie in a Christian milieu, yet the protagonist’s actions and justifications frequently clash with traditional Christian values. Lurie’s admiration for Lord Byron extends beyond an artistic project; it is a reflection of his own moral and ethical quandaries. When Lurie teaches Byron’s poem Lara, the parallels between the protagonist’s return home and the biblical narrative of Lucifer are not lost on Lurie. He identifies with the impulsive nature of Count Lara, who, like Lucifer, is driven by desire rather than principle (Coetzee 1999, p. 33). This identification is further emphasized by Margot Beard, who notes that Lurie sees Lara as an alter-ego for both Byron and himself (Beard 2007, p. 71).

Lurie’s interpretation of Lara is significant for two reasons. Firstly, it reinforces his tendency to sympathize with characters who act on impulse, mirroring his own approach to sexual relationships. Secondly, it reveals his struggle with the Christian concept of homecoming, which is laden with religious and moral connotations. Lurie’s identification with Lucifer, a figure who defies divine authority, suggests a deeper conflict within Lurie’s character between his desires and the moral codes he is expected to uphold.

The garden encounters between Lurie and Melanie Isaacs on campus resonate with the biblical narrative of the Garden of Eden, but this parallel requires a detailed interpretation that respects the characters’ individual complexities. Lurie’s behavior, reminiscent of the serpent’s cunning, should not overshadow Melanie’s agency. She embodies a modern Eve, possessing the autonomy to make decisions, especially when her involvement with Lurie no longer aligns with her interests (to which I will come back later). It is essential to clarify that, in Genesis, the serpent does not engage in sexual relations with the woman who later becomes known as Eve; the serpent’s role is to persuade her to taste the forbidden fruit. The term “Eve” is a post-banishment designation, and the biblical text does not suggest any seduction attempt by the serpent. This distinction is crucial to understanding the postsecular and confessional tones of the story, as noted by Sue Kossew, who describes Lurie’s actions as both “repulsive/attractive” and likens him to a serpent who “corrupts innocence while excusing his actions via confession” (Kossew 2003, p. 159).

Throughout the narrative, biblical motifs are intricately interwoven, demanding a careful interpretive approach. Lurie’s metaphorical reflection on Melanie and her sister, Desiree, as “fruit[s] of the same tree” (Coetzee 1999, p. 164) reveals his carnal interest. Yet, it is imperative to recognize that the sisters are more than symbols of desire; they are individuals with their own volition and capacity for action. A pivotal scene is Lurie’s prostration before Mrs. Isaacs and Desiree, which, despite being presented as a heartfelt apology, is complicated by the “current of desire” he feels upon meeting Desiree’s gaze (Coetzee 1999, p. 173). This moment emphasizes that Lurie’s interpretation of events is influenced by his personal desires and poetic inclinations, rather than an objective assessment.

The narrative’s allusions extend beyond the garden, as evidenced by Melanie’s family name, Isaacs, which also carries postsecular implications. The biblical story of Abraham’s willingness to sacrifice his son Isaac to demonstrate his faith in God is recontextualized in the novel, as Lucy Graham suggests, with Melanie Isaacs becoming “David Lurie’s sacrifice to Eros” (Graham 2002, p. 8). This reinterpretation of the biblical story through a postsecular lens further complicates Lurie’s understanding of his relationship with Melanie.7

When confronted by the university’s disciplinary committee, Lurie frames his defense around the transformative power of Eros, positioning himself as “a servant of Eros” (Coetzee 1999, p. 52). This self-portrayal contrasts with his earlier characterization and reflects the dual nature of the serpent in the biblical narrative. Lurie’s perspective views his interactions with Melanie not as mere indulgence but as a response to a divine call. However, this interpretation clashes with traditional Christian values, which typically confine the proper expression of Eros within the sanctity of marriage and family life.8 Lurie’s attempt to present his sexual encounters as spiritually motivated is at odds with the Christian discourse that maintains a clear distinction between the spiritual and the sexual.

The committee’s reception of Lurie’s argument reveals a critical perspective on his fusion of Christian and pagan elements. One member of the disciplinary committee quickly identifies the incongruity, labeling Lurie’s appeal to Eros as an “ungovernable impulse” (Coetzee 1999, p. 52). This critique suggests a perception of Lurie’s reasoning as not only flawed but also as a crude amalgamation of disparate religious and philosophical concepts. Conway describes Lurie’s defense as a self-constructed spectacle, revealing his manipulation of the narrative to serve his own ends and escape responsibility for his actions (Conway 2022, p. 14).

The contradiction between Lurie’s religious quotations and his secular practice becomes more complicated when he challenges the requirement from the disciplinary committee which, in Adriaan van Heerden’s words, “claims for itself a quasi-religious status by demanding demonstrations of remorse, repentance, confession, and reformation of character” (van Heerden 2010, p. 49). Conway describes Lurie’s actions as a carefully orchestrated spectacle, in which he casts himself as the central figure, manipulating the narrative to serve his own ends (Conway 2022, p. 14). The “quasi-religious status” of the disciplinary committee is mainly represented by two of its members, namely Farodia Rassool, who insists that Lurie show “contrition” (Coetzee 1999, p. 54), and Manas Mathabane, a professor of Religious Studies and chair of the hearing. After the impasse when Lurie rejects Rassool’s demand for public confession, Mathabane phones Lurie and tries to persuade him to accept a draft statement which can betray his “a spirit of repentance” (Coetzee 1999, p. 58). Again, Lurie brushes aside the suggestion and states that he makes “a secular plea” in front of “a secular tribunal” (Coetzee 1999, p. 58); he never makes repentance because “[r]epentance belongs to another world, to another universe of discourse” (Coetzee 1999, p. 58). Lurie comes to realize that the committee blurs the distinction between the requirements of the rules and spirituality of religion, so this confessional requirement is inappropriate and misplaced.

Given the background against which Coetzee wrote Disgrace in the 1990s, the disciplinary committee’s demand for Lurie’s “contrition” and Mathabane’s suggestion that Lurie express “repentance” evoke the practices of the Truth and Reconciliation Commission (TRC) (Coetzee 1999, pp. 47–48). However, these demands, despite Mathabane’s assertion that the hearing is not a trial but an inquiry, seem to misalign with the TRC’s actual stance. According to the TRC’s Chairman, Desmond Tutu, there was no requirement for perpetrators to express remorse or ask for forgiveness; what was needed was a full disclosure of their crimes to qualify for amnesty (van Heerden 2010, p. 49). This is also TRC’s approach which focuses on “restorative justice” rather than “retributive justice” (Attwell 2015, p. 223).

Coetzee’s portrayal of the disciplinary committee, particularly its deviation from the TRC’s principles, raises critical questions about the politics of pity and sympathy. The demand for public expressions of remorse can be seen as an appeal to sympathy, which, as observed by During, can sometimes replace rational thought about unjust systems and may not necessarily lead to systemic reform (During 2010, p. 43). In the novel, the insistence on contrition and repentance by the committee, especially when it is not aligned with the TRC’s actual approach, risks reducing the process to a mere spectacle of emotion, potentially undermining the deeper goals of reconciliation and justice.

Furthermore, the narrative reflects on the limits of sympathy as a political resource. By showing how the committee’s demands for emotional expressions can be misused for political purposes, Coetzee alerts us to the risk of sympathy being commodified or exploited within the public sphere. This is particularly relevant considering the discussion on sympathy’s tendency to be more readily extended to fictional characters or distant others, rather than to those with whom we have practical responsibilities.

In the context of the TRC, the risk is that the focus on emotional displays might overshadow the need for genuine engagement with the systemic injustices and the collective experiences of the affected communities. Coetzee’s critique, therefore, extends to the broader implications of the politics of pity and sympathy in post-apartheid South Africa, cautioning against the potential for these emotions to be co-opted in ways that may hinder rather than help the process of healing and transformation. Thus, Coetzee’s portrayal of the disciplinary committee’s approach to Lurie’s case serves as a critical commentary on the potential misuse of sympathy and pity in the pursuit of justice, highlighting the need for a more accurate understanding of the emotional dynamics at play in processes like the TRC.9 It underlies the importance of maintaining the integrity of such processes, ensuring they are not reduced to mere performances of remorse, but rather contribute to a meaningful and transformative reconciliation.

In addition to the political dimensions embedded in Lurie’s refusal to make his confession, his affair with Melanie acquires more historical implications when Rassool in the hearing blames him for having made “no mention of the long history of exploitation of which this is part” (Coetzee 1999, p. 53). In other words, Lurie is complicit in this “long history” because Melanie is implicitly marked as a colored student, as noted previously. To Lurie, his search for a substitute for a home is a quite personal choice and he does not care who the sacrifice to his Eros is, but he is blind to the racial dimension involved in the affair due to his white mentality. Thus, he holds that the disciplinary committee exaggerates the consequence of his affair with Melanie, which turns his personal shame into a public disgrace, so this period is, as Lurie notes in a conversation with Lucy just after he gets to the farm, “puritanical times” when “private life is public business” (Coetzee 1999, p. 66).

What Lurie says recalls Hester Prynne’s story in Nathaniel Hawthorne’s The Scarlet Letter, which is frequently used as a touchstone in Coetzee’s writings. This influence can be traced back to “Into the Dark Chamber”, where Coetzee quotes the very beginning of Hawthorne’s novel to remark that a prison, the one he focuses on, together with a cemetery, is an inevitable outcome of setting up a colony (Coetzee 1992, p. 361). Though Hawthorne’s story was set against the Puritan culture of the Massachusetts Bay Colony in the seventeenth century, there are indeed parallels between this novel and Disgrace.10

Hester is impregnated through an affair and then conceives a daughter while waiting for her long-lost husband. The adultery is legally wrong and morally unacceptable in the Puritan culture, so Hester is required to show her confession to the public on the scaffold for three hours and wear a scarlet A on her dress for the rest of her life, which is probably a sign of humiliation for adultery. In this sense, Hester’s “private life” becomes “public business”. Therefore, the first parallel between Hester and Lurie is that both rule-offenders face the punishment of expulsion and disgrace. Lurie is banished from the university while Hester lives at the fringe of the society. That Lurie is pictured with a demeaning dunce hat corresponds to the humiliating letter A on Hester’s dress. Hester is exposed to public humiliation on the scaffold, but it is not public remorse, or to put it in Lurie’s terms to describe what the disciplinary committee requires, “a spectacle” (Coetzee 1999, p. 66). The second parallel is, then, grounded in the plot that, despite receiving punishment, both Hester and Lurie refuse to make their confession. In the conversation between Coetzee and Arabella Kurtz, they refer to The Scarlet Letter as an exemplary instance of confession and truth-seeking. According to Kurtz, Hester “both embraces and defies her censure” (Coetzee and Kurtz 2015, p. 37). This is confirmed later by what Coetzee notes: “Hester never acknowledges any criminal act, never confesses” (Coetzee and Kurtz 2015, p. 41).

The parallel lies not only in the similarity in the consequences of the two protagonists’ transgression, and their subsequent attitudes to it, but also in the complex historical and ethical engagement the two novelists convey through their characters. On the one hand, Coetzee perceives that, on another occasion, Hawthorne regarded the novel as “an act of expiation” which is “to acknowledge inherited guilt and to put a distance between himself and his Puritan forebears” (Coetzee 2017, p. 15). By distancing himself from his Puritan ancestors, Hawthorne was not sympathetic to “the policing of morals” at all because “the inhuman cold-heartedness of the Puritan temperament in its New England manifestation” punished the sexual transgression (Coetzee 2017, pp. 12–13). In other words, Hawthorne showed his compassion for Hester. This is also true when it comes to Coetzee’s attitude to Lurie: the character’s artistic engagement and his ethical turn to animal welfare do disclose the novelist’s sympathy with him (to which I will come back later).

On the other hand, discernible distance is established between the author’s views and those of his literary predecessors in Coetzee’s work, a, particularly in the realm of sexuality. This distance is evident in both “The Narrative of Jacobus Coetzee” from Dusklands and in the postsecular discourse that underpins the character of Lurie in Disgrace. Coetzee’s narratives diverge from the long-standing English literary tradition that celebrates sexuality, a tradition with roots in the Romantic era and continued by modern authors like D.H. Lawrence, who portrayed sexuality as a vital expression of existential reality and personal vitality.

While Coetzee is certainly familiar with this tradition, his work does not fully embrace it. Instead, his narratives suggest a critical stance, which some might interpret as an implicit call for “the dismantling of Romanticism” (Cass 2013, p. 38). This call resonates with During’s conception of literature as a social institution (During 2010, p. 3), where individual expressions, including those of sexuality as depicted in Disgrace, are not isolated incidents but are deeply embedded within and significantly influenced by the broader social context. Thus, Coetzee’s work can be seen as engaging with and challenging the traditional romanticization of sexuality, proposing a more subtle understanding that acknowledges the social, historical, and cultural forces that shape individual experiences and expressions of sexuality.

The exchange on the consequences of the affair between Lurie and Lucy also recalls what happens to Hester. For me, Lurie may intend to take advantage of the lessons in Hester’s example to excuse his sexuality in a postsecular world, likening the present to Puritanical times. He tries to make the scandal a personal matter, but the story will not develop as he has wished. By complicating the consequences of Lurie’s alternative choice of a home, Coetzee again associates a personal issue with a more historical and political topic. However, there is one significant difference from Hester’s story in Lurie’s self-defense: the victim, Melanie Isaacs, lays a complaint against his sexual harassment while Hester’s charge is from the Puritan community. That is to say, we should not ignore Melanie’s feeling in Lurie’s case. As females in both cases, Hester is the one who is willing to shoulder, and is brave to confront, the consequences of the affair, while Melanie, though what is going on in her mind is withheld from us most of the time in the fiction, is thought to treat it as harassment and turns to the university for help.

As the novel draws to a close, Melanie’s attitude towards her affair with Lurie is unveiled in its full complexity, transcending a straightforward analogy to the biblical Eve. Lurie’s so-called “night of revelations” is not a divine intervention but a stark human encounter (Coetzee 1999, p. 194), where he discovers Melanie’s profound antipathy through the harsh words of Ryan, her boyfriend.11 This revelation is a poignant reminder of the tangible, earthly nature of truth, devoid of supernatural overtones. Melanie’s resentment is portrayed as a deliberate manifestation of her autonomy, a testament to her capacity for self-determination amidst the fluctuating tides of her emotions and the societal forces that bear upon her. Her moral ambiguity and the nuanced parallel to Eve’s story stress the intricate contours of Melanie’s personal journey, which is sculpted by her own volition and the weight of societal norms, steering clear of a simplistic portrayal of innocence or culpability.

Lurie may need to follow Ryan’s threatening advice, which is to “find yourself another life” (Coetzee 1999, p. 194). Where does his “another life” lie? It is definitely not in the streetwalker he chooses but in the work at the animal clinic he is engaged with after exiling himself to Lucy’s farm. Thus, Lurie’s engagement with the post-theistic world reflects the challenges of navigating life in a secular age, where traditional moral frameworks no longer provide a stable foundation (Conway 2022, p. 6).

The narrative on Lucy’s farm reintroduces the concept of “servant of Eros” as Lurie discusses his university scandal with his daughter, employing it to defend his affair with Melanie (Coetzee 1999, p. 89). He argues that his desires were divinely inspired, suggesting a transference of agency from the mortal to the divine. This attempt to cloak his actions in a guise of religious or mythological inevitability is a strategic maneuver to deflect personal responsibility.

The symbolism of Lurie’s subsequent analogy involving a golden retriever from Lucy’s childhood is multifaceted. The dog, punished for its natural instincts, evokes Lurie’s own situation, as he empathizes with the animal’s suffering and reflects on the harshness of the punishment (Coetzee 1999, p. 90). This anecdote serves as a metaphor for the treatment of his own sexual desires, which he believes society unjustly condemns. It also foreshadows his later involvement with animal welfare at Bev’s clinic, suggesting a nascent capacity for empathy and ethical consideration. However, the analogy’s stark realism undermines its postsecular implications, creating a jarring contrast with the religious justifications he previously employed. The incident with the dog is devoid of the transcendental or mythological dimensions Lurie seeks to invoke. Instead, it underscores the immediacy and tangible consequences of following instincts without restraint.

Lucy’s challenge to Lurie’s reasoning exposes the ethical dilemma at the heart of his argument (Coetzee 1999, p. 90). She questions the morality of allowing male instincts to go unchecked, thereby demanding a more comprehensive understanding of desire and its societal implications. Lurie’s response to Lucy’s provocation reveals his struggle to reconcile his personal desires with societal ethics, acknowledging the complexity of treating desire appropriately within an ethical framework.

3.3. Scapegoat

The analogy that Lurie draws between the scapegoat mechanism and his own experience is not entirely convincing, as his attempt to rationalize his sexual drive is abruptly halted by the introduction of the term “scapegoat” in the dialog between father and daughter. Unlike his efforts to justify his sexuality within a postsecular context, Lurie does not acknowledge that his expulsion from the university could be seen as a form of ritual sacrifice. When Lucy likens him to a scapegoat, he quickly rejects the label, arguing that it is not “the best description” (Coetzee 1999, p. 91). Lurie’s extended discourse on the matter is worth quoting to shed light on his complex views regarding the interplay of sexuality, sacrifice, and the secular world.

Scapegoating worked in practice while it still had religious power behind it. You loaded the sins of the city on to the goat’s back and drove it out, and the city was cleansed. It worked because everyone knew how to read the ritual, including the gods. Then the gods died, and all of a sudden you had to cleanse the city without divine help. Real actions were demanded instead of symbolism. The censor was born, in the Roman sense. Watchfulness became the watchword: the watchfulness of all over all. Purgation was replaced by the purge.

(Coetzee 1999, p. 91)

Lurie’s discourse accentuates the secular nature of contemporary society, where he suggests that religious rituals have been supplanted by tangible actions and oversight. His resistance to being labeled a “scapegoat” is rooted in his self-perception as a “dangerous element” removed through actual expulsion rather than a victim of ceremonial purification (Sutcliffe 2009, p. 186). Lurie perceives his punishment as retributive, reflecting society’s shift towards assigning blame and retribution over reconciliation and healing, echoing the broader themes of justice and atonement in the novel.

Girard’s concept of the scapegoat mechanism, as described in The Scapegoat, provides a deeper understanding of this social phenomenon, historically dependent on religious foundations to assign and absolve collective guilt. Lurie’s discourse aligns with Girard’s assertion that modern societies have lost the capacity to integrate victims within the community through myth and ritual (Girard 1986, p. 47), instead resorting to acts of exclusion and punishment. The secular demands tangible actions over symbolism, leading to the emergence of the censor in the Roman sense, where watchfulness replaces the purgative ritual (Coetzee 1999, p. 91). This signifies a move from restorative to retributive justice, indicative of a society that seeks to assign blame concretely rather than symbolically. Lurie’s self-perception as a “dangerous element” highlights his understanding that his punishment is a response to his perceived threat to societal norms, rather than a restorative process (Sutcliffe 2009, p. 186). Lurie’s rejection of the scapegoat label and his interpretation of his expulsion as a retributive act reflect a deeper understanding of the societal mechanisms at play, which are inherently mimetic, driven by the desire to replicate the actions of others and to conform to societal expectations (Girard 1986, p. 62).

Thus, we can see the narrative of Disgrace and Girard’s theoretical framework converge in their exploration of the scapegoat mechanism in a secular context. Both highlight the challenges of navigating the complexities of justice, responsibility, and reconciliation in a society that has abandoned traditional rituals for more tangible, yet often harsher, forms of retribution. Lurie’s discourse serves as a critical lens through which to examine the persistence of scapegoating in modern society and the individual’s struggle to assert innocence in the face of collective guilt.

Lurie’s intertwining of sexual epistemology with religious doctrines reflects the complex interplay of a white postcolonial mindset and an initial blindness to ethnicity in the post-apartheid context. The violent home invasion on Lucy’s farm serves as a turning point, shattering this blindness and revealing the deep-rooted historical nature of colonial violence. This event forces a confrontation with the reality of racial and social tensions that have been suppressed or ignored. Despite Lucy’s insistence on treating the gang-rape as a personal matter, her decision to enter a polygamous marriage with Petrus can be viewed as an enigmatic form of submission, echoing Magda’s submission to Hendrik in In the Heart of the Country, where she describes her experience as a necessary “purgatory we must pass through on the way to a land of milk and honey” (Coetzee 1977, p. 129). This concept of purgatory as atonement is further nuanced by Girard’s scapegoat theory, which posits that victims of collective violence may serve as catalysts for societal reconciliation.

In the context of Lucy’s narrative, her personal tragedy and subsequent actions symbolize a form of societal purgation. Her individual experience mirrors the broader process of healing and reconciliation that the community must undergo to address its historical wounds. Thus, Lucy’s choice of a polygamous marriage with Petrus, while seemingly a personal decision, also represents her unconscious role as a scapegoat, embodying the collective guilt and the path toward atonement for the community.

The divergence between Lurie and Lucy’s understanding of home intensifies this narrative. After the violent attack, their argument about returning to the farm marks their contrasting perspectives. Lurie’s view of home as a spiritual and fluid concept is manifested in his sexual pursuits, artistic endeavors, and advocacy for animal welfare. In contrast, Lucy’s understanding is grounded in a “secular atonement”, a pragmatic acceptance of her farm’s troubled history and her personal experiences (Boehmer 2002, p. 349). This disagreement is emblematic of their deeper philosophical divergence, where Lurie’s spiritual fluidity clashes with Lucy’s tangible connection to the land and her commitment to the reality of her situation.

4. Lucy’s Secular Atonement

Lucy’s enigmatic choices are illuminated through the lens of individual experience as a reflection of the collective, a principle that During articulates in his analysis of literature as a social institution (During 2010, p. 3). Lucy’s dedication to her farm life, despite the challenges she faces, is a profound expression of her connection to the land and the old, rural way of life, which is shattered by the brutal assault she endures. This event forces her to confront the lingering racial conflicts of the post-apartheid era, transforming the narrative into an anti-pastoral farm novel that challenges the idealized “dream topography” Coetzee discusses in White Writing.12

Lucy’s response to the attack, her refusal to report it, and her acceptance of Petrus’s offer, are rooted in her secular commitment to her homecoming, even as the farm becomes a contested territory emblematic of ethnic conflicts. Wenzel and Smit-Marais emphasize that the farm is not a mythical or religious space, but rather a secular one where Lucy’s choices reflect a firmness to pay the price for her return (Wenzel and Smit-Marais 2006, p. 28). Her decision to keep the baby conceived in the attack is described as being without transcendent or metaphysical implications, highlighting the secular nature of her response (Saxena 2017, p. 131).

By focusing on the characters’ responses to the series of disgraceful events, Coetzee strikes a contrast between Lurie’s indulgence in his sexuality and Lucy’s suffering in the assault to explore the complex interplay between individual desire and collective history. That is to say, if we recognize any righteousness in Lurie’s religious self-justification, the recognition will be dramatically challenged by the hatred and excitement the three rapists feel towards Lucy. As Derek Attridge puts it, “any temptation to exaggerate the positive side of this force [desire] is challenged by its other significant manifestation in the novel, the desire that—whatever other motives are at work—stiffens the penises that enter Lucy Lurie’s unwilling body.” (Attridge 2000, p. 116) At this stage, Lurie ceases to justify the desire but tries to convince Lucy of the futility and the foolishness of her decision, postsecularly:

“Do you think that by meekly accepting what happened to you”, he angrily asks, “[you will receive] a sign to paint on the door-lintel that will make the plague pass you by? That is not how vengeance works, Lucy. Vengeance is like a fire. The more it devours, the hungrier it gets”.

(Coetzee 1999, p. 112)

Lucy’s reticence after the terrifying experience and her refusal to report it to the police, in Lurie’s mind, will not work as “a sign to paint on the door-lintel” to save her from trouble. This biblical allusion is from Exodus, a section related to the theme of homecoming, where the Israelites were instructed to paint their door with the blood of the lamb to make God only kill Egyptians and save themselves. Lurie challenges Lucy’s silence in this matter, but Lucy furiously rebuts the tropes of the plague and fire, and tells Lurie that it is only his fabrication: “If that is what you think, you miss the point entirely.” (Coetzee 1999, p. 112). When Lurie borrows the word “salvation” to interpret Lucy’s solution, Lucy repudiates it again by saying “[g]uilt and salvation are abstractions. I don’t act in terms of abstractions.” (Coetzee 1999, p. 112). Poignantly, Lucy’s secular interpretation of the homecoming reduces her to a scapegoat of historical hatred. When Lucy is puzzled over the motivation of the rapists, Lurie replies that “[i]t was history speaking through them” (Coetzee 1999, p. 156), which manifests the scapegoatship in Lucy’s case.

When Lurie returns to the farm due to his concern about Lucy’s safety, Lucy warns him that one of the rapists, Pollux, the black boy who has kinship with Petrus, has returned to join Petrus’s family. This, to Lurie, is “a new revelation” (Coetzee 1999, p. 199). As discussed previously, one “revelation” to Lurie is the harsh warning from Ryan to tell him to find his own life. This “new revelation”, functioning as a shock to our protagonist, makes him contemplate how Lucy and Petrus’s family can get along with each other after the former’s assent to the latter’s degrading offer. The following incident confirms Lurie’s worries. Pollux peeps at Lucy when she is taking a shower and then Lurie, together with the bulldog Katy, strikes him severely. In spite of Lurie’s outrage and Pollux’s swearing revenge, Lucy tries to make peace with the case. This leads to his decision to move away from his daughter and rent a room in a house in Grahams town.

The contrasting perspectives of Lurie and Lucy on the concept of home contribute significantly to the strained parent–child relationship that unfolds throughout the novel. This discordance is emblematic of the broader societal need for reconciliation and the forging of new social bonds that can facilitate collective healing and advancement. In a pivotal scene at the novel’s conclusion, Lurie visits Lucy, and she extends to him the simple courtesy of a host: an offer of tea (Coetzee 1999, p. 218). This gesture, though seemingly minor, signifies a critical shift in their relationship, establishing a “new footing, a new start” that is grounded in the principles of visitorship and visitation. It is a poignant reflection of the potential for societal healing and the emergence of novel social dynamics that can propel a community forward after a period of conflict or upheaval.

The discord between Lurie and Lucy is not merely familial but also mirrors the deeper societal divisions and the “fundamental flaw in the colonial enterprise” as identified by Elizabeth Lowry in her review of Disgrace (Lowry 1999). Their relationship, fraught with tension and marked by difference, serves as a microcosm of the larger social fabric that has been rent by the legacy of colonialism and the ongoing process of post-apartheid reconciliation.

5. Conclusions

Lurie’s new footing relies more on his engagement with caring for the abandoned dogs at Bev’s clinic, an enterprise at which he initially feels surprised because “animal-welfare people are a bit like Christians of a certain kind” (Coetzee 1999, p. 73). The seemingly powerful religious doctrine never finds its way into Lurie’s relationship with Bev, but it is through Bev, who is “not a veterinarian but a priestess” (p. 84), that Lurie finally settles down to the business as “a dog man” (Coetzee 1999, p. 146). In Kossew’s words, Bev is Lurie’s “redeemer” but in an “unlikely form”, and the dogs finally provide a solution for Lurie to “[discuss] the soul and [share] his own disgrace” (Kossew 2003, p. 160). Differently put, it is by euthanizing the dogs and ferrying the corpses to the incinerator that Lurie eventually finds the possible alternative to home. He takes care of these corpses neither for the sake of dogs nor for saving Bev’s labor, but out of a belief that there is “a world in which men do not use shovels to beat corpses into a more convenient shape for processing” (Coetzee 1999, p. 146). His previous Eros is indeed elevated into an ethical state, a more sacred feeling to sympathize with the suffering of the other embodied in animal corpses.

By focusing on the alterity in such a transcendental way, the postsecular language becomes a space for Lurie to muse on the possibility of how to live in a situation where the social relation seems irredeemable. This irredeemablity arose out of the long colonial history, which was too corrosive to allow South Africa to achieve a healthy state by means of its own self-reconstruction. The failure in this self-reconstruction inched its way not only into people’s most intimate lives, as discussed earlier, but also into the available alternatives for one to redeem oneself. In his quest for meaning beyond the confines of a history marred by colonialism and personal scandal, Lurie’s journey transcends his initial pursuit of sexual gratification. The “home” he now seeks is a metaphorical space, one that is liberated from the deterministic weight of the past. This new sanctuary is articulated through Lurie’s dedication to the esthetic and the ethical, two domains that offer him a chance at redemption and a redefinition of his identity.

Lurie’s esthetic dedication is channeled into his work on the opera, which evolves from a celebration of Byronic sensuality to a more intricate portrayal of human emotion and longing. This creative transformation signifies a shift from self-absorption to a deeper empathy for the human condition. Concurrently, his ethical concern materializes in his compassionate care for the abandoned dogs, an act that stands in stark contrast to his earlier, more hedonistic pursuits.

The musical endeavors that Lurie has grappled with throughout the novel reemerge at a pivotal juncture, serving not to glorify his previous indulgences in sexuality but to mirror his ongoing process of transformation and introspection. This shift in the role of music in his life signifies a departure from using it as a means to exalt or justify his sexual experiences. Instead, it becomes a reflective medium, echoing his inner journey and the evolution of his values. When he is back in the looted house in Cape Town, he aborts the previous draft of the opera, the Byronic one, and rewrites it into a work revolving around Teresa in her middle age. In the new version, Teresa is “a dumpy little widow installed in the Villa Gamba with her aged father” longing for her one-time lover, desperately and melancholically (Coetzee 1999, pp. 181–83). The rewriting signifies Lurie’s “empathetic identification” with the lonely woman, a feeling chiming with what he begins to share with dogs in the latter part of the novel (Beard 2007, p. 73).

Lurie is indeed on his way to redemption. When helping Bev at her animal clinic to kill the unwanted dogs, he is capable of “giving it what he no longer has difficulty in calling by its proper name: love” (Coetzee 1999, p. 219). Conway notes Lurie’s newfound capacity for love and care through his work with animals, suggesting a redemptive aspect to his character development (Conway 2022, p. 22). The trope in the last sentence is significant in the postsecular sense. When Lurie decides to abandon the last crippled creature he has a particular attachment to, he bears it “like a lamb” to the killing table, alluding to the sacrifice of the lamb in the Bible (Coetzee 1999, p. 220). This sacrifice is part of his effort to “[work] through the endlessness of his skepticism and towards repentance” (Kossew 2003, p. 160), an ironical response to what Lurie refers to as belonging to “another world, to another universe of discourse” (Coetzee 1999, p. 58).

The ethical turn betrays Coetzee’s sympathy with Lurie’s plight at some deeper level, though the novelist reveals many contradictions and self-serving arguments his character has made. This sympathy bears two symbolic meanings. To begin with, because of the ethical dimension the narrative suggests, the novel is not one with total negativity but with a degree of positivity. Though we cannot tell whether Lurie’s final alternative is promising or ominous, a question beyond literature to answer, the novel will not, at least, “merely become a part of the darkness it describes” (Rushdie 2002, p. 340).

The ethical turn in Coetzee’s narrative reflects a complex sympathy for Lurie’s plight, acknowledging the character’s contradictions and self-serving arguments. This sympathy is not without its limits because sympathy may sometimes replace rational thought about the systems that cause suffering (During 2010, p. 43). However, the presence of sympathy in Disgrace does more than hint at a resistance to total negativity. It offers a degree of positivity, suggesting that the novel will not “merely become a part of the darkness it describes” (Rushdie 2002, p. 340). Undoubtedly, Lurie’s final available alternative to home is a very personal and liberal one, just as most Coetzee’s characters do, including Michael K, the Magistrate, Mrs Curren, and so forth, when facing the historical crisis incurred by settler colonialism. To Coetzee, any social answer, such as revolution, democracy, etc., may not be the ideal solution to such a crisis because the deep-structured colonial mentality is impossible to be rooted out overnight. To put it differently, the fate of settler colonialism is doomed. The ethical concern is one of the ways for Coetzee, via his characters’ cultural displacement, to explore the possible alternatives, to which the postsecular discourse in Disgrace contributes. Thus, the collapse of the settler-colonial project reaches its culmination in this novel. The vision of society in Disgrace is definitely that of a man who is about to abandon the attempt to make South Africa a home and move somewhere else. Coetzee is indeed on his way to exploring a habitation beyond the reach of history, one filled with postsecular longing and imagination. As Attwell puts it, it is “an afterlife of sorts: one’s formative experiences lie elsewhere and one enters a realm of private accommodations” (Attwell 2011, p. 11). This is why postsecular discourse becomes so important in Coetzee’s later fiction while the South African context is intentionally omitted, ranging from a plausible Adelaide-based Slow Man to the historically placeless Jesus novels.