Language of whose

I have been reading Bryce Courtenay's “The power of one” for a while. It's a great read and I take my time savoring each sentence and the happiness and sadness between lines of a little boy’s growing experience. The story itself intrigues me tremendously although I do not have full understanding of South African's apartheid. The fact that I haven't read many books about South African writers also shows my ignorance regarding this issue.

My point is while I was perusing lines of agony and amazing surprises hidden in the book, I suddenly had a question. The detailed description of the oblivious environment, cottages, gardens and cacti, the vocabulary used and the way dialogues flew all made me wonder how those could be conjured up from a five-year-old. Certainly the story might be written as an autobiography with the first person narrating the entire story. Yet, a child's cognition and vocabulary seem impossible to represent what an adult conceives and comprehends in society. So, whose language is the author applied in writing? Perhaps it has never been discussed, or perhaps it's not that of an important matter.

So far, I'm half way through the book but I have a hunch that the main character will be going through some more adversary and dilemmas. Peekay was lucky enough to have an erudite professor from Germany tutoring him all kinds of knowledge, especially in piano lessons and botany. Once again that proves if a child receives early training and stimulation in learning, the brain can efficiently absorb massive amounts of knowledge. Question is: Who should be the mentor? Who can guarantee that pride and greed will not intervene on the way of acquiring wisdom and philosophy of life…

Pure Leaf

Pure Leaf
Journal 1

The light went off as breeze secretly brushed through the silver window. Magic simmered in a pottery vase hidden in the corner. Suddenly a sharp sound caved into the membranes of my eardrums, echoing a familiar yet creepy memory from the past.
“Who has stolen my yellow tart, not cheese?” said I. I hated cheese- the pungent smell repulsed me when elders offered what they thought as a great gift. I was very little, not more than six years old, living in a white village surrounded by loquat trees.

The yearly harvest festival held at the fall of blue moon in the autumn was one of the biggest events in our hometown. My grandparents would decorate the house with bamboo leaves freshly picked from the field. Red couplets with auspicious phrases were posted on both sides of the gate; and a new loofah sprout was planted in the front yard, signaling the next year’s good fortune and health.

My parents were busy dealing with our produce business as it was the harvest season: peanuts were ready to be dug out of the soil, millets were golden brown, taros were as big as a grown man’s foot, and other green vegetables were showing off their shining colours in the sun. “Yes, this is my favourite time of the year!” shouted my cousin and I at the top of our lungs.

“Ai-yah, how many times have I told you two to stay away from the stove? It’s dangerous to run around while I am preparing rice cake!” snorted impatiently my grandmother. But Jin-Lin and I loved to watch grandma busying herself in the kitchen. All the utensils and ingredients for making our harvest feast had special power over us, not because we knew we would have lots of delicious food but because there was a genuine and unique tradition followed by the big yearly dinner that night…

Umbilical Cord

Umbilical Cord

Source of nutrient
Attached
Two individuals
To
Expectation from instinct
Love of motherhood
Yet
Many seem to forget
The moment of birth
It’s also the fall of umbilical cord
A pathway growing pain too much regret
If one does not let go the full-fledged dove

Written by JerSki BjorkSen