When The Story of an African Farm was published in 1883, the title gave no indication to readers what the complex scope of the novel was really about.

Written by South African governess, Olive Schreiner, the book's crux ran along the controversal: the oppression of women, feminism, the existance of God, anti-imperialism, the bizarre transformation of one the novel's characters (not Lyndall) into a transvestite. It goes on and on. The novel was written when the belief of agnosticism was in the early stages of being in 'vogue.' Also interesting, Darwin's Origin of the Species had been published for some time, and the theory had rooted itself in many areas of society.

This was not the traditional Victorian novel that was written in the old English 'bonne bouche' manner on par with Jane Eyre or Emma. The prose of the novel has a broken up fluidity to it; it is not grandiloquent; it is in fact, quite brutal, edgy. As Elaine Showalter writes in the excellent introduction to the Bantam Classic edition, "Readers expecting the structured plot of a typical three-volume Victorian novel were startled by the oddity of African Farm, with its poetic, allegorical, and distinct passages, and its defiance of narrative and sexual conventions." With that clearly explained, it is not a surprise that it shocked old, priggish Englanders with their stiff upper lips and staunch, conservative manners, nor is it shocking that the Church of England called the novel "blasphemous."

African Farm details the lives of three key characters: Waldo, Em and Lyndall. The latter character is the one who seems to bring up the key issues that made the novel controversal. Lyndall is always described as 'little,' 'delicate,' 'like a doll,' 'a flower.' However, she is the one who refuses to marry (with one minor exception to the rule) until a social equilibrium is established between men and women. She desires equality between the sexes, and is willing to suffer for it. And she does, more than what is expected. Odd as it may seem, but considering the period in which the novel was written, the character of Lyndall really had to be physically 'feminized' in order to make up for her strongly held convictions of being a 'total' woman and not 'half' a woman.

If any person reads the novel, the character of Lyndall needs (from my view) special attention, for she questions the values of men, women who accepted the standard, religion and the social hierarchy in which she was born. Her questions seem like cartels, challenges. Why can't she have a job? Why can't she be educated or independent without the stigma 'weirdo' unflinchingly attached to her? Why must she be dubbed 'strange?' The reader must always ask why when reading this book. The three characters, Lyndall especially, endure a lot of hardship, a hardship that mirrored the very author's life, i.e. her cold and distant upbringing, the religious retraints placed on her life as well as the life-clenching grasp that old norms had on women of that period. African Farm was Olive Schreiner's liberty, her freedom from the societal choke hold.

In conclusion, the novel is not one of grace and patrician dogma. It is not a book of nice ladies and gentlemen sitting under the African sun near exotic, wild flowers sipping tea and participating in intellectual banter. No, it is an underscored work of literature where ideas of human aspiration and ecumenical desires are explored under a blazing sun and burnt, sandy plain.

...it would be awfully short-sighted to say it was. I came across Olive Schriner by accident which goes to show that quality is not always given the profile it deserves. But now I'm going to rectify that. Olive Schriner is a genius. This book should be right up there with Woolf's 'Mrs.Dalloway' and Hesse's 'Glass Bead Game'. Read it - that's all. You can't get to the end of your life without doing so, and since that can come at any moment read it NOW.

This is an exception coding book which is more detailed and informative than the current publications. This book should be rated a 15 in a rank of 1-10.

As a South African living in Europe with a similar and yet in many ways different background, I am able to identify with Mr Jacobson's sensitive account of his search for his family roots in Lithuania. The construction of the work itself is a masterpiece: first his perception of Lithuania from South Africa, then his childhood in South Africa and then the encounter with Lithuania, where he finds nothing concrete and yet conveys the atmosphere of what he finds so movingly. The touching letter to his grandfather and his dream at the end are full of feeling and yet not in the least sentimental. This book has deeply impressed me and given me a wonderfully tragic picture of Lithuania.

Demetrios Tsafendas' life was one of rejection, depression, yearning, and mental illness. Try as he might, he could not fit in. Nor could he get acceptance for his bi-racial heritage. The author, Henk Van Woerden, writes a succinct biography of the man who murdered Hendrik Verwoerd, the "architect of apartheid". He peppers his story with his own perceptions of the South African policies that destroyed communities in order to segregate the races. South Africa's policies, however, of separating the black and white races (among other races and ethnicities), left those of mixed heritage with nowhere to go - not accepted by either race. Tsafendas lived in this nowhere land.

A really beautiful book that makes you feel sorry for the assassin and for the country of South Africa.

Henk van Woerden describes the life of Demitrios Tsafendas who killed the South-Afrcan prime minister Verwoerd in 1966. Demitrios was born in Mozambique from a Greek father and a black mother, a fact that haunted him for the rest of his life: there was no place where people really accepted him en his existence was a series of deportations (Mocambique, South Afrika, USA, Greece, Portugal) and rejections (by his father, his stepmother, his stepbrothers and -sisters and a potential wife. No wonder that this would make a human crazy. In the end he destroys the roots of evil by killing the face of apartheid.

In between all this we can read the writers own experiences during a number of visits (1989-1998) to South Africa, the country where he lived from age 9 to 21. There is no reason to celebrate: a torn country full of violence.

As I read this issue travelling from LA to New York and back, I saw there was a secret thread that held most of the pieces in it together: Ghosts of one sort or another. Henk van Woerden's excellent "The Assassin" is about a man who had no sense of identity, and whose attempt to find one led to the assassination of South African premier Hendrik Verwoerd in September 1966. His Demetrios Tsafendas is a man without a country, without a religion, and without the human affiliations that seem to make life worth living.

Other pieces in this thread are Hanif Kureishi's arresting "Goodbye, Mother" about a son's inability to deal with his aging mother; Graham Swift's "Our Nicky's Heart," about a boy's death in a motorcycle accident and its strange aftermath; and especially Richard Williams's haunting "Gifted," about his search for jazz trumpeter Dupree Bolton, one of the best written pieces I have ever read on the subject of jazz. Also, I must add Kent Klich's sad "Born in Romania," about HIV-positive Romanian children whom he photographed, many of whom died before the article went to press.

I enjoyed Diana Athill's "Editing Vidia," a contribution in the emerging subgenre of why V.S. Naipaul is not likeable (adding to Paul Theroux's article last year in the NEW YORKER). The question I ask is, what does that have to do with Naipaul's work? Niceness is not a trait common to all great artists, so why belabor the point?

There are also short pieces by Paul Theroux and Keith Ridgway that struck me more as fillers for an otherwise excellent issue of this indispensable publication.