The Nobel Prize Lecture

The following is an official transcript of the Nobel lecture given on Dec. 10, 20--:

Ladies and gentlemen, your majesties, and my fellow laureates: I must say that I still feel as though I have been having a long and beautiful dream these last few months. Nothing can prepare the writer for the moment – a vivid point of realization - when he discovers that his chosen profession was not a mistake or a whim that would have been best left to adolescence. For that, I thank the academy. I thank you all.

If you will permit me, I will spend some time discussing my life as an artist and how it was possible for me to become a writer. In their time, William Faulkner spoke of “the agony and the sweat” of our labour; Camus meditated on his inability to live without art; and Rushdie analysed the actual construction of a book and what it could possibly reveal about its author. I will also attempt to use this moment for other things, knowing the import that this honour has for all of my fellow citizens - the first time our country has been so honoured in this field. First, there are themes that the critics have discovered in my work which need some comment. Then I will take a moment to discuss certain controversies that have followed me over the course of the last twenty years, such as the ones that you in the press may be more familiar with than necessary. My life and the details not present in the journals or newspapers announcing my receipt of this award will illuminate much that the critics have failed to reveal. Please bear with my garrulousness and excuse me for any confusion which may arise.

Critics spend their time mentioning that I often concern myself with the minutiae of life to the detriment of noticing the essentials of living in a fast and shape-shifting culture. I accept part of this critique, but I must mention how human beings work with sensations and change. We are all sensitive to these points of reference yet may not know how to understand them. Often, they are accepted or ignored and stored away in the mind. For me, the one thing that leads back to the memories of my childhood is peppermint. Yes, peppermint. We boiled the raw leaves that grew in our small garden and drank the tea as a family. I can even recall the cup my serving would be poured into, its dimensions and weight. And I would recall the mornings when drinking this brew would be a necessity against the cold that seemed a living creature outside the door, prowling in the neighbourhood. As a child, you may not think these memories exist to be recalled later in life, but artists are not allowed to forget. We always work with what others have forgotten, which brings me to another theme: the reference to the “missing figure” in my novels. Perhaps this is a fair observation. In “Straightjacket” and “So What About the Others?” there are male figures that do not perform their roles either due to absence or their own selfish behaviour. That may be a trope, or trap, that I cannot escape from when I move from one book to the next. Only my non-fiction, play-writing, and television work is seen as formless, which seems very odd. I make every effort to do my best and still entertain. Dear critics, please take a second look! (much laughter)

I mentioned controversies, so let me be brief with them. Some of the newspapers here and abroad mention my marriages and affairs as if they are all that matter, as though the books are the results of such things. I have finished a third marriage after ten years of what I considered bliss and met someone new with whom I can finally say that I feel a true love. And yes, she is an actress, just like the others. It may be that I am fulfilling a wish that I have long had to be a part of the limelight. The academy may be playing its part in that dream. (laughter)

Now, the main focus of my talk: the origin of the man you see before you. You could not piece together the ill-fitting sections of my life and arrived at a writer. My voice is just one of many that may have never been heard if it were not for a love of books, a love of creation. In my family, no one was intellectually adventurous. We owned an ancient dictionary, several bibles and an atlas. That was a book which I confess hypnotized me whenever I had a chance to open its heavy cover and explore. That made the act of reading more than visual to me. It made me desire to think of new ideas, new places. There was also the issue of never being read to as a young boy. No one ever stood between me and those few available books. My mother, bless her, would spend her rare free time singing to me or to no one but the space of the kitchen. This would wake me on Sunday mornings when we had to go to church and could expect a large breakfast after praying for our souls. With my father, things are on a different standing. I say “are” because I never feel as though I have escaped from what he was. We had a fine poet in my country who once wrote, “My father’s body was a globe of fear”; I would always have that image in my mind when thinking of him. He did not want to know me and seemed determined to remain unknown to me. There were humiliations, physical and mental assaults and verbal hectoring. Throttles, slaps, shoves and punches are not emotional, meaning that anyone can recover from them. It is what remains inside that suffers. A child begins to believe in his or her own lack of worth when no other opinion is ventured. My mother was never a participant or observer. She had no need to be. When she learned of these events, it was a difficult but important step in both our lives. We now knew each other beyond what most families allow themselves to feel. And when she passed away I mourned that I had not only lost a parent but also a friend who knew me well. Maybe I am still searching for that friend. (pause)

Finally, let me say that this Defoe accepts this award as recognition of all that I have done to make sure that my voice is heard and accepted by readers and especially the writers who are now taking those journeys into their imaginations and discovering all of the wonders that reside there. I hope that one day they will also have a chance to share this honour with me and the long line of dreamers who let their voices exist and grow on the page.

Once again, many thanks. (applause)

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You can find more poems, stories, and articles by Kendall Defoe on my Vocal profile. I complain, argue, provoke and create...just like everybody else.

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