I don't read J.M. Coetzee for pleasure. To be fair, I'm not sure anyone does. The 2003 Nobel laureate writes from his head more than his heart, framing novels that are philosophical and austere, books that break down the world in highly rational ways. Over the course of his career, he's been compared to Beckett and Kafka, although despite the occasional nod in their direction — the title character of his 1983 novel "The Life and Times of Michael K." functions to some extent as an homage to "The Trial's" Josef K. — he lacks their appreciation of humor, of life as essentially absurd.
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