The Impostor Book

The Shallow Intimacy of The Impostor

(Exploring the Vortex with Damon Galgut)

Dear Damon,

When we met in Antwerp, I caught a glimpse of what my life might be like if my dream of literary fame and fortune ever came true. It was not a pretty sight. You had arrived in Belgium on your own, with a couple of interviews and appearances lined up. Then it was off to Amsterdam for a day, to meet with your Dutch publisher, before jetting off to Canada for a book tour (lasting a month, if memory serves). I'm sure this sounds like heaven to some, but the first thought that crossed my little, middle-class mind was: where would I leave the kids? Closely followed by: how would I gift wrap this as a pleasurable experience for my dear wife? So perhaps I'm projecting my own feelings on you when I say you seemed somewhat lost and lonely.

But that was before I read The Impostor, in which I also sensed a spirit of desolation, isolation, emptiness, desperation (delete one or more, as you see fit ). Am I correct in believing that the catalytic incident in the book - the chance meeting between two old schoolmates - derives from your own experiences at home and abroad? I can well imagine that there are times when people treat you like a hero and as if they know you intimately, whereas you don't have the foggiest notion who they are. This sense of "shallow intimacy" is shared by almost all the characters in your book, exacerbating each of their personal flaws and ethical shortcomings. As if all relationships are merely pragmatic transactions, in which emotion is an obstacle rather than a driving force - a terrifying, almost biological take on human interaction.

I am sure some will see this as a drawback, but to readers like myself - who expect to be challenged and provoked by what they read - this sense of utter desolation and desperation, that prevails both within the characters and the world they inhabit, is testimony to the power of your writing. Even now, as I reflect upon your book, I feel a black hole opening up at my core, the vortex gradually growing, leaving me ever emptier, until I turn my mind to other things.