John van de Ruit's Spud feels like something of a throwback. It's the story -- in the form of a diary -- of a 14 year old boy's first year at boarding school in South Africa. It's not particularly brutal, but hardly wistful or overly-romanticized. It's just fun. Familiar -- even to those like myself who never went to boarding school (though perhaps I did just enough summer camps away to connect) -- without being cringe-inducing or uncomfortable.
There is the requisite death (without dwelling on it or maudlin drama; these are 14 year old boys, after all, not 50 year old men channelling 14 year old boys), a grand drama (the school is staging a production of "Oliver"), lots of farting, barfing (not so much connected to the...), drinking (the majority being done by the adults), madness, and sex, sex, sex. Or rather talk about sex. The sex that is had, if it is actually had, happens off-stage.
Like much of the life of a 14 year old boy.
Good fun, on the whole.
Though now, I suppose, I really ought to turn my attention back to "serious" South African literature. And we all know what that means (though someday I do wish someone would explain to me why): buggery. Lots and lots of buggery...
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