Gentle, funny, fierce.
A generous friend and a wonderful writer.
In around 2011, visiting with his wife Sanpad, Harry told me and Heidi, over a glass of wine, that he was doing an MA in creative writing at Stellenbosch. Marlene van Niekerk and Willem Anker were in charge. It sounded wonderful and I wondered if they'd take an Englishman. Harry said he thought they would. He made inquiries. He opened a door for me and The Book of War was the result. He was generous like that. Generous to other writers, which not necessarily an easy thing for a writer to be.
Last year he won the Sunday Times Literary Award for the English version of his MA novel, A Thousand Tales of Johannesburg. Not long after, he learned that he had cancer. He was fierce about the Oncologist who gave him the news. About the way he did it. A deep anger hit the consonants of the word, kanker. Kanker ouboet. Kanker.
I told him that, when I was around twenty, my mother said she was dying and I said: no you not, Mom. I told him that I owed a karmic debt for that denial. Harry said he was happy to take advantage of it.
So we talked about dying, tried to. It doesn't help much. We go through that door alone. We were working writers, earned our living of it, it was one of our connections. We could complain and laugh together about the unglamorous realities. I tried it a few times but Harry was no longer interested. A least you not dying, he said.
Second last time I saw him, he was lying on a couch in the sun in he and Sanpad's house in Observatory. I read something for him, a Japanese short story. He got this idea of having a series of readings. His friends reading to him in that sunny room. I agreed that it could be a lovely film. He got excited. Got up even. And then he went back to sitting, hunched forward over a hot water bottle. He apologized for the posture, said it worried some people.
I mentioned that the only thought I’d had, in terms of bringing something to read, was the first scene with the Judge in Blood Meridian. The scene with the Reverend Green in the tent in the rain. Where the Judge accuses the Reverend of bestiality. Harry laughed. It wasn’t something he would have chosen. But he remembered the scene in detail from times I’d told him about it. Even quoted from it. “With a goat.”
We laughed.
The last time I saw him, he had moved permanently to his and Sanpad's bedroom. He was sitting on the edge of the bed and he did a strange thing. He sat up straight and opened his arms wide. He tilted his head back. His eyes rolled up and he fell slowly on onto the pillows. I was frightened. I thought: he's dying, Sanpad should be here. Harry sat up again. I told him my fear. He said, me too. And then, but that doesn't mean you have to put on the fake worried look.
He was trying to ease the moment, I think. Lighten it.
I will miss him. His sharpness, his quirk. His courage in the face of death.
He leaves Sanpad, a fine tall son, Daniel, and a beautiful daughter, Jana. They kept him company every step of the way. Right up to the door.
He leaves a large body of plays to be performed, books to be read.
May God, or whatever means the good, bless you, Harry Kalmer. May God, or whatever means the good, bless you and keep you and make her face to shine upon you and give you peace.
This night and for ever more.
A generous friend and a wonderful writer.
In around 2011, visiting with his wife Sanpad, Harry told me and Heidi, over a glass of wine, that he was doing an MA in creative writing at Stellenbosch. Marlene van Niekerk and Willem Anker were in charge. It sounded wonderful and I wondered if they'd take an Englishman. Harry said he thought they would. He made inquiries. He opened a door for me and The Book of War was the result. He was generous like that. Generous to other writers, which not necessarily an easy thing for a writer to be.
Last year he won the Sunday Times Literary Award for the English version of his MA novel, A Thousand Tales of Johannesburg. Not long after, he learned that he had cancer. He was fierce about the Oncologist who gave him the news. About the way he did it. A deep anger hit the consonants of the word, kanker. Kanker ouboet. Kanker.
I told him that, when I was around twenty, my mother said she was dying and I said: no you not, Mom. I told him that I owed a karmic debt for that denial. Harry said he was happy to take advantage of it.
So we talked about dying, tried to. It doesn't help much. We go through that door alone. We were working writers, earned our living of it, it was one of our connections. We could complain and laugh together about the unglamorous realities. I tried it a few times but Harry was no longer interested. A least you not dying, he said.
Second last time I saw him, he was lying on a couch in the sun in he and Sanpad's house in Observatory. I read something for him, a Japanese short story. He got this idea of having a series of readings. His friends reading to him in that sunny room. I agreed that it could be a lovely film. He got excited. Got up even. And then he went back to sitting, hunched forward over a hot water bottle. He apologized for the posture, said it worried some people.
I mentioned that the only thought I’d had, in terms of bringing something to read, was the first scene with the Judge in Blood Meridian. The scene with the Reverend Green in the tent in the rain. Where the Judge accuses the Reverend of bestiality. Harry laughed. It wasn’t something he would have chosen. But he remembered the scene in detail from times I’d told him about it. Even quoted from it. “With a goat.”
We laughed.
The last time I saw him, he had moved permanently to his and Sanpad's bedroom. He was sitting on the edge of the bed and he did a strange thing. He sat up straight and opened his arms wide. He tilted his head back. His eyes rolled up and he fell slowly on onto the pillows. I was frightened. I thought: he's dying, Sanpad should be here. Harry sat up again. I told him my fear. He said, me too. And then, but that doesn't mean you have to put on the fake worried look.
He was trying to ease the moment, I think. Lighten it.
I will miss him. His sharpness, his quirk. His courage in the face of death.
He leaves Sanpad, a fine tall son, Daniel, and a beautiful daughter, Jana. They kept him company every step of the way. Right up to the door.
He leaves a large body of plays to be performed, books to be read.
May God, or whatever means the good, bless you, Harry Kalmer. May God, or whatever means the good, bless you and keep you and make her face to shine upon you and give you peace.
This night and for ever more.
