had brought them together. [. . .] Harald doesn’t pray any more” (Gordimer 1998: 128–9). Although Harald’s ‘dark night of the soul’ evokes Gordimer’s considerable attention, we find hardly a mention of it in commentary on The House Gun. Harald is shown as struggling with the impact of psychological horror through internal dialogues with his God (his ‘talking cure’); horror in its physical manifestation, however, is mostly shown through Claudia’s eyes. As a medical doctor, she is used to the materiality and dread of physical pain, and the couple’s first contact with the prison world is vividly seen, felt and smelt by her: “dread was a drug that came to them not out of something administered from her pharmaco-poeia” (6). On entering the prison, the couple are struck by its hostile, institutional smell: “The very smell of the place was that of a foreign country to which they were deported” (7). Sitting on hard wood, “nothing could be more remote than this present” (8). Claudia at this stage cannot express her horror: being the mother of a murderer, but can only attempt to elim-inate it from her system: “There was no warning; trooping out with all those other people in trouble, part of the anxious and stunned gait, she suddenly felt the clenching of her insides and knew what was going to come. [. . .] [She] ‘[v]omited her heart out’” (10). This is a power-ful picture of physical loathing and abjection. For Kristeva, abjection – as I have indicated – is an expression of profound rejection: the physical loathing of one’s own helplessness in the face of an unspeakable menace to self (1982: 2). Having expressed (purified) her sorrow in this way, Claudia continues to work through her dread of the unknown by translating abstractions into the corporeality of material things. The unpresentability of dread is reflected through gestures of involved presence and attention to physical detail. On seeing her son, now a prisoner, Claudia has an urge to touch him, which he refuses: “his mother’s clasp just catches the ends of his fingers as he goes” (Gordimer 1998: 9). The focus on Duncan’s hands is insistent. Sometimes during visiting hours he “puts out a hand, the hand of a drowning man” (62). Claudia and her son communicate non-verbally; through their bare ‘presencing’, psychological pain is expressed physically, thus being made tolerable. The concept of ‘presence’ – as mentioned earlier – suggests one’s coming to terms with the world outside structures of meaning, via absorption in intimate details of everyday life, beyond the entrapments of language, and uncluttered by metaphysical beliefs or logical interpretation. While Harald sublimates his pain through praying, Claudia attempts literally to come to grips with her own pain. Seeking ‘embodied’ solutions to the ‘unspeakable’ that has ‘polluted’ her existence, she finds meaning in contact with her own body and its vital rhythms: “Claudia was dancing [. . .] an assertion of life. The [. . .] dancers wove about in relation to one another with the unconscious volition of atoms” (174–5). She is letting her visceral wisdom guide her, as she learns to accept this rite of passage to another stage in her life. This is a brief reminder of Heidegger’s concept of ‘being’, as explored in Being and Time (1962): that sense of being pro-foundly, albeit non-rationally, mindful of one’s interconnectedness with other beings/things in the here and now. Simply being and letting things be requires the composure to put language aside: “It [also] means being attentive to the world, allowing the inexplicable, sublime beauty of the ordinary to emerge outside structures of meaning [or] belief” (Ashcroft et al. 2009: 28). Gordimer herself is familiar with the Heideggerian concept of ‘being’, as can be gleaned from her essay collection, Writing and Being, in which she is “look[ing] for the real Home to be attained on the Concealed Side, away from normally lived experience” (1995: 7). Through her intense identification with the here and now, Claudia finds ‘embodied’ solutions to the tragedy that has befallen her family. Such solutions are at their most eloquent with regard to the sexual journey that parallels the more overtly spiritual journey of each protagonist. We note that early in the novel – in the immediate aftermath of their son’s crime – Claudia and Harald have become sexually incapacitated: “It was not possible for them. [. . .] [T]here was a witness,

DOI link for had brought them together. [. . .] Harald doesn’t pray any more” (Gordimer 1998: 128–9). Although Harald’s ‘dark night of the soul’ evokes Gordimer’s considerable attention, we find hardly a mention of it in commentary on The House Gun. Harald is shown as struggling with the impact of psychological horror through internal dialogues with his God (his ‘talking cure’); horror in its physical manifestation, however, is mostly shown through Claudia’s eyes. As a medical doctor, she is used to the materiality and dread of physical pain, and the couple’s first contact with the prison world is vividly seen, felt and smelt by her: “dread was a drug that came to them not out of something administered from her pharmaco-poeia” (6). On entering the prison, the couple are struck by its hostile, institutional smell: “The very smell of the place was that of a foreign country to which they were deported” (7). Sitting on hard wood, “nothing could be more remote than this present” (8). Claudia at this stage cannot express her horror: being the mother of a murderer, but can only attempt to elim-inate it from her system: “There was no warning; trooping out with all those other people in trouble, part of the anxious and stunned gait, she suddenly felt the clenching of her insides and knew what was going to come. [. . .] [She] ‘[v]omited her heart out’” (10). This is a power-ful picture of physical loathing and abjection. For Kristeva, abjection – as I have indicated – is an expression of profound rejection: the physical loathing of one’s own helplessness in the face of an unspeakable menace to self (1982: 2). Having expressed (purified) her sorrow in this way, Claudia continues to work through her dread of the unknown by translating abstractions into the corporeality of material things. The unpresentability of dread is reflected through gestures of involved presence and attention to physical detail. On seeing her son, now a prisoner, Claudia has an urge to touch him, which he refuses: “his mother’s clasp just catches the ends of his fingers as he goes” (Gordimer 1998: 9). The focus on Duncan’s hands is insistent. Sometimes during visiting hours he “puts out a hand, the hand of a drowning man” (62). Claudia and her son communicate non-verbally; through their bare ‘presencing’, psychological pain is expressed physically, thus being made tolerable. The concept of ‘presence’ – as mentioned earlier – suggests one’s coming to terms with the world outside structures of meaning, via absorption in intimate details of everyday life, beyond the entrapments of language, and uncluttered by metaphysical beliefs or logical interpretation. While Harald sublimates his pain through praying, Claudia attempts literally to come to grips with her own pain. Seeking ‘embodied’ solutions to the ‘unspeakable’ that has ‘polluted’ her existence, she finds meaning in contact with her own body and its vital rhythms: “Claudia was dancing [. . .] an assertion of life. The [. . .] dancers wove about in relation to one another with the unconscious volition of atoms” (174–5). She is letting her visceral wisdom guide her, as she learns to accept this rite of passage to another stage in her life. This is a brief reminder of Heidegger’s concept of ‘being’, as explored in Being and Time (1962): that sense of being pro-foundly, albeit non-rationally, mindful of one’s interconnectedness with other beings/things in the here and now. Simply being and letting things be requires the composure to put language aside: “It [also] means being attentive to the world, allowing the inexplicable, sublime beauty of the ordinary to emerge outside structures of meaning [or] belief” (Ashcroft et al. 2009: 28). Gordimer herself is familiar with the Heideggerian concept of ‘being’, as can be gleaned from her essay collection, Writing and Being, in which she is “look[ing] for the real Home to be attained on the Concealed Side, away from normally lived experience” (1995: 7). Through her intense identification with the here and now, Claudia finds ‘embodied’ solutions to the tragedy that has befallen her family. Such solutions are at their most eloquent with regard to the sexual journey that parallels the more overtly spiritual journey of each protagonist. We note that early in the novel – in the immediate aftermath of their son’s crime – Claudia and Harald have become sexually incapacitated: “It was not possible for them. [. . .] [T]here was a witness,

had brought them together. [. . .] Harald doesn’t pray any more” (Gordimer 1998: 128–9). Although Harald’s ‘dark night of the soul’ evokes Gordimer’s considerable attention, we find hardly a mention of it in commentary on The House Gun. Harald is shown as struggling with the impact of psychological horror through internal dialogues with his God (his ‘talking cure’); horror in its physical manifestation, however, is mostly shown through Claudia’s eyes. As a medical doctor, she is used to the materiality and dread of physical pain, and the couple’s first contact with the prison world is vividly seen, felt and smelt by her: “dread was a drug that came to them not out of something administered from her pharmaco-poeia” (6). On entering the prison, the couple are struck by its hostile, institutional smell: “The very smell of the place was that of a foreign country to which they were deported” (7). Sitting on hard wood, “nothing could be more remote than this present” (8). Claudia at this stage cannot express her horror: being the mother of a murderer, but can only attempt to elim-inate it from her system: “There was no warning; trooping out with all those other people in trouble, part of the anxious and stunned gait, she suddenly felt the clenching of her insides and knew what was going to come. [. . .] [She] ‘[v]omited her heart out’” (10). This is a power-ful picture of physical loathing and abjection. For Kristeva, abjection – as I have indicated – is an expression of profound rejection: the physical loathing of one’s own helplessness in the face of an unspeakable menace to self (1982: 2). Having expressed (purified) her sorrow in this way, Claudia continues to work through her dread of the unknown by translating abstractions into the corporeality of material things. The unpresentability of dread is reflected through gestures of involved presence and attention to physical detail. On seeing her son, now a prisoner, Claudia has an urge to touch him, which he refuses: “his mother’s clasp just catches the ends of his fingers as he goes” (Gordimer 1998: 9). The focus on Duncan’s hands is insistent. Sometimes during visiting hours he “puts out a hand, the hand of a drowning man” (62). Claudia and her son communicate non-verbally; through their bare ‘presencing’, psychological pain is expressed physically, thus being made tolerable. The concept of ‘presence’ – as mentioned earlier – suggests one’s coming to terms with the world outside structures of meaning, via absorption in intimate details of everyday life, beyond the entrapments of language, and uncluttered by metaphysical beliefs or logical interpretation. While Harald sublimates his pain through praying, Claudia attempts literally to come to grips with her own pain. Seeking ‘embodied’ solutions to the ‘unspeakable’ that has ‘polluted’ her existence, she finds meaning in contact with her own body and its vital rhythms: “Claudia was dancing [. . .] an assertion of life. The [. . .] dancers wove about in relation to one another with the unconscious volition of atoms” (174–5). She is letting her visceral wisdom guide her, as she learns to accept this rite of passage to another stage in her life. This is a brief reminder of Heidegger’s concept of ‘being’, as explored in Being and Time (1962): that sense of being pro-foundly, albeit non-rationally, mindful of one’s interconnectedness with other beings/things in the here and now. Simply being and letting things be requires the composure to put language aside: “It [also] means being attentive to the world, allowing the inexplicable, sublime beauty of the ordinary to emerge outside structures of meaning [or] belief” (Ashcroft et al. 2009: 28). Gordimer herself is familiar with the Heideggerian concept of ‘being’, as can be gleaned from her essay collection, Writing and Being, in which she is “look[ing] for the real Home to be attained on the Concealed Side, away from normally lived experience” (1995: 7). Through her intense identification with the here and now, Claudia finds ‘embodied’ solutions to the tragedy that has befallen her family. Such solutions are at their most eloquent with regard to the sexual journey that parallels the more overtly spiritual journey of each protagonist. We note that early in the novel – in the immediate aftermath of their son’s crime – Claudia and Harald have become sexually incapacitated: “It was not possible for them. [. . .] [T]here was a witness,