In many ways, the trilogy formed a microcosm of the Afrikaner. He began poor and honourable, worked with his hands, had his feet on the ground. His women were attentive and indestructible like brushbush, his children dreamers and schemers. Then the Afrikaner started making money and became ashamed of his working-class background, and from there on, he often found himself in situations he could not cope with socially. He became corrupt and lazy. His women demanding and idle, his children swindlers, his politicians dumb, incompetent brutes.

One morning Breyten spoke to us: “You need nobody’s permission to join the struggle. Guilt feelings and self-flagellation are self-indulgent sentiments, but understanding of responsibilities gets you moving. It is in walking that you learn how to walk. Watch out for the exultation of the camel-hair shirt. Clean out the cellars, watch out for the corruption of suffering, of self-pity. Don’t go and sell yourselves as brave warriors. To be against apartheid is not heroic, it’s normal.”

Poets are the last heretics of the world. We flung our country, our trodden, deeply divided land, open like a delightful carpet at our feet. The many colours shot out across the floor and a newborn land slipped from its membrane of languages. And it lay down. Our country lay down among us, translated into parables palpable with light.

We are on our way to Kroonstad for Christmas and as always are surprised how far one can see across South African landscapes. How stretched out, how hopelessly beautiful the country is. And the deep power with which the land remains itself against all onslaughts. We drive in shifts, and the nearer we get to the Free State, the lighter we become.

With the black government being so corrupt— dear Lord— the amount of shame and embarrassment that it causes black people, almost a second humiliation after apartheid— I never criticise along with white people. Never. Even though I can see they want me to.