Reader Beware

Teju Cole’s Every Day Is For The Thief

It’s a short book. It’s clearly in part autobiographical.  Yet it’s presented as fiction.

It describes present-day Nigeria, but it’s really about various uses of language, some to express, others simply to deceive.  Indeed expression may be at least in part always deceptive. Like memoir presented as fiction.  What is true and what is not? Can there be such a thing as truth?

Cole represents Nigeria as a country riddled with corruption and deception. From internet scams to street crime enabled by verbal intimidation to false history to willful misrepresentation and honest attempts at communication that inevitably fall short.  It’s all language, and language is inherently manipulative. There are some hopeful signs in Nigeria.  They are mostly in the arts (yes, the magical and deceptive arts), and they have their own limitations.

And then there are the author’s black-and-white photos interspersed here and there in the text. What place can photos have in a work of fiction?  The author’s photos?  They further obscure the line between documentation and fiction. They are blurred and unclear, subject to the interpretation of the viewer but also suggestive representations of portions of the text.  But they’re photographs (not drawings or paintings).

A representation of Teju Cole

Cole seems intent at exploring a gray zone where all must be questioned, and where there are no absolute answers.  He brings much of the ambiguity and resonance of poetry to his prose.  The writing is clear and plain, and that also is part of the deception.  Like the acquaintance that says “I’m just tellin’ you how it is, man”, it’s hard not to trust him.  But part of his point is that nothing can be believed, nothing can be taken at face value, we all seek to deceive one another, we all willfully misrepresent.  What makes the scam work is the false modesty, the appearance of trustworthiness, the veneer of truthfulness. And the resulting isolation.

Ultimately the main character can only rely on himself, his own values (even if conflicted and very privately held), his own preferences.  I guess Freud would quibble with even that, but that’s all Cole has. It’s lonely and disheartening to think that any human communication or connection is in part deceptive. Are we all just authors doing our best to create in a world where publication must always include misrepresentation and skepticism? Perhaps.

Should that be the case, I take solace in deception: the deception of honest communication, in the false comfort of empathy, and in generous caring for others.  Works for me.  Don't really care all that much if it's true.  It’s my story and I’m stickin’ to it. 

But it is a story.