Zambezia (1988), XV (i).BOOK REVIEWSDambudzo Marechera, 4 June 1952 Š 18 August 1987: Pictures, Poems,Prose, Tributes [cover title: Dambudzo Marechera, 1952-1987] Compiled andedited by Flora Veil- Wild and Ernst Schade. Harare, Baobab Books, 1988,36 pp.,illus., ISBN 0-7974-0838-X, ZS8.80.This slim book is an interesting tribute to the controversial Zimbabwean writer,Dambudzo Marechera. It is a collection of poems, extracts from the author'sprose, tributes from fellow Zimbabwean writers and European critics. The bookis attractively presented, with a number of excellent black and white photographsof Marechera, in different poses and contexts. What emerges from this tribute is amoving picture of a social misfit Š a man who was determined to live out aromantic image of the writer in exile from his own people and community.Marechera's paranoia is clearly evident in his writing. His pungent wit isevident in, for example, the poem 'Identify the Identity Parade'. His mastery of theEnglish language is economically conveyed in the extract from the unpublishedwork, The Concentration Camp, entitled 'What's Wrong with a CockroachAnyway?' (pp. 4-5).The most striking section of this book is entitled 'Dambudzo Marecherainterviews himself (pp. 6-8). In it, the principal motivating factors in his life, withregard to his writing, are revealed, in particular, his hatred of his own background:Š 'In my own case I have been influenced to a point of desperation by the doggedthough brutalized humanity of those among whom I grew up' (p. 6). Indeed, thegrossness of urban ghettos pervades The House of Hunger and Black Sunlight.His description of his early years in Rusape is very moving.Perhaps the most fascinating comments Marechera makes relate to the wholequestion of language. The untimely death of his father in a traffic accident and thefamily's subsequent eviction led to his overwhelming sense of insecurity.What did it mean that father was dead? What did it mean not to have a home? It was thebeginning of my physical and mental insecurity Š I began to stammer horribly. Jt wasterrible. Even speech, language, was deserting me. I stammered hideously for three years.Agony (p. 7).Marechera rejected Shona because it 'was part of the ghetto daemon I was tryingto escape'. He continues:Shona had been placed within the context of a degraded, mind-wrenching experiencefrom which apparently the only escape was into the English language and education. TheEnglish language was automatically connected with the plush and seeming splendour ofthe white side of town. As far as expressing the creative turmoil wit'iin my head wasconcerned, I took to the English language as a duck takes to water. I wa s therefore a keenaccomplice and student of my own mental colonisation (p. 7).To redress this imbalance, like some of the writers of the negritude movement(Cesaire in particular), Marechera exacted his revenge on the language of thecolonizer, when he speaks of 'brutalizing it into a more malleable shape for myown purposes'. His wry humour emerges when he asserts,9596 BOOK REVIEWSFor a black writer the language is very racist; you have to have harrowing fights andhair-raising panga duals [sic] with the language before you can make it do all that you wantit to do. It is so for the feminists. English is very male. Hence feminist writers also adopt thesame tactics. This may mean discarding grammar, throwing syntax out, subverting imagesfrom within, beating the drum and cymbals of rhythm, developing torture chambers ofirony and sarcasm, gas ovens of limitless black resonance. For me this is the impossible, theexciting, the voluptuous blackening image that commits me totally to writing (pp. 7-8).Marechera's choice of symbols and imagery reflects his own tortured existence.Dambudzo Marechera, 1952-87 provides some fascinating insights into thestyle and nature of Zimbabwe's most problematic writer, both from within andwithout. It is, therefore, a welcome addition to the corpus of Zimbabweanliterature. What is, however, regrettable is the number of elementary spelling andgrammatical mistakes in it Š for example 'my hands shoots up' (p. 7); T. S.Elliot' (p. 15); 'The heart is a desert place, and the earth of piercing heat' (p. 29);and 'Day-to-day reality is therefore itself any [i. e. an] illusion created by the mass ofour needs ...' (p. 36). Nevertheless, Flora Veit-Wild, Ernst Schade and BaobabBooks are to be congratulated for the overall quality of the book.It is also encouraging to note the establishment of a publishing house which,in addition to the University, can offer academics an outlet for the publication oftheir scholarly works.University of Zimbabwe M. Z. MALABAPatterns of Poetry in Zimbabwe By Flora [ Veil-] Wild. Gweru, Mambo Press,1988, viii, 152 pp., illus., ISBN 0-86922-432-8, Z$10.00 (p/b).Flora Wild's recently published book, Patterns of Poetry in Zimbabwe, is a usefuladdition to the study of Zimbabwean poetry written in English, blending, as itdoes, some criticism, interviews with some of the younger Black Zimbabweanpoets, and a selection of their poetry, some of which has not been publishedbefore.Mrs Wild's introductory essay is conveniently subdivided, with separatesections on each of the seven poets she interviewed, namely, Chenjerai Hove,Musaemura Zimunya, Charles Mungoshi, Hopewell Seyaseya, Kristina Runga-no, Albert Chimedza and Dambudzo Marechera. Her evaluation of the poets isneatly summarized in the following quotation:Their weaknesses which I attempted to point out in detail earlier on, lie in theirunsatisfactory craftsmanship, in the lack of poetical elaboration due to a certain lack ofartistic competence and experience. They mostly fail to create a piece of writing whichgoes beyond the writer's personal feelings, intentions or sufferings (p. 28).The author does point out Š and, indeed, this is borne out by the interviewsthemselves Š that part of the problem stems from the lack of a poetic traditionwithin which, or from which, the poet can define himself or herself. The historicalreasons for this are well spelt out in the book.The graver problem, however, that of artistic incompetence is, sadly, borneout in a large number of the poems given in the text. Charles Mungoshi, a noted