Once, this book felt like a personal manifesto. Now, it feels like a piece of nostalgia. Every year of post-Apartheid South Africa chips away at this book. It’s a book that will mean something to fewer and fewer. Already, you probably need to be Afrikaans to feel any affinity for it. The universal pieces are too obscured, too diluted by its flowery prose and incoherence and length. I won’t be reading it again.