2666 Diaries, IV

Yes, this time, I took my time to translate my buddy’s thoughts from Filipino or Taglish to English. Quite an effort since I do not wish to sound like I’m translating the inputs literally. Like “Wala lang,” a phrase that literally means “Nothing much.” Actually, that cannot even pass as a literal translation if we adhere to the strict literal sense because “lang” seems to be an exclusive Filipino thing.

Anyway, I’m just going to note again that these thoughts are from The Misanthropologist.

Day 7:

We read all about the women who were abducted, raped, strangled, staked, and thrown everywhere. The descriptions are delivered matter-of-factly, much like a police report. Well, these are mostly police reports, and autopsy reports, and such reports.

And since there are police reports, there are also inspectors. We are introduced to a number of them, but I remember mostly Juan de Dios Martinez. He seems to be the most capable and levelheaded among them, the inspectors and police men. But despite this, he can’t crack the cases assigned to him yet.

The cases, which are not only about the killings, include one about a church desecrator, which is more of a side story, unless this desecrator is somehow related to the more serious crimes. I’m quoting someone when I say that, I think it’s the police chief who said that.

There is another side story about a young bodyguard who turned to be a real police thanks to the fearless execution of his duty. Actually, there are a lot of side stories. The descriptions of the crimes are all side stories, some to be endured, some to be relished.

I sometimes think that these relaying of the crimes is saturating this part. We get the point: the murders appear random, they are violent, they are crawling at a significant number. Is this the intention of the author, to make us flinch at each page?

There are some crimes which I find less interesting than the background. Like the murder of one woman where the body is found by an El Salvadorean, who was imprisoned and released a broken man. He then wandered around, lost in that city, and he died. That’s me cutting the short story shorter.

And then there’s also the family of the eleven-year old victim. A picture of a squalid, striving family. Very poignant. And there’s something really terrible about young girls being raped.

And there is, too, the case of the American. Not really striking, but it sort of left me hanging because that’s where I stopped reading last night.

Day 8:

I don’t think the writer is trying to shock the readers with the crimes. Probably he’s trying to say that murder can be as mundane as taking a stroll in the park if people who are supposed to investigate the crimes aren’t really fit for it.

The appearance of Florita Almada is such a delight! It’s a nice break from the reportage of the crimes. Florita, or La Santa, has a beautiful background. Beautiful not because she’s a princess but because it is thought-provoking. Besides, it’s hard not to be drawn to a character who reads a lot and who is somehow nerdy and who has a tendency to be incoherent.

Florita, I should say, is officially my favorite 2666 character. Anyway, the novel wouldn’t revolve around her, so let’s get back. Where is the novel leading to? I only have a vague feeling of what this is all about.

Is it about justice, which is only that, a lofty ideal that is forever out of reach? Is it about the slumbering society, who needs a hundred crimes to wake up and do something? Is it about the fear of women, as pointed out earlier?

Day 9:

Cause of death: Strangulation. Vaginally and anally raped. No source of identification. Multiple stab wounds. Hair is shoulder level. Wearing gray sweatshirt, black leggings, and white tennis shoes.

At least at this part, there is development as far as the crimes are concerned. Epifanio does his best to solve one of the cases assigned to him. He ended up with the arrest of a computer store owner, Klaus Haas, but even if this man is in prison, the murders go on.

Haas may have a history of sexual assaults, but I don’t think he has anything to do with the murders on a large scale. Really, I don’t know what to think of.

I was told by a college colleague that one of the safest places here on earth is the prison. That is, if you are not an inmate. I think it is better to assume that nowhere is safe. There’s always the danger of the AC exploding right in front of my face while typing these words.

Maybe that’s not being unsafe. It’s being unlucky. Haas must have been unlucky to get tangled in this murder business. But I don’t think he’s unlucky at all. Being able to call a press conference while you are at jail is not bad. It’s annoying if you imagine that happening in real life, but if we only consider luck here, it’s not bad at all.

Day 10:

I am so tired of reading about the crimes. It’s becoming a drag, like pulling a blanket cast out of the sea. I am no longer interested whatever it is that is behind the crimes. I just wish for this part to end.

I insist that all those descriptions about the crimes are unnecessary to the development of the novel’s core plot. Speaking of development, I don’t know whether the unresolved cases will have further development or they will just stagnate there, on the shelves. Cliffhangers, maybe?

As I try to connect this part with the previous ones, I wonder if there is anything solid to make it all cohesive. I am always waiting for characters from the previous parts to be mentioned, particularly Guadalupe, the reporter that Fate assisted and who was about to interview the prime suspect of the killings. But no, she was not mentioned, yet. Other reporters are mentioned though, but is that enough to link the two parts together? Is it even necessary to have a link?

Will Haas be able to redeem himself in such a rotten system, one that is filled with corruption and negligence? Everything is being lost, like blood samples, DNA results, and others. And if Haas were truly innocent, this would have sucked a lot. It is screaming injustice. But if he really were involved with the crimes, is justice really served?

Why, Haas is a perpetrator of injustice himself. Remember that the end does not justify the means? He is trying to investigate the matter by resorting to under the table tricks, like obtaining a cell phone while in prison. That is not allowed anywhere, right? I mean ideally? Really, I do not know what I am talking about.

Day 11:

I cannot fully express my joy and sense of achievement when I got to the last page of this part. It seemed to go on and on forever, and just as I predicted, it ended with no closure. There was a sense of development, but we are now moving to a different part, which hopefully will tie up all the loose ends.

We are introduced to the congresswoman Azucena. I didn’t really get what her role is in the near-end phase of this part. I thought she was the art writer’s lover. Until the last couple of pages, I realized that she wants the writer to follow-up the case of her missing best friend.

It could be that this art writer, Sergio, is that guy whom Guadalupe from Part 3 succeeded. In a novel like this, one can never be too sure.

And there are more investigations being started instead of being wrapped up. No, Guadalupe was not mentioned, and I don’t understand why I keep on expecting her to be a part of this. Anyway, the new investigations, particularly the one by Mary-Sue, are quite promising, but again, I feel that all efforts are doomed.

I think I understand now why the five parts of this novel were not published individually as the author requested on his last will. They can barely stand alone. Each novel, or part, will leave the reader gritting with both suspense and disappointment, which is both a good and bad thing. The first part is good enough. The second part is too short. The third part is a mix of the first too: quite good and quite short. The fourth is a mess.

And now, we are on the last part. I do not know what to expect anymore. Rather, I do not wish to set any expectations.

Inside that book with a yellow cover everything was expressed so clearly that sometimes Florita Almada thought the author must have been a friend of Benito Juarez and that Benito Juarez had confided all his childhood experiences in the man’s ear. If such a thing were possible. If it were possible to convey what one feels when night falls and the stars come out and one is alone in the vastness, and life’s truths (night truths) begin to march past one by one, somehow swooning or as if the person out in the open were swooning or as if a strange sickness were circulating in the blood unnoticed. What are you doing, moon, up in the sky? asks the little shepherd in the poem. What are you doing, tell me, silent moon? Aren’t you tired of plying the eternal byways? The shepherd’s life is like your life. He rises at first light and moves his flock across the field. Then, weary, he rests at evening and hopes for nothing more. What good is the shepherd’s life to him or yours to you? Tell me, the shepherd muses, said Florita Almada in a transported voice, where is it heading, my brief wandering, your immortal journey? Man is born into pain, and being born itself means risking death, said the poem. And also: But why bring to light, why educate someone we’ll console for living later? And also: If life is misery, why do we endure it? And also: This, unblemished moon, is the mortal condition. But you’re not mortal, and what I say may matter little to you. And also, and on the contrary: You, eternal solitary wanderer, you who are so pensive, it may be you understand this life on earth, what our suffering and sighing is, what this death is, this last paling of the face, and leaving Earth behind, abandoning all familiar, loving company. And also: What does the endless air do, and that deep eternal blue? What does this enormous solitude portend? And what am I? And also: This is what I know and feel: that from the eternal motions, from my fragile being, others may derive some good or happiness. And also: But life for me is wrong. And also: Old, white haired, weak, barefoot, bearing an enormous burden, up mountain and down valley, over sharp rocks, across deep sands and bracken, through wind and storm, when it’s hot and later when it freezes, running on, running faster, crossing rivers, swamps, falling and rising and hurrying faster, no rest or relief, battered and bloody, at last coming to where the way and all effort has led: terrible, immense abyss into which, upon falling, all is forgotten. And also: This, O virgin moon, is human life. And also: O resting flock, who don’t, I think, know your own misery! How I envy you! Not just because you travel as if trouble free and soon forget each need, each hurt, each deathly fear, but more because you’re never bored. And also: When you lie in the shade, on the grass, you’re calm and happy, and you spend the great part of the year this way and feel no boredom. And also: I sit on the grass, too, in the shade, but an anxiousness invades my mind as if a thorn is pricking me. And also: Yet I desire nothing, and till now I have no reason for complaint. And at this point, after sighing deeply, Florita Almada would say that several conclusions could be drawn: (1) that the thoughts that seize a shepherd can easily gallop away with him because it’s human nature; (2) that facing boredom head-on was an act of bravery and Benito Juarez had done it and she had done it too and both had seen terrible things in the face of boredom, things she would rather not recall; (3) that the poem, now she remembered, was about an Asian shepherd, not a Mexican shepherd, but it made no difference, since shepherds are the same everywhere; (4) that if it was true that all effort led to a vast abyss, she had two recommendations to begin with, first, not to cheat people, and, second, to treat them properly.

Buddy Notes:

…The crimes in Part 4 are interesting – some very detailed, some mentioned just in passing. And the side stories are interesting too, especially the one about the Penitent…

…I think the author is trying to saturate the readers with his violent descriptions, trying to desensitize them…

…It’s strange because though there are lots of killings, they don’t seem to be done by the same guy or people. A lot of them are caused by domestic problems and a lot of the girls are killed by their boyfriends/husbands…

…I think it maybe have something to do with what the Asylum Director was saying about how Mexican Men have a fear of women…

…I am starting to notice that there are a lot of whores, pimps, and drug addicts in Santa Teresa, hehehe…

…I wish that instead of just listing down all the dead women, that the author would elaborate more on the events and kind of gel together the narration. For now, it’s still just a list of individual victims…

…As of yesterday’s readings, I counted 46 dead women…

…I was just curious because they mentioned in the earlier part of the book that hundreds of women died, and since Part 4 is really long, I was wondering if the author would actually list all 100 or 200+ incidents, hehehe…

…Well yeah, Mexico is classified as a 3rd world country (right?). I don’t know, but most of the deaths are whores, and there’s just too many whores for one town…

…I don’t think the sex trade is directly related to poverty, but poverty is a definite cause. I think whores and pimps are not prevalent in India, could be because of the caste system too and religion. Who knows, hahaha…

…After day 3 of The Part About the Crimes – body count so far = 76, hehehe…

…I actually like the layout of the this book because even though it’s thick and even though it has a lot of lines per page, it’s divided into chunks separated by the big dots. That’s why it seems to make it easier to read. I also feel that I can read this faster. I don’t know, maybe it’s just me, hehehe…

…I think one of the things the author is doing is (exposing) and criticizing South American/Mexican culture – the prevalence of corruption, police brutality, drug-use, sex crimes, the general ideas of men towards women, etc…

…The prison in Santa Teresa doesn’t seem like a very safe place. LOL…

…I’m also waiting for a connection between the characters from Part about the Crimes with the characters from the previous parts, but I don’t think there were any, except that Haas was the guy that Guadalupe (?) from The Part About Fate interviewed in prison. But other than that, there doesn’t seem to be any connection…

War And Peace by Leo Tolstoy

How can I possibly write something about this ginormous book that stands proud against the motley crew of my random books of mass markets, hardbounds, and trade paperbacks, and shying these on the sheer basis of breadth? A novel that spans four volumes, each volume divided into parts, and each part further divided into chapters, I struggled to finish this not without iron will and determination.

First, I was motivated by the reading support group spurred by local writer Jessica Zafra. I think we were about ten, periodically posting our inputs on the writer’s blog, including the writer herself, and I think I was the first to read my way across the finish line. I even think that only three of us really finished the book, this suspicion arising from the simple fact that the support-group-slash-challenge wasn’t capped off, unless we consider the article the writer wrote, an article that quoted the participants, as the waving checkered flag.

So you see, I really don’t know how to properly start this without the reader skipping to another random Internet article. But if you have reached this part, my effort is not in vain.

“Love? What is love?” he thought. “Love hinders death. Love is life. Everything, everything I understand, I understand only because I love. Everything is, everything exists, only because I love. Everything is connected only by that. Love is God, and to die–means that I, a part of love, return to the common and eternal source.” These thoughts seemed comforting to him. But they were only thoughts. Something was lacking in them, there was something one-sidedly personal, cerebral–there was no evidence. And there was the same uneasiness and vagueness. He fell asleep.  [a random quotation]

I lied. That’s not a random quotation. But the manner of picking it is quite random. I sifted my thoughts through my mental silkscreen. What is this about? Of course, it’s about war and peace, no? Sure, there’s a lot of war in here that would suffice for tremendous reference if you wish to lie about being a war veteran. There are characters in here that are real people, people who are forever a part of the world’s history. Like Napoleon. And who else?

I don’t remember. Rather, I don’t know, because after reading this, I suspect that Napoleon is just a product of Tolstoy’s pen. But let’s not dwell on that; let’s return to that quote, a dust mote of a narrative from this book that could break wrists. Okay, I picked a love quote because the major characters, the major fictional characters, are caught in a love triangle of sorts, but not that type where two men go after the same woman. Our characters Pierre Bezukhov, Prince Andrei Bolkonsky, and Natasha Rostov are better than that.

There are harder Russian names than that. It would be great if you also know French, because there’s a lot of French going on here. I think some editions have the all the French dialogues translated, but my edition, the Pevear-Volokhonsky translation, reputed to be the most loyal, left all the French untouched. There are footnotes, don’t worry. But given that I set out to read every single line in every volume, I still read the French lines. And whatever historical footnotes that I came across.

I don’t wish to go through the plot because really; all you need to know is that this is about Napoleon’s invasion of Russia with a lot of side twists and commentaries. I said commentaries because the author usually forgets that he is writing fiction and proceeds to write essays. Or it could be the other way around.

It is hard to convince someone to read this book, what with the popularity of classics, humongous classics at that, waning. But really, this is one good read. You don’t have to be a high-strung reader to understand it. Never mind the French, or go get another edition if you are Frenchophobic. The scenes are well-propped against exact descriptions. If you’re reading a part where a soiree is going on, you feel like a waiter eavesdropping on the conversations of the Russian high society.

The characters are well-developed and dynamic. I particularly like the polarity of Pierre and Prince Andrei, men who are supposed to bash in each other’s teeth but are the best of friends despite their vast differences. If you ask me, I prefer the dashing Prince Andrei, not only because he is dashing, but I like his thoughts and philosophies. Not to say that Pierre is uninteresting. It’s just my preference.

The plot is, yes, convoluted, but it can be tolerated. There’s just a lot going on. There are a lot of characters that could make up for a television series. That’s to be expected because it screams at over a thousand pages, but it doesn’t feel crammed. There’s comedy, drama, romance, and action, so it’s safe to say that readers of varying genres can have something to look forward to.

And yes, you can have the ultimate bragging rights of having set a reading milestone after flipping the last page.

But really, not everything is as good as I am trying to say. As much as I want to encourage everyone, I have to air this out. Tolstoy, in this novel, has a tendency to repeat himself over and over again. This is particularly evident in the essayish parts. He would wind up with a longish introduction, say about war and history, bring up a thesis, present an antithesis, conclude with a synthesis, and repeat all over on the same subject.

There are times that I wanted to scream at the book. Fine, I get it, can we please move on? Something like that. It can get annoying, but it could be exactly this why finishing this book gives you a sense of achievement. It even made me feel a little smarter. Of course, bus passengers would be intimidated if you whip out this book out of your backpack, which I did, but really, you will understand a thing or two about war and history, like the role of each other in each other.

Perhaps this should have been entitled War and History instead.

2666 Diaries, III

I don’t know what happened to our other buddies, but I’m glad that The Misanthropologist, yes, our still unnamed, elusive, not-so-anonymous friend, is still on. Who, by the way, does not sound as misanthropological as the name denotes.

Okay, I’ll stop pretending. Actually, we’re both done with this. I know, the posts are delayed. A lot of things to do. Here we go.

Notes: These are originally posted on a discussion thread at GoodReads-TFG. I was originally reading this with the bloggers of The Misanthropologist and Kikay Reader, and our bookish friends Emir and Doc Ranee. I don’t know what happened to the other three, but I can’t keep holding back for them. Their inputs, although copy-pasted from their original sources, have minor translations and edits. Also, there are spoilers! And please don’t expect to understand the novel’s entirety based on these ramblings. It’s fundamentally a logbook not intended to make light out of things for the would-be reader.

Day 5:

I thought this is going to be a real drag, but the opening paragraph proved otherwise. Something about death. And then immediately, we are introduced to a Quincy Williams. Like who is this guy and how will he contribute to the grand scheme of things? And why is this even about fate?

Rather Fate? I honestly thought it’s about fate fate, about destiny, coincidence, etc. Philosophical musings, existentialism, et al. But not really. We are presented with a guy called Oscar Fate. Why? I don’t know. It was never mentioned why. We probably always don’t need the why’s. There could be a celebrity with the same name, but I don’t know for sure. If not, it’s a bit of a puzzle, but as I mentioned, let’s not brood over it. It could be just a whim.

I enjoyed this part better than the previous part. Probably because there are interesting touches, like Seaman’s (?) talk about Danger, Money, Food, Stars, and Usefulness. I can’t say I fully understood them, but they are worth a reread. They can even stand apart from the book.

This novel is structured similarly to David Mitchell’s Cloud Atlas, differing only in timeline. The parts of Bolano’s novel are moving concurrently while the chapters of Mitchell’s novel are connected in layers. 2666, however, somehow also works in layers, just because there’s a feeling that you are getting deeper into things, hahaha.

Day 6:

I think the events took a sharp turn here. A preparation for the next part, I think, since there is more talk about the crimes than before. We are introduced to Guadalupe, a reporter assigned to investigate the heinous crimes.

And look, Rosa Amalfitano is here. I didn’t expect her to have a lot of exposure on this part. Well, what can I say? She’s your typical American teenager. Well, she’s not American, but booze and drugs while slacking your college years away is something I find all too familiar. Not that I’ve been a college derelict, but hey, you get the drift. I think?

At the last few pages of Part III, there’s a sense of mounting action. We are excited to know who the prime suspect is. And we want to find out what will happen to Fate and Rosa. Is someone really after them? Will Guadalupe be able to pop the first question? Judging by the remaining number of pages, those questions will not be answered.

I also think that Fate’s character lost its flavor at the near end. He turned out to be someone who had less gall. I still give him credit for some of the things that he exhibited, like his interest to cover the crimes. But after seeing the beauty of Rosa, he crippled down and settled to a fetal position. That’s what I imagines, at least. He stopped caring for that.

Does this say that men’s principles are at the mercy of women?

When did it all begin? he thought. When did I go under? A dark, vaguely familiar Aztec lake. The nightmare. How do I get away? How do I take control? And the questions kept coming: Was getting away what he really wanted? Did he really want to leave it all behind? And he also thought: the pain doesn’t matter anymore. And also: maybe it all began with my mother’s death. And also: the pain doesn’t matter, as long as it doesn’t get any worse, as long as it isn’t unbearable. And also: fuck, it hurts, fuck, it hurts. Pay it no mind, pay it no mind. And all around him, ghosts.

Buddy Notes:

…I think I mentioned earlier that of all the parts so far, this one is the most “concrete,” in a sense that it’s about real issues, real problems, and real people. As opposed to scholars with their philosophical and intellectual troubles…

…For me, if there is a part that could stand by itself, I think it’s the Part About the Critics, because though I’m starting to get an idea how Amalfitano, Fate and Rosa tie into the whole story, I don’t know what the critics have to do with it other than being Archimboldi scholars…

…I think Part 3 jives with the existing theme that, in the end, it all boils down to sex…

…Anyway, I thought the ending of Part 3 was strange, with Fate hitting that guy at the other guy’s house, then Amalfitano telling Fate to take his daughter, Rosa to the US, then Guadalupe meeting Rosa and the three of them meeting the suspect and prisoner…

…When I read that, I had to re-read it a few times to make sure I didn’t miss anything. I just found Amalfitano’s actions toward Fate and Rosa so strange…

…To me the ending of Part 3 just seemed disjointed and out of character (for Amalfitano). I don’t know…

…Well I’m interested on your feedback about the events at The Part About the Crimes, hehehe. Personally I like it, though I wish it were more… cohesive? Maybe that’s not the right word for it…

For the fun of it, I’ll lay down the steps on how I came up with this. I refuse to say cook because this is not cooking. It’s just slicing strawberries and opening cans and tetra packs and mixing stuff on a bowl. And oh, lest you misunderstand, I am not switching to food blogging.

Step 1

01. Buy some strawberries. Look, those look sweet, but really, they are not. That’s why we are transforming them into something sweet.

Step 2

02. Buy a can of condensed milk and a pack of all-purpose cream. The quantity depends on your capability to gorge all that sweetness in your gut.

Step 3

03. Open the can with a something. Duh? In this case, I used a knife because I don’t have a can opener. And did I forget to mention that you also need to open the all-purpose cream? And do I need to mention that you will be mixing the two in a bowl? Not that bowl, that’s too small. That’s just me photoshooting.

Step 4

04. Slice the strawberries. Or not. It’s up to you.

Step 5

05. Slather the strawberries with the condensed milk and cream mixture.

Step 6

06. And voilà! You now have Blood Meridian! I mean, strawberries and cream. Yahoo!

Step 7

07. Warning: Book not included. Book not advised for consumption, unless you are a goat.

Step 8

08. Really, I just dumped everything in a bowl. Actually, that’s not even a bowl. It’s an all-purpose water heater.

This is why I am not a food blogger. And after this experiment, I now have a lot of respect for food bloggers because it takes a lot of effort to take pictures and mentally draft the blog post while preparing the food. How are you supposed to take pictures of the food if your hands are wet? Or your fingers are bleeding?

Speaking of bleeding, I strongly advise you to finish the strawberries before reading Blood Meridian. Why? First, the book demands concentration. The strawberries are too distracting to get into the narrative. McCarthy is not inclined to signal the reader which character is talking in the dialogues. He doesn’t even have a name for the protagonist, who is called The Kid. Just that.

Second, you might mistake the strawberries for eyeballs or ears or raw human flesh. Yes, this novel is filled violence and gore. It might make the faint-hearted puke with disgust. And we are not even at the climax; that’s just the first reading, where we reached Chapter 7. Take a look at the chapter heading.

Chapter 7 Heading

These headings are very helpful especially if you realize that you do not know where you are. It happened to me several times, particularly at Chapter 4, where the characters were traversing a no man’s land. Never mind the Spanish phrase. I don’t understand that per se. But look. There’s the word massacre. And “Glanton takes a scalp”. What’s a scalp? Uhm, that part of your head where your hair grows? Yes, that is meant literally. This novel, at large, is about The Kid trapped in the world of Indian scalping. I don’t know what they did with Indian scalps in 1850s, but I’m really glad that there isn’t much demand on scalps nowadays.

Freaked out? Engrossed? Take a look at this:

They followed the trampled ground left by the warparty and in the afternoon they came upon a mule that had failed and been lanced and left dead and then they came upon another. The way narrowed through roccks and by and by they came to a bush that was hung with dead babies.

They stopped side by side, reeling in the heat. These small victims, seven, eight of them, had holes punched in their underjaws and were hung so by their throats from the broken stobs of a mesquite to stare eyeless at the naked sky. Bald and pale and bloated, larval to some unreckonable being.

If you still want to enjoy strawberries and cream or any dessert for this matter, do not eat while reading Blood Meridian. McCarthy does not flinch in his storytelling, and he does not care if you wince a lot. And it is hard to look away, which is funny. But really, that is the mark of a good novel.

Date Started: January 22, 2012. 8:30 PM.

Fear and Trembling and Snatching and Hoarding

I’m book hoarding. Again. I can’t help it. It’s pathological. Oh well, at least the books aren’t too expensive. That’s a relief, I guess? And I didn’t buy a whole stack of books. Just three. So that cannot really be called book hoarding. Right? And yes, I’m trying my best to read all my unread books as soon as possible. As if that would justify the hoarding, and really, do we need to?

I got the first two at Book Sale and the last at Books for Less. Both stores are in SM Mall of Asia.

• Long Day’s Journey Into Night by Eugene O’Neill – A play. This is supposed to be the Nobel laureate’s masterpiece. That’s based on my research, one that I undertook for my lifelong challenge of reading the Nobel masterpieces. Php 75.00.
• The Magic Barrel by Bernard Malamud – A novel. A National Book Award winner. I really think I should read a Malamud novel. His other novel, The Fixer, won the Pulitzer. The Assistant, another of novel, is listed in Time’s 100 Novels. Php 115.00.
• Fear And Trembling And The Sickness Unto Death by Soren Kierkegaard – A philosophy book. By God’s nightgown! I almost squealed when I saw this that I immediately snatched it off the shelf, which is funny because I was the only person at the store when I found this aside from the sales people, of course, and I was just glad that we weren’t within each other’s line of vision for that surely might have thought that I was lunatic. I was hoping to find Kierkegaard’s Either/Or, but this one will do. Php 98.00.

Wait, let’s check out the entries first. Here they are:

Entry No. 1: From my buddy, Atty. Monique. She blogs at Bookish Little Me.

Okay, 12 years old. Hmm. I remember wanting to learn how to cook so much that I offered to cook (read: fry) the chicken that my dad prepared for our dinner one time. (Yes, my dad’s the unofficial cook in our house.) After my dad gave me the specific instructions, I donned an apron (no, it doesn’t say “kiss the cook” on it), prepared the pan and the tongs, and proceeded to cook. Well, I didn’t know that I was supposed to let the water on the pan dry up before putting in the oil, or else, puputok. So what happened was, I drizzled the oil onto the pan and before I realized what was happening, the hot oil spat at me right in the face – somewhere within the vicinity of my right cheek, just beside my right nostril. It hurt so much and grew into a huuuuge scab, but I proudly wore it and did not disguise it as a pimple. Whenever my schoolmates or teachers would ask what it was, I’d always say, “Natalsikan po ng mantika,” with a certain glow and pride in the words. See, it was a testament to my attempts to learn how to cook.

Yes, I do know how to cook now, thank you very much.

What we like about Entry No. 1: The nostalgic humor! And we love food! I’m thinking of eating fried chicken soon. We also love how the contestant borders on ranting, an activity that we are inclined to do.

Entry No. 2: From one of my bookish friends, Tricia. She blogs at In Lesbians with Books. No, she’s not a lesbian.

When I was 12, it’s full play. I didn’t think about things seriously. So innocent and temporary. So I don’t remember much anything except this guy:

I
You always have that serious look on your face.
You’re always the most obedient kid on the planet.
I watch you going in and out of the room.
I always wonder if you can stay for a while so I can stare at you.
I always wonder if you notice me.
You seem to be busy with errands all the time.
I wonder if you can stay for a while so I can introduce myself.

II.
You tease me a lot.
I wonder if that’s cute or frustrating.
At least I have some of your divided attention.

I always long for your laugh and parade of funny sarcastic insults.
Quite a martyr? Not really. I don’t mind or take them seriously.
At least I have some of your divided attention.

I was twelve, then. What happened next? After ten years of shit and happiness, we’re still together.

What we like about Entry No. 2: We love forms and structures. We love attempts at poetry. We love recalling our puppy loves. And we love the last line!

Entry No. 3: From one of my new bloggy friends, Skye. She blogs at Book Rain.

The year I turned twelve was the year my mom and I moved to Florida to attend Bible school. She worked in a coat closet in the balcony of this church because that’s where the translation department equipment was. The church services went to all hours of the night and sometimes early mornings. I have memories of my mom telling me to go to sleep because I had school but we had to stay so she could work. I fell asleep many nights underneath the jackets in that coat closet. It sounds odd but I remember it fondly looking up and seeing ushers coats, hearing my mom translate the service and hearing people worshiping in the service outside the door.

What we like about Entry No. 3: The contestant admits the oddness of this memory. We love such eccentricities. There’s a lot to be said about strangeness. And the contrast of sleep and worship.

Hurray! There are three entries! Just to let you know, I would have given away the book and the gift cheque even if there was only one entry. And really, each entry has its merits. So who should take away the book about a twelve-year old boy and the gift cheque for a new book?

After deliberating with my multiple selves, we have come up with a conclusion. The winner of Happy Bloggy Birthday Book and Gift Cheque Giveaway is Tricia! Congratulations! Please leave a comment on this post and tell me how you’d like to receive the prizes (by mail or by meeting up). Also, please tell me your preferred book store for the gift cheque.

To Atty. Monique and Skye, thanks for participating. See you on the next giveaway, that is, if I still have an excess of the spirit of giving.

Possession by A. S. Byatt

Unless you have a doctorate in literature or you are a Victorian poet. Maybe some creative writing majors can fully understand the novel, every page of it, and this kind of understanding is not without whole bulks of effort, and this is most truthful for the regular reader, which happens to be me, in this case.

If you really want to know, I almost gave up on this book. I dreaded reading the parts about the poetry of Randolph Henry Ash and Christabel LaMotte. I wanted to caterwaul within the confines of my then claustrophobic room because I cannot process a stanza of Victorian poetry. It is that frustrating.

But wait, who are these poets? You haven’t heard of them? Of course, you haven’t, unless you live in a parallel universe. These poets are created by the author herself. And she wrote the works, at least some of them, of these two. Impressive, huh? It’s like being three, four writers squeezed inside a single body. And yes, I also have an urge to say that this is one huge intimidating read.

I began this writing task at the suggestion of my cousin, the poet, Christabel LaMotte, who said something that struck me most forcibly. “A writer only becomes a true writer by practising his craft, by experimenting constantly with language, as a great artist may experience with clay or oils until the medium becomes second nature, to be moulded however the artist may desire.” She said too, when I told her of my great desire to write, and the great absence in my daily existence of things of interest, events or passions, which might form the subject matter of poetry or fiction, that it was an essential discipline to write down whatever there was in my life to be noticed, however usual or dull it might seem to me. This daily recording, she said, would have two virtues. It would make my style flexible and my observation exact for when the time came—as it must in all lives—when something momentous should cry out—she said “cry out”—to be told. And it would make me see that nothing was in fact dull in itself, nothing was without its own proper interest. Look, she said, at your own rainy orchard, your own terrible coastline, with the eyes of a stranger, with my eyes, and you will see that they are full of magic and sad but of beautifully various colour. Consider the old pots and the simple strong platters in your kitchen with the eyes of a new Ver Meer come to make harmony of them with a little sunlight and shade. A writer cannot do this, but consider what a writer can do—always supposing the craft is sufficient. – [a random quotation]

That is one of the more readable parts of the novel. But it is not always that way. In fact, there is a bit about Romance, yes, that’s capitalized, at the beginning that I didn’t get and didn’t bother to digest. I ignored it; sometimes, these prefaces and prologues do not really contribute to your understanding of the novel.

The first chapter is about a literary scholar named Roland who finds a slip of paper stuck between the pages of a Randolph Henry Ash book that he is reviewing for his dissertation. Or thesis. The paper is a draft addressed to a “Madam,” asking her for dinner. Something like that.

And that little draft sends us into a literary mystery-slash-thriller. Roland and Maud, our protagonists, set out to restructure and rewrite the biographies of the poets. But no, this is not your ordinary clue-finding novel. Just to brace yourself if you intend to read this, which I hope you would, Chapter 11, which is more or less near the end of the first quarter of the book, is eight pages of undulating Victorian poetry. It goes like this:

The more the Many were revealed to me
The more I pressed my hunt to find the One—
Prima Materia, Nature’s shifting shape
Still constant in her metamorphoses.

And there are more of such chapters, like about that “proem” The Fairy Melusine, which is supposed to be LaMotte’s magnum opus, and it goes without saying that it does not read like a fairy tale. During such chapters, I groan, but I read on. I don’t know where I drew the will and strength to make an effort. I tried my best to understand these chapters, and all the snippets of poetry here and there, and I think there’s a little success because I can still recall the image of that Fairy Melusine, which I wouldn’t describe for you.

Another factor is one of my bookish friends giving me hopes, which were not in vain, that I’ll find something beautiful in the end. He even suggested that I skip all the poetry, which he did and which I am not inclined to do because I prefer to read every word in my book, thank you very much.

And I would not want to fail to mention the letters and journals of certain characters in the novel. Really, this is like an anthology. Reading these made me feel the real letters were in my hands. Beautifully written, I admit, but in a language that I’ll never hear in everyday conversations, even with my most intellectual friends. Of course, these are from poets, what can you expect?

Overall, I decided that I would hate this novel. I just need the justification of having finished the novel. But what happened? Why am I even hoping of influencing at least one person to read this novel?

I was ecstatic when I felt that the remaining number of pages left is dwindling. I got myself a liter of beer. Red Horse, anyone? Yes, I read the last couple of chapters with beer circulating in my veins. It’s not advisable. Anticipate a jackhammering headache if you want to try it. And if you try it with this novel, expect the floodgates of tears to unlatch.

I utterly hated Christabel LaMotte! That snooty, large-toothed, pale, unclassy woman! If it weren’t for her poetic chutzpah, I doubt that Randolph Henry Ash would ever go to bed with her. The nerve of this woman to jeopardize the marriage of a respected aristocratic poet!

But in the end, I changed my mind on a lot of things. I felt that I could not really hate this novel despite the difficulties. Even if I say so, I wouldn’t be able to hide the lurking delight. Besides, I really felt for Christabel. All the hatred melted in that last letter. How could she endure protecting a truth that cannot become a known truth? And save the people she loves by what, exiling herself? I always thought what a selfish little bitch Christabel is, but ultimately, she is the only selfless character in the novel.

And perhaps the only one to have truly known how love’s flames can set temptation’s wings on fire.

More details of the contest here.

In the meantime, I’d like to make a sort of announcement. If you are willing to be my reading buddy for any of my selected books for the month, feel free to say so by leaving a comment on any of the posts. I usually do this buddy reading at GoodReads – TFG, but since most of the buddy reading threads were deleted there, I think it’s better to keep them here.

I felt bad when those threads were deleted. It’s like my thoughts and memories were erased. I actually still feel bad about it, but there’s nothing I can do.

I’m currently reading 2666 with the bloggers from The Misanthropologist and Kikay Reader, and the blogger from Fully Booked .Me showed an interest in reading Housekeeping together. I still don’t know though how to really go about this, like the format and stuff like that, but that can come later.

And yes, don’t forget the deadline.

Friday the 13th Books

Not all of them. But yes, three of them were purchased last January 13. Friday. Friday the 13th. Does that ring a bell?

It does! Come and join me, let’s greet my mom a belated happy birthday!

That’s not a joke. She, my mom, celebrated her 4_th birthday last Friday the 13th. And since that day is special to me, I want to have a book bought on that day just to mark the occasion.

• The Piano Teacher by Elfriede Jelinek – This book has been haunting me since December. Wait. I think it started way earlier than that, probably right after I finished watching its film adaptation. I cannot recall when exactly was that, probably the middle of 2011? Anyway, let me just clarify that my mom is remotely anything like the protagonist of this book. Some of my good bookish friends hate this to the bone. One of them even has the temerity to call this work a smut. What?! I cannot believe that. I am tempted to read this as soon as possible. But there’s  my reading plan in the way. Php 449.00
• Rabbit, Run and Rabbit Redux by John Updike – I didn’t exactly buy these two on Friday the 13th, but they arrived on that day, right after I ran, literally, from Power Books Glorietta, the book store where I got The Piano Teacher. I got these from eBay.ph at Php 70.00 each. And oh, I already have copies of these. Why did I buy duplicates? Well, my first copies have damaged back covers. If you are interested, I could give them away. Just leave a message here.
• Unaccustomed Earth by Jhumpa Lahiri – I bought this at Books for Less – Eton Centris the day after, Php 148.00. What was I doing there? I was with my bookish friends. We dropped by the said book store after our ocular visit to a charitable institution. You might find it weird that I am visiting charitable institutions, but let me just say that I’ve been doing some charity work since college. In fact, I was a president of a civil service organization during my senior year. I may look like the snootiest snob of all, but I think I have a pretty good sense of social responsibility. And oh, that book by Lahiri is another collection of short stories.

2666 Diaries, II

Whoops! This is a bit delayed for a part that’s not even over a hundred pages. You have to understand though that I have a life and I have a job and I can’t fight my urge to oversleep and my computer’s monitor is acting up.

Enough of that. There aren’t many notes here because it’s really short and because three out of five participants are way behind the reading. I suspect that they aren’t even done with Part I, hahaha. I was waiting for their inputs, but if it would take them a month, I can no longer postpone this.

Notes: These are originally posted on a discussion thread at GoodReads-TFG. I am currently reading this with the bloggers of The Misanthropologist and Kikay Reader, and our bookish friends Emir and Doc Ranee. Their inputs, although copy-pasted from their original sources, have minor translations and edits. Also, there are spoilers! And please don’t expect to understand the novel’s entirety based on these ramblings. It’s fundamentally a logbook not intended to make light out of things for the would-be reader.

Day 4:

Or is it really about him? First part is mostly about his wife Lola. It came as a surprise to me because I imagined him just as old or slightly older than our literary critics. And he has a daughter.

The part about Amalfitano’s wife is more of a distraction to me. However, I am somehow drawn to the woman’s self-destructive story, notwithstanding my irritation. Sort of a love-hate relationship?

And the next part is about… Amalfitano’s schizophrenia? Or is it the mystical history of Chile? Gawd, I don’t know what to make out of those parts, but I think that this could be a deeper layer of the story. Note that our critics were not mentioned, not even once. At least I don’t remember any reading anything about them in this part, not even Archimboldi.

I like the hanging book thing, so that a book of principles might learn something about life. Or something like that. But I don’t get the drawings because I do not know most of the names that Amalfitano is doodling.

I can’t say I understood this part, but it doesn’t make me feel bad or unprepared for the next part.

The mention of Trakl made Amalfitano think, as he went through the motions of teaching a class, about a drugstore near where he lived in Barcelona, a place he used to go when he needed medicine for Rosa. One of the employees was a young pharmacist, barely out of his teens, extremely thin and with big glasses, who would sit up at night reading a book when the pharmacy was open twenty-four hours. One night, while the kid was scanning the shelves, Amalfitano asked him what books he liked and what book he was reading, just to make conversation. Without turning, the pharmacist answered that he liked books like The Metamorphosis, Bartleby, A Simple Heart, A Christmas Carol. And then he said that he was reading Capote’s Breakfast at Tiffany’s. Leaving aside the fact that A Simple Heart and A Christmas Carol were stories, not books, there was something revelatory about the taste of this bookish young pharmacist, who in another life might have been Trakl or who in this life might still be writing poems as desperate as those of his distant Austrian counterpart, and who clearly and inarguably preferred minor works to major ones. He chose The Metamorphosis over The Trial, he chose Bartleby over Moby-Dick, he chose A Simple Heart over Bouvard and Pecuchet, and A Christmas Carol over A Tale of Two Cities or The Pickwick Papers. What a sad paradox, thought Amalfitano. Now even bookish pharmacists are afraid to take on the great, imperfect, torrential works, books that blaze paths into the unknown. They choose the perfect exercises of the great masters. Or what amounts to the same thing: they want to watch the great masters spar, but they have no interest in real combat, when the great masters struggle against that something, that something that terrifies us all, that something that cows us and spurs us on, amid blood and mortal wounds and stench.

Buddy Notes:

…I feel that there is a deeper meaning to all that or that it has some historical relevance, but I have no idea what it is. That book about the Araucanian is especially bizaare…

…Amalfitano’s ghost or whatever it is is interesting, though I don’t know what it has to do with anything, other than typing up the character of Amalfitano with the story so far….

…So from Part 1 and Part 2, a connection has been established between the critics and Amalfitano and Archimboldi…

…So I guess the reason the critics found him strange sometimes (blood-red eyes, etc.). was because Amalfitano has been struggling with the voices in his head…

…I know I’m way, way late into the reading, but I wanted to note the plethora of dreams, dreams galore! Is the author blurring the boundaries of “fictional reality” and fictional dream? Reading about Amalfitano hearing The Voice reminds me of Sidney Sheldon and his novel wherein the main character suffers from multiple identity disorder or dissociative identity disorder. Amalfitano is looking like a mental case–could he be the murderer? Hmmn…

One Hundred Years Of Solitude by Gabriel García Márquez

You can, if you want to. Most editions have a family tree, or even all editions, maybe. But it doesn’t matter, or rather there’s no need to do that because the reader knows which Jose Arcadio or Aureliano is talking. Yes, this is the story of a family who founded the fictional town of Macondo and a family who doesn’t have the inclination to choose names aside from Jose Arcadio and Aureliano.

We read about generations and generations of this family, the Buendias. We read about their fortunes, misfortunes, adventures, and affairs. The unfocused reader would complain of confusion. The family tree is printed for them.

I think what this book sells is magical realism. If you talk about it, this novel always creeps into the conversation, which I find a bit annoying because I think otherwise.

A trickle of blood came out under the door, crossed the living room, went out into the street, continued on in a straight line across the uneven terraces, went down steps and climbed over curbs, passed along the Street of the Turks, turned a corner to the right and another to the left, made a right angle at the Buendía house, went in under the closed door, crossed through the parlor, hugging the walls so as not to stain the rugs, went on to the other living room, made a wide curve to avoid the dining-room table, went along the porch with the begonias, and passed without being seen under Amaranta’s chair as she gave an arithmetic lesson to Aureliano José, and went through the pantry and came out in the kitchen, where Úrsula was getting ready to crack thirty-six eggs to make bread. [a random quotation]

Funny, reading about blood traveling willfully and deliberately to inform a person of the bloodshed. And that’s funnier, me thinking that the book is funny, because it really is a funny novel, not because of magical realism, which I think is overrated, but because of the characters themselves.

Before we talk about the characters, let’s get rid of magical realism. Put loosely, this is the making of supernatural stuff seem like ordinary occurrences in daily life. If we put it in some perspective, it may as well be exaggerating. Or maybe there are a lot of hyperboles in this novel aside from the magical realism stuff.

A bookish friend theorizes that magical realism was first employed by Filipino writers. I don’t know why he claims this, and I don’t know what point I am making. Maybe this is just to say that magical realism is not exclusive to this novel.

Really, I do not know what to make out of this. I am even reluctant to write about this book. There are many things to write about it, but I want to focus on the title.

Why does it have that lonely word at the end? That word is what bothered me when I was laughing at some of the funny parts because I thought that this is supposed to be a sad book. A shallow claim, I know, because solitude does not always mean sadness, but I can’t help it. Anyway, solitude is a dominant trait among some of the characters in the book. There are those who would spend lots of time in a room filled with whatnot, a room I would like to call the patriarch’s lab. In this lab are stuff that can be used for alchemy or whatever, but those are not important, at least not as important as the parchments.

These parchments, present ever since the first generation of the Buendia family, are encrypted mysteriously that it took a number of generations for them to be understood. So what importance do these parchments have in connection with the plot? These contain the history of all the Buendias. They contain the errors of their ways, and if only these have been deciphered as soon as possible, the mistakes of the Buendias might have been corrected and even prevented.

But it took so long to have the parchments interpreted, so long that upon decoding them, the town of Macondo was destroyed by a whirlwind. What’s beautiful about this is that the parchments were only understood when one of the characters found true love.

Love, love, love. And they never learn, which is somehow why there are Jose Arcadios and Aurelianos per generation, just to illustrate that things will keep going through the same cycle if people do not make ways to enlighten themselves. And upon achieving this, destruction.

Going back to the parchments, they tell me that the Buendia family is doomed to follow a cycle. The parchments already had what’s in store for the family. This strikes me as something that adheres to fatalism, unless the words encrypted on the parchments are dynamic. That’s one possibility, what with all the magical realism going on. And how are we to know? It took a hundred years for the parchments to be decoded.

But if that’s the case, what sense is left in decrypting the parchments? It would change the novel’s foundation tremendously, and it could be a whole new novel as well. So let’s accept the inevitable things that are to be faced by the Buendias.

And since we have accepted that, does this mean that the characters, and largely we, cannot escape what is laid for us? Does our past dictate what we have in store for the future? We cannot control both, the past and the future, but there is something we can do about the present.

It would be helpful if you at least read the last few pages. Ah. I say that this novel has one of the most beautiful endings in all of literature. It’s worth memorizing the family tree after all.

2666 Diaries, I

Yes. It’s literally a diary. Wait. I’d rather call it a reading journal. It’s one of the things I resolved to maintain this year. If I can’t quit smoking or oversleeping, maybe I can do this. And never mind the handwriting. It sucks, and I have the temerity to flaunt it under the mercy of stray graphologists. I can use a pricey notebook for my reading journal, but it wouldn’t change my handwriting.

And if you are trying to decipher the code, let me just correct myself. The Perrier that you might have read on that page is really Pelletier. Now enough of this and let’s proceed with the real diary.

Notes: These are originally posted on a discussion thread at GoodReads-TFG. I am currently reading this with the bloggers of The Misanthropologist and Kikay Reader, and our bookish friends Emir and Doc Ranee. Their inputs, although copy-pasted from their original sources, have minor translations and edits. Also, there are spoilers! And please don’t expect to understand the novel’s entirety based on these ramblings. It’s fundamentally a logbook not intended to make light out of things for the would-be reader.

Day 1:

My preconceived notions: tough, a mental exercise, prepare to get bored. But really, this is fun. No need to prepare yourself. Or maybe I’ve been well prepared by the previous book that I read?

The narrative is very engaging. I was laughing at some parts, particularly the part where Pelletier and Espinoza are having a phone conversation about Norton (happiness used once, love used twice, Liz mentioned umpteenth times, etc.). By the way, Pelletier, Espinoza, Norton, and Morini are our literary critics here. They are the foremost scholars of Archimboldi, an elusive writer. The first three are tangled in a ménage à trois, the last is being a vegetable.

One of the commentaries on my edition says that this is a book about books. Yes it is, and the first book that I am reminded of is Byatt’s Possession. Note the parallelisms below:

Benno von Archimboldi = Randolph Henry Ash/Christabel LaMotte
Pelletier, Espinoza, Norton, Morini = Maud, Roland

And yes, we love the literary critic’s life! Literary talk until our brains bleed of letters. But really, it is too ideal a life. Probably such a life is sustainable if you are in a nice country, say Italy or France or UK or even Spain.

But the Philippines?

Day 2:

There’s one line dedicated to Salman Rushdie. My heart swooned when Pelletier and Espinoza kicked that Pakistani for Rushdie despite their belief that he isn’t that good. Which comes to me as a coincidence because Midnight’s Children is the most recent book that I finished.

And then there’s all this talk about the world being a coincidence. I am not sure if I want to agree because it makes me feel like a machine if I put that in my head. Like there are strings pulling me to lead me wherever it is I am supposed to go. I don’t like that. I want to think that I can perform my purpose without the necessity of the strings.

And I’ve been waiting forever for that threesome! I admit that it’s the thing that I am looking forward to the most, aside from the unraveling of the mysteries of Archimboldi. I know I am being pervy, but what can I do? Pelletier-Norton-Espinoza is one of the most intriguing relationships I’ve read about.

Day 3:

I tried rereading some parts that Amalfitano, a minor Archimboldian, was saying about regarding the Mexican intellectual. It’s just futile. It doesn’t make sense. And then Norton said, I don’t understand a thing that you said. Which is funny because I attempted to make sense of something that is supposed to be nonsense. Or it could be that there really is some vague form of sense in the prattle Amalfitano delivered.

I don’t know, but I also find it funny that Espinoza, after his visits to Rebeca, finds Pelletier reading. That is a pattern of maybe 3-4 cycles: Espinoza and Rebeca’s budding romance, Pelletier’s reading habits, and Norton’s email.

The email’s content shouldn’t be surprising but I still found myself surprised. I just thought Morini was being fatherly. Tsk tsk, I missed the subtle hints of Morini’s love for Norton.

“Coincidence isn’t a luxury, it’s the flip side of fate, and something else besides,” said Johns.

“What else?” asked Morini.

“Something my friend couldn’t grasp, for a reason that’s simple and easy to understand. My friend (if I may still call him that) believed in humanity, and so he also believed in order, in the order of painting and the order of words, since words are what we paint with. He believed in redemption. Deep down he may even have believed in progress. Coincidence, on the other hand, is total freedom, our natural destiny. Coincidence obeys no laws and if it does we don’t know what they are. Coincidence, if you’ll permit me the simile, is like the manifestation of God at every moment on our planet. A senseless God making senseless gestures at his senseless creatures. In that hurricane, in that osseous implosion, we find communion. The communion of coincidence and effect and the communion of effect with us.”

Buddy Notes:

…Sometimes I feel like the writer is trying different experimental writing styles. Sometimes it’s stream of consciousness, sometimes it’s very straight-forward. Then he has those paragraphs like the phone conversation between Pelletier and Ezpinoza…

…It’s quite strange that I find this book so fascinating to read. If you think about it, the first part is just random events in the lives of the critics, but there are some passages that just take me by surprise, and I can’t help laughing out loud…

…All the characters introduced are bound to the author Benno von Archimboldi: Pelletier, Morini, Espinoza, Norton. Archimboldi is reclusive and not very well-known, so why are they enamored with him? They drifted to him through their own personal failures and limitations. Archimboldi was a necessity…

…As far as destiny vs. choice goes, I don’t believe in destiny. The paths of our lives depend on the choices we make (random or not) – I don’t think we are “destined” to do anything, and I don’t believe that people are born with a purpose. That’s just things we create to give our lives meaning (aha, the functionalist theory is relevant after all!)…

…But my impression was that the first part laid grounds for questions, not answers, as to what binds us to certain things: identification, love? Note the passage about how elusive Archimboldi is, and with the amorous turn, note how the persons involved were so unsure about themselves. No terra firma for our weary critics yet, the ground is turning, shifting…

…The critics’ quest to know Archimboldi and understand his works vaguely parallels Pelletier and Espinoza’s quest to Norton’s heart. In one scene, a character wonders how well one could know a person’s work, and proceeds to illustrate this by relating her and her friend’s disparate reactions to an artist’s works: she tends to laugh, his friend plunges to abysmal despair. Who really knows/understands the artist then, in this case? Similarly, consider how different Norton deals with Pelletier and Espinoza – reticent in one, uncomfortably chatty with the other. Moreover, consider the importance of presenting the Archimboldian “schools of thought” with their differing interpretations and the personal wars they wage against one another. Questions are more important than answers sometimes…

…True about not being able to know anyone really well. I think even with Archimboldi, they may have mentioned somewhere that though they have analyzed him to pieces, they still don’t really know much about him as a person…

…Personally, I think that Bolaño’s thematic takes on interpretation (critics to Archimboldi’s work, Pelletier and Espinoza to Norton or all of them to Morini, reader to writer, connoisseur to art(ist)) possibly hint on the importance of viewpoints and interpretation. I’m excited to know how this thematic handling is related to the whole of 2666…

…In their case, prior to the sex happening, neither Pelletier or Espinoza expressed their intention or desire to be with Liz. Their attitude towards this would be different if after their first meeting, one of them said he’s interested and the other would say go for it. But then either one will go for it. Somehow, their love triangle (if we could call it that) is more circumstantial than 100% intentional…

…Actually, I think they think love is not easy. Because if it is then their love for Archimboldi would have yielded something. In their eyes, they are at war, since they are fighting to gain access to what they love (more knowledge re: Archimboldi’s life)…

…Can’t remember who said this “We are all destined to be great. It is left up to us to choose to be great.” I agree…

The First Batch of Loots

I was becoming pretty desperate for the past few days because I haven’t been able to buy any book. I am not one of those people who are resolving to cut down their expenses by controlling their urges to go book hoarding. Kudos to them! I know it takes a lot to do that, and I don’t think I can so I’ll just carry on indulging myself.

So what did I get?

• Dog Soldiers by Robert Stone – This is the last book that I got for 2011. I found it at Fully Booked Marquee Mall. Php 70.00. I don’t know what it’s about, but I trust Time Magazine’s list. The store also had Anthony Powell’s A Dance to the Music of Time – Autumn for Php 80.00. I asked two chitchatting staff members if they had any Powell books on the sale bin. I know it’s a futile question because more often than not, they have no idea. But I have to ask anyway, just for the sake of verifying even though it’s pretty much verified as I see it. No, they don’t have other Powell books on sale. Why I didn’t buy it? I want to buy this series in one go.
• Fatelessness by Imre Kertesz – My first book of the year. I just wanted to buy a book during the first week of the new year. I got this last January 6 at Power Books Greenbelt. Php 469.00. A little pricey for a short book, but I have been meaning to buy this since I first read its blurb. I think I even wishlisted this during our book group’s Christmas Party. Now that’s one wish off my list. And this book is going to give me a problem because I so want to read it soon, which means I will have to replot my reading plan for either February or March.
• Wolf Hall by Hilary Mantel – The next day, I went to my dentist. I swung by Book Sale Munoz just because it’s really near the clinic, and I found this! I have been forever battling with myself whether to buy this or not at a regular book store. And just a couple of days ago, I was chatting with a bookish friend regarding this book, or rather about my hopes of seeing this book at Book Sale. Another wish granted. Php 45.00.
• The Hound of the Baskervilles by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle – I also got this at the same store for the same price. I don’t know what it’s about, but it should be a good classic. Why do I say “should”? Php 45.00
• Severance by Robert Olen Butler – After my dental appointment, I was to meet a friend at Gateway Mall. I swung by Book Sale Farmer’s Plaza despite my friend’s protest, who was already at the meeting place. I’m glad I didn’t have much of a conscience that time because this is a nice loot. This is a collection of short stories about what’s going on inside people’s heads after they are severed from their respective bodies. Short short stories, I must stress, because the severed head’s thought processes do not last that long. Php 45.00.

I’m so happy. And oh, please do not assume that I haven’t been doing my readings. I am still in the middle of 2666. A couple of things just bogged me down, like my inability to wake up early during the weekends. Totally irrelevant, I know, but if we compute the lost hours for reading due to oversleeping, you’ll see what I mean.

If you really want to know, this blog died and was just resurrected last year, January 7, 2011, with a comeback post regarding Harper Lee’s To Kill a Mockingbird. Apt enough since that is the first novel that I ever read. I think I should stick with that date as BR’s birthday because posts before that day have all been deleted, dating back to as far as October 2009. Those are a handful of posts regarding Death at Intervals and The Heart is a Lonely Hunter.

But that’s not the point. In the spirit of goodwill and sharing, and in gratitude of the attention that you are indulging me by reading what I have to say on books that I’ve read and half-forgotten, I’m giving away a book and a gift cheque. Oops, with feelings now: I’m giving away a book and a gift cheque! Don’t try rereading that sentence because I am dead serious. Call it promotion or whatever, but I still am going to do it.

But I can only give these two goodies to one person. I’m not Santa Claus. I’m too thin to be him, and even if I were sickeningly obese, Christmas is over. So let’s settle this with a contest.

I won’t ask you to like a link or repost this somewhere or follow me on Twitter (because my Twitter account has long been deleted) or whatever similar to those. I’ll just ask you one thing. On the comments section, please post a memory when you were 12 years old.

Additional rules: entries should be between 100 to 300 words. Contest will run for 12 days, which means you can still submit your entries until January 19. If less than three participants join, the contest is nullified. Entries will not be published during the duration of the contest, just to avoid sneaking into the entries of others. But they will all be published afterward.

Everyone is invited to join. For participants not living in the Philippines, they can only vie for the book. For participants actually living, breathing, thrashing in the Philippines, they can vie for the book and the gift cheque worth Php500.00, either from National Book Store or Fully Booked or whichever book store. It’s your choice.

You must be thinking what the criteria are for judging. Well, the most striking and beautifully written memory wins the loot. That’s all. I’m not inviting any authorities on this. You just have to trust my judgment.

By the way, here’s the book that I am giving away:

Happy Bloggy Birthday!

Go figure why I’m asking you to wade through your 12-year old memories. Anyway, Black Swan Green is one of the twelve books from 2011 that I love. This is a trade paperback edition, but it’s almost as big as a hardbound edition. This is an extra copy that I bought brand new. Yes, it’s not from the sale bins, but after all these months, it experienced a little discoloration. Just a little, otherwise, it is unread and new. The copy that I read is a different edition, which I am keeping.

If this book doesn’t appeal to you, I think the gift cheque will. Oh, I’m sure it will. And please join, someone!

Mythology by Edith Hamilton

Of course, Edith Hamilton did not write the Greek, Roman, and Norse mythologies. It’s appropriate to say that this book is her retelling of these mythologies, a sort of idiot’s guide. A glossary, even, of mythological characters. If it weren’t for her, would we be able to go through Iliad and Odyssey? We could, but not without some hemorrhaging.

Hamilton did the dirty job of condensing the epics and transforming them into simple, straightforward storytelling. This book is almost always seen on sale bins for what? Php 20.00? I wouldn’t get it if readers do not have a copy of this. Not that it is monumental as far as the writing is concerned, but it is an important book.

Why is it important?

There was once a king who had three daughters, all lovely maidens, but the youngest, Psyche, excelled her sisters so greatly that beside them she seemed a very goddess consorting with mere mortals. The fame of her surpassing beauty spread over the earth, and everywhere men journeyed to gaze upon her with wonder and adoration and to do her homage as though she were in truth one of the immortals. They would even say that Venus herself could not equal this mortal. As they thronged in ever-growing numbers to worship her loveliness no one any more gave a thought to Venus herself. Her temples were neglected; her altars foul with cold ashes; her favorite towns deserted and falling in ruins. All the honors once hers were now given to a mere girl destined some day to die. [a random quotation]

First, a lot of books, and a lot of stuff in this world, allude or refer to mythological stuff. To be able to understand such, we must be able to at least have an idea who the heck Zeus is. You don’t know? Please stop reading now. The thought of a person who spends so much time reading random stuff published on the Internet and who doesn’t know who Zeus is disturbs me. Or maybe Jupiter works better?

Second, it’s a stepping stone toward a greater appreciation of literature. Sure, most of us have been forced to memorize the family tree of our erratic gods and goddesses, but didn’t you enjoy the drama spurred by the beauty contest of Hera, Athena, and Aphrodite? The adventures of Odysseus? Random stories from minor gods and goddesses?

And third, well, I couldn’t think of anything else. It’s the classic of all classics. And I just like it, that’s all, and I hope for it to be important, which I assume is already the case.

What I like most among these tales is the story of Orpheus and Eurydice. I don’t want to tell their story because that is Hamilton’s job. I am drawn to this hero mostly because of his lyre. Never mind that he wasn’t successful in bringing Eurydice back from the underworld, but you have to understand that it’s hard not to look back when the person you love is behind you.

Mushy? Maybe, but before I digress, I’d like to point out that these Greek gods and goddesses do not act like their supposed godly selves. They get jealous, they outsmart each other, they bicker, slap each other, kill each other, eat each other, heck, they are as human as any human can get. They are gods in the sense that they have superhuman abilities. Other than that, they are not the ideal gods who are supposed to look over the world.

And this stands in stark contrast against the Norse gods. They suffer so much and the things they do are hopeless. There seems to be no hope for them, which is ironic because they are gods. They don’t even have the consolation of being good-looking or having a good pair of eyes, in the case of Odin. And he is a chief god, for whatever’s sakes!

But here’s the thing. Odin doesn’t have his other eye because he gave it away in search of wisdom. How’s that for our promiscuous Zeus? Is that thunder I hear?

The enduring and forbearing qualities of the Norse gods make me want to join their team. If you don’t know yet, I am a god. Well, Angus, my namesake, is a Celtic god. I don’t know much about Celtic mythology, but I know this much.

Angus is the god of love, laughter, and wisdom. Hah! Did my parents know that? I doubt it. They told me I was named after Angus Young of AC/DC, that iconic guitarist who wears mismatched clothes.

Perhaps if my parents were as nerdy and geeky as I am, my hopes of being named after the Celtic character are not in vain. But they are just that, my nanay and my tatay. My mom being a loving mom and my dad being whatever.

But I am not supposed to be talking about that. You have to forgive me, because once in a while, clips from my so-called life might slip here as a result of putting my personal blog on an extended hiatus. Anyway, here’s an image of Angus the Celtic god (please do your research to know his background, xxxx),

Celtic (Irish) God of youth, love, and beauty. One of the Tuatha De Danaan, the name means "young son". He had a harp that made irresistible music, and his kisses turned into birds that carried messages of love. (From Celtic Gods and Goddesses)

and here’s Angus Young.

Angus Young live with AC/DC on November 23, 2008 in St. Paul, Minnesota (From Wikipedia)

Not part of mythology, I know, even these last words. There’s a book that I always see at book stores by Alexander McCall Smith, Dream Angus. You think I should buy it? I think I’m going to buy it soon.