Dear John, you should have stuck with the book

I picked the Dear John novel last weekend (thanks to CB for lending it to me) and I got really hooked that I finished it in less than a week, a feat for a busy bee like me. It was my companion while waiting for my 1.5 hour-delayed flight back to Manila last Friday. But I had to stop reading before I reached the end because I was already feeling a lump on my throat. Tears on a guy are like bombs on an airport, if you know what I mean.



THE BOOK

The story is rather simple, since simple beauty is the forte of Nicholas Sparks. He uses straightforward language and laid-back storytelling. But what sets Sparks apart is the heart he allows to beat in every story he fabricates. Living in this complex world, Spark’s simplistic prose appeals to our intrinsic human emotions... that is to revel in the lovely sunshine and the joys of love and at the same time suffer the gloom of heartbreak and loss.

Yes it’s a love story but told from the male perspective, so it is not that emasculating. Truth to tell, I can relate to most of the male leads to ever walk out of Sparks' pages. But John is probably and ironically the most self-destructive in the name of selflessness. Like John, I’m much of a loner and nonchalant to the thing called love. But when I do take the plunge, I approach it with such sensitivity and a mixture of wonder and trepidation that my life is never the same again. Sigh. And like John, I have been known to inflict personal pain if that meant making another person happy. Another sigh.

And so I drop the bomb. This is the third book to ever make me cry. Not bawling-in-fetal-position kind of crying. Just a tear shed for the beauty in the sadness. Reading Sparks is like engaging in a losing battle to keep the blues away. And then comes one sentence (yes all it takes is one sentence) which will dissolve all your restraint and you just let the emotions engulf you. At least I am man enough to admit that.

Dear John explores a different way of loving another person. And the sad part is that it’s also the only way I know how. Hence, no happy ending for me as well; I’ve longed accepted that.

There goes my Dear Bernard.

THE MOVIE

I was pretty much in a Dear John zone that I immediately dived into the movie after finishing the book. As a personal rule, I read the book first because I want to “connect” with it personally and not let a filmmaker interpret it for me. More often than not, the movie adaptation is a trying-hard effort. Some stories are not meant to be visual (stories can be simple whereas a movie has to be glossy). Since he banks more on emotions rather than imagery, Nicholas Sparks' works belong to this classification. But for some reason his novels and often turned into movies.

In fairness, the A Walk To Remember movie was acceptable, and not just because of Mandy Moore and the amazing soundtrack. It captured the essence of the story. Still better is the The Notebook adaptation. I hated the book (the ending chapter was revolting) but the movie gave the story a whole new light.

I think the trick is to stir up emotions and poignancy via cinematography and narration. Of course, it doesn’t hurt to cast pleasing actors and throw in a good soundtrack.

Dear John, the movie, is a dedication in dissapointment. It suffered from bad screenplay writing and lame direction (to think the director previously dished out Oscar-worthy Chocolat and The Cider House Rules). Though I have not read and watched Nights In Rodanthe, this is the worst movie adaptation ever. It’s like a Muslim was asked to make a movie out of The Bible.



Casting Channing Tatum and Amanda Seyfried was a step in the right direction. I initially wrote off Channing as a shoo-in for John (girls will swoon at his pretty face and built that is moulded for an Army uniform). But he proved me wrong because he carried the heavy scenes well enough. Still, the two lead actors did not have the same chemistry as Mandy Moore-Shane West and Rachel McAdams-Ryan Gosling. And they have the script to blame because the movie lacked something that the novel has.

Dear John’s biggest downfall is that the movie failed to capture the HEART and SOUL of the novel. It felt like the screen writer and director did not engage in the emotions of the story. They just look bits and pieces and strung it sans rhyme or reason. Sans emotional build-up. Even the full moon analogy was hackneyed, lacking the dramatic moments like the telescope-shooting star sequence in A Walk To Remember.

Had I not read the book, I don’t know if I would follow the development of the movie plot. For instance, how could Savannah say that John’s father has a disorder just by seeing him with his coins? In the novel you can understand how Savannah concluded that because we got to know the Dad. In the movie, the Dad was a disconnected character who was later given a tearjerker scene which left the viewer dumbfounded. Sorry, but the only reason I want to cry is because the movie was so far from the book.

And to add bitter icing to this already blown-up cake, they made a lot of changes to the characters (like Allan being Tim's son instead of brother). But I can forgive that. What’s appalling is that they had the nerve to change the ending! THE ENDING! It’s like they questioned the decisions made by John in the novel.

I didn’t realize that Hollywood can be this heartless.

Dear Mr Sparks, if it’s your dream to see your novels on the big screen, this is not they way to do it.

In The Shadow Of Zafon

Last weekend, I finished reading what I am earmarking as one of the best novels of this generation. It took me half a year to finish it; not because it was horribly dragging and unsuitably lengthy. It was the polar opposite. I have to slowly devour the pages, cherish every word and wallow in the sentiments and emotions they evoke.

(Second reason is that I am reading a flood-warped copy that I had to dry off after Ondoy’s flood almost obliterated it. Meaning I can’t bring it anywhere with me as that will be quite pathetic.)

The book is The Shadow Of The Wind.



This is my second helping of Carlos Ruiz Zafon but this is really his first novel. For a debut novel to be this impressive says so much about the promise and future of this now-celebrated Spanish author.

To attempt to summarize this book is tantamount to vandalizing its beauty. But for your appreciation, I’ll risk it. This is the story of how Daniel discovered the book The Shadow Of The Wind (yes, same title) and becomes obsessed with it and its author. This obsession leads to a Pandora’s boxful of concurring events as Daniel unravels another man’s mystery and disturbs memories and vendettas which soon threaten his existence and will define his future.

Zafon is at his most skillful when he weaves a multi-layered and textured story without the reader feeling lost in the labyrinthine episodes (the downfall of the likes of The Time Traveler’s Wife). Hence, Shadow transcends genre; it subtly blends coming-of-age romance with Gothic intrigue, social commentary, historical family saga and even steamy erotica. And Zafon does this ever so seamlessly. In fact this book is almost the literary equivalent of a soap opera. Shadow interlaces two parallel lives and the way Zafon knits the individual fragments into a single tragically beautiful tapestry is breathtaking. You will close the last page with a desire to read it over again, thinking “What the hell was that?” And I mean this as a compliment.

Zafon’s characterization is deliciously real and each person to ever walk across its pages is imperfectly human. Even the antagonist asks for our pity and understanding even if his fate has already damned him to his deserved kingdom come.

Above all, the magic of Zafon is really in his romanticized narrative. He paints Franco’s Barcelona in a superb albeit obtuse light. I’ve been to Spain a couple of years back but I have never been as captivated visually as when Zafon describes the grandiose palaces and creepy dungeons. In Zafon’s hands, Barcelona becomes a creaking trapdoor which opens to a world that is strange and familiar at the same time. Eventually these doors will lead to the dark recesses of the human mind.

Considering that this book was originally written in Spanish, a shower of praises to the translator is also appropriate. She did a sterling job capturing Zafon’s celebration of imagination; making the book more accessible without destroying its soul.

A good book lingers even after you have closed the last page. This book and its sequel (The Angel’s Game) will haunt me for years to come. The irony is that this will be the gold standard to which I will pit my humble literary pieces against. And I know they will always pale in comparison.

And there is the danger of superlatives: after reading this, all other books will be second-rate, mediocre and less enjoyable. I guess I will just be content with the fact that at some point in my life, I have seen (or perhaps "read" might be the correct word) perfection.

The Shadow of the Wind sets the bar high and is the PERFECT illustration of the all-encompassing power of a story well told.

P.S. I now pray that the rest of Zafon’s Spanish books will be translated. Que cera cera. I will live for the day when they will be released.

My Sacrifice

And suddenly the silence. I half-expected Faith, Sacrifice and Repentance to become trending topics. And I am not being sarcastic here. This is my penance for this week; to lay low on the caustic acid.




It’s Day 2 of an elusive 4-day weekend. Pardon the insensitivity but for agnostics like me, it’s just another long weekend. The only time of the year when I get to slow down and become the King Of Nothing To Do. I know Christmas is a longer holiday but it is a flurry of one festive activity after another. Until you wake up January 2 and exclaim What the hell happened? And it leaves a feeling like you have been robbed. You know what I mean. Wry humour, anyone?

But during Holy Week, you are allowed to do nothing. You are expected to do nothing. Just be good and meditate...or “reflect” to put it in religious context.

So I reflect on what I have done these past two days. I chose NOT to compartmentalize this vacation. Which entails making a list of To Dos and have fun watching the checkmarks appear. I decided to just let it slide by, seize the solemn minutes as they come.

I have no grand plans. Call me a loser but I’d rather stay at home than troop to the nearest tourist hotspot and burn my skin golden brown. I’d rather stay indoor or online; reading a meditative book, finally watching the DVDs I have bought, or surfing my favorite sites. I tried to give up Twitter and FB as my sacrifice but that would be like nailing my own hand to the cross (pardon the bad pun)...the tweets will just pile up. And since head bang/bob music is one of the 7-deadly sins this season, I’ll chill with some sappy ballads. Which means I’ll probably be asleep before the silky voice reaches the coda.

So I picked up Up In The Air, the book I have been reading for a few days and labored to finish it. And I mean labored hard. I am a big fan of the movie so I went out of my way to buy the book (to think that I seldom buy first-hand). I always thought that the book is better than the film version. Until this one. The book can be thrown up in the air. The first half was a nice smooth ride but it went tail spinning soon after. It was a mess; the writer is such a scatterbrain. Maybe I am too Asian to appreciate the Western humor but seriously the book lacked fluidity and coherence. RD was right; it has a lot of glitches and a huge part of the nomadic character is fictional. I sighed after I turned the last page. It felt like Christmas and I have been robbed of almost 400 pesos.



If this blog seems too rambling then I have the book to blame. I’ll try to copy Walter Kirn’s style in the next paragraph so you’ll know what I am talking about.

Then I turned on the small tube and had my fill of pop TV. AC360 on CNN talking about bullying in the schools, scientology and the scandals that rocks the Catholic Church. No, not during their week. American Idol on their R&B week with who else but Usher mentoring. This marks the week when invincible Siobhan Magnus shows her Achilles heel. But it was Didi Benami (as I have predicted) who was kicked. She is way better than two or three of the Top 8 but she did suffer from bad song choice syndrome. P. Diddy performed his new song and I think he is now called by another name. Something like Diddy Dirty something. He and Prince hold the record for multiple A.K.As. Reruns of The Ellen Degeneres Show. She is so cool that if asked who my man-crush is, I’ll have to say her name. I hope she doesn’t mind. Why does it seem like Glee is on every 2 hours? It’s overkill in soprano. Watched TMZ but I didn’t know half of the celebrities they featured. I now know some of the TMZ peeps by name (other than Harvey, of course); I am following Dax and Matt on Twitter. Then the usual suspects: CSI and CSI: NY (again pardon the pun). I know which season it is by looking at who’s in or out and judging by Nick’s haircut and Danny’s current flame. I don’t like Lawrence Fishbourne; is there a petition somewhere to bring Grissom back?

There. Are you confused now? That’s Kirn for you.

Not much movies to watch on cable either. I am surprised that they don’t show Passion Of The Christ, just the usual Ten Commandments and variations of Jesus of Nazareth. Even iffy PBO does not feature local adaptation Kristo. I fed The Blind Side onto the player and was caught up in the story in mere minutes. But then the DVD conked out after 35:04 minutes (the part when Big Mike and Sandra visit the ghetto after his first sleep in). Times like this, I curse piracy. Then I watched Precious (another Best Picture nominee) but the story was too miserable; I need something enlightening not depressing. For lack of better options, I chose The Rebound but it won’t play. I give up.

I checked my Twitter and it seemed like Ryan Seacrest’s account has been hacked. The hacker had the nerve to post some pretty malicious tweets.


Until I remembered it was April Fools. You almost got me there!

I also wanted to do some detox so I have been eating healthy: fruits, yoghurt, fruit juice, water, sugar substitutes. I just cheated when the oysters fresh from Hagonoy were delivered. But as a sacrifice I have abstained from chocolates. It was a toss up between giving up on snacks or chocolates. But you gotta love your own so I chose chocolates. Hello, Frito Lay!

Speaking of, I had some work done and answered some emails a few hours ago. Just so I won’t be swamped on Monday.

I wanted to do some tidying up but the heat prevents me from even emptying the trash can. It is now full of used tissue papers. I’ve had a bad colds and cough since Tuesday. Again the heat. Unlike most people, I get colds during summer.

What to do tomorrow? Mall time with the family. I need to get out or I’ll have cabin fever. I could have met up with my high school buddies but they changed plans. Try again next time.

All in all it has been one heck of a good Friday. Excuse me, I am about to have an epiphany.

In The Shadow Of The New Moon

Even if Halloween just whizzed us by, the New Moon fever is very much aglow. I have barely two weeks to finish this book before the movie rolls out.

To be honest, I got into the Twilight bandwagon just to be "in" on the new pop phenomenon (part of our Marketing lifestyle). And because F pressured us. I found the book a bit juvenile...like Anne Rice rewriting Sweet Valley High with bloody ink. But this does not make the book any less enjoyable. It combines two compelling fantasies...the existence of vampires and the discovery of true love despite the odds.

The movie is different though and far from juvenile. I think it did justice to the book, which seldom happens when you bring a novel to silverscreen life. Everything seemed to be well thought of...from the casting to the cinematography. Even the OST and musical score is superb. The OST immortally resided on my player (I still can't get over that Iron & Wine track).



I’m a fifth into the book and newsflash: the new moon has casted a shadow over me. I blame it for feeling morose and aloof today. Agony is universal, no matter what the phase of the moon will be.

Excuse me while I sulk... I mean excuse me while I resume my reading.

With This Ring Comes Excess Baggage (A Book Review)

It’s Saturday night and I am stormed in. Typhoon Pepeng is battering extreme Northern Luzon and hard rains with bursts of strong winds have been pelting outside since midday. I spent most part of the morning watching CNN and ANC for typhoon update; feeding a paranoia borne out of last weekend’s Ondoy calamity.

To ease my boredom, I picked up the book I have been reading for two weeks. Anita Shreve’s A Wedding In December. And for some reason, the events of the previous week brought this taunt story to a more personal level. The central story occurred in the aftermath of 9/11. Tragedy given a more opaque light. Shreve was not being poetic when she described “the sense of the democracy of catastrophe. It knows no class or race.” We all saw this from Ondoy.

A Wedding In December revolved around the reunion of seven former schoolmates to celebrate the wedding of two of them. As with any reunion, the past is withdrawn from the drawer of memories and uncomfortable secrets resurface. In the same vein, the present is scrutinized with a mixture of disbelief, jealousy and pride.



Shreve is the master of layered storing-telling and this novel maximizes multiplicity to the hilt. Each of the seven characters carries their own personal baggage, both past and present. Tales of love lost and found, regrets and second chances, painful choices, sins not forgiven, hidden desires, life-long guilt and the torment of what might have beens. Add to this wicked brew the bipolar qualities of each character...strength and denial, courage and vulnerability, values and greed. And you have a plot at its thickest.

This heptagon of intersecting personas is further complicated by an underlying story about the Halifax disaster, seen in parallel with 9/11. The lives changed in one (literal) blinding second and the sacrifice of one fine young man. This story, by itself, is already heartbreaking.

As with other Shreve novels, this book explores human fallibility, notably at its darkest. But this novel stands out in the way each character fall victim to their own foibles but still evokes compassion and sympathy from the readers. We are as confused in their dilemma. We shake our heads at the bitter reality that one different decision could have changed an entire life. We are torn in defining what is good or what is right under these circumstances.

We are asked questions with answers that are highly biased and relative. Do you leave your family to pursue your one true love (duty versus desire)? Will you give all of yourself and your future for something that will soon be taken from you? Can you accept something that is wrong but makes another person happy?

On the grander scheme of things, the story makes the reader look inside himself and answer this middle-aged question: “Is this how you want to live the rest of your life?”

Shreve deviates from her usual formula of a surprise ending by laying down a crossroad as a conclusion. While some readers might be frustrated by this tactic, it is actually noble. The ending of each facet of this kaleidoscope lies on our personal judgement...what we think the characters deserve given their predicament.

If anything, this book shows us that everything is relative. What’s good for you may be bad for me. Yes, this includes relationships.

***
On marriage:

“One can never tell the story of a marriage. At the very least, a marriage is two intersecting stories, one of which we will never know.”

“In the beginning, one has such high expectations. And then life, in small increments, begins to dissolve those expectations, to make them look naïve and silly.”

Excerpts from A Wedding In December.

The Curse Of Angels

It’s the middle of a 3-day weekend and I am lost in thought. I just finished reading The Angel’s Game, a book that took me almost two months to peruse because I want to relish and cherish every turn of the page.



A third into reading its 440 pages, I have admitted that this is one of the best books I have read. Even if parts of the epilogue were agonizing to read, I was almost sorry to reach the final page. By this time I already cared too much for the characters, like old friends, which makes parting with them (and the book) such a sweet sorrow.

For once, I cannot bring myself to write a synopsis. So many things have happened, both glorious and shameful that to squeeze it in a few words will be offensive. And the fact that the beauty of this book lies, first and foremost, in its string of words. The book is a masterpiece in a lot of ways – the plot embraces you from the first paragraph, the suspense is laid thick and smothers and the poignant parts are cruel in its emotive intensity.

Carlos Ruiz Zafon now belongs to the stratosphere of writers I look up to. His greatest talent is the way he transverses the spectrum of love and tragedy, of human spirit and weakness. He marries heaven and hell and he is adept at romanticizing despair and desensitizing pleasure so that the reader is left in a highly taunt limbo.

His prose and command of words is enviable. Like a painter who nitpicks his pantone of colors, he carefully weaves his words to create a literary pattern that is inimitable and stirring. Even the arrival of day or night becomes an occasion when subjected to his enchanting style.

My mind is numb from the thousand thoughts and emotions that this book has awakened. I’ve said before that this book hits too close to home. And I am drunk with the realization and inspiration.

Zafon said that each book has the soul of the writer and the souls of those who read it and lived and dreamed with it. I submitted my soul blindingly to this book and came out enriched in the process.

I dream that one day I will be able to write a book this hauntingly unforgettable. I have come to realize that this is my only shot at immortality. I will pray to hell, if that’s what it takes.

My sincerest thanks to MB. You are the Senor Sempere to my David, and showing me this book is reminiscent of how David was shown the Lux Aeterna in the Cemetery of Forgotten Books. His life was never the same again. And so is mine.

***

I smiled bitterly, a defeated man pitifully begging a God in whom he had never trusted. I looked around at the holy site filled with nothing but ruins and ashes, emptiness and loneliness, and knew that I would go back and fetch her every night, with no more miracle or blessing than my own determination to tear her away from that infatuated doctor. I would set fire to the sanatorium rather than allow anyone to touch her again. I would take her home and die by her side. Hatred and anger would light my way.

- An excerpt from The Angel’s Game

***

The Angels’ Game is actually the sequel to The Shadow Of The Wind. I already bought the first book but somehow I cannot bring myself to read it just yet. Because the last book is still holding me in a tight embrace.

Pages Of Me

I am in the presence of greatness.

M passed to me this book she just read. It was The Angel’s Game by Carlos Ruiz Zafon. She said she was imagining me while reading this book (you are such a literary pervert!). I haven’t heard of Zafon or his books but I have not really explored his genre; hence, my experience is limited to Paulo Coehlo.



I’ve been reading the book for 4 days and I am only at page 47. No, it was not boring at all. It was the total opposite of it. I have to read it painstakingly slow because Zafon’s prose is one of the best I have read. It is so well-crafted that I have to relish his every word and bask in its inescapable power.

Here is a sample:

Envy is the religion of the mediocre. It comforts them, it responds to the worries that gnaw at them and finally it rots their souls, allowing them to justify their meanness and their greed until they believe these to be virtues...Blessed be the one at whom the fools bark, because his soul will never belong to them.

“Amen,” Don Basilio would agree. “With sermons like that even a bishop would fall on his knees and repent.”

And M was right. This book does remind me of myself and I would sometimes shiver when the story hits too close to home. These pages of me unlock floodgates of memories and the déjà vu rushes back with a tidal persistence.

I might be reading this book in the next three months and I won’t mind at all.

If You Believe

Over the weekend, I finally finished reading a book I started reading a couple of weeks back. It was an in-between book, a book I read just to amuse myself and chill out. I know the story wasn’t heavy and it will not entice my mind to think hard. Something shallow...a good kind of shallow.

I don’t know if this qualifies as chick lit (a friend has egged me try this genre just to hear my opinion of it but I still refuse to give). Coz there was no shopping and bitching around. But the cover is oozing with pink.

The book is called If You Could See Me Now by Cecilia Ahern, the daughter of the Irish Prime Minister and girlfriend of a Westlife member, who gained international following with her first book P.S. I Love You.



The story is rather simple. The heroine Elizabeth is a buttoned-up modern woman who is obsessed with the meticulous order of things. A self-contained realist, she wants everything in her life to go right and by-the-rule. Her biggest frustration is her immediate family whose perpetual troubles are (sadly) the only spice in her life. She gravitates towards stability to compensate for the lost glory of her troubled past.

From out of nowhere came Ivan, the imaginary friend of her nephew. Yes, you read it right. Imaginary friend. Ivan is a “professional friend” who helps kids deal with their life and somehow took it upon himself to help Elizabeth as well. For after all, Elizabeth can see her (and only people who need them can see these imaginary friends).

To cut it short, heroine who has led a frigid life (and I don’t mean sexually) and imaginary friend enter into a “non-existent” relationship. In the process, troubled heroine learned to come to terms with her unhappy childhood, forgive those who brought her down and rediscovered the color that was lacking from her dreary life. Yes, like that Pleasantville movie.

The book reads like a modern fairy tale...ok, folktale (just in case Ivan does not qualify as a fairy). And Ahern’s imagery of a sleepy Irish village provides an excellent backdrop to the out-of-this-world romantic adventure.

I think a book like this is not meant to be analyzed in a cerebral way. As a marketer myself, I should know that this book was aimed to please, to send shivers down the spine and send hearts aflutter (well not this ice-cold heart of mine, just in case you want to know). It was not meant to oil the rusted gears of our mind, nor was it meant to make us shuffle our feet and re-evaluate our walk through life.

Having said that, there are two major flaws to this book. Bear in mind that this is my first time to read Ahern so this might not be her best work (legend has it that the chronology that a writer publishes her book is not necessarily the order in which they are written).

The main flaw is that the book slows down in places. Or to use one of Ivan’s vocabularies... it is at times ngirob (read that backwards). Although it was only 306-pages long, the writer could have cut it to 200-pages and still have the meat of the story. Which means the book can be squeezed into a standard Mills and Boon novel.

Second flaw is that you can’t help but notice that this is written by a very young girl who herself has not gone out into the world and saw it from not-so-rose-colored lenses. Her writing is very fluffy and overly imaginative. Granted that the premise is magical, there is an excess of childish absurdness. Everything is surreal and the “real” factor it lacked could have made the story more relevant. Although in some way I did see myself in the main characters, they were so imaginary that you did not care as much for their plight. It was like some delicious dream that you wake up to, savour for a second then forget in the next breath.

Maybe it is Ahern’s prose that needs “life” conditioning. She is exploring the mature but is enslaved by what’s juvenile.

But I must admit that the story has a heart. You can forgive Ahern’s flaws if only for her good intentions. The book’s main message is that life’s happiness does not come from precise order and the well-crafted moments. It can also come from spontaneity and the occasional exquisite chaos.

Sidebar: Disney has bought the rights to this movie and will turn it into a quasi-musical starring Hugh Jackman. It will be interesting to see how Hollywood will make fanfare out of this run-of-the-mill novel.

Fragments #7

"Fragments" is a compilation of short blogs (blogettes?) that bear no relation to each other. Except that they came from one brilliant mind (hehe).

***



There Will Be Half-Blood

Last long weekend I finally finished reading Harry Potter And The Half-Blood Prince. I rushed to read it because the movie is showing weeks from now and I vowed to always read the book first before seeing the movie. I have enough brain cells to read a book and not let someone interpret it for me visually.

I won’t write a full review anymore since half of the world would have read it anyway. It was again a satisfying escape from this forlorn Muggle world into Rowling’s magical realm. Not as exciting as Prisoner of Azkaban or Goblet of Fire but definitely better than Order of The Phoenix (Book 5 was so s...l...o...w in places).

I tend to think of Half-Blood Prince as the transition book...the prequel to the great big ending. Because nothing spectacular happened...only the death of You Know Who (and I am not talking about Voldemort). The book just gave us more facts and loose ends which I expect will be tied-up in The Deathly Hollows.

I gave my Mom some theories about the ending (like Harry being a horcrux) but she just gave me a shrug. But trust my sister to drop two spoilers...she confirmed two deaths in the final book. Grrr...you D.O.H. you!

Speaking of half-blood...has anyone heard of bloodless dinuguan (a pork stew with thick sauce made from pig’s blood)? I saw it on the Kourtyard (a mid-range dining place) menu and I would have tried it had I not been anti-red meat lately. What’s next...sweet sinigang?

***

Me See The Book One Moment

It was one of those days spent away from the quiet hurly-burly of the office. In one day, I had a series of meetings in three different places. Cafes were the usual venues; as coffee is fast becoming the elixir of life.

My mind and eyes sometimes wander away from the meeting and I take in my surroundings and observe the people around. It was then that I realized that I’ve seen the same book being read by three different people in the places I’ve been to that day. Size was standard paperback, cover is minty green and I could barely read the title because it was scrawled in the unassuming penmanship of a child who had just learned to write.

Could this be the new Twilight or Harry Potter and I’ve been again left in the cold on the next literary phenomenon?

Finally my curiosity got the better of me and I stood up, walked near a couple (the guy just dropped the book and took his laptop). I pretended to be calling someone but my eyes were really aimed at reading the title of the mysterious book. It was Me Talk Pretty One Day.

I asked F is she knows the book. She didn’t. And F was a connoisseur of popular books (if ever there is one).

I couldn’t get my mind off that book and vowed to look for it the next time I visit a bookstore.

A few days later it hit me. What I saw was not the next cult bestseller. It was probably one of those books that was required reading in the academe. Classes just started after all.

Stupid me.

***

Higher Learning

So finally...with or without A(H1N1), school started in all levels last June 15.
For me, this meant a lot of things.

More traffic on the roads during rush hour.

That I will again wake up on Monday mornings to sounds of my mother bellowing at my brothers to hurry up or they will be late for school.

That I will have my turn hollering at my brothers to sleep early.

More breakfast items on the supermarket list. Longer lines at the supermarket cashiers during Sunday night.

That I will again see on top of my laptop a torn page from my brothers’ notebook with a hastily scribbled note: Kuya, project ko sa-submit next week.

***

Pandemic! At The School

I am not quite a germ-phobe but I do have my tendencies. Like I smear my desk with alcohol first thing on Monday morning (who knows what crawled there over the weekend). And considering the clutter on my side table, a viral invasion is highly probable.

With this pandemic scare about A(H1N1), my usually indifferent Mom included small vials of sanitizer in the school bags of my brothers. They were at first “ashamed” of using them. I gave them my two cents worth and asked them what was more shameful: (a) having and using a sanitizer or (b) being known as one of the confirmed A(H1N1) cases and part of the statistics. That shut them up.

As for me, I consciously try not touch anything when I’m in a public place. And I tend to disinfect myself with sanitizer every 15 minutes.

***

Jimmy Who?

One time we were in Greenbelt 5 and passed by this luxury shoe salon (that’s what I think it is...I can’t figure out ladies and their bags and shoes).



F exclaimed: “May Jimmy Choo na dito!” (There’s a Jimmy Choo here already)

I said: Wow, really...sa kanta ko lang yan naririnig. (I only hear that in song’s lyrics)

I was referring to (obviously) Shontelle’s song T-shirt. Sing it now: Sick of this dress and this Jimmy Choos...with nothing but your t-shirt on.

F cracked up and said “Lower your voice...lumabas ang pagka-jologs!”

I cracked up.

Book Of Hatred And Compassion

I finished reading House Of Sand And Fog last week. I’ll have to say that this is one of the heaviest, darkest and most emotionally draining book I have read. Like being visited by a Dementor, I closed the book with the feeling that all the happy emotions has been sucked out of me.

As I said in my previous blog, this is basically a catastrophic intersection of three different lives. In its core is a searing portrayal of the American dream turned into a nightmare. We witness tragedy relentlessly escalate into another tragedy, like an ugly picture given an even uglier lighting.

Colonel Behrani is a greedy Iranian immigrant who just wants to rebuild his family’s lost glory. Kathy is a troubled woman who is trying to withstand her increasingly hopeless life. Sheriff Burdon is a man lost in his own domestic dilemma and looks for the answers in Kathy’s parallel struggle. Basically, three wrongs that will never make a right.

Very unlike Anita Shreve novels where the characters are lifted in the end; here we were not given that absolution. We watch the three leads crawl into the hole they dug for themselves and all we can do is gasp in horror and mourn their fates. In their forsaken tangle of conflicts, the characters did nothing but destroy themselves. What’s even more disheartening is the fact that everything started with a simple mistake that was allowed to snowball. Why, oh why.

Like an exquisite soap opera, we are ping-ponged between the characters so much so that we cannot decipher the heroes from the villains. We care for and hate them at the same time. We want to understand them in such perplexing circumstances. But we really can’t.

Andre Dubus III is a brilliant writer with a wicked sympathy and in-depth understanding of society and the clash of culture. His narrative is simplistic and vivid yet at the same time powerful and tender. His greatest talent is telling two sides of the story with consummate sincerity and conviction. He successfully marries compassion and hatred and the result is confounding, to say the least. I just don’t understand his unfair references to Filipinos (but I am half-biased here).

House of Sand And Fog is memorable in a dark, lingering way; a Greek tragedy retold in contemporary setting. It shows us how we can be trapped in our own circumstances. It examines the choices that make up a life's direction. This book is also relevant in the way it depicts culture and society and the terrible truths that shapes our very existence.

This book has been turned to a movie but I’m not interested in watching it. The book is already hauntingly depressing; so seeing it all over again on the big screen is already masochistic torture.

Law and Physics

Before the dawn of Good Friday, I have devoured two books. Which is a record for me. With my hectic schedule, it usually takes me at least weeks to finish a paperback novel.

The first one is The Summons by John Grisham, which has resided on my bag for weeks now.



In The Summons, Grisham relives a small town law drama. The revered Judge Atlee is on his last breath and he has summoned his prodigal sons for the final verdict. But Ray finds his father dead and with three million in cold cash stacked in his cabinets. And so with the heavy guilt of disappointing his father came the heavier burden of finding where the money came from and what he will do with it.

Then came the cat-and-mouse chase that Grisham has perfected. Someone knew about the money and is after Ray. The reader is led to a screening of the personalities in Judge Altee’s life and their possible connection with this ill wealth. The build-up to an unexpected ending that will question our own judgement about certain things.

The book meanders lazily in places and truth to tell, this is third time I have picked it up from my reading stack. Since the story is basically a personal law-related dilemma, it lacked the satisfying tension of courtroom spectacles that we came to expect from Grisham. But Grisham absolves himself when he meticulously pulls together the story in the end. Like a slow brew that came to a rousing boil in the end.

(Spoiler Alert. Please skip the next paragraph if you plan to read the book.)

The Summons rises above other Grisham novels with its underlying argument on personal morals and ethics. As the story is narrowed to a showdown between the two brothers, the reader will be twisted in this battle for integrity and questions on what is earnest and righteous. I closed the book torn between the brothers. Who was good...who was bad? Who was the victim...who was the tormentor? Like that infamous symbol of justice, Grisham placed the stringent rules of law on one end of the scale; and on the other he placed a crude law called personal judgement. Hence, a tough balancing act.

The book explores greed in different places. Greed in the corporate law setting. Greed on a personal level. And how greed can skew our judgment and principles. Fairly human, I know. But that doesn’t give it any rhyme or reason.

***

For some Holy Week reading, I chose a book that seemed “spiritual.” I bought this book ages because of the standout reference to Nicolas Sparks, from the overdramatic plot down to the personal praise from Sparks.

The book is Falling Bodies from Andrew Mark.



The plot is typical Sparks as it presents human loss and despair and the eventual renewal and re-discovery (of oneself) after overtaking such tragedy.

Jackson is a Physics professor whose life is governed by the rigid laws of science. Yet he cannot grasp the logic of how his family was suddenly taken from him in a terrible accident. He is haunted by the memories of their absence and his guilt. In search for the rationale in his increasingly senseless world, he embarked on a journey (more of an escape). There, his path crossed with Livvy’s, a strong woman whose resolve is also tested as she sees her husband through Alzheimer’s disease. And so came the story of two souls suffering silent pains and discovering healing in each other.

This is a debut novel but it fails to give a promise for this fledging writer. First, while the plot is inspiring and sincere, it pales in comparison to the works of Nicolas Sparks in terms of poignancy. What I am saying is the narration lacks “heart.” We never cared as much for Jackson and Livvy despite of their wrenching predicament. And this lack of poignancy is connected to another flaw.

Since the hero is a Physics professor and the story explores Science vis-à-vis Real Life, Mark tries very hard to incorporate facts and comparisons to scientific elements. It was an overkill (and this is coming from a cool geek like me) so much so that I will wince every time the writer will resort to this... at every other page! For instance, he would compare the agony of waiting to “seconds , hours and light years!” Or a frozen slice of time to "a moon suspended on its orbit by gravity." It was way too much that I lost the characters in all this scientific gobbledygook that Mark is passing for literary brilliance. To borrow from Simon Cowells’s wise words, this book was indulgent in its scientific references that I don’t know if Andrew Mark is a science whiz trying to write or a writer trying to be a genius.

And with that, I compare this book to a black hole. It sucks you in with its almost powerful story. Yet you end up with nothing but the void that you started with.

(Sidebar: The editor in me also caught two typo errors in this book. On one page, the writer was describing Jackson’s dream but he referred to it as “her” dream. In another page, he wrote about “too eyes” (obviously two eyes). Tsk, tsk…bad editing!)

Irresistible

It is 2AM Tuesday night and I am still wide awake. I can’t put this book down. Just a few pages more.

Reading Anita Shreve is one the best escapes one can have. An escape from the torments of this tragic world into another world that is demarcated by loss, longing and personal wreckage beyond the limits of the human spirit.

In Resistance, Shreve meticulously designs a romantic tragedy amidst the atrocious fabric of war. It is 1943 and Europe is in the height of devastation. In a Nazi-occupied Belgian village, an American bomber plane fell from the skies like a cursed gift from heaven. The pilot was rescued and sheltered by the wife of a resistance worker in the secret room of their house. An impossible bond unfolds as the wife and the pilot learns to feed off each other’s needs, both physical and spiritual. But this pure accidental relationship will soon be tainted with betrayal, desperation and the greater repercussions of war. While a doomed ending is inevitable, the reader will marvel at the sacrifices and secret pain that the characters endure.

In her signature fashion, Shreve punishes her readers in their search for the character’s redemption. Resistance is at its exquisite best when you realize that there are only a few pages left and still there are a thousand loose ends to the story. In the last ten pages, she scrupulously wraps it up but leaves a lot to the reader’s imagination. So you have the urge to haunt Shreve down and demand the details.

Taken lightly, Resistance tells the story of resistance workers in Belgium. In local history, they can be compared to the propagandistas of Rizal’s time. Taken deeply, Resistance is a test of courage and commitment. It is a search for hope in circumstances so terrible; for dignity in such disreputable times.

In this book, Shreve reiterates that she is an intelligent and skilled writer. She has mastered simplistic yet delicate prose that does not insult the readers. She knows how to plunge her characters in dilemma and let their spirit and frailty lift them up.

I have devoured four Shreve books so far and I can still remember each of them vividly. That’s how remarkable they are. It is only Fortune’s Rock that I can’t get past the first two chapters. Next on my reading list: Light On Snow.

Friday Night Lights...Out

Since college, I have been a fan of Grisham and his battle-of-good-vs-evil law thrillers. Months ago, maybe a year even, I bought a Grisham book that was on sale; but it was only now that I picked it up from my “Must Read” stack. It was unusually thin for a Grisham novel, almost as thin as a Harlequin paperback. Then I realized it was also not his usual courtroom drama, for this time Grisham spins his story on the football field.



Bleachers is an all-American manly dramatic tale about football. The football hotshots of the small town of Messina journey back to their town to pay tribute to their coach who is in his deathbed. It has been fifteen years and Neely Crenshaw is caught up as the past collides with and the present. As they wait for the Coach to breathe his last, physically and emotionally tender stories were unearthed, dark secrets revealed. But one difficult question has to be answered...Did they love or hate Coach Eddie Rake?

I will summarize their answer this way: Legends become legend for a reason, or in this case, for many reasons. Love him or hate him, Coach Rake was an integral and revolutionary force in their lives.

I have always conceded that the greatest irony in life is when you realize the importance of a person when he is gone. Suffice to say, the most important people leave a void in our life that will never be filled. In contrast the forgettable people leave...without us even realizing it. Or maybe life was even better without them so their loss barely registers.

Grisham defines football games in such as way that you can actually hear the roar of the crowd, the collision of padded bodies and the abusive tongue-lashing. The story is so charged with testosterone that it becomes a stark contrast to the poignant moments in the end. Grisham uses a tone that bristles with simplicity and sincerity...it was so sincere that it actually hurts. If the burly men in the story wept, then the readers will have a difficult time fighting the inevitable tears. Remember... boys don’t cry, MEN do.

Another beauty of Bleachers is that it teases with subplots that were never fully explored. Like the political machinery of the school and the town, the racial discrimination and the evocative love story. They are just mentioned in passing but somehow each strikes a chord so that the reader ends up mulling over them. It seems like Grisham weaved some underlying agenda beneath the main story. And it does work.

Reading Bleachers revived some echoes of the past. As Neely recounts his glory days, you can’t help but wander into your own reverie. His story fuels your own burning middle-age self-scrutiny.

Long after the field lights are dimmed out, there are people whose very light will shine on indefinitely.