Category: I FLIP PAGES

I can’t remember when I read Lolita for the first time. I reread it this week in preparation for reading Reading Lolita in Tehran, our reading group’s book for December. And it was like reading it for the first time. I realized I was not ready to read it then; I guess I just couldn’t get over the disgusting theme of pedophilia to even appreciate the writing.

With a mind now more open to art’s jarring function and less insecure about my moral foundations, I discovered an exceedingly well-written book. Something that made my heart ache. It was while reading Milan Kundera’s The Unberable Lightness of Being that I first felt this dull ache in my heart. This ache I baptized writer’s envy. It comes from sadly realizing that I could never in this lifetime write that exquisitely, that skillfully. I felt the ache again while reading Lolita. Violent envy. Envy of writing so good that it enables the reader to overcome distaste for or indifference about a topic.

Lolita is the fictional autobiography of Humbert Humbert. It is written with such wit and intelligence and tenderness and romance that immediately you get on his side. You hate to admit but you like this sick, old man. You understand why he likes pubescent girls, what childhood deprivation has caused his adult depravity. You see the world from the view of a man who feels cheated by culture and law for their narrow rules against child love, something he considers natural and borne out of a pure desire to have what he was not able to have many years ago.

And then at some point, in between HH’s lines, you hear Nabokov’s sardonic voice, and you understand that intelligent and gentle as HH may be, he has serious delusions. Delusions about his sincere intentions, about his being attractive, about how Lolita was also in love with him.

The novel has many delicious parts of scaringly beautiful writing. In the text after the novel, Nabokov lists down some of these scenes that he calls “the nerves of the novel… the secret points…the subliminal co-ordinates.”

One of my favorite parts is Lolita’s and Humber Humbert’s road trip around Nabokov’s invented America. I can almost hear the soundtrack in this video montage of travels that start with “a series of wiggles and whorls in New England” through highways and motels, countryside, tilled plains, sagebrush patches, mountain ranges, deserts, picnic grounds, and roadside facilities. The travel writer wannabe in me hurts in envy.

One of the first publishers approached by Nabokov rejected the book because it has no good characters in it. It truly doesn’t. HH, despite his self characterization, his self justification, is really a sick, filthy, despicable, old man; I was totally revolted by his desire to impregnate Lolita so she could produce a litter of nymphets who shall provide him with a lifetime supply of carnal pleasure. Lolita has her own dysfunctions as well. I can see a younger Juliette Lewis playing her. And I detest Juliette Lewis. Although I would really be interested to read Lolita’s side of the story.

I have to say that of the books I’ve read, this has one of the best endings ever. As HH dwells on the life he lived with Lolita, he shushes his self-defending stream of thought, quiets the humorous narration, and seems to see the pain he has caused his step-daughter. No, he does not turn into a maudlin, death-row-repentant crying-out-for-the-forgiveness-of-his-sins sap, but he sees some of his illusions if not shattered, at least slightly provoked. Very subtly, he acknowledges his shame and despair, his brutality. Ah, when Lolita was crying, she was not just being petulant, she had strong reason to be depressed.

This poignant scene of rumination is juxtaposed with the bizarre, almost-slapstick, comedic account of HH’s jousts with Cue. Nabokov does bittersweet funny very well.

I am in complete awe of his writing. I’m glad he learned to write in English so he does not have to share the glory with a translator.

Nabokov says in his notes that he has no objective of moralizing. It’s just a story. Borne out of inspiration and combination. So, we should not take it as a defense of a pedophilia as well. It’s just a story. A well-written story. If one were to take lessons from this book, it would be to be alert to what goes on in the mind of elderly men, of uncles who touch with too much familiarity, who turn on the charm for little kids a tad too much.

I know, I know, this is my 2 hundred millionth post for the day. What’s gotten into me? Well, I need to empty my pc of photos and so I am pressured to blog about those photos now. Plus, I’m going on a 2-day internet withdrawal rehab in Batangas so I need to get these posted. I promise this is the last one for the day.

I just really want to talk about the Creative Spiritual Journaling Workshop that I attended last Saturday. I almost passed up on this one, since I didn’t really think that half a day would be enough to get me creative, much less spiritual. I am glad I changed my mind.

The workshop was conducted by trainer Mae Legaspi and Patsy Paterno, the Pa in Papemelroti. Mae shared some background information on journaling, focusing on its benefits. I admit I was taking mental notes because I dream of someday offering workshops to help others discover the joy of journaling. Writing about the events of my life has enriched the experiences, and reading about them years after has shown me how much I have grown up and discovered about myself. But the journaling I’m used to is more about writing. This workshop showed how I can take my journaling to a higher, more creative, more powerful level.

I love Patsy’s joy and passion as she enthusiastically described how this activity can be a joint creative process between God and journaler. How this is more than just doing art or mere journaling, but it is really a way to hear His message loudly and clearly, and to capture and remember these messages.

Even if you’re not there for the spiritual stuff, there was still much to learn about journaling and about creative and practical journaling techniques. And Patsy is not into buying expensive materials. She showed us how to use ordinary stuff like clear tape from divisoria, magazine clippings, and other scrap materials to collage and create artful pages. Some of the samples she showed were astoundingly beautiful. And it does not take a da Vinci to create similar pages.

But I think what I inspired and elated me most was the way that this workshop has recharged my hunger for the Word. Lately, I have been struggling to keep up the passion I used to have to read His Word. I’ve been distracted by shiny objects and worldly pursuits. And this afternoon revealed to me that reading His Word need not be a drudgery. It is a blessing. And adding art into it makes it fun and creative.

After the workshop I found myself again eager to get into the Word and excited to hear in my heart God’s leading. I have yet to start doing the creative journaling, but I feel the juices coming. I’ve taken my Prang watercolor off its dusty storage, and I know I’m going to discover more about myself, my thoughts, my dreams, my creativity, my life, and my God.

If I were to write a novel or an autobiography, I would want to write like Eggers does. 98% sap free. With both his parents dying of cancer weeks apart and having to give up the freedom of youth to take care of his younger brother Toph, it would have been easy and justified to write a sentimental piece filled with maudlin musings. Instead, Eggers writes with such profound and honest humor.

Maybe the title puts you off. It is audacious. It is cocky. But know that it is said with tongue in cheek. At some point, in fact, Eggers even calls the book stupid.

Is it sollipsistic? Hell, yeah. How can it not be? It is an autobiography after all. With the tragic events of his life, a healthy amount of self absorption is necessary to excavate suppressed feelings and purge himself of his demons. This book is Eggers’ cathartic way of sorting through the dirty, rotten emotions of grieving so he can move on and get on with the dirty but fulfilling tasks of taking care of his brother, a responsibility so prematurely and suddenly thrust upon him.

Is it sad? Yes. Poignant. Heartbreaking. But Eggers does not have time to mope. He deals with his losses with braggadocio, hilarity, and sometimes the most absurd form of pain-denial. His love for Toph manifests through his unspoken fears of how he might turn out to be because his dysfunctional upbringing “…would cause him to feel unwanted and alone, leading to the warping of his fragile psyche, then to experimentation with inhalants, to the joining of some River’s Edge gang, too much flannel and too little remorse, the cutting of his own tats, the drinking of lamb’s blood, the inevitable initiation-fulfilling murder of me and Beth in our sleep” or he might “grow up to sell crack or sing in a harmonizing pop group from Florida.”

Is it funny? Very. And intelligent. And moving. And sardonic. Angry. Too many cuss words to be for general patronage. Sometimes silly. Sometimes inspiring. Sincere. Powerful. Staggering. Genius.

Okay, so I’m a nerd for reading a grammar book from cover to cover. But this is not your usual grammar book. It’s not organized in an indexable [not an acceptable word] order which starts with the parts of speech, proceeds with tenses and by the time you get to idiomatic phrases, you’re bored to a deep comma, oops, coma.

This book is a collection of articles on various grammar topics. June Casagrande, who writes for the Los Angeles Times, treats grammar with irreverence. She pokes fun at grammar demigods William Strunk, EB White, and punctuation pundit Lynne Truss and other so-called grammar experts, whom she calls grammar snobs and accuses of bluffing with rules that none of them are 100% sure about anyway. She exposes the inconsistencies within and among grammar bibles like the Chicago Manual of Style and the Associated Press Stylebook.

Casagrande sometimes sounds like one of the grammar snobs she vilifies, but her ire is mostly targeted towards those who get off feeling superior by making regular English speakers feel stupid, keeping them ignorant by confusing them with the pedantic, though sometime seemingly random, rules.

The 42 articles, written with a healthy dose of humor, are informative. They present not just one unbendable rule per situation, like most style books do, but they share alternative rules. This means that sometimes we just really have to use our judgment and rely on our ears, because there are different ways to attack a grammar issue.

I devoured the book. I learned quite a bit that I can use in practical situations. And I promise (to try) not to be a grammar snob.

1964. A blizzard forces Dr. David Henry to minister to his own wife, Norah, in childbirth. This was a time when technology allowed for surprises. Soon after delivering his son David, Dr. Henry discovered that there was a second baby. A girl who had Down syndrome. Remembering the pain of losing a sister to a lingering disease and wanting to spare his wife the pain his family endured, he hastily decided to get rid of the baby. He instructed his nurse, Caroline, to send the child to an institution. Caroline, compelled by circumstances and driven by the desire to be significant, ran away with baby Phoebe instead.

Interesting premise. Until you realize that every other Filipino soap opera begins with this — the spiriting away of an infant. And then, the rest of the story revolves around the dark consequences of such an act.

Like many soap operas, this story is long-drawn-out, tedious, and melodramatic. A 25 year saga.

Like most soap opera viewers, I couldn’t help but be emotionally involved in the story, wanting to know what happens next, suspending reality. No, more like confusing reality with fiction by actually feeling for the characters, feeling real emotions – hating the doctor for the lies he wove, suffering Norah’s pain, relating to Caroline’s confusion, wanting to have the power to speak to the characters to tell them what to do. In fact, I found myself screaming at times to tell the characters to do or not to do something. I was that involved in the story. Yeah, sappy sucker me.

Unlike soap operas, this one goes deeper into the characterization, explaining the layers of history and motivation beneath a character’s behavior and decisions. Showing the different dimensions of each personality. I understood where they were coming from even though I did not agree with their actions.

I didn’t hate this book too much. I didn’t like it much either. Too slow. Too long. Too sentimental. Too much drama. The author could have chopped a hundred or so pages to make it more taut. The ending was not quite what I expected, but it wasn’t that bad a way to end. I’m just glad it did end because my emotions were spent. I did not expect to have invested too much energy in it. If you don’t have the patience for melodrama, stay away from this book.

I don’t know about you, but I’m pretty sure it is not just me. There have been many times in my life when, confused, clueless, lost, and discouraged, I so desperately wanted to be with God face to face. So He can help me sort out the morass in my mind and figure things out; give me crystal-clear, no-room-for-ambiguity answers to life’s perplexing question; hear something wise and definite; know something for sure; and just be comforted by Him; be assured of His love, His power, and His sovereignty. Sometimes, I just want to tell Him how angry and disappointed I am, how life is unfair, and that sometimes I just don’t feel His favor.

In this novel slash parable slash Christian fiction, the story’s main man, Mackenzie Allan Phillip, gets that once-in-a-lifetime chance to be with God for a weekend in a mountain shack associated with the most horrific incident of his life. That weekend, he gets the chance to throw the questions at; to hear the answers from; to discuss matters of love and sin; hurt and forgiveness; pain and healing; responsibility and relationship with the One who knows all the answers, the Source of truth and light.

Mack has his shares of pain and hurt, probably more than others’. He grew up abused by his father, spent most of his life away from family, he suffered the guilt of his own sins, and dealt with the loss of his daughter. He certainly had a lot of issues to thrash out with God.

God’s answers to Mack answered some of my questions too. Some answers were confirmation of things I already knew in my head, but probably did not understand in my heart. Some answers turned me around to see a different perspective of God’s love and wisdom. Things like marriage not being an institution; it is a relationship. In the same way, that we do not have to treat everything we do for God as an obligation, but as simply a natural part of sharing love and life with Him. “If I take away the consequences of people’s choices, I destroy the possibility of love. Love that is forced is no love at all.”

Like other readers, I was uncomfortable with Young’s portrayal of the Trinity. But I’m sure he had his reasons for taking that approach. Besides, we have to remember that this is fiction.

Yes, it’s fiction. And just like some readers who ranted about the ex-biblical nature of the book, I squirmed at some passages that sounded so dangerously New Age. But, this book being fiction, is just the output of the author’s imagination. This is William Shack’s interpretation of the truth that he knows. And he uses illustrations to drive home the message. His illustration of the father-child relationship to show why Jesus had to die on the cross blew my mind, and had me in tears, gasping for breath, feeling pain, love, and gratitude all at the same time.

I want to end my review now. It’s very hard to give justice to this book without cheapening the message with my own words. I highly recommend it. But I also hope that this inspires the reader to go beyond this work of fiction and to probe deeper into His truths communicated to us through His Word.

I’ve discovered a new genre – the epistolary novel. Okay, don’t be a wiseass, I didn’t discover it; and it isn’t new. That genre has been in existence since the apostle Paul wrote epistles to the Romans and the Hebrews. So what I mean to say is this is the first of this genre that I have read, unless we count Griffin and Sabine. Oh yes, this is G&S but less fantastic, without the pretty postcards and the fabulous art, but with more depth in writing.

This story of husband and wife spending ten months apart is narrated with letters. Only letters. Carol Shields wrote the letters from the man and Blanche Howards took the wife’s point of view. With no plans for how the story will progress, the two authors took turns writing each other and actually sending the letters by post, and this was how the story evolved.

Reading this one letter at a time was just like eating watermelon seeds or M&Ms. I read one chunk at a time, one scrumptious morsel, one delicious bit after another delicious bit. “I’ll read this one last letter and then I’ll go to sleep, okay just one more, no really this is the last.” But I just couldn’t put it down, until I got to its bittersweet, more bitter than sweet, ending, and I realized I read through the night and the sun had just risen.

An intimate peek at a fictional marriage that mirrors the travails of real-life marriages. Wit and humor exquisitely blended with pain and distress. Skillful writing. I loved this book; I can’t understand why, and I’m secretly glad, this was not a bestseller.

I’ve discovered a new genre, and I’m calling it dicklit. This refers to books with plots about men trying to score.

Of course, this novel is not just about sex. It’s also about booze and illegal substances enjoyed by our hero, slacker ad-guy by day, horny lush by night. It’s about the trouble he gets into trying to achieve his objective (see paragraph 1 above). In the process of finding himself and accomplishing his objective, he loses his Dickies pants in a one-night-stand. The rest of the story is about getting his pants back, hence the title. No, it’s not symbolic, and the pants are not metaphysical concepts.

This book offers a lot of laugh out loud moments, which gets you excited to read more, thinking there is more. Rosen is a witty, entertaining writer, and he probably should be given another chance to write a novel. Because this one needs some major redemption. I was hoping underneath all the smut, there would be nuggets of wisdom, that his coming of age story would be about coming to terms with the need to grow up. Sadly, the book ends just a teeny, tiny bit better than when it started. The hero lands a marginally better, though not necessarily better paying, job. But he’s still the slacker lush character the author started with. Worse, he doesn’t even get his pants back. (sorry, spoiler)

Not worth the full price I paid for it.

It took me a long time to get to this review. I guess I have mixed feelings about the book. I can’t help but feel I have to give it glowing praises because the author is Filipina. The writing is great; that’s for sure. It’s good writing by virtue of the author having the capability to turn on a movie (think Crash) in my head and letting me live the experiences of the characters. The characters, so many of them and so diverse, make the book engaging, fascinating, rich. More than a novel, it is a vignette of stories that may or may not be interrelated. A collage, according to the author, that mirrors the eclectic mix that is Manila. It is so non-linear that it took me a while to figure out that the narrative jumps to and from the 50s and 80s. (Headscratch moment) That was pretty dense of me because the 80s character, Joey Sands, was a DJ, which is just so disco era (insert stupid smiley here). The writing is gritty and the narrative incredibly well-paced.

The pacing, to me, is the double edged sword to this novel, the reason why I have mixed feelings about it. To make the reading thick and fast, the author had to rely on representations of Filipinos, representations easily recognized or related to by those who know the culture, representations that easily cross over to stereotypes; or are they more like caricatures? The pacing, because it makes you read fast, does not allow much time for savoring the characters and excavating the layers of suggested meanings that satirize Philippine society.

I suspect, and I can’t say for sure since this is not my perspective, that the novel works well for the American reader who does not know much about the Philippines. This serves as a sampler, though hardly complete, of Philippine culture. And a quick history lesson, though dates and names have been fictionalized. It shows the hard edged side of Philippine society along with the quirky. To the non-Filipino, this can be a good appetizer to start learning more and going deeper into understanding our culture. A bit like how Joy Luck Club serves as a Chinese History for Dummies.

For me, it is realistic to a certain degree. The part where Joey Sands witnesses an assassination successfully brings me back to the political drama of the early 80s. Though I liked the non-linear approach to the story, I think depth has been sacrificed, and the book failed to reach me beyond the entertainment level. Or maybe it deserves a second, slower, deeper read.

I didn’t expect to like this one. Any plot that revolves around politics intimidates me. But I loved it.

This is probably the first African-authored book I’ve read, and I was afraid I would not be able to relate. But the stories of corruption, political violence, and citizens’ apathy hit so close to home.

In a scene where the narrator Odili goes incognito to attend the campaign rally of his political and personal opponent, he stands in the crowd, watches the people on the stage, and thinks to himself:

“What would happen if I were to push my way to the front and up the palm-leaf-festooned dais, wrench the microphone from the greasy hands of that blabbing buffoon and tell the whole people – this vast ontemptible crowd – that the great man they had come to hear with their drums and dancing was an Honourable Thief. But of course they knew that already. No single man and woman there that afternoon was stranger to that news… And because they all knew, if I were to march up to that dais now and announce it they would simply laugh at me and say: What a fool!”

Sounds familiar, huh?

Achebe’s prose is powerful in its simplicity. His fluid narration gives you just enough to capture the events and a smattering of the narrators’ thoughts. Points are not belabored. There is no attempt to pontificate, even when righteous anger at politicians’ injustices may call for it.

As my first Achebe, this inspires me to read more of his works.