I need a life

Curse the A-Z reading challenge.

Despite my misgivings, I accepted the challenge to read works by 26 authors whose last names represent each letter of the alphabet, in the hope of broadening my literary spectrum and to push myself to write more often, as I plan to post a review of each book on my blog. Alphabetically, of course -- both in reading and writing the reviews-- for no reason other than I'm horribly sick that way.

It's been a month since I picked up my first book for the challenge, a Paul Auster, and I'm currently engrossed in the first few chapters of Mary Gaitskill's Veronica. I've been burying myself deep into the pages of, luckily, one good book after another, getting less than my minimum requirement of vitamin D when I step out of the house in search of those authors' novels missing from my list.

I perform the necessary daily ablutions, albeit mindlessly, and satisfy my need for nourishment, but I can't remember the last time I brushed my hair and I often find myself wondering where Friday (or Saturday, or Sunday...) went. Every weekend, my in-laws come to visit. My mother-in law claims I'm shades fairer and thinner, and she has taken upon herself the frustrating chore of fattening me up and entertaining me with her anecdotes (most of which I swear I've heard many times over), because, apparently, she thinks I'm in need of social interaction as well.

But for all my love for her and gratitude for her efforts which do not go unnoticed, as she is wont to perform them with theatrical flourish, I can't wait for the elusive lull in the conversation so that I can go back to my reading.

Outlander

Diana Gabaldon's Outlander had been on my TBR pile since the summer. After reading Perfume, Valiant, The Graveyard Book, The Stories of Eva Luna and 9 chick-lit, I finally picked it up. I'm not a big fan of historical romances, see. I had thought that Kinsella and Giffin were at least light reading and short, as opposed to Outlander's 850 pages of sentimental love story. The chick-lit novels were in fact faster to read, though I couldn't wait to finish them because I was getting slightly annoyed by the frivolity. Getting through them was a matter of principle (whenever I start a book in a series, I make it a point to see it through to the last book), not to mention an exercise in fortitude. On the other hand, I breezed easily through Outlander, because Gabaldon creates a landscape so convincing that each scene comes alive in every page. Outlander is the story of Claire Randall, an assertive, intelligent and fiery army nurse who has just come back from the war to go on a second honeymoon with her husband in Scotland. An innocent act hurls her back two hundred years into the past, where she is caught in the middle of clan wars and political intrigue. Here, she meets James Fraser, a young Scotsman who becomes her hero and protector, and who shows her a love so unselfish, so passionate and so constant. Claire faces the dilemma of choosing between going back to the future from which she had come, where her husband and the life she had committed to him wait, and staying where she had been unwittingly transported, in a place where she had begun to build a new life--- initially out of necessity, until, eventually, the thought of leaving everything and everyone behind becomes painfully hard to bear.

The novel is fast-paced and adventure-filled, where heroes are heroic and where damsels in destress are not quite so helpless and naive. Gabaldon creates characters so alive that the reader cannot help but empathize with them, and paints a picture of 18th century Scotland so real as can only be accomplished through exhaustive research and zealous attention to detail.

Outlander is 850 pages of absorbing entertainment, and the hours pass by unnoticed.

Saturday Surprise!

Last Saturday, my book club friend, B--- whom I call Seez (for sister) because we hoard school and office supplies, like books and pictures and we both can't ride bikes--- gave me a couple of books that I absolutely love.

I read The True Story of the Three Little Pigs several years ago, when a good friend loaned me a dozen of her favorite books. I love it; the popular fable as told by the misunderstood wolf who maintains that he had been framed. I'm ecstatic that I now have my own copy. It's one of those books that you'd want to keep forever, not just for the exciting twist in the story but for the illustrations of Lane Smith.

"The Melancholy Death of Oyster Boy and Other Stories" by Tim Burton is a collection of poems illustrated in his gruesome but engaging style. His characters are all misfits: a robot boy, a voodoo girl, a superhero with no super powers save that of leaving stains, an oyster boy who was devoured by his father for his inherent aphrodisiac properties, and a melonhead who learned to be careful what he wished for, though he learned his lesson too late. Burton paints a vicious world where it's a challenge to fit in, especially for one who is not considered "normal". But though his characters' flaws and experiences are exaggerated, their needs and struggles are very similar to our own. We can only be so thankful that we're not melonheads.

The Gatecrasher

Fleur Daxney is a professional gold-digger: she crashes funerals to meet vulnerable, wealthy widowers. Beautiful and charming, she seduces them into handing her large sums, after which she disappears. The men, realizing that they've been had, are then too ashamed of having been so foolish and gullible to run after her.

I appreciate Sophie Kinsella's courage to write (as Madeleine Wickham) a novel different from her Shopaholic series, especially after its success in terms of sales. However, the main character's major dilemma, her relationships, nor the underlying sense behind her behavior and motivations just does not fly. I felt that I was being forced to accept the psychology behind, and, consequently, the credibility of Fleur's actions.

In the story, Fleur is epitomized as a cunning, experienced con artist, but it takes her so much longer than her previous conquests to seduce widower Richard Favour. Favour's 33-year marriage was dispassionate and, at best, "dry and sensible". I couldn't reconcile this description of his married life with his egregious grief at his wife's death. There is not enough proof in the entire novel to warrant such sentimentality that, had he not suppressed his emotions, "hot, sentimental tears would now have been coursing uncontrollably down his cheeks... and he would have been swept away by a desperate, immoderate grief". Even Favour's relationship with his 2 children is detached and impersonal--- whereas they almost instantly warmed up to Fleur, a fact that should have worked to her advantage and to the expediency of her schemes--- making the author's portrayal of Fleur as a smooth and skilled con artist all the more unconvincing.

Fleur, despite Wickham's efforts to blame her flaws on her unpleasant childhood, still comes across as utterly selfish and incapable of any genuine affection. Aside from paying her school fees, Fleur seems uninterested and not even remotely curious about her daughter's life. Her occasional display of tenderness especially towards her daughter seems false and unnatural.

(Major spoiler here. Go on only if you don't mind knowing how the story ends before you read it.)

The novel, for me, is a disappointment--- it opted for a happy ending that feels weak. Whether Fleur's decision to return to Favour was driven by her growing love for him (which Wickham fails to paint as anything beyond mild fondness, perhaps for his gentle manner), or by her desire to give her daughter a life with a semblance of normalcy (which seems abrupt and uncharacteristically indulgent)--- the ending lacks conviction; with the events leading up to it but forced and futile attempts at effecting more substance and coherence to the novel.

Something Blue

Something Blue is Emily Giffin's sequel to Something Borrowed. In the first book, Rachel and Darcy's 25-year friendship goes awry, told from the point of view of Rachel--- the good girl, the smart student, the dutiful daughter, the supportive friend. Darcy lives the life that Rachel can only dream about--- she gets everything she sets her sights on seemingly just by being gorgeous. When Rachel has an affair with her friend's perfect fiance, no one was more surprised than Darcy.

In Something Blue, Darcy narrates what happens after she discovers that Rachel has stolen her fiance. She finds out that she's pregnant with her ex-fiance's best man, her parents are outraged that she dumped her fiance for a godawful boy and she feels that her life is spiraling out of control. In a last ditch effort to recover her charmed life, she packs her bags, flies to London and makes her childhood friend, Ethan, put her up during her vacation, confident that she will find a gorgeous, wealthy, refined English gentleman who will fall madly in love with her and save her from all her worries. Miles away from home, jobless, pregnant, with no friends and a very uncertain future, Darcy picks up the pieces and rebuilds her life, discovering what true friendship and true love are all about.

The novel is poignant as well as funny, and the reader can't help but fall in love with Darcy--- despite her flaws and maybe because of them. She's the girl that the estrogen-driven population loves to hate, but her character is so genuine, her emotions so authentic, that to empathize is the only recourse. I'm now a Darcy fan more than Rachel's. Maybe because the story of a good-girl-gone-bad does not appeal to me as much as that of a bad-girl-turning-over-a-new-leaf. Also, I think it's the theory that every person is inherently good, and bearing witness to Darcy's triumphs no matter how trivial, that inspire and invite us to put our faith in people even when they don't seem worthy. Maybe it's sappy, but I prefer to call it hopeful and inspiring. Giffin makes us see that the perfect life of Darcy is not as charmed as we are inclined to believe, and that Darcy, like any person in real life, can change. Something Blue is a surprisingly insightful, fun read.

Deep in Geekdom

I judge a book by its cover. I think this is a colophon for my twisted psychology, summarized in a hackneyed phrase. Admitting this, I have to clarify that this is strictly pedantry for the most part. I consciously hold off passing judgment on people based on appearances or first impressions, because I've long since discovered that they who initially do not evoke warm and maternal feelings in me are those that eventually become my most treasured friends.

Books, however, are an entirely different matter. I'm a self-proclaimed obsessive reader. I read almost anything including the Spanish and German texts in a waffle maker manual, just to see if I can pronounce some words right, and afterward verifying my accuracy (or my mistakes, more often than not) through an online dictionary with an audio-pronunciation key. But, just a tad shy of being a total geek, the shallow part of me likes pretty books and chokes back tears at the sight of a neat row of them on a bookshelf, especially if they are arranged in an aesthetically awe-inspiring fashion.

I know that some people prefer paperbacks, because they are not so unwieldy for bedtime reading. I have seldom been inconvenienced by a book's heft nor girth, possessing above-average upper body strength and dexterity, and having mastered the skill of reading while a book is opened at my maximum allowable angle of 90 degrees. I prefer the solid feel of a hardback in my hands, and the thick pages of text framed by generous margins that makes the whole visual composition easy on the eyes. I know that this detail of printed words against white space is more commonly adopted in poetry, but I think they do wonders for even chick-lit and non-fiction as well.

In terms of size, I like the bigger paperbacks: C format, about 216-234mm x 138-256mm. Because of the width, the pages seem more inviting. I like having to hold a book with both hands while I leaf through it, rather than being tempted by its narrowness to grab hold of it in one--- thumb to fore-edge and 4 fingers to spine, and then retracting one's thumb to shuffle through the pages, the way you would a deck of playing cards. This action, to me, implies a certain indifference, a measure of disrespect even, towards something that serves to educate, enlighten or entertain.

For hardbacks, I notice that they come in more creative dimensions, though never too small for my taste. I particularly like the size of Sun Tzu's The Art of War, because it gives the impression of being more equilateral than rectangular (approximately 210mm x 170mm), and Nick Bantock's The Venetian's Wife (approximately 232mm x 190mm), because it is big enough without being Etch-A-Sketch-y.

New books appeal to me more than used ones, because they just generally smell better, the pages are crisper, the contrast between black text and white book paper is more marked and the colors of the cover art are bolder. I agree that used books have a certain charm, bequeathed by their previous owners--- notes scribbled in a haphazard hand across the margins; dog ears; the dusty, woodsy smell of history; and the yellowed pages wrinkling at the edges. I don't mind the inevitable traces of age, but I am distracted by the marginal notes and dog ears because they are purposefully inflicted and unnecessary. Books are not journals. And if one cannot retrieve from memory the page number where he had stopped reading, then a bookmark is the way to go. I don't completely subscribe to the belief that a previous owner gives a book its personality; his habits merely add to it. Stories move us, transport us, inspire us--- each reader responds relative to his personality, his moral code, his well of experiences and his proclivities. Each experience with any one book is as unique as the individual reading it. Books are interesting enough on their own, without having to have their corners folded for personality.

I like to seal in the newness of a book by covering it. I'm not a big fan of plastic, truth be told. But for its availability, for the quantum of protection it provides and for the premium of allowing me to appreciate the unconcealed cover design, I concede that it's more convenient to wrap them in plastic.

I'm a very visual person, and good cover art rakes in major points in my book. I go for no particular style, but I certainly have favorite artists. I love Quentin Blake's frugal use of lines and color. I am overwhelmed by Yoshitaka Amano's talent; his beautiful paintings help tell the equally mesmerizing tale of The Dream Hunters by Neil Gaiman. Shel Silverstein's style is fun and frivolous, while Eric Carle's is bold and imposing--- and their poetry and stories are as entertaining as their art. I admire Nick Bantock's use of images: haunting, oftentimes disturbing, and on other occasions, soothing. Of the fairly recent crop of local children's book illustrators, there are several who I'm wild about, like Beth Parrocha-Doctolero. Her art has a distinctly Filipino flavor; it's playful and mellow at the same time, despite her penchant for color. In her buoyant style, she manages to make a page look complete even if it's just a solitary drawing in one obscure corner.

Books have always been a great source of fascination for me--- abstract thoughts expressed so coherently, a spattering of words arranged and combined to convey an authentic emotion, fiction so removed from reality but in the reading becomes almost palpable and intensely personal.

I judge books by their appearance, yes, but only because I believe that they are invaluable, and therefore the presentation should reflect no less than their worth.