Peter's Pretentiously Pedantic and Prodigious Proust Project

Every year, I make it a point to read Marcel Proust's In Search of Lost Time, or at least the first volume, Swann's Way. And every year, I fail, big time. I can't recall a time when I made it past page 50. My editor self always feels attacked by Proust's looping sentences. And what the eff is the deal with describing one's going to bed in no less than 10 pages. Go to bed, get a kiss from mama. That's it. But not with Proust. Every act, however mundane, gets the royal treatment. Fortunately, there aren't any scenes set in the bathroom. Otherwise, we'll get long, winding sentences about a character's efforts and musings in doing the number 2.

But the hell with it—I am going in. I will read not just the first volume, but all effing seven. I will be so deep in In Search of Lost Time (or Remembrance of Things Past, if you go by C. K. Scott Moncrieff's translation) that I'll be sick of madeleines and long pages of French prose wherein nothing seems to be happening. I will laugh in the face of boredom. I will wallow in the fields of ennui. I will fight the urge to throw the books at walls or at annoying people. I will fart run-on sentences and elliptical clauses.

And why am I doing this? Because I have masochistic tendencies, and Proust's books will be my outlet. Because every time I see a picture of Proust, he seems to be mocking me. "Weakling!" "You're like the lowest form of reader? Merde!" "Tu pues du cul!" (I have my French teacher to thank for this wonderful bit of profanity. I think it means something like smelling like you came out of an ass.) Because I feel a special affinity for Proust. I mean, this was a guy who spent most of the daylight hours in bed and only left it just to go to dinner invites. The life! Also, he was gay. So we're like sisters.

But, but, but. This doesn't mean that I'll read all seven volumes in one go. There will still be the occasional suspense novel or the sappy gay romance or the latest hyped bestseller. If anything, I'll probably read a volume between one or two other books that I finish. Right now, I've rediscovered how enjoyable it is to read the Agent Pendergast novels by Douglas Preston and Lincoln Child. (I stopped reading the series a few years ago.) So Swann's Way after a couple of these thrillers. Because nothing makes a better palate cleanser than a French novel about French people doing French things (except for French kissing and the blowjob, which I heard the French apparently invented).

So I figure it'll take me at least 3 years for this project, no? But I'll be blogging about my progress every now and then. And probably, just to annoy some people, I'll follow Proust's writing style in my posts. It's like my "eff you" to Twitter shoutouts. Because why would you use just 140 characters to say something when you can go with 10,000? 

Dark reads (also being artsy fartsy)

Sometimes, all I wanna do is curl up in bed with a novel that has a very dark plot. So dark that it feels like every time you open it, you're dipping your fingers in blood. I guess that's one reason why I'll never have a liking to Austen. But give me a novel where the women kill, where the world has gone into anarchic chaos, and a speculative world where the society is deeply matriarchal and religion is controlled by sorceresses. For some reason, the novels I chose for this post all feature women as major characters. Woot!

Yes, this novel is one of those that seems to ride on the popularity of Gone Girl and The Girl on the Train. It's not as suspenseful as those two novel though,but still entertaining. I guess I will never get tired of unreliable narrators.

This one I was 10% behind. It's some sort of a post-apocalyptic novel set in a world where people lose their shadows, and along with this loss goes their memories as well. It's a bit of a downer actually, especially when the protagonist couple get separated because the woman, after losing her shadow, decides to flee so that her husband is spared from all the tragedy that's bound to happen to her.

I've a thing for beautifully illustrated graphic novels,  much more if the story is so rich that every pagea is a delight This one is that rare comic. I love the world building and the religion-inspired imagery that the story conjures. Also, plus points for having relevant themes on feminism and race.

There's another thing that's happening this week, and that's our trip to Taiwan. Packing for trips gives me great anxiety. Do I pack an extra pair of shorts? How about underwear? Do I really need all these toiletries? Also, more importantly, should I bring two or three or four books? Or five?

Kafka virgin

My two favorite quotes from Kafka's The Trial

Our book club's selection for this month is Kafka's works, beginning with the novel The Trial. I've never read Kafka, and I have this notion that his works will read like those of Russian novelists such as Tolstoy and Dostoevsky. I have a special affinity for Tolstoy's and Dostoevsky's novels. I don't mind that their main characters are drunkards (or throw themselves in front of a moving train), they live in squalor, and the weather is always freezing. Somehow, pondering about life's biggest questions seems easier if you have these unfortunate conditions. Maybe I'm just a closet romantic, no? But Kafka's The Trial is completely different in tone and subject matter. And I am jarred. Well, at least for a few minutes.

The first thing that struck me about The Trial is its pace. The writing is so frenetic that it leaves you catching your breath—long paragraphs with hardly any punctuation, dialogue that you have to decipher as to who exactly is the one speaking the lines, and events happening one after another in a span of a few sentences. I love it. The pace is perfect in evoking an atmosphere of claustrophobia and unpredictability, as these characterize the situation tha Joseph K., the main character, is going through. What exactly can K. do when he wakes up one morning to find people in his apartment who are there to arrest him for a crime unspecified throughout the story?

But pacing aside, the novel's story is told straight through. But the range of situations that K. finds himself is so vast that it forces you to question the genre of the novel. Is it absurdist? Is it metafiction? Is it a satire? But cares about genre these days anyway? I don't. I just want a good story. So, these situations—they can go from being absurd one moment to sensual the next. And it is this absurdity that makes me forgive K.'s wrongful actions or, more often, inaction to be able to get himself out of that ridiculously surreal situation. How can one act rationally if the circumstances that go your way are irrational?

Bureaucracy is one of the prevailing themes of The Trial. No matter how many people that K. meets who can help him with his coming trial, no one seems to have a clear idea on how to help. K. is forced to consult a lawyer, listen to a preacher, and talk to a painter and court reporter. They all present a grim outlook for the trial. It's a bleak picture that Kafka paints in this story. It's not exactly entertaining, but it certainly makes you pause and think. I have so many questions after finishing the novel. Thank goodness for Google.

The cover of my copy of The Trial kicks ass.

Artsy fartsy AF (part 2)

A continuing series. If you give an eff, you can check out part 1 here. Also, my Instagram here. A warning though, my IG is a bit all over the place—food the bf and I cooked (a good number are pics of frittatas), travel, chihuahuas, and the occasional random shot.

Probably my favorite book of 2018 (so far)
Couldn't recommend this enough

Woot, woot! An LGBTQ young adult novel!
Such a profound question this novel poses—Is humanity worth saving?

Another wonderful read, with fully realized characters. Worth the hype.
Loved all the characters' voices that each take you to a different time

I've been waiting for so many years for Miller's next novel
This one feels different though, but still has lots of drama

Had no expectations for this one, so was surprised that I really liked it
Shoved this book into the faces of a few peeps at the office

And of course there will be horror, and one that uses the story of the Donner party as context
Second half wasn't as good as the first, but still satisfying overall

Hey, bae, Timothée!

Today, my mind, for some inexplicable reason, is centering on the actor Timothée Chalamet. I guess it probably has been triggered after reading that he's going to play Paul Atreides in another Dune big screen adaptation. Now I've yet to make a Dune movie that I like, maybe because I have high expectations of it every time. When your favorite science fiction read is translated to another format, you just brace yourself that they don't eff it up. I'm pretty much sure the 1984 David Lynch film effed it up, big time. With the one being made by Denis Villeneuve though, I am so in. Like I'll pay all the seats in one screening just to have the theater to myself. And it all has to do with Timothée Chalamet, who I think is perfect for the role.

TC slayed it in Call Me by Your Name. I've never seen an actor play a role both with vulnerability and intensity at the same time. And that dreamboat Armie Hammer? Just wrap him up in a brown paper package and send him to me please. I've been practicing speaking in that deeply seductive AH voice, but all it gives me is a lot of wheezing and more asthma attacks. The same with imitating TC's stare-that-says-more-than-a-thousand-words in front of a mirror. I just scare myself. Aieeee, those two, they'll be the death of me.

Interestingly, unlike Dune, I found Call Me by Your Name, well, one of the most boring things that I've ever read. Oy, the phone book would be a much more engaging read than this novel. Ennui rules its pages, and its ennui the reader gets. The novel does have many quotable lines which fortunately find their way into the brilliant adaptation by Luca Guadagnino. I found the movie charming, heartbreaking, and suspenseful, a combination that is as common as wearing plaid pants with a striped shirt. I felt for Elio, the character played by TC. I felt his doubt in approaching Oliver, AH's character, and telling him his feelings. I felt his euphoria at having the opportunity to indulge his fantasy even for a few days. I felt his spirit trampled on when he heard of Oliver's engagement through a phone call, the most prosaic of all things.

My favorite quote from Call Me by Your Name

“If there is pain, nurse it, and if there is a flame, don't snuff it out, don't be brutal with it. Withdrawal can be a terrible thing when it keeps us awake at night, and watching others forget us sooner than we'd want to be forgotten is no better. We rip out so much of ourselves to be cured of things faster than we should that we go bankrupt by the age of thirty and have less to offer each time we start with someone new. But to feel nothing so as not to feel anything - what a waste!”

I guess Call Me by Your Name speaks to the romantic in me. Gone are the days when you can talk to your family members about Conrad's Heart of Darkness. Transcribing music as a pastime has become unheard of. I'd long for a summer where you'll meet a handsome intellectual and just sweep you off your feet, without having to Instagram it.

Embrace the DB

When I saw the newest novel of Dan Brown, I rolled my eyes. I rolled my eyes so hard that I almost got a migraine. Two reasons for this. One is that "here we go again" dilemma. I just knew that I would eventually get a copy and read it. This time though, I held off on getting the hardback. There's no way I'm spending $15 for something that I would eventually hide in my shelves. All my DBs are placed behind my first edition of Infinite Jest. But unlike all the DBs, Infinite Jest remains gloriously unread. (I say "glorious" because just the idea that I own a first edition gives me serious reader cred. #PretentiousBastard) The second reason is the inevitable, "Wait, did I just enjoy that?"

We can all agree that DB's novels are formula, and it's a formula that works. "Works" in this sense means that readers get suckered into it. And by "suckered" I mean spending a few hours being engrossed in the novel and then immediately forgetting 90% of it just a few minutes after finishing. It's like the Fifty Shades books. You can bash them all you want, but there's no denying the millions of readers that got their rocks off because of them. I read the FS books out of curiosity, because hetero copulation fascinates me, but in a scientific non-climax-inducing way. It's like the Elvis Presley sandwich, the one with the peanut butter, bananas, and bacon. It's probably good, but I won't ever have it. Blecchhh.

The books that I've brought to the office
Because one cannot live on Dan Brown alone.
Unless you like your reading testosterone-y, one-dimensional, and pseudo-intellectual.

So when the paperback recently came out, the bf fortunately gave me a copy. "Give" in this sense means forced to buy a copy. And when I got home, I immediately wrapped the paperback in plastic and started to read in bed. As expected, I read 50 pages of it in one go. Yes, the formula's still there—the religious conspiracy, the art and symbology shiz, the token woman companion who is gorgeous and brainy, and the cliffhangers. I wallowed in these elements. I'm like a happy pig in a mud puddle, soaking in all the wet grime. I'm reminded of an episode in Somebody Feed Phil, where Phil Rosenthal says that the reason places such as the Fountain of Trevi are tourist traps is that these places are beautiful. I guess it's the same thing with DB novels, no? People keep reading them because they are satisfied in one way or another.

I'm sure that you can think of many authors who are much better thriller writers than DB. And I've heard of Umberto Eco (The Name of the Rose, Foucault's Pendulum) and Katherine Neville (The Eight) being referred to as the "thinking man's Dan Brown." Whut?! Does this mean that DB's readers are people who don't think, or at least those who don't like to think when they're reading? It's a very backhanded thing to say. I say let people enjoy themselves. And let he who sticks to formulas make his millions. 

It's been a while

I cringe every time I see the post prior to this one. 2015, man. 3 effing years. (During this same amount of time, some of you could have gotten babies, earned a useless degree, been abducted by aliens 23 times, or have had liposuction.) Is anyone else reading blogs these days? I know I haven't. I blame Instagram. I've spent countless hours immersed on it. I also have Twitter, but that's another story. (Long story short: it's for porn.)

So why this post, anyway? Honestly, I have no idea. It feels liberating to be writing without any specific reason. It's almost like going commando, which is my preferred state of dress (or undress). I think I'd go without underwear all the time if not for all the chafing and the rubbing that will ensue. Also, slim fit pants aren't ideal for it. I can't work an outline of my circumcised penis in my OOTD.

Enough talking about that appendage and let's focus on what's changed since 2015, yes? Of course, I'm still reading. It's probably the only reason that I haven't subscribed to Netflix. I believe Netflix would've eaten some of my precious time for reading. I barely get enough hours for sleeping, so episodes of Booklyn Nine Nine (brilliant!), The Great British Bake-off (hugely enjoyable!), and 100% Hotter (guilty pleasure, hihihi) would have to wait for the weekends. You know that meme that says something is evil because it goes against something you strongly believe in? Well, for bibliophiles, Netflix is Satan.

I've a ton of reading recommendations to you, dear reader. And I'll start with my best read for 2017. It's Garth Greenwell's What Belongs to You. I can't recommend it enough. While descriptions of bonking are plenty in this novel, it's the writing style that blew me away. Greenwell's narrative is almost like poetry. It reminds me of Proust, but minus the elliptical and run-in sentences. (Disclaimer: I haven't finished anything by Proust. But every time I reference him, I feel so intellectual. Also, he's gay, and it's Pride Month. So you know, we're like family. Whatevs.)

Giving you jaw
and rocking a geeky shirt

And for the past 3 years, dear reader, I've been learning to cook. And I've gotten comfortable cooking with my favorite food group—eggs. Now don't get me started about that debate if eggs are healthy or not. My cardiologist (my 6th most favorite person in the world) told me never to eat more than 2 eggs a week. But there are countless online articles about how healthy eggs are. (You know, if it's from the Internet, then it must be true. Plus points for its credibility if you see it on Facebook.)

So, eggs. There's something about cooking it perfectly that's so satisfying. When you do a fried egg and pierce that yolk with your fork, it's almost orgasmic looking at how that yellow goo slowly oozes out. Lemme see, I've done a French omelette, Eggs benny, shakshuka, and frittatas. Countless frittatas. They're probably my favorite thing to eat lately. And they keep for a long time too. When you bring them out of the oven and place them on the table, bam! Huge Martha Stewart factor! Or even Barefoot Contessa! Still confused though why anyone would want to go barefoot in the kitchen

So purrrrtyy
This one has chorizo, chickpeas, spinach, and cheese.
The eggs, all 7 of them, are almost an afterthought,

Also, people are surprised to find out that I have a not-so-ugly penmanship. (Fine, I'll spit out the humble pie—I have beautiful handwriting, peeps. Italics for emphasis.) So I tried doing calligraphy and found out that I enjoy it as a hobby. I'm in Zen mode when I'm doing calligraphy. I'm like, "Don't think of disturbing me unless you're Chris Evans and shirtless, or Chris Evans in a Captain America costume that I can slowly remove. Like I said, Zen. Nothing on my mind except for calligraphy and Chris Evans.

Planner entry made in January
Like most new year resolutions, this planner has been forgotten.

There you have it, dear readers. These are what I've been up to for the past 3 years. No significant changes as you can see. I still read, still post random thoughts, still fart stealthily during meetings. I'm not sure how soon I'll write another post. In another 3 years again? Oooohhh! Like the Olympics! And I'll have a unicorn for my mascot.

Why read Edith Wharton's The House of Mirth

One can usually tell if a book is a favorite by having multiple copies of it.
The top one has foxed, but it's a beloved copy.
I read The House of Mirth twice using that old edition.

Sometimes, I just wish that I were filthy rich. Wait, who am I kidding? So let me rephrase: All the time, I just wish that I were filthy rich. In life, all you really need is 100 million dollars.

Which is exactly one of the reasons why I love Edith Wharton's novel, The House of Mirth. It's a novel that lets me peek into the world of New York City's old rich at the turn of the century. And the picture it shows isn't pretty. It's a ruthless place to be, in fact. NYC's upper crust society is so exclusive. If there's one word to describe them, it'll have to be anal. Damn tight, these folks are.

There are plenty of reasons to read The House of Mirth. Lily Bart, the main character of the novel, is such a polarizing figure that it's impossible not to have a strong feeling about her. Wharton's novel is basically about Lily Bart and her attempts to penetrate the old rich by marrying someone with money. Calling her an ambitious bitch would be an understatement.

But the novel ended so tragically that it broke my heart when I closed the last page. Lily Bart is all to blame for her fate. Yes, she found herself in a pit of vipers, but there were several instances when she could've had it good. There were lots of "almost" proposals from different men, but somehow, she manages to f--- it up! Oh, Lily Bart! I love you, even though the stars didn't really align for you.

I love The House of Mirth to bits. I love it so much that I even moderated a discussion of the novel for the book club. Needless to say, the discussion made it evident that there were two camps: the pro-Lily and the anti-Lily camps. It was tough staying neutral, being the facilitator. Even though in my mind, I had my hands around the necks of those self-righteous anti-Lily people.

Speaking of book clubs and the wealthy, last weekend afternoon saw the book club at a rather fancy tea place in the metro. We discussed Kevin Kwan's best-selling novel, Crazy Rich Asians. As the novel had crazy rich Singaporeans as characters, Joko, the moderator, opted to hold it at TWG, which is originally a franchise from Singapore.

The obligatory group photo after the discussion
I'm at the far left in the light green shirt.
I specifically asked the person to take the photo from this angle.
At this angle, one always appears thinner.

I'm not big on iced tea, as I always feel a bit bloated after drinking it.
But I was transfixed watching this lady make this fancy shmancy iced tea.
Iced tea at home: instant powder + water. Stir and then add ice.
When we feel a bit more extravagant, we add those cute little umbrellas.

The high tea set, or as would call it—the afternoon tower of carbs
Joko ordered several of these. (Thank you! Mwah!)
Scones, good. Scones + clotted cream + jam, better!
Other tea sets had macarons, which my seatmate and I kept on stealing.

Anyway, back to Kevin Kwan's novel. I did find Crazy Rich Asians entertaining. I didn't think too much of it, as it was just about crazy rich Singaporeans guarding their crazy ass money by keeping their crazy rich families very exclusive. So yes, there's interbreeding. And Kwan certainly knows all the big name fashion designers as there's never a page where a luxury brand isn't mentioned.

I got a bit railed up when somebody mentioned Edith Wharton and Kevin Kwan in the same sentence. Apples and oranges, people! Both novels had rich characters, but the similarities end there. You read The House of Mirth because you want to delve into the characters' minds. You read Crazy Rich Asians for the fluff and the mouth-watering descriptions of Singaporean food.

I would recommend both books though. So you see, I'm not a snob. One you take to the beach, and the other you read before going to bed. Crazy Rich Asians is funny as hell. It's gossipy, biting, and hysterical. I have to hand it to Kevin Kwan; he certainly knows what he's writing about—from the schools, clubs, hawker centers, and fashion boutiques, to Chinese traditions and class systems.

Just your nerdy Asian, playing with the fisheye lens
I recommend Crazy Rich Asians, but with a caveat.
After reading it, you'll realize that you're dirt poor.
And there's a sequel—China Rich Girlfriend. What's with the title?

Do R and I look rich? Well, maybe just crazy.
This was actually taken at a children's party, held just before the discussion.
I remember having 4 glasses of red during the party.
So I might've been a little tipsy during the discussion.

This past week, I discovered the joy of coloring books. I never realized how therapeutic and stress-relieving they are. I believe they're all the rage these days, well at least here in Manila. My only concern is that they're another thing to keep me from reading. But that's a happy problem. I love my happy problems. They make my boring life seem very exciting.

My current coloring book collection, bought from bookstores
For some strange reason, I find myself having 4, even though I just started last week.
R is an enabler. Every time I ask him, "Should I get this?" He always says, "YES!"
So I blame R. But he's très generous. The Art Therapy book came from him.

The first sheet that I finished, yesterday afternoon
Not too happy with what went on with the feet though.
Who has ever seen gray socks? Should've left those areas uncolored.
This came from the Japanese Prints book.

My second, which I did immediately after the Japanese print
I was looking for a P, but alas, there was none. Had to settle for S.
This came from the Typography Colouring Book.
By the way, I was multitasking—watching "Jane the Virgin" while coloring.

Never, ever underestimate the amount of time you plan to spend finishing a plate.
I actually paid attention to the timings. Goodness, 2 hours per plate!
Right now, I use colored pencils, but I'm thinking of getting markers too.
All those sharpening is driving me crazy.

R is so talented. He's a graphic artist by profession.
So all these are, like, peanuts to him.
He helped me out by rendering flesh tones to the skin areas.
By the way, I lost those blue glasses during the discussion.

Why read Faggots

Because it's Pride Month! Because this 1978 novel is groundbreaking. Because there's a sexy Winston cigarette man. Because it's a study of excess, and like all things excessive, it's heartbreaking to know what will happen later, when all things bright, care-free, pleasurable, and orgasmic come crashing down because of disease. Ah, Faggots, I couldn't recommend you enough.

Most people would know Larry Kramer as the playwright who penned "The Normal Heart," the play that has AIDS and the gay generation who first suffered because of it as its center. I love that play. If you haven't read it or seen it on stage, please do and have a box of tissues at your side. I guess the same thing can be said of Faggots. You still need a box of tissue, but for a different kind of body fluid. Wink, wink.

Of the 2,639,857 faggots in the New York city area, 2,639,857 think primarily with their cocks.
You didn't know that the cock was a thinking organ?
Well, by this time, you should know that it is.
― Larry Kramer, Faggots 

Faggots is a wonderfully dated work. I feel its appeal and charm grows through the years. It's somewhat of an autobiographical work, as the main character, Fred Lemish, is loosely based on Larry Kramer. Lemish is one of the many characters we meet in this kaleidoscope of a novel, where each character comes to grips with his sexuality, his place in the 1970s gay community, his continuous search for sex, love, and belongingness.

Never again will the gay community experience such excess, where it's de rigeur to go to bath houses, participate in orgies, be oblivious to people watching you as you engage in sex. The 1970s were a time when people actually had to go out of their houses to hook up. There wasn't any Grindr to speak of. There weren't any pics of your private parts going around. You have to see these intimate parts up close, usually in the club's bathroom. And if you approve, you take him home.

One of the characters in the novel is the handsome and sexy Winston man,
who is clearly a shoutout to the classic Marlboro man. 
The mustache was big among gay men in the 70s and the early 80s.
Hmmmm . . . mustaches. Reminds me of this very un-PC joke:
Why do gay men wear a mustache? To hide the stretchmarks. Tasteless, I know.

The 1970s was quite hedonistic, as it was the pre-AIDS era. Pretty much everyone humped like rabbits. We do know what happens after that period, yes? But that is a discussion for another day. In Faggots, it's all about drugs and sex. The novel portrayed the gay community back then in such an honest light that it showed some unflattering aspects of gay men. A few gay activist groups cried foul. Manhattan's one and only gay bookstore at that time even pulled the novel out of its shelves. I guess the truth really hurts. So Faggots basically pissed off both the straight and the gay communities.

In a way, I feel indebted to the characters in Faggots. These people belonged to a generation that was instrumental in LGBT equality. These were the first gay men who had the courage to go out in public and declare their sexuality. Yes, some of them were persecuted for it, and some of them died because of the unsafe sex they all practiced. But today's LGBT community would have never existed because of these people. For a few years back then, they partied, and they partied hard. But they will never party like that ever again. Their fight started the long battle toward equality. And it's still far from over though.

Even the title of the book is an indication of its now-classic status. I would never ever call someone a f-----. I don't want to go to gay hell. You can even get flak for calling someone this name, like what happened to this Gray's Anatomy actor. It's pretty much like the "n" word now. But unlike the "n" word, it's seldom used among gay men. Now, it's all about "queer." We have queer cinema, queer lit, queer everything.

We're here, we're queer, and we have fierce queer faces. LOL.
With my good friend Orly, who blogs about theater, books, and whatnot.
My goodness, it took so many takes just to get this shot. (27 takes, I think.)
That fierce look is so difficult to pull off! My cheekbones hurt.

In Faggots, there's no sugarcoating to what was happening to gay men in the 1970s. There's no bubblegum romance angle. There are no twee story lines. The novel feels very gritty, but it's also funny as hell. The dialog and the one-liners are a gas.

“Holy shit," somebody muttered in the dark.
"A virgin," sputtered another.
"I didn't know they still made them."
"He just did.” 

“Looking thirty, claiming forty, actually forty-five.” 

I do make it a point to read LGBT books every now and then. My favorite read last year was a gay-themed young adult novel (Aristotle and Date Discover the Secrets of the Universe). I consider Edmund White, Sarah Waters, and Alan Hollinghurst to be literary gods. I love Edmund White's A Boy's Own Story and The Farewell Symphony to bits. But I have never read a novel like Faggots. It's raunchy, hysterical, always on point, and fascinating. And it took me to a time when everyone scratched one another's itch, shoot drugs like there's no tomorrow, and basically live your queer life like it's the last day of this queer effing world.

One of the funnier queer novels I've read recently is Robert Rodi's Closet Case.
A bit dated, as the novel was published in 1993. Still campy and a riot though.
Again, so many takes just to get the right look for this picture.
You should've seen the photographer's face. It was fierce, but in a non-queer way.

And so the killing ends

Don't you just hate it when a book series with characters whom you've grown attached to finally ends? That's how it is when I turned the final page of the 3rd book of Barry Lyga's fantastic trilogy I Hunt Killers. The final installment, Blood of My Blood, is my 2nd read for 2015. And boy did it deliver.

For some reason, I can't help but think of the trilogy's protagonist as a uber handsome teenager with all the angst and grit that goes with being the son of America's most dangerous serial killer. I grew to love Jasper Dent. He's very grounded. Lyga makes the Jazz's character very realistic that you keep on going back to the time when you were at that age and had the same issues.

The I Hunt Killers trilogy is basically a cat-and-mouse story. Would Jazz finally be able to help the authorities catch his evasive serial killer of a father, Billy Dent, who's murderous spree spans several years? Would Jazz be the one himself to kill his father? What about Jazz's mother? Is she somehow involved in all this gore?

Blood of My Blood tied everything together and gave a truly satisfying ending to the nail-biting story. Yes, there were even a couple of mind-blowing twists to what the reader may have believed from the start. And I'm thankful that Lyga didn't proceed with the idea that Billy Dent may not be the father of Jazz after all. Having that premise would just mess up the notion that it's impossible to escape the things that your family imposes on you, genetic or otherwise.

Read this one during the first day of the year,
literally while the fireworks were still ongoing after 12 mn.
That's my just-got-out-of-bed look.

However, I would have liked to have read more of Jazz's best friend, Howie, in the final installment. That's one quirky character. I loved that teenage hemophiliac. Unfortunately, his character becomes a minor one. Blood of My Blood, after all, is the book that needs to have all the Dent family at center stage.

I highly recommend the series to people who are into thrillers. Looking back though, the series isn't just about that. It's a coming-of-age tale too. In Blood of My Blood, Jazz confronts his family, really see the evil that they have done, and learns that he does have free will. His name will forever be tied with his family, but that is not all that defines him. You really can't choose your family, but you can choose to go a different way.

Read this book if:

1. You've seen The Silence of the Lambs at least 7 times.
2. You've wanted to kill a family member at some point.
3. You love thrillers.

Life in miniatures

My first read for 2015 arrived with a lot of hype riding on it. Unfortunately, Jessie Burton's debut novel, The Miniaturist, doesn't live up to it. It's entertaining, yes, but I got a feeling of want after turning the last page. And my immediate reaction was, "That's it?"

Burton's novel concerns itself with one Petronella Oortman, a 17-year-old who arrives in Amsterdan to join her husband, the wealthy Johannes Brandt, after their arranged marriage. Johannes doesn't have that much time for Nella, being a busy merchant trader that he is, and leaves her to the company of her spinster-ish sister, Marin Brandt.

Nella and Marin don't hit it off. Ah, the usual in-law rivalry. So what is Nella to do to while away her days of ennui? Apparently, nothing. Just go through with being a trophy wife. But then Johannes gifts her with a cabinet-sized replica of the Brandt home. Nella decides to hire the services of a mysterious miniaturist, who has an uncanny ability to produce miniatures that mimic what is happening in real-time in the Brandt household.

My first read for 2015

Who is this miniaturist? How come he or she somehow predicts events through the miniatures that he or she creates? When one of their dogs gets killed, for example, the replica has a blood stain on it. And what the hell's the matter with Johannes and his non-ability to consummate the marriage? And how about Marin? Why is she so bitchy all the time?

The Miniaturist does provide answers to these questions. But the way it does so has the feel of lazy storytelling. The miniaturist turns out to be a woman, who has the supernatural ability to "see." Sounds simplistic? It is. Oh, and Johannes turns out to be gay, which explains his inability to keep it "up" even when Nella attempts to cop a feel. Marin turns out to have been involved with a man who seems to be Johannes's nemesis in the heavily enterprising world of 17th century Amsterdam.

The clichés continue to pile up on top. Marin becomes pregnant with their black servant. When Johannes find himself imprison for the crime of sodomy, it is Nella who takes over the business. Somehow, we're made to believe that Nella acquires her business acumen overnight. And for the life of me, I can't figure out why Nella feels to have this deep connection with her husband even when they've hardly spent any time together. It's a mystery.

The Miniaturist could've been a beguiling piece of historical fiction. All the elements are there—manipulative in-laws, nosey househelp, devious businessmen and their wives, and nail-biting courtroom drama. But Burton just skims over these aspects. What you get is just a watered-down atmosphere of Amsterdam in the 1600s, which just feels damp and cold all the time.

Read this book if:

1. You find doll houses creepy.
2. You're into historical fiction.
3. You're curious about the hype.

Not my kind of story

I was prepared to like this book. Even thought that it would end up as a favorite. It has all the things that a bibliophile can relate to—collecting rare books, running a bookstore, having a partner who's also into books, being a part of a book club. But at the final page, Gabrielle Zevin's novel, The Storied Life of A. J. Fikry, just didn't deliver.

Maybe because it touched on a whole lot of things, that the result is just several story lines spread too thinly. It's like biting into a supposedly dense cheesecake but what you really feel is a light chiffon cake. Or just plain air. Perhaps the flaws lie on the themes? They're just all over the place.

Anyway, there's really nothing new about this novel. A. J. Fikry, a recent widower, runs a bookstore in a small island. He's grumpy as hell, and one fat ass book snob. Then one day his rare copy of Edgar Allan Poe's Tamerlane gets stolen. Then he adopts a precocious baby that's left on his doorstep, who becomes instrumental in changing his dark demeanor.

It would've been more palatable if the novel focused on the story between Fikry and his adopted daughter. But no, there has to be romance and mystery. Fikry eventually marries a book agent, who helps him run his bookstore. And the mystery of the stolen Tamerlane has to be solved, albeit in a most unimaginative manner. Along the way, you meet a host of other characters: the detective who runs a book club, Fikry's sister-in-law, Fikry's sister-in-law's philandering husband, to name a few.

If the other characters in the novel remain unnamed in this blog entry, it's because they're so cookie cutter figures; I've forgotten their names. Even Fikry was someone I couldn't relate to, much as I tried.

The whole novel reeks of Hallmark. You know those movies when everything just works out cleanly in the end? The Storied Life of A. J. Fikry is that. It's so clean and wholesome that it feels antiseptic. Where's the conflict? Where's the dilemma that the characters have to face? Where are the destestable villains? Unfortunately, there are none. And that's why Zevin's novel is one such work that feels hollow.

I'm not going to say that this is a terrible book. But it's a cliche. The grinch becomes lovable. The philandering character dies in a car crash. The dying bookstore gets a second life in the hands of its patrons. Money magically appears. I. Die. Of. Sugar.

Read this book if:

1. You have nothing else to do.
2. You love books about books.
3. Oh, don't bother.

Not afraid to fly

It isn't often that I get to read a feminist book. But when I do, I make sure it counts. So I'm glad that another book club chose to read Erica Jong's seminal novel, Fear of Flying. If this isn't a feminist novel, then I don't really know what is. It tackles a lot of issues: female sexuality, sexual freedom, women's liberation, female psychology, family dynamics, and even religious (Jewish) themes.

The person who's afraid of flying is one named Isadora Wing. At the start of the novel, she's 29 years old, once divorced, and is currently married to a psychologist of Asian-American descent named Bennett. The marriage is by all means not an unhappy one, but Isadora is flighty. She has too many issues, too many questions, that she needs to figure out. And it doesn't help that she has to go with her husband in his conference in Austria, especially with her fear of flying.

One immediately wonders why she would choose to have an affair with another psychologist named Adrian. For one, he couldn't get it up. And another, he seems hell-bent on psychoanalyzing Isadora's every move. When they escape to the countryside, all these two have are profound conversations. Perhaps Isadora is looking for a change: from Bennett's clear-cut, rule-abiding persona to Adrian's brash, in-the-moment way of thinking. We would never know, wouldn't we? And I think that's the point of the novel.

You see, no matter what confusing choices Isadora makes, no matter the foolish repercussions of these choices, what's more important is that she was able to make these choices. She alone is to be blamed for these choices. After all, isn't women's lib all about the freedom to choose? In the '60s and '70s, women were slowly being given these choices. Some, like Erica Jong, embraced this freedom. The result is this wonderfully semi-autobiographical novel that is Fear of Flying.

In the novel, we see Isadora go against the tide. She refuses to bear any children, she decides to leave her first husband when the relationship has turned abusive, she acts on a whim even though she knows she'll regret her actions later. All of these boil down to choices. She is her own person. And you know why she does these things? Because she can.

It would be nice to meet Isadora in real life. I can just imagine the conversations I would have with her. She may not sound rational at times, but that's one of the pleasures of being with her. In the novel, Isadora is very learned, having a degree in literature and even being a lecturer on 18th century literature. Ah, just at the turn of the 20th century, it was impossible for women to have academic degrees. Isadora's choice of profession even goes against the wishes of her family, who seem to think that one needs to make money to become truly successful. Isadora would have none of that. She just loves books. Ergo, literature.

Unlike Isadora, I've no fear of flying. I love it, in fact.

It was fascinating to hear the thoughts about Fear of Flying from the members of another book club. It was my first time to attend their discussion. I must say that there isn't that much difference to discussing books. Just a few questions thrown to the group, with everyone being free to pipe in. Jong's novel is very polarizing. A few hated it for its crass language and Isadora's irrational behavior. A few commented on how the novel was groundbreaking for its time. I agree with the latter. Jong's honesty in her narrative is very refreshing. With the words "fuck" and "penis" occurring on every page, it can certainly be shocking. But let's face it, if it were a man writing those words back in the '70s, there wouldn't be any controversy.

I'm one of the people who love Fear of Flying. I think it's primarily because of Isadora. The novel may not have a very distinct plot, but I enjoyed reading about Isadora's journey of transformation. She was unsure of herself at the start of the novel. By the novel's end, she has realized that she indeed has choices that she alone can make and that she has to learn to be comfortable with these choices. The transformation is far from over in the last chapter, but at least the beginnings are there. Transformation and realization, I like.

The discussion was held in a wine cellar.
I had this fruity, Argentinian wine with Marie, the moderator.
I think I must have finished 3 glasses. Hehehe.

Read this book if:

1. You've always been curious about feminist litereature.
2. You love reading about sex.
3. You're into semi-autobiographical novels.

No, it's not about vampires

As I was surfing yesterday, I came across this interesting piece of news about Kevin Wilson's novel, The Family Fang. It's going to be turned into a movie! Woot!

I knew that I had a hardcover somewhere. I also recall R. giving me a copy for a special occasion a few years ago. My birthday, perhaps? But I found it, and I couldn't be happier.

Anyway, I'm enjoying this novel so much that I keep thinking, "They better not eff it up!" At least Jason Bateman is both directing and starring in it. Ah, Bateman, the stuff teenage dreams in the 80s are made of. And check out Nicole Kidman's costume in the movie below. She can play anything, yes?

Oh, and there's Christopher Walken! When I saw him dancing in the music video of Fatboy Slim's brilliant "Weapon of Choice," I was sold. The world needs more of Walken. Such an underrated actor.

Gone are the glamorous looks for Ms. Kidman in the movie.
In fact, she's hardly recognizable!
Source: Just Jared

There's something about knowing that a book is being adapted into the big screen that makes you want to just read the damn thing, no? Here's hoping that the movie won't be a big disappointment. We don't need another "The Great Gatsby."

Particularly endearing

Sometimes, I wish that I had super taste buds. You know, being able to detect the different ingredients that make up a dish, or being able to tell whether a specific fruit or vegetable has been farmed or grown organically. In Aimee Bender's The Particular Sadness of Lemon Cake, we meet one character who has an extraordinary ability—being able to taste the emotions of the people who cooked the food.

So Rose Edelstein discovers that she can find out her mother's emotions when she takes a bite of the lemon cake her mother baked for her ninth birthday. In that instant, Rose detected a hollowness, a loneliness, in the lemon cake. Eventually, as she learns to come to grips with her particular gift, she soon finds out that these "tastes" are actually the feelings that the persons have at the time they make the dish.

The Particular Sadness of Lemon Cake is a novel that touches heavily on the family. And the Edelsteins make up a family that's unbearably sad. Rose's mother carries on an affair that lasts for years, even though she puts up this cheery veneer every time she's home. Rose's father can't seem to bear to go to hospitals, and seems oblivious to his wife's affair. Through the different emotions that Rose encounters during family meals, she gets to discover all the painful words left unsaid, the missed connections, and the frustrations of her family.

Apparently, it's not just Rose who is blessed/cursed with a gift. Her brother, Joseph, can make himself disappear for several months, eventually coming back looking tired, dehydrated, and basically clinging to life. Joseph's sadness is one that's not very easy to read. He was the one who supposedly had the brains in the family. But his potential is not realized, beginning with the fact that he failed to secure a spot at Cal Tech.

Rose doesn't fully learn to appreciate her extraordinary ability. For her, every meal taken at home is torture. She becomes obsessed with the vending machine in her school, who dispenses factory-made junk food. I can empathize. I'd rather eat a Twinkie than have a home-made omelet wherein I can taste all the sadness that goes with it. So yes, for me, Rose's ability is in fact a curse.

Bender writes beautifully. Her prose is lyrical without being too cloying. In a way, the reader can "taste" the sadness in her prose, the emptiness that clings to the Edelsteins. And I find it very apt that food is used as the conduit for the emotions. One can't just say that her or she is feeling unhappy; that person has to find a way to make the other person feel his unhappiness. What better way than to let that person consumer your emotions. Call it transference, if you will.

The Particular Sadness of Lemon Cake looks like a very light read. Well, it is, at around 200 pages. But it's dense with drama and its characters fully realized. You feel sad for Rose, Joseph, their parents. You want to reach the end to find out if everything goes well with each of them. It's a heartbreaking novel, this one. But you'll still be happy that you finish it.

Read this book if:

1. You value the importance of shared meal times.
2. You're super picky with your food.
3. You love lemon cakes.

Of citrus fruits and new author discoveries

I know, I'm holding a grapefruit and not a lemon.
Still feeling particularly sad though,
as I really am craving a lemon cake.

One weekday, I felt like going to my favorite bargain bin bookstore near our office. I wasn't really particularly feeling hungry despite it being lunch time. But I am always in the mood for a book hunt, no matter the weather. I recall that it was raining intermittently that day.

Anyway, I spotted Aimee Bender's novel The Particular Sadness of Lemon Cake at the bookstore. I decided to buy it, as Bender seems to be one of those talked about contemporary fiction writers these days. Besides, I couldn't resist a book with this title.

As it was a rainy day, it could only mean one thing—traffic will be horrible. And it was! I have no qualms about reading on the road, especially if the vehicle is moving at a snail's pace, which is what happens to Manila's highways every time it rains. Well-lighted buses are perfect for reading!

The Particular Sadness of Lemon Cake did help me pass the time. One minute I just pulled it out of my bag and turned to the first page, the next I'm on page 150 and almost near my house! It's really good! The following day I read another 100 pages on the bus as well.

I think Bender's novel would be the first book I read entirely on the bus within a few days. The writing has a melancholic tinge. I have a full review coming up on this novel, dear reader. But for the meantime, here's hoping that I find another Bender work soon. Or at least a delicious slice of lemon cake.

Everyone's supposedly talking about this book

Apparently, E. Lockhart's novel, We Were Liars, is the hot ticket this season. It took me a while to get my hands on a copy, as bookstores can't seem to replenish their stocks fast enough. We Were Liars is a quick read, something that you can read to pass a lazy weekend afternoon.

What's it about? Well, WASPs. How waspy can you get when a family, the Sinclair family to be specific, spends summers in their private island in Cape Cod. They all have trust funds and have their own huge houses on the private island. Goodness, give me that kind of life now!

Anyway, the Liars referred to in the novel are four teenagers who seem to be inseparable every time they summer together. Cadence, Johnny, Gat, and Mirren form a very tight bond, and it's this tight bond that makes them believe that they can do anything. We Were Liars somewhat touches on a mystery, and that mystery focuses on Cadence, our main character.

One summer, on her fifteenth year, Cadence wakes up on the beach with absolutely no memory of what happened to her. Her mother makes it a point to shield Cadence from remembering the terrible thing that occurred on that fateful night. Was Cadence raped? Did she play a role in burning the house of their grandfather, the head of the Sinclair clan? What made the rest of the Liars seem changed after that summer?

I don't want to give away the mystery, as there's this big reveal at the end about Cadence and the Liars. I, myself, was even surprised at the ending. It's like a punch in the gut, that reveal.

We Were Liars touches on the hurt, the frustration, and the sadness that family members inflict on one another. Most of the Sinclair women are divorced, and they can throw barbed words at one another. Cadence's grandfather has been threatening to donate a substantial amount of money to Harvard. And Cadence is, well, a mess.

The novel's very entertaining. The mystery motivates you to keep on reading. Also, Cadence's voice, providing the novel's point-of-view, is very candid and touching. You just want to make sure that she'll be all right. By the novel's end though, you know that she'll pull through.

Read this book if:

1. You know that family is important, no matter how eccentric and sharp-tongued they can be.
2. You looked forward to spending your summers away from home.
3. You miss your childhood friends.

Checking out a local bestseller

This weekend, I decided to go local with my reading. Considering that stories originally published in Wattpad are all the rave, I checked out the grandmama of them—Bianca Bernardino's She's Dating the Gangster. Bernardino's online novel has found its way to print, and I've heard that it's even going to be adapted to the big screen. So I'm curious.

My curiosity eventually becomes a huge disappointment as I turned the final page. I had high hopes for She's Dating the Gangster. But it's confusing, infuriating, frustrating, and tiring. Is this what young people these days are reading? Shallow drivel. If this novel began the trend of new adult novels in the country, then I shiver at the thought of reading the countless stories it has spawned.

Bernardino's novel starts interestingly enough. Kenji, the high school heartthrob, missends a text message to Athena, who he thinks is his ex-girlfriend, who is also named Athena. The ex is later called Abigail, probably to avoid confusion. I think that the ex can be called anything, as she has absolutely no character at all. It would even have helped it she'd have been nameless. (I think the same is true for the supporting characters. They're cookie cutter characters without any distinct voice.)

Anyway, Kenji is hellbent on getting back with Abigail, so he strikes a deal with Athena. All Athena has to do is to pretend that she's now Kenji's girlfriend. Hopefully, Abigail will see them all lovey-dovey and become jealous. (Yes, the novel somehow makes you think that jealousy leads to exes getting back. Warped thinking, if I may say.)

All the clichés are here. Good girl eventually falls for the bad boy. Female character gets sick and dies, but not before male character proposes marriage. Video footage being played that shows the dead character's stupid message to the one left behind. Screaming, lovesick teenage girls squeal a lot and defend the high school gangster. This is so unintentionally funny because they would even gang up on the girl they're jealous of.

I find no redeeming quality to She's Dating a Gangster. There's a pretentious allusion to Shakespeare's "Romeo and Juliet," but it just leads to even more stupidity. When Athena dies and leaves Kenji still a mess (even if one year has already passed), Kenji decides to take his own life by swallowing pills. By dying, he thinks that Athena and he will never be apart anymore. Whatever.  I'd rather have a root canal than read this pointless story again.

I'm glad that more and more people are reading though. And that a lot of them are coming up with stories that other people read. I only hope that these readers develop a hunger, a craving for something more satisfying. And that our local writers recognize this craving and answer it by telling stories with more substance.

Read this novel if:

1. This is the last book on earth.
2. You have no qualms about two sweethearts calling each other Sexylove and Lovebabe.
3. Oh, don't bother.

On a reading high

So last Sunday, we decided to stay at home and just catch up on whatever stuff that needs catching up on. For me of course, that would have to be reading. As I slept at 8 pm last Saturday night, I woke up at 3 am, logged on to Facebook (goodness, 390+ likes for that photo!), checked my emails and downloadables, and started reading this latest novel by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, Americanah.

I bought Americanah on a whim, as I think I remember reading about it that the novel was optioned by Lupita Nyong'o. With my A to Z classics challenge, I figured I wasn't recently reading contemporary novels more often than before.

And then I checked the clock on my wall. It was already 8 am! I almost missed breakfast! Americanah is that good, dear reader. No wonder it received a lot of awards this year and last. The hype is oh so true! Read it! Read it! Read it!

I can't remember the last time I was so enamored with a book. So passionate I felt about this novel that I just wanna rush to the nearest bookstore and get all the novels written by Ms Chimamanda. I actually called my favorite bookstore and found out that they have only Americanah in stock, and there's no news as to whether they'll stock the earlier works of this author. Sucks vacuum cleaners.

The last time I felt like this after discovering a very talented author was after finishing José Saramago's The History of the Siege of Lisbon. That novel instantly converted me into a Saramago fan, making me read most of his novels. But The History of the Siege of Lisbon will always be my favorite Saramago. The novel combined history with proofreading! Orgasmic.

The hunt is on for the works of Ms Chimamanda. I never figured that I'd be interested in fiction which is very much centered on Nigeria. Americanah is just too beautiful, and I hope that the author's other works would be just as satisfying as this one.