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? 

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

It started in 1994

There was a time when I read close to 300 books a year. It's not that I had way too much time on my hands back then. I just graduated from college and immediately applied for a teaching job. So I had my first job and had no financial obligations whatsoever. That only meant one thing—most of my income went to books. So I bought books with abandon. I read all of them. I never had a TBR pile in the 1990s. Then I started this little tradition on the last day of the year: I'd take a look at all the books I read that year and come up with my best reads. And I just realized that I've been doing this thing for 24 years now.

So I've listed all my best reads since 1995 up to last year, dear readers. Here it is. Too bad that I didn't record the shortlist for all 23 years, as I just started doing that mid 2000s, I think.

2017 - What Belongs to You (Garth Greenwell)
2016 - A Little Life (Hanya Yanagihara)
2015 - All the Birds, Singing (Evie Wyld)
2014 - Aristotle and Dante Discover the Secrets of the Universe (Benjamin Alire Sáenz)
2013 - HHhH (Laurent Binet)
2012 - The Song of Achilles (Madeline Miller)
2011 - The Wednesday Wars (Gary D. Schmidt) 

2010 - The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks (Rebecca Skloot)
2009 - Memoirs of a Master Forger (William Heaney) and Gomorrah (Roberto Saviano)
2008 - The Elegance of the Hedgehog (Muriel Barbery)
2007 - The Historian (Elizabeth Kostova)
2006 - The Stolen Child (Keith Donohue)
2005 - The Schwa Was Here (Neal Shusterman)
2004 - The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time (Mark Haddon)
2003 - Nobody’s Perfect (Anthony Lane)
2002 - The Crimson Petal and the White (Michel Faber)
2001 - American Gods (Neil Gaiman) and Hitler’s Pope (John Cornwall) 

2000 - The Farewell Symphony (Edmund White)
1999 - We Wish to Inform You That Tomorrow We Will Be Killed with Our Families (Philip Gourevitch)
1998 - The Professor and the Madman (Simon Winchester)
1997 - A Fine Balance (Rohinton Mistry) and The Innocent (Ian McEwan)
1996 - The History of the Siege of Lisbon (José Saramago)
1995 - The Moral Animal (Robert Wright)
1994 - The Story of Mankind (Hendrik Willem van Loon)

Just a tiny bit embarrassed that the list leans heavily toward American and European authors, and the gender inequality is very testosterone-y. But hey, 3 women authors in this decade so far, no? So yes, I'm deluding myself that that's a step toward diversity.

I like that there's a few nonfiction books in this list. Gourevitch's account of the genocide that happened in Rwanda will always be my standard when it comes to reporting significant events. I'll always remember The Moral Animal because it posited a crazy but plausible theory—how monogamy may be disadvantageous to women who wish to move up the social ladder. And how could I not love Winchester's book about the origins of the Oxford English Dictionary? For snark and just plain brilliance, nothing compares to the collected reviews of Lane in Nobody's Perfect. Cornwall's fascination with the Vatican is evident in his account of the less-than-stellar life of Pope Pius XII.

Of course, there are novels aplenty. A few of them now so obscure that I can feel you itch to Google, dear reader. I've read almost all of Saramago's works, but none has made a greater impact than The History of the Siege of Lisbon. It involves a proofreader who consciously puts an error by inserting "not" into the narrative, and then coming up with a totally different historical account just to justify that word. For sheer storytelling, the speculative and otherwise, nothing beats Gaiman and his doorstop of a novel. Also a doorstop is Faber's The Crimson Petal and the White, an engaging read about a prostitute in Victorian England.

My weakness for gay novels shows in this list, yes? I count five, with four just in this decade. Point me to someone who hasn't been affected by Yanagihara's A Little Life. And how many of us cried when we finished The Song of Achilles? White's The Farewell Symphony manages to be erotic and touching at the same time.

If there's one book that I'd like to bring to your attention, dear reader, it's Donohue's The Stolen Child. Probably because I feel that not many people know about it. It's about a boy abducted by goblins and is forced to live with them, and the changeling that takes his place. I was heartbroken when I finished it, and I remember that I kept thinking about this book for weeks. Yes, it's fantasy, but the mythology is very much rooted in our culture, and the emptiness that each character feels gets to you. Look for this, dear reader. You're in for a treat.

By the way, 2016 was the worst year ever in my reading life. I managed to read just roughly 20 books. I blame Netflix.

#poser
I've never read Sherlock Holmes.

Prude

2018 is going to be known as "my year of reading gay fiction." Gay romance, gay erotica, gay mystery—I've read it, and I'll keep on reading it till you cut me and I bleed glitter. Sure, I know that gay fiction isn't for everyone, but I think it should be. If you think that gay fiction is all about boinking in the dark, kissing in secret, and having characters who are so touchy-feely when they're alone, then you have your work cut out for you. Personally though, I wouldn't mind reading something that's purely about boinking and kissing (and other kinky stuff). Who doesn't need those, right?

I guess I'm predisposed to putting unnecessary labels on things. I am, after all, a member of that wonderful but unfairly marginalized community called the LGBTQIAZGSIDFEDOGR. (Wait, did I miss a letter? I guess this is when the rainbow emoji comes in handy, no? Although I've seen the rainbow LGBT flag with two additional colors—brown and black. I have no idea what these two colors stand for. But adding those colors is a headscratcher. Why not periwinkle? Or chartreuse? Or coquelicot? Or even xanadu?) Anyway, I dream of the time when these gay fiction wouldn't have its own shelf or its own shopping category in Amazon. It would just be what it has always been in the first place—fiction.

I get why some people would be wary of gay fiction. The novels of James Lear, for example, border on porn. Every chapter, whatever the scenario, there'd be sex. And the result is one terribly funny but hot story. Open a page randomly in a Lear novel and chances are, you'll read the middle of a sex scene. Sex while doing laundry, sex in the barn, sex in a steamship, sex with the bartender, sex with the sexy village idiot who has an irresistible eggplant. The thing is though, aren't there non-gay novels that are written the same way? Of course, the Fifty Shades novels come to mind. I've read them, mind you. And I've never laughed so hard reading sex scenes that aren't supposed to be funny. Come to think of it, I've never met a gay guy who's been turned on by Fifty Shades. But Jamie Dornan though, woo-hoo. I grew up watching Dawson's Creek. So Dornan fulfills fantasies of what Pacey would look like after 10 years.

Do people still think that gays come from another planet? If you meet 10 people randomly on the street, at least 1 of them would be gay. Why are some people so hateful? Are they afraid of us and and our fabulousness? Perhaps they have heard of the gay mafia and how vindictive it could be? Here's the thing, I don't think there's a gay mafia though. If there were, shit, how do I apply? I bet the recruitment process involves "lip-synching for your life." (On a related note: I've never liked RuPaul's Drag Race. I just don't get it. The bf is very much into it. When it's on TV, I tune out. And if I'm in a good mood, I'd pretend to like it.)

What's surprising is that some of this hate comes from Christian groups. And they even have the nerve to say, "We hate the sin, not the sinner." Ummm, excuse me? Last time I checked, Jesus never wanted people to hate other people. What is this "sin" that we committed? The sin of fabulousness? And how does gay marriage weaken your "traditional Christian" marriage? If your marriage is threatened by men whose only sin is to have impeccable taste in shoes, then your marriage isn't strong in the first place, no? Yes, our flamboyance may be annoying sometimes, but don't you think we're also annoyed hearing from you how our "alternative lifestyle" encroach on your "traditional values"?

Anyway, gay fiction. There are tons out there. Lately, I've been reading gay novels published by indie presses. It all began early this year when the book club discussed Murmuration, a novel by TJ Klune. I knew that it's a gay novel so I was looking forward to talking about it. But finding a copy was a challenge, so thank goodness for Book Depository (free shipping!). Much as I'd want to support our local bookstores, online bookstores are a godsend for lazy but fabulous peeps like me. Come to think of it, I've been buying most of my books online lately. Saves me a lot of hassle. So it got me thinking why do our bookstores don't have that many gay novels in stock? Last time I checked, there were quite a number of Simon vs. the Homo Sapiens Agenda though. So that's a good thing. And the usual David Levithan (love!) and Benjamin Alire Saenz (love, love!). But apart from those, relatively slim pickings on gay fiction. My technicolor heart bleeds, and my shiny shimmery soul weeps.

Yesterday morning I went to the post office to get my books. Couldn't be happier. Practically sprinted all the way from my desk to the post office. I imagine that I left a trail of pixie dust along the way. My shallow self is delighted by the eye candy on the cover of The Imperfection of Swans. Hopefully, what's inside would be more delightful.

The thing about books is that some of them suck

Come Friday, I always post a photo on Instagram on the books in my bag for the weekend. It usually is a set of 4 books, mostly books that I've had in my shelf for the longest time. And I usually try to pick books from different genres, so that I don't get that cloying feeling you get reading books of the same theme. There's no way I'll read two love stories involving cis-genders in succession. I fear that I may grow ovaries or, at least, man-boobs (moobs?). One time, I read three gay erotic novels, one after the other, in one day. I felt sticky after the third book. So I took a shower. Three showers actually, one after the other.

One question that I often get about these posts is, "Do you really get to finish all those books?" Well, no, not all of them. I'm happy to finish one, two if I'm pushing it. If I finish three, these are probably the thinnest books on the planet, or I cheated and just read the last few pages, or Wikipedia. This is where my book editor ninja skills come in. Notice that I said "books in my bag" and not "books that I will read." (Thank you, Strunk & White! See, it still tells you to use the right words.) I love carrying books in my bag. And I have no qualms about the size, as I'm a size queen, on many levels. I'd lug around the dictionary if there were no online versions. I'm also partial to carrying a large eggplant.

Frankly, who has the time to finish 4 books in 2 days? With all the things to be done during the weekends, I'm lucky to still have reading time left. Let's see. We stay in bed and don't get up until 8  or 9, at the latest. Actually, I wake up at 4 am every day, so on the weekends from 4 to 8 am, I'm on Instagram. Crap. Then we prepare breakfast, which usually involves me whipping up something with eggs. (My current favorite is a kimchi omelette, with lots of melty cheese. Very addicting and satisfying.) Then we check out what's new on Netflix, which ends up with us watching something mindless for 2 hours. Then before we know it, it's time to prepare lunch. So it's the early afternoon already and we still haven't given the dogs a bath, played a few rounds of our current favorite boardgames, shower, go on Instagram again, and then make dinner. My goodness, I didn't realize that weekends can be stressful.

Gone are the days when I'd cut my nails to the quick because I feel stressed for not finishing a book. I have this nasty habit of cutting my nails really short, so short that sometimes, the ends of my fingernails bleed. (The bf hates this habit of mine, but I love it. Mmmmmm. To each their own, yes? Also, I have this terrible aversion to seeing the white part of the nail that protrudes from the end, a sign that one's fingernail has gotten long. Connotes ideas of laziness.) So anyway, if I don't like a book that I'm reading for whatever reason, to the back of the shelf it goes. Life's too short for bad books, or books with bad covers, or books with characters named Ashley, Chloe, and Zoey. If there's a character named Chris, he has to have an Evans for his surname.

So not all books are good, and not every book that we'll finish will be mind-blowing. Some will just be, ummm, okay, and that is an okay thing, no? But some will still be crappy and will let us hate ourselves for being suckered in. Some will have stories that will remind you of other stories you've read before, and you'll compare them, and you'll decide which one's bull and which one's shit. We persevere with our reading as many books as we can because eventually, we know that we'll find those treasures. The very few ones that we push on our friends' faces, the books that we fall in love with, those shiny few that outweigh the countless books that suck.

Anyway, just to give you an idea of those book-in-my-bag posts, here are a couple of them.

I've read 3 out of these 4. But I didn't finish them all during the weekend. It took me a while to read Ed Yong's nonfiction book about microbes, I Contain Multitudes. But I read this through because it appealed to the biology major in me. Lumberjanes is still my favorite ongoing graphic novel series recently, together with Monstress. So that was over in one sitting. I thought that I'd really like this year's Newbery, Hello, Universe, especially since it was written by an author with Filipino roots. But I was underwhelmed by it. Perhaps it had something to do with my huge expectations about this children's novel. It does help to have no expectations whatsoever, no? As for Wuthering Heights, I die of melodrama. It's a template on how not to live your life, as a friend said.

None finished in this set. Let's break it down. I don't know where Virginia Woolf is going with To the Lighthouse. Made me want to climb a lighthouse and just fling this book from the top. I've always had a problem with Pride and Prejudice. All those gossipy women aren't doing a thing for me. Everything's just gossip and more gossip. If the characters just spoke directly to their intended audience, this'll be finished in 3 chapters. The Mysteries of Udolpho is as Gothic as a Gothic novel can be. So the main character, a woman, faints a lot. I deduce that by the novel's end, she wouldn' be thinking clearly anymore. All those concussions can't be healthy.

Saccharine, superfluous, and sybaritic

One thing I noticed about book blogs lately, well at least in my part of the world, is how many of them appear to be twee. And almost all of them write about young adult books. Now I love YA, and a good number of my all-time favorite reads are YA (Neal Shusterman's The Schwa Was Here and Gary D. Schmidt's The Wednesday Wars come to mind), but sometimes I yearn for a bookish conversation about a book for adults that I've just finished. Just the other day, for example, I finished John Carreyrou's Bad Blood, which is his investigative report on Elizabeth Holmes and her startup Theranos. I was dying to talk about it with someone. Fortunately, there was bf who listened to me rave about the book. Also, I gladly sent him YouTube links about Holmes. Hey, I take what I can get.

It's one of the most painful experiences a reader could have, no? Not being able to talk about books to other people. It feels . . . lonely. But I'll prefer this kind of loneliness to wallowing in sickly sweet conversations. I'd much rather drink this loneliness than to engage in a discussion where we just end up heaping praises on a particular book. And it's not just about arguing because you want to pick a fight. Sometimes, you just want to have a damn good reason for bringing out your knives and sharpening them when you encounter someone who has a totally different feeling on a book. There's nothing like a polarizing book to get your neurons firing.

I guess being in a book club helps, especially when they get you to read diverse titles. I belong to two actually. One's a quite popular one that meets publicly every month. The other one is a whole different banana. We don't even bring out our gadgets when we meet. And people can't post anything on the 'gram (ooohhh, the 'gram, I feel like a millennial) or Facebook (yikes, Facebook, I feel so old). In fact, I may even be compromising my membership just by writing about it. 

And speaking of books written for adults, I've been reading a lot of gay romance novels lately. And these aren't the saccharine, being-swept-off-one's-feet variety. I'm talking about non-vanilla (pistachio? rocky road?) sex in every chapter. Surprisingly, I find some of them really good. What surprised me is that there are quite a number of a few raunchy gay novels that are written by women. I guess it's a thing now. Although I have no idea how they do their research on the "good parts" of the stories. I think I'll make a blog post about these novels, as I have a mouthful to say about them. 

Fur babies!
Totally random pic, much like this post

So yes, I'm looking for something totally different but still pleasing to my palate. Something that can sting or burn. Something that can make people uncomfortable when they see me reading it. Something that will make good conversation fodder. Not necessarily extraordinary, just not ordinary. 

My best reads for 2015

Well, well, well . . . it's that time of the year again. This year though hasn't been a great year for reading, numbers-wise. Lots of personal things happened, and work has been terribly demanding this year. Plus, I've been busy with two hobbies: coloring and calligraphy. (More on those two on the next post.)

I say it hasn't been great because normally, I would be finishing 50 books at the least by the end of the year. This year, it's a measly number. Not even 30! But there's still next year, yes? And those books will always be here—by my bedside, on my office desk, in my bag, in the bathroom, and on my ipod (hello, audiobooks!).

So here are my favorite reads this year, dear readers. I must say that this list has surprised even me. It's probably my most eclectic list ever.

I read a lot of graphic novels this year. I devoured the love story of Arnold Arre's Halina Filipina in one sitting. Scott McCloud's Sculptor is one heartbreaking read. Ryan Inzana's Ichiro is like a throwback to the good old days of comics, and it's heavy on Japanese mythological elements.

Of course, there will be novels. Edan Lepucki's California is what dystopian novels should be. I was transfixed at the two intersecting story lines of All the Birds, Singing by Evie Wyld. I have a few unfinished novels beside me, but I don't think that I'll get any more reading done before the year ends.

The stories in Emily Carroll's Through the Woods appealed to my horror and Gothic sensibilities. It's also a very beautiful book, with the hand-drawn elements that appear on every page. I never felt so conflicted about turning a page.

And then there are the odd balls. Kate Beaton's Step Aside, Pops, which is part of the Hark, A Vagrant! collection is such a gas. The strips feel like one comedy sketch after another. Austin Kleon's Steal Like an Artist is an interesting addition to this list. I included it here because of the author's interesting take on creativity, and what it takes to make your own art.

So there you go, dear readers. I wish you a happy 2016. Here's to more books!

Why take it slow

Most of my life, I've been a speed reader. I'm not exactly sure how fast I read in terms of the number of words per minute; all I know is that I can go through a 400-page book in one afternoon. Of course, comprehension is another matter. If you read text in chunks, as I do when I speed read, you don't really get into the details. It's like a buffet—filling but not wholly satisfying taste-wise.

How I became a speed reader is a story in itself. When my younger brother was 9, my parents enrolled him in a speed reading course. He's not a big reader, my brother is. My parents probably thought that if he speed read, he'd still be able to finish books and still have lots of time playing or doing the usual, you know, boy stuff.

Anyway, my brother got sick on the first day of the course. I would never really know to this day if it was a real illness, or if it was just purely psychosomatic. And I will never understand why my parents didn't just take note of my brother's "illness" that day and force him to attend the following day.

The speed reading course was non-refundable and non-transferable. Bummer, my parents must have thought. Then they had this brilliant idea, which I now think to be a touch Hitchcock-ian. Clap, clap. (Sometimes, I feel unworthy to be their child.) For one summer, my 10-year-old self pretended to be Thomas, my younger brother. I believe I was the youngest in that class of 15. And it took me a while to respond when somebody called me Tom. So I just kept to myself and just immersed myself in all those speed reading exercises.

That summer changed my reading life. I've never looked back since.

Speed reading is extremely helpful. You go through all your class required reading in a matter of days. You can finish the newspaper in the morning, which is the only way to read it, methinks. Everything goes by in a flash. And you really have more time to do other stuff, which in my case is to read more stuff.

Lately, however, I've come to realize that perhaps it's time to it slow. Not just in reading but in most of my routine activities. What's the point of all this hurrying? Why do I need to rush things that I find enjoyable? It's bad enough that I have to constantly meet deadlines at work, so I don't want to make speed a de facto in other aspects of my life. So consciously I've been trying (with moderate success) to read more slowly, to take my time enjoying the food in front of me, to jot down things in a notebook, to walk more leisurely.

No matter how fast I read, I'm never going to read all these great works of literature. I've gotten comfortable having my to-be-read pile around. Besides, there are books that are worth every hour your spend with them—the flowery prose of Proust, the sublime poetry of Czesław Miłosz and Seamus Heaney (still my favorite poets), the Gothic romance of Jane Eyre, and the fluid narrative of José Saramago, just to name a few.

Let me tell you, dear reader, you do feel more relaxed when you deliberately take things slow. (I even noticed that my pores have become smaller.) More importantly, you get to enjoy your reading material more. Like this debut novel by Edan Lepucki, the post-apocalyptic California. This novel had quite a buzz going for it last year, especially after Stephen Colbert featured it in the light of that Amazon-Hachette debacle. Ergo, it jumped into the bestseller lists. The New York Times even said that it won the "literally lotto."

California is fantastic post-apocalyptic fiction. What sets it apart from other works in this genre is its deliberate pace. Lepucki focuses the story on how a couple, Frida Ellis and Calvin Friedman, survives in Los Angeles, which has now been totally devastated. It's a sad novel really; you know that things wouldn't really end well for our main characters. The world has become cruel, one where being pregnant is a liability and your acceptance to a community comes down to a vote.

There's a sense of dread in the pages of California. Lepucki never really discloses why the world has come to an apocalypse, which is a very good decision in my opinion. I felt a good mix of paranoia and horror reading it. Somehow, you get a sense that what's happening in California can really happen. I do hope that I'm dead when that time comes. I wouldn't last a second in there anyway.

My obsession over coloring books continues.
So happy that I finally have Johanna Basford's works.
These are quite difficult to find in bookstores lately.

Even my 8-year-old niece has taken to them coloring pages.
She has no fear of intricate and very detailed illustrations.

Speaking of slow, this took me more than 5 hours to color.
Not 5 straight hours though. Otherwise, calluses.
(From the Secret Garden coloring book)

I've also taken the habit of taking things slow to other small things. Last weekend, we went to a local crafts fair, and it gave me a few ideas to try out. I have no delusions of becoming the next Martha Stewart though.

Those pre-arranged bouquets can be quite expensive, so R opts to buy flowers in bulk.
Besides, I think he enjoys being a florist. Hehehehehe.

I bought this lime liqueur last weekend, and it's divine.
I am loving all things citrus lately—the refreshing scent, the clean taste, the vibrant colors.
I tried adding a splash of this liqueur to sparkling water.
My own "slow" fizzy lime drink without the sugar. Win.

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 I have this thing for previously owned books

I feel a certain romanticism every time I have an old book in my hands, a book I've acquired from a used bookstore. I keep thinking of the person who first bought it, his fingers lovingly caressing its pages, making those creases in its spine, and carrying it in his bag for a few days. I imagine him being moved after turning the last page. I picture a certain loneliness as he puts that book in his shelf after having read it.

Of course, there is also the more prosaic biological aspect to reading something pre-owned. Think of bodily fluids. Think of that original owner sneezing into the pages. Think of him eating something fried while reading and getting grease on the book's pages. Think of sweat, snot, and seminal fluid. And then think of getting that into your own hands as you open the book. That also holds a special fascination for me.

One lazy post-breakfast Saturday morning, at R's
I've noticed that I finish at least one book every time I spend the night here.

Somehow, I can't bear to think that he parted with this book willingly. Perhaps he got his bag stolen. Or maybe someone broke into his house and stole some, ummm, books. Or could it be that he left that book on the train or the bus? Or probably he was reading at a cafe or restaurant when he was distracted by seeing an old friend at another table? He could've dropped the book amidst all those unplanned happy reunions, yes?

Oh, but again, I'm romanticizing everything. For all I know, he was just strapped for cash and sold all the books that he didn't like from his shelf. Yes, that's the most reasonable and realistic assumption, I think. It's all about economics, and how to make the most of your money. And speaking of pragmatism, isn't economics the reason why we buy previously loved books? Books are costly, but at least used ones are less so.

Two months ago, these were the books at my bedside.
All bought from the bargain bin.
None of them costs more than a dollar each.

Some of the books of years past have interesting covers; they're are a joy to collect. Just look at old sci-fi paperbacks. Oy, so beautifully tacky! And, several years ago, I believe that people actually painted by hand to come up with book cover designs. I don't do Photoshop, so I can't really compare the time and effort of past and present cover designers. Besides, being on Instagram and Facebook, I know that photo filters are essential. We can't have people seeing our pores!

I do love a book with a good cover. Plus points if it has texture, keyholes, and embellishments. A bad book cover is a deal breaker. Unless you're McEwan, Rushdie, or Tartt, then there's really no excuse to have an uninteresting book cover. (My life is uninteresting enough, thank you!) I find that books published several years ago do have character because of their covers. I would love to get that character in my shelf.

Saw these at a used bookstore last weekend.
Just look at those beautiful artworks!
And their conditions aren't bad either.

There's this interesting imprint from Little, Brown that I collect, which I find only in used bookstores. It's the Virago Modern Classics, which feature women writers. I'm not really sure if it has been discontinued as I don't see them in bookshops anymore. I love Virago. They publish little-known works from authors such as Elizabeth von Arnim, Pat Barker, Edith Wharton, Angela Carter, Willa Cather, and Molly Keane.

I think this is another allure of previously owned books—reading a novel that's long been out of print. We couldn't care less that these books have yellowed pages, or if the books have damaged spines, or if they have that funky smell that old books usually emit. What is important is the story within their pages, yes? And I'm just thankful that these books have found their way to me.

My small but growing Virago Modern Classics collection
Always a "must buy" every time I see one at a used bookstore.

What I'm reading in this month of love

I'm excited over my reading list for February, even though I'm the last person you'd expect to read a hardcore romantic novel. I can barely count with one hand all the love stories that I actually enjoyed. Well, top of mind are Erich Segal's Love Story and Jose Saramago's Baltasar and Blimunda.

Now I don't usually post monthly reading plans, but indulge me on this one, dear reader. For February, I've selected 5 books whose themes rely heavily on love or romance. They may not be romantically sappy, but they're perfect for the month of love, I think.

Henry Fielding's Tom Jones has always been part of my to-be-read pile. It's a doorstop, so I guess I'll read a few chapters at a time. Mary Stewart's The Ivy Tree is romantic suspense. Rachel Cohn and David Levithan's Dash & Lily's Book of Dares is young adult romance.

I don't know what to expect with Jorge Amado's Dona Flor and Her Two Husbands though. Same with Tony Perez's Cubao Midnight Express, which is the book club's selection for the month. Hopefully, these two books will be a pleasant surprise.

How about you, dear reader? What books are you reading for the month of love?

What I've been reading recently (in pictures)

Almost 4 months ago, most of my pics on Facebook were food pics. Then this happened. So good-bye, cupcakes! Good-bye, deep-fried pork belly! Good-bye, bacon and butter!

Then I realized that I still have been posting pictures on my Facebook account. But this time, they're all about the books that I've been reading. Not a bad trade-off, I think.

So I'm sharing them with you, dear reader. They're not technically selfies, as I forced asked a colleague at work to take them. Sometimes, it's good to ham it up for the camera, no?

D. H. Lawrence's Women in Love is a favorite read.
And The Rainbow is actually it's prequel.
Brangwens, we meet again!

I love them Russians. I feel that Dostoevsky is the most Russian of them all.
I've read Crime and Punishment and The Brothers Karamazov.
I loved both. And I'm loving The Idiot.

I've never read H. P. Lovecraft, much as I love horror.
Unfortunately, I had to drop The Call of Chthulu and Other Weird Stories.
I just found it too, well, weird.

Rachel Joyce's Perfect is alnost a perfect novel, if ever there was one.
It's a heartbreaking read about familial bonds.
I'm a fan!

Robert Rodi writes hilarious gay-themed novels.
Closet Case is no exception.
I found it a bit dated though, but it's still enjoyable.

How about you, dear reader? What have you been reading?

Faulkner virgin

Yes, I hate to admit it—the Faulkner virgin is in the house! Ah, William Faulkner. In this part of the world, he's not as talked about as, say, Ernest Hemingway or Virginia Woolf or even D. H. Lawrence. I can't even recall a single humanities class in college that required students to read Faulkner.

But lately, we're having a bit of a Faulkner renaissance, yes? Does it have to do with the movie adaptation of As I Lay Dying starring James Franco? Could be. Heck, I'll read anything that has James Franco on the cover.  Oh, Franco. If only all slackers had brains such as yours.

Anyway, I chose to read Light in August because, well, it is August. But here in Manila we're not getting enough light lately, as cloudy skies and the monsoon rains are the norm. I'm still a few pages in the novel, and I can't even decide if I like Faulkner's writing style. It certainly is different.

Hopefully, by the end of this month, I'll be Faulker devirginized. And maybe, somewhere in the near future, I may find him in my bed again.

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.

In love with fabulist books

After reading this list of wonderful fabulist books from Flavorwire, I realized that I'm a huge fan of this genre. Yes, I know that what makes a book a fabulist one isn't clear cut. Are all fantasy books fabulist novels? How about sci-fi? And what about those with magical realism?

I guess these categories all come down to the reader, yes? As for me, I consider novels to be fabulist if they have a touch of magic, with a bit of a whimsical element in the writing. Eric Morgenstern's The Night Circus is a good example; the book is also our selection for the month, and we're discussing it this weekend.

I read The Night Circus almost 3 years ago, and I even posted an entry about it. I remember being captivated by the unconventional love story. It was a magical experience, reading Morgenstern's debut novel. And when I reread it this week, the book has not lost its magic. The fantastical story lines still enthrall, the mysterious characters still captivate.

I'm still craving for more fabulist reads as of the moment. If you have other recommendations that are not on Flavorwire's list, do let me know. I'll be sure to check them out. Right now, I have Helene Wecker's beautiful fabulist debut, The Golem and the Jinni, in my hands. It has Jewish and Persian mythologies, magic, the immigrant experience, and, quite possibly, a love story in its pages. (I'm still just a quarter of the way in!)

Fabulist . . . . Even that very word connotes something special. It reminds me of "fabulous," even though I know that it's root comes from "fable." We need more fables in our lives, yes? We need more people to weave stories that transcend realities of this harsh world we live in. It's precisely one of the reasons why I think I read books. If I want reality, I could just turn on the TV to watch the news.

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.

Going local this month

Well, it looks like I would have to stay away from dead guys for the meantime. I have to make room for some local flavor in my reading plans in the next couple of weeks. Okay, I said to myself that I'll be reading only dead guys this year, but the books pictured above are book club picks. And I don't wanna stay mute during the book discussions because I wasn't able to read them.

Po-On is the first of the Rosales saga novels by F. Sionil Jose, one of the country's National Artist for Literature. The book club is reading all 5 Rosales saga novels in a read-along event. I'm not pretty sure if I like Po-On, as I've read just a few chapters so far. So I still haven't committed myself to the rest of the Rosales saga novels.

I was a kid during the 1986 People Power Revolution, an event wherein the Filipino people peacefully toppled the decades-long Marcos dictatorship. So I am naturally curious about EDSA Uno by Angela Stuart-Santiago. It's supposed to be a faithful account of the events leading up to the historic event and its aftermath. EDSA Uno is the book club's February book.

And our March book is a bit of an unconventional one. We're reading a screenplay of an acclaimed local film! Ricky Lee's Sa Puso ng Himala is a book that tells all about the making of the movie "Himala." It contains the full screenplay, interviews with the cast, behind-the-scenes stories, and other pieces by the screenwriter. A lot of people say that "Himala" was groundbreaking when it was first shown in 1982, and its influence can still be felt today.

I'll probably be back in the arms of dead guys by March. But for February, the month of love, I'll show my love for local books first. Happy reading! And Happy Valentine's Day in advance, dear readers! 

My year of reading dead guys

I've been constantly asked about it by my friends, family, and people from the book club. Okay, here it is. For this year, I plan to read only dead guys, alphabetically from A to Z. And, based on the photo on the left, I've even made a shortlist of the first 8 authors whose books I'll be reading.

So I've put it out in the open, and I think that's the first step. If you put something into writing (even though it's in digital ink), it's there, it's a commitment and a promise to myself. If I fail, I've no one to blame but my lazy ass self.

But why am I doing this? Well, I guess it's finally time for me to read some of the literary classics that I've been avoiding. I just read my first Austen, and, even though I didn't like it that much, I can now say that I've read her. In fact, I think my reading Emma might have increased my detestation for this beloved author.

Also, in a way, reading the classics would minimize my compulsive book-buying habits. I've checked my shelves, and I think I have most of the letters covered. So, bring it on, 2014! I'm so ready for you.

The year that was in reading

Today being the last day of 2013, it's but fitting to write about what the year was in terms of being a bibliophile. I was able to read 62 books in 2013. Not bad, yes? Not bad at all. I wish that number could've been higher though.

So here are the books that I read this year, which I've listed based on the order I read them.

(1) The Sheltering Sky by Paul Bowles

(2) Crispin: The Cross of Lead by Avi

(3) Hope Was Here by Joan Bauer

(4) Steps by Jerzy Kosinski

(5) The Magic Circle by Gilda Cordero-Fernando

(6) Bad Kings by Gilda Cordero-Fernando

(7) Old Man's War by John Scalzi

(8) Redshirts by John Scalzi

(9) Shadow and Bone by Leigh Bardugo

(10) 1Q84 by Haruki Murakami

(11) BØDY by Asa Nonami

(12) The Notable Brain of Maximilian Ponder by J. W. Ironmonger

(13) The Replacement by Brenna Yovanoff

(14) Manga Shakespeare: A Midsummer Night's Dream by William Shakespeare and Kate Brown

(15) Boy Meets Boy by David Levithan

(16) Naomi and Ely's No Kiss List by Rachel Cohn and David Levithan

(17) Wonder by R. J. Palacio

(18) Twenty Thousand Leagues under the Sea by Jules Verne

(19) Fahrenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury

(20) Inferno by Dan Brown

(21) The One and Only Ivan by Katherine Applegate

(22) The Goose Girl by Shannon Hale

(23) Salingkit by Cyan Abad-Jugo

(24) Talking to Girls about Duran Duran by Rob Sheffield

(25) The Stranger by Albert Camus

(26) Are We There Yet? by David Levithan

(27) Wide Awake by David Levithan

(28) Hysteria by Megan Miranda

(29) The Rules of Survival by Nancy Werlin

(30) I Hunt Killers by Barry Lyga

(31) The Devotion of Suspect X by Keigo Higashino

(32) Crime and Punishment by Fyodor Dostoevsky

(33) Gone Girl by Gillian Flynn

(34) The Middlesteins by Jami Attenberg

(35) Siege and Storm by Leigh Bardugo

(36) Immortal Beloved by Cate Tiernan

(37) Game by Barry Lyga

(38) Among Others by Jo Walton

(39) Two Boys Kissing by David Levithan

(40) The Unbearable Lightness of Being by Milan Kundera

(41) Locke & Key 1: Welcome to Lovecraft by Joe Hill and Gabriel Rodriguez

(42) Locke & Key 2: Head Games by Joe Hill and Gabriel Rodriguez

(43) Please Ignore Vera Dietz by A. S. King

(44) The Sirens of Titan by Kurt Vonnegut

(45) Cat's Cradle by Kurt Vonnegut

(46) Slaughterhouse-Five by Kurt Vonnegut

(47) When You Are Engulfed in Flames by David Sedaris

(48) Night Shift by Stephen King

(49) The Sandman Vol. 2: The Doll's House by Neil Gaiman

(50) The Sandman Vol. 4: Season of Mists by Neil Gaiman

(51) Chew Vol. 1: Taster's Choice by John Layman and Rob Guillory

(52) The Book Thief by Markus Zusak

(53) Saga Vol. 1 by Brian K. Vaughan and Fiona Staples

(54) Saga Vol. 2 by Brian K. Vaughan and Fiona Staples

(55) Arkham Asylum: A Serious House on Serious Earth by Grant Morrison and Dave McKean

(56) Chew Vol. 2: International Flavor by John Layman and Rob Guillory

(57) The Dinner by Herman Koch

(58) The Fifth Child by Doris Lessing

(59) Hex Hall by Rachel Hawkins

(60) HHhH by Laurent Binet (61) Chew: The Omnivore Edition Vol. 2 by John Layman and Rob Guillory (62) Kung Paano Ako Naging Leading Lady by Carlo Vergara and Elmer Cantada More than anything, I'm surprised with the number of graphic novels I've read  this year—11 out of 62! That's 18% of the books I finished. I have now truly  appreciated the genre. (Now if only there were not so damn expensive!) And  everyone should read Brian K. Vaughan and Fiona Staples's Saga. I also wished that I've read more nonfiction books and classics. Most of the  books I finished this year were novels. Anyway, I'm glad that the novels were a  good mix—literary fiction, science fiction, young adult, middle grade, classics,  LGBT, etc. And I discovered a lot of great authors and debut fiction this year. J. W.  Ironmonger's The Notable Brain of Maximilian Ponder is great cerebral (pun  intended) fun! Laurent Binet's debut, HHhH, is probably the best historical  novel published recently. In 2013, I began my love affair with David Levithan and John Scalzi.  Levithan writes the most inspiring LGBT books for young adults, which  everyone can read. Scalzi, a SF writer, won the Hugo this year for Redshirts,  which I think is truly deserved. There's always next year to read more books, yes? And the year after that.  Bring on 2014!