Interpreter of Maladies || Jhumpa Lahiri

If my memory serves me right, I believe I discovered this novel from a literary blogsite that I found really interesting and creative. The author reviewed the book really well and it got me intrigued, so were the multiple reviews that I read as well in goodreads.com and amazon.com. I saw the copy at fullybooked and got even more excited when I realized it won a Pulitzer Prize. When I got home, I planned on making an organize list of books that I need to read in the next few months, so after reading the synopsis of the novel I really found it compelling. Needless to say, I expected very much from the novel. Sadly, it became a very huge disappointment for me, so disappointing that I actually want to either sell the book or just give it away as a gift to a friend. I keep regretting how I could have actually bought a different book in replace for this one. Don’t get me wrong, Jhumpa Lahiri’s Interpreter of Dreams is still worth a read, only it doesn’t really deserve the high praise that it has been receiving.

The book is divided into 9 short stories, and most of them tell the tale of a Indian immigrant’s life and reflection living in the United States. For me, such plot coming from one who actually bears that kind of lifestyle isn’t very challenging. Lahiri may have just compiled small reflections of her own experiences without using much creativity. Also, most of the plot wasn’t really going anywhere and just when you hope that something self-fulfilling is about to strike you within, the story suddenly ends in a very forceful manner.

COMMENTS

Plot: Uninteresting plot really. Most great writers in fact don’t need to provide a good plot as long as the different writing elements are there, but Lahiri’s style is just far off from the greats. I am actually convinced that she has the writing style of an amateur. Like I said above, most of the stories compiled in the book belongs to an immigrant and their own perspective in an alien culture, or a recurring experience in their own land which is now very odd and different from their own disposition. It doesn’t really tell much, when a certain sequence tries to be intimate, it becomes too corny that you can tell the storyline is forced to be that way or is thought too hard that it doesn’t become too credible.

Characters: Forgettable and, in its deepest sense, annoying. I think Lahiri’s style is to blame here. Even when she tries to take the voice of a child or a sad old man, or even a middle aged sentimentalist, the way she tones their voices are either unconvincing or too forced. It’s hard for me to believe such characters exist or think the way she made them think, and even if they do, Lahiri didn’t form and exposed them in a way to allow the reader to like them.

Imagery: Lahiri writes too “telling” it becomes boring in that sense. To make an example, instead of describing the smell of a homemade pie by revealing the expressive faces of the children circling the treat, she just gives the ingredients of the pie. Very hard not to resist turning and skipping the pages whenever she tries to be descriptive.

Reflections: There were reflections that were fine and subtle for a normal reader but I think I have high standards for this one. As a positive note though, I think Lahiri is moderate and average when it comes to letting her characters reflect. But it does need a lot of work in order to hold her the stories she writes together.

Writings Style: Unimpressive and very amateur like. Although some readers may actually favour her style, it’s definitely not my taste. She uses too many adjectives and she bundles up too many descriptive words to describe a certain object, view, or event which isn’t even that all interesting or relevant to the plot. I don’t see the point. It would have been fine if there was an objective for the waste of words she used but I never really found one even if I tried.



Darkly Dreaming Dexter || Jeff Lindsay

Being a Dexter series fan, I was extremely excited when I saw the batch of Jeff Lindsay novels on the shelves of our local bookstore. I immediately planned to buy it and even read the first few pages just to get myself pumped up and interested to it. Although I’ve read reviews that it wasn’t really a necessary obligation to read the book just because you love the series, I knew being a big fan requires me to at least give it a try. And I did. But just like most people who admire the series maybe as much as I did and read the book, I was also left disappointed. The special aspect of the book that I was hoping for was how the voice of the novel must be told from the mind of Dexter, our beloved hero/serial killer. But unlike the show, the way Dexter’s thought process is projected in the novel was a bit incoherent and messy. It didn’t seem convincing in a sense that the reader expects much more darkness, vile, and queer thoughts rather than the humorous sickly and pretentious ideas like a puzzle with forced pieces.

Such 1^st person perspective technique of a very unique character is always a risky job for a writer and this one falls just as hard as other attempts. I still see the book as something unique though, even though it won’t ever match how the writers of the TV series has created and evolved this new Dexter. Much of the plot of the novel has also been recuperated into the series, so were the characters regarding season 1, and it’s quite respected to both lovers of either the show, the book and/or both.

COMMENTS

Plot: It was a bit slow and unconvincing. Not because there was a sense of magical realism or over-the-board scenes that would make you actually feel you are reading fiction, but that the way the mystery of the novel tries to create a compacted story just seemed incoherent. Much of the blame here, of course, is pointed towards how Dexter’s thought process and ideas regarding the external world and what’s happening around it are projected.

Characters: Obviously, Dexter is still one of the characters that I deeply enjoyed. Although being a great big fan of the series would definitely make me very biased reader (as I couldn’t help but compare the Dexter in the novel with the Dexter played by Michael C. Hall) he was still a character that is easy to relate and like, despite his actions being seen by the objective eye as an antagonist.

 Deborah was annoying for me, and so were the other minor characters. Brian, Dexter’s brother, didn’t seem believable as I was actually close to summarize that the conscious antagonist of the story is actually Dexter’s subconscious actions coming into greater and more mysterious light.

Imagery: I didn’t felt it. The way the story went was just plain. Maybe the theme that Lindsay was trying to build was the overall dark feeling of it all. But I have my own taste, and no imagery in the book really impressed me.

Reflections: Dexter’s reflections were always there, and we can’t escape it. Maybe he had his moments were a normal reader would solemnly agree and sympathize with him, but there were also numerous times where his reflections could have been better. The opportunity was always there. We, as an audience, needed a serial killer with a conscience. And to have that, we needed our hero to reflect on his killings. How his life and the people he loves or admires revolve around his dark secrets. We needed him to reflect about life and death, we needed him to philosophize even in his own subjective way, but they just weren’t there.

Writings Style: I’m not fond of Lindsay’s writing style. They were out of taste and a bit too forced and easy, like one that may simply come from an average amateur writer. The witty remarks as well have been done before by even lesser writers.

Quotables:

               

Whatever made me the way I am left me hollow, empty inside, unable to feel. It doesn’t seem like a big deal. I’m quite sure most people fake an awful lot of everyday human contact. I just fake all of it. I fake it very well, and the feelings are never there.

-          Darkly Dreaming Dexter, 15. Jeff Lindsay.

--

 

I did not seem to be thinking any slower or more strangely, and so far I’d had no conversations with invisible buddies that I was aware of.

                Except in my sleep, of course—and did that really count? Weren’t we all crazy in our sleep? What was sleep, after all, but the process by which we dumped our insanity into a dark subconscious pit and came out on the other side ready to eat cereal instead of the neighbor’s children?

-          Darkly Dreaming Dexter, 240. Jeff Lindsay.

Reference: Lindsay, Jeff. 2004. Darkly Dreaming Dexter. USA: Vintage Books.

The Great Gatsby || F. Scott Fitzgerald

I’ve heard much of this famous work of art from majority of literary circles and a few deep inside the plot of other novels. The reviews it received were all positive. Before reading, I also discovered that the book is on its progress to be adapted as a film. To be honest, the mystery of why this book was so popular actually compelled me to expect a lot from the film, which I guess was a regretting stance to be conscious of. The novel disappointed me in a bit regarding overview sense of the story. It told a semi-setting of one’s mid-age life but the content and plot that is found at the heart of the book lacked it’s strength and gripping hold to one’s emotive mind. I liked the effort of somewhat revealing the culture of its time setting but it’s not something I haven’t encountered from some other writers. It’s still a very good read though, just fell short of expectation.

COMMENTS

Plot: Nothing too exciting but there was an interesting turnaround regarding human behaviour and our incompetent control over the whole scheme of things. The dialogues were quick and somewhat realistic if you take the anti-hyperrealism of the term. However, it’s not so much my cup of tea since the content can be very well governed by other novelists such as Dostoevsky, Tolstoy, and even Ayn Rand.

Characters: Nick Carraway felt like a true person and I did liked some of his passive conscious thoughts, I think it’s more or a narrative taken upon one’s reflection after a course of day. They’re not at all full of content and reflective thoughts but just specific memorabilias one has gathered out of instinctual attentiveness.

Imagery: Not much to highlight here. It was more romantic than descriptive. It gets really figurative whenever the leading character experiences inspired passion for a beloved and then the imagery is set to tone.

                The exhilarating ripple of her voice was a wild tonic in the rain. I had to follow the sound of it for a moment, up and down, with my ear alone, before any words came through. A damp streak of hair lay like a dash of blue paint across her cheek, and her hand was wet with glistening drops as I took it to help her from the car.

-          The Great Gatsby, 64. F. Scott Fitzgerald.

Reflections: Nick Carraway’s reflections were really voiced convincingly and astoundingly. He spoke like a neighbour being interrogated or interviewed by a person committed to the public. He told the story in the sense of compassion, even if it’s a bid odd yet realistic to imagine.

I liked Gatsby’s silent and vile reflections as well whenever he shares his feelings with Nick, delivers it to a larger crowd, and how the most important relationship with Daisy wasn’t even at all magnified. It’s an interesting way of narration.

Writings Style: Even though we cannot place Fitzgerald in the same category as Tolstoy and Dostoevsky, this work still speaks a lot and clearly stands out its own place and time. The culture was presented but not in the way that it advertises itself to you. That takes a unique and stoic kind of personal formula in writing. It also seemed like it has its own feeling of emotion towards the world as if we are swayed with the writing style of that of a romantic. That everything relating to passion and emotion is highlighted with a great collection of words. Still not very impressive but belongs to the discussions of literary circles.

Quotables:



As I watched him he adjusted himself a little, visibly. His hand took hold of hers, and as she said something low in his ear he turned toward her with a rush of emotion. I think that voice held him most with its fluctuating, feverish warmth, because it couldn’t be overdreamed—that voice was a deathless song.

-          The Great Gatsby, 72. F. Scott Fitzgerald.

--

... One autumn night, five years before, they had been walking down the street when the leaves were falling, and they came to a place where there were no trees and the sidewalk was white with moonlight. They stopped here and turned toward each other. Now it was a cool night with that mysterious excitement in it which comes at the two changes of the year. The quiet lights in the houses were humming out into the darkness and there was a stir and bustle among the stars. Out of the corner of his eye Gatsby saw that the blocks of the sidewalks really formed a ladder and mounted to a secret place above the trees—he could climb on it, if he climbed alone, and once there he could suck on the pap of life, gulp down the incomparable milk of wonder.

                His heart beat faster and faster as Daisy’s white face came up to his own. He knew that when he kissed this girl, and forever wed his unutterable visions to her perishable breath, his mind would never romp again like the mind of God. So he waited, listening for a moment longer to the tuning-fork that had been struck upon a star. Then he kissed her. At his lips’ touch she blossomed for him like a flower and the incarnation was complete.

-          The Great Gatsby, 84. F. Scott Fitzgerald.

--

“I can’t describe to you how surprised I was to find out I loved her, old sport. I even hoped for a while that she’d throw me over, but she didn’t, because she was in love with me too. She thought I knew a lot because I knew different things from her... Well, there I was, ‘way off my ambitions, getting deeper in love every minute, and all of a sudden I didn’t care. What was the use of doing great things if I could have a better time telling her what I was going to do?”

-          The Great Gatsby, 115. F. Scott Fitzgerald.

Reference:  Fitzgerald, F. Scott. 1925. The Great Gatsby. London: HarperCollinsPublishers.

Atlast Shrugged || Ayn Rand

Has got to be one of the top five best novels I’ve ever read so far. The world that Ayn Rand built in her astounding story has its own heart and mind. It’s a new world that I can see myself being part of, a reflection of what we actually have today only with more awakened souls and a far richer environment that could possibly exist out there yet just too short to be witnessed by the normal people.

To be honest, I’ve heard Ayn Rand’s name being passed around in literary and philosophical circles and the impression that I got was actually a sign of pretentiousness and a lack of originality. Kind of like Robert Pirsig’s Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. I think the first time I’ve read of her was when I went to Punta Fuego with my party friends and “Marco”, if I’m not mistaken, introduced me quickly to her with Anthem.

It took me about a month to finish the novel, and I actually got more into it around 30-40 pages through the book since it was a bit too slow for a first time Ayn Rand reader and I learned that when you read her works, you must simply allow yourself to enter the world she’s created. Don’t try expecting too much events and conflicts; they will come at the right time. Ayn Rand, for me, now belongs to my favourite writers list. The way Dosteovesky’s The Brothers Karamazov had made an impact to me, is the same as this book, maybe even better—but such comparisons can never meet, for I read them both at different stages of my life; and I was a different me back then. And that’s how the great novels demarcate themselves from the good ones. The content belongs in the real world, as if you have or are experiencing what’s happening inside the book with its characters. The philosophical topics discussed in the book are also important matters that we all must be aware of.



COMMENTS


Plot: The plot revolves around the powerful people who own large companies which revolutionize the pure characteristic of capitalism. I like how the plot itself plants seeds of more interesting and thought provoking topics such as the ethics of money, selfish interests, pleasure, sacrifice, and more subtopics that deserve a whole lot of credit. It is highly intelligent and well crafted that it’s hard to find something wrong or odd about it, truly sometimes even fact can be stranger than fiction.

The equalization opportunity bill is good for the economy to avoid monopoly. If Rearden Metal rises, like what happened, other competing large companies would lose their clients, hence go bankrupt. In that case, thousands of labourers would lose their jobs. Where would they go? The government can’t provide funding for the losing corporations because they won’t have clients anyway, even if they reduce the costs of their products and services.

Atlantis Valley seems like an odd parallelism of Plato’s Ideal state. Instead of working by their specialization, they’d rather do labor work that pays the simple life as a reward; normal labor work that brings forth necessity instead of pleasurable progress.

The plot gently is something to actually experience. Since the book is very long, all throughout you are introduced to numerous people and actually “know” them maybe even more than how you know most people.

Characters: I may have liked four main characters in this film and they all deserved it, some much more. Each of them showed a unique philosophy in life and other things with the way they could apply it in their daily lives. That is a very special conditions that Rand’s plot gave in her favour. They were all heroes of the modern age if you think about it.

During the “Climax of the D’Anconias” chapter, the story telling of Dagny and Francisco’s early personality and resembling characteristics were utterly interesting. The personalities they nurture were nearly placed on a microscope to be examined. They are both unique and lovable characters in their own way; both were honest convincing and powerful.

Imagery: The way Ayn Rand writes is just so beautiful. With the technique of drawing you deeper into the consciousness of the characters as if you can feel yourself being them, then making you imagine their perspective not only in the physical resemblances of things but also on how to feel about them. The metaphors that she used were also technically related to the plot; metaphors of machinery, engineering, or business or animalism. She’s a magician of the figure.

The ones that really gave it her all was this:

...then she felt, when it hit her throat, that which she knew only as an upward streak of motion that released and united her body into a single shock of pleasure—then she knew nothing but the motion of his body and the driving greed that went reaching on and on, as if she were not a person any longer, only a sensation of endless reaching for the impossible—then she knew that it was possible, and she gasped and lay still, knowing that nothing more could be desired, ever.
- Atlas Shrugged, 876. Ayn Rand.

Reflections: The way she lets you know the character is slowly by joining your hands together with them and, without realizing, being inside their own mind. In this case, reflections are used as a tool to provide the reader of such feeling/s. They are also possible discussions a reader should contemplate or discuss about with another friend and in that case the fiction becomes a newscast. A philosophy awakening project.

The moral good revolves around the individual doing what he or she pleases legally, and being very successful at it. One would say that Rearden’s interest benefits the people without his intention, though that could be the legal part of it. When the equalization bill is disobeyed, this legality is turned upside down since Rearden’s continuous success over his interest brings forth conflict to others, to the society. So he must still belong within the realms of the law.

Writings Style: Her writing style is by far the best I’ve encountered so far in literature. Although some few consistent elements could have been favoured to be worked by a different author, her own style is as unique as it is. I mentioned it earlier that she connects her metaphors with the plot’s content and it’s very amusing to witness it. Also her way of really attaching you with the characters and meeting their decisions as your own, it’s something to be proud of.

I really admire Ayn Rand’s way of shifting from one scene to another without confusing or irritating the reader. Her narration is also something to be astonished about, so charming, direct, mysterious, polite, smart and sexy.

During the “Non Commercial” chapter, the anniversary party showed Rand’s skills in compiling different discussions with different groups of people in one narration.

Quotables:

“A sin without volition is a slap at morality and an insolent contradiction in terms: that which is outside the possibility of choice is outside the province of morality. If man is evil by birth, he has no will, no power to change it; if he has no will, he can be neither good nor evil; a robot it amoral. To hold, as man’s sin, a fact not open to his choice is a mockery of morality. To hold man’s nature as his sin is a mockery of nature. To punish him for a crime he committed before he was born is a mockery of justice. TO hold him guilty in a matter where no innocence exists is a mockery of reason. To destroy morality, nature, justice and reason by means of a single concept is a feat of evil hardly to be matched. Yet that is the root of your code.
- Atlas Shrugged, 938. Ayn Rand.

----

“The good, say the mystics of spirit, is God, a being whose only definition is that he is beyond man’s power to conceive—a definition that invalidates man’s consciousness and nullifies his concepts of existence. The good, say the mystics of muscle, is Society—a thing which they define as an organism that possesses no physical form, a superbeing embodied in no one in particular and everyone in general except yourself. Man’s mind, say the mystics of spirit, must be subordinated to the will of Society. Man’s standard of value, say the mystics of spirit, is the pleasure of God, whose standards are beyond man’s power of comprehension and must be accepted on faith. Man’s standard of value, say the mystics of muscle, is the pleasure of Society, whose standards are beyond man’s right of judgment and must be obeyed as a primary absolute. The purpose of man’s life, say both, is to become an abject zombie who serves a purpose he does not know, for reasons he is not to question. His reward, say the mystics of spirit, will be given to him beyond the grave. His reward, say the mystics of muscle, will be given on earth—to his great-grandchildren.
- Atlas Shrugged, 940. Ayn Rand.

----

Rand, Ayn. 1957. Atlas Shrugged. USA: Signet.

Frankenstein || Mary Shelley

This is my first time reading this class; at the age of 22! Before even deciding to buy the book, a few biases have already grown within me - I imagined it having little content and reflection. I actually thought it was just a physically haunting tale of description and fright. But I was wrong. The book really took a lot of important issues at hand: It made you think a lot about consciousness (what is needed to be added to the material body to create it), you think about the objectivity of human beings (how the unobvious culture and environment we live in actually "looks" like from an alien being)m you also think about existence (purpose and reason). These topics really linger themselves inside the reader's mind when the book is being ingested. This did not disappoint at all. And I really do admire the way the narration is done, it made me think of Dostoevsky. This must be the theme I am highly interested in.

COMMENTS

Plot: Very interesting and nicely compiled. The early pages consists of the letters and thoughts of a different character also talking about a lone sailor he's found in shore: Frankenstein. And after that we are to know Frankenstein's story, also his creation's. This type of technique allows the reader to explore different accounts credibly and in a sound manner. The story line was very interesting yet it does not focus there. Like I said above, the main content is the discussions the book raises.

Characters: All of them brought an element of Dostoevesky which, being a fan of, I highly admired. You really get to empathize with them, especially Frankenstein's monster's lament. It is far too classical and emotional which brings me near to keeping the character as one of my favorites. They spoke with great charater and narration which always impress me.

Imagery: Very above average. Mary Shelley writes poetry with her narrration. The way she communicates narration are just above par as she has a way of allowing the surroundings to be part of one's self.

Reflections: They are very much present when they are needed. This allows the reader to really take their account to a personal level with allows connection. I did enjoy Frankenstein's reflection before and after having created the monster, and even when he was in search for it. The reflections were really rational and passionate. And how can I not talk about the monster's own secluded point of view. They were just classical. Very sentimental and passionate as well. One of my favorites.

Writing Style: Like I said, Mary Shelley writes in that level same as Dostoevsky's (or vice versa). She does allow a room for the reader to reflect and think about such matters present in the book. Also, the narration is very creative and poetic in a way which never makes the book boring. It is hard to turn down as each chapter ends as if tugging a rope towards the next chapter. Very nicely written; a classic for a reason.

Quotables:

I shall satiate my ardent curiosity with the sight of a part of the world never before visited, and may tread a land never before imprinted by the foot of man. These are my enticements, and they are sufficient to conquer all fear of danger or death and to induce me to commence his laborious voyage with the joy a child feels when embarks in a little boat, with his holiday mates, on a expedition of discovery up his native river.

-          Frankenstein, 14. Mary Shelley.

--

 

                ‘Several changes of day and night passed, and the orb of night had greatly lessened, when I began to distinguish my sensations from each other. I gradually saw plainly the clear stream that supplied me with drink and the trees that shaded me with their foliage. I was delighted when I first discovered that a pleasant sound, which often saluted my ears, proceeded from the throats of the little winged animals who had often intercepted the light from my eyes. I began also to observe, with greater accuracy, the forms that surrounded me, and to perceive the boundaries of the radiant roof of light which canopied me. Sometimes I tried to imitate the pleasant songs of the birds but was unable. Sometimes I wished to express my sensations in my own mode, but the uncouth and inarticulate sounds which broke from me frightened me into silence again.

-          Frankenstein, 99. Mary Shelley.

--

As I sat, a train of reflection occurred to me which led me to consider the effects of what I was doing. Three years before, I was engaged in the same manner and had created a fiend whose unparalleled barbarity had desolated my heart and filled it forever with the bitterest remorse. I was now about to form another being of whose dispositions I was alike ignorant; she might become ten thousand times more malignant than her mate and delight, for its own sake, in murder and wretchedness. He had sworn to quit the neighbourhood of man and hide himself in deserts, but she had not; and she, who in all probability was to become a thinking and reasoning animal, might refuse to comply with a compact made before her creation. They might even hate each other; the creature who already lived loathed his own deformity, and might he not conceive a greater abhorrence for it when it came before his eyes in the female form? She also might turn with disgust from him to the superior beauty of man; she might quit him, and he be again alone, exasperated by the fresh provocation of being deserted by one of his own species.

-          Frankenstein, 160. Mary Shelley.

--

Reference: Shelley, Mary. 1818. Frankenstein. England: Penguin Books.

Norwegian Wood || Haruki Murakami

This is the book that has introduced me to the writings of Murakami. Again, recommended by the good literary people of the greatpoets community. I remember reading this on-the-go. (walking, in the jeepney ride, the bus, train, walking, train again, more walking in TRINOMA, sitting while also eating, bench, waiting area. Wow, this book literally and figuratively took me places.

To be totally honest, I found the book to have a slow beginning. You won't immediately have positive views towards the characters, and it takes a while to be attached to their persona from a different and intimate perspective. And that's a job in the reader's part. This is one of those books you can't judge after reading a few chapters. Then eventually I learned Murakami's personality in his dialogues, they were really interesting and humorous. What follows was the creativity he had in attempting to describe emotion. Not the best in my view, but well enough to entertain; he has his moments. What I most admire in this book though was Murakami's ability for you to admire his chacters, I almost fell in love with Midori, and the others have the personalities that makes me want to drop my crumbling life and chase after those people. Very moving book, I would say it has some elements of Salinger's Catcher in the Rye and a moderate style of writing same as Carlos Ruiz Zafon.

COMMENTS

Plot: The plot handles a different varieties of emotions: there's friendship, tennage culture/nightlife, discussions on death, love, intimacy. This covers the book pretty much of interesting events and converstations. I believe it could have been done better in a more secluded environment for Toru. It is understood that he's somewhat eccentric in his own way and doesn't invite himself with Nagasawa's company too often. What I find lacking is that intense reflection Toru does whenever he is not thinking about Naoko, Kizuki, Midori, or writing letters to the former, or reading books. There must be a reflection somewhere addressed to his own self. But other than that " need" I really enjoy the plot.

Characters: Like I said I while ago was very lovely. I can sometimes see myself in Toru and understand his perspective a lot which makes him convincing. Naoko has her moments, but for a main character, she doesn't bear a likeable persona. But I guess that's a given in her kind of character. Midori, for me, took the stage here. She's adorable in a twisted way and I did almost fell in love with her. I knew a few who shares her charactersitic and it brings reality, love, and excitement in the book. The other role players like Nagasama, Hatsumi, Storm Trooper, did their part well and I really enjoyed it when they involve themselves in a segment.

Imagery: Murakami had his moments. It's a hit or miss situation for him actually regarding the topics in the book. The main characters are young adults and the topic then becomes limited. He had to deal with unoriginal and tiring topics like love, self, life, etc... which is hard to mold into something fresh. He did manage to create outstanding realizations and comparisons, but for me, it is not the main forte of the book.

Reflections: They were there when needed but I really expect more quality from Toru's perspective, a person with his characteristics, I expect to have a lot of interesting reflections and idea lurking in their head getting ready to slap a stranger into reality. If it isn't part of Toru's personality to share it to Midori, or Nagasawa, there must be a way for him to do so besides Naoko via-letter and I do find that convincing and dedicated. As if it is only Naoko who owns his thoughts, but I do think it could make it better if he had his own, he definitely has secrets but for a person like Toru to be conscious of that is an open-ended discussion of what-ifs.

Writing Stlye: Al thouh an earlier work than Zafon's Shadow of the Wind, I did find some resemblances in writing style which is highly complementary, oddly by me, to Murakami. The dialogues were really intersting and so was his timing of bringing the topics of conversation into good light. The way he describes a scene and their environment was there. Toru's comments were also realistic, but to me, they lacked consciouss aesthetic awareness. He is understood to be sentimental and he never shows this to anyone besides Naoko who he rarely sees. So where does he keep this thoughts of new reflections, and how does he handle supressing them? Wonderful writing, however, definitely gets you to desire more of his work.

Quotables:

                “Do you always travel alone like that?”

                “Uh-huh.”

                “You enjoy solitude?” she asked leaning her cheek on her hand. “Traveling alone, eating alone, sitting off by yourself in lecture halls...”

                “Nobody like being alone that much. I don’t go out of my way to make friends, that’s all. It just leads to disappointment.”

-          Norwegian Wood, 70 Haruki Murakami.

--

All she had on was the butterfly barrette. Naked now, and still kneeling by the bed, she looked at me. Bathed in the soft light of the moon, Naoko’s body had the heartbreaking luster of newborn flesh. When she moved—and she did so almost imperceptibly—the play of light and shadow on her body shifted subtly. The swelling roundness  of her breasts, her tiny nipples, the indentation of her navel, her hip bones and pubic hair, all cast grainy shadows, the shapes of which kept changing like ripples spreading over the calm surface of a lake.

-          Norwegian Wood, 175. Haruki Murakami.

--

I have always loved Naoko, and I still love her. But there is a decisive finality to what exists Midori and me. It has an irresistible power that is bound to sweep me into the future. What I feel for Naoko is a tremendously quiet and gentle and transparent love, but what I feel for Midori is a wholly different emption. It stands and walks on its own, living and breathing and throbbing and shaking me to the roots of my being.

-          Norwegian Wood, 354. Haruki Murakami.

                I had learned one thing from Kizuki’s death. True as this might be, it was only one of the truths we had to learn. What I learned from Naoko’s death was this: no truth can cure the sorrow we feel from losing a loved one. No truth, no sincerity, no strength, no kindness can cure that sorrow. All we can do is see it through, to the end and learn something from it, but what we learn will be no help in facing the next sorrow that comes to us without warning.

-          Norwegian Wood, 360. Haruki Murakami.

--

Reference: Murakami, Haruki. 1987. Norwegian Wood. USA: Vintage books--

One Hundred Years of Solitude || Gabriel Garcia Marquez

My first look into a Marquez novel; recommended by the good literary people in the greatpoets community. The book, plotwise disappointed me on some level. But the brilliant writing of Marquez really attracts me to more of his works. He describes the world as if it has its own emotion.  In this book, he tells the story of a fictional town which, thaks to his creative imagination and the beautiful collection of his words, we can easily learn to love as if it was real..

Comments:

The book showcases how a town is born, and how it remains to live. It also focuses on the Buendia family which is basically the heart and pulse of the town. Progress, culture, technology, starts from them and it flourishes itself with the town's collective identity. In retrospect, we learn about human emotions in the book: peace, power, liberty, personal reflection, passion, and love from different characters.

The characters themselves, may not be all lovalbe, but the narration has a way of voicing out their feelings/emotions. We learn the complexity of life; how each person may carry a long and special story within them that other ca never understand or learn. People in their own honest way are special.

Good:

- The descriptions and the imagery attached with it were very creative and unique.

- Like a bunch of interesting stories from different perspectives blended in one big story.

- The story makes you think of your own family history. That is how wide and diverse the though inside the book is.

Bad:

- It is hard to empathize and to get attached with the characters because they don't seam to carry a unique personality or voice. They let their passions dictate who they are, but it isn't very passionate that you can relate with them. On the few times you do, it is because of Marquez poetic talent.

Quotables:



 but the streets were as slippery and as smooth as melted soap, and one had to guess distances in the darkness.

-          One Hundred Years of Solitude, 117. Gabriel Garcia Marquez.

He kept on examining her, discovering the miracle of her intimacy inch by inch, and he felt his skin tingle as he contemplated the way her skin tingled when it touched the water.

-          One Hundred Years of Solitude, 142. Gabriel Garcia Marquez.

She realized that Colonel Aureliano Buendia had not lost his love for the family because he had been hardened by the war, as she had thought before, but that he had never loved anyone, not even his wife Remedios or the countless one-night women who had passed through his life, and much less his sons. She sensed that he had fought so many wars not out of idealism, as everyone had though, nor had he renounced a certain victory because of fatigue, as everyone had thought, but that he had won and lost for the same reason, pure and sinful pride. She reached the conclusion that the son for whom she would have given her life was simply a man incapable of love.

-          One Hundred Years of Solitude, 248. Gabriel Garcia Marquez.

The air was so damp that the fish could have come in through the doors and swum out the windows, floating through the atmosphere in the rooms.

-          One Hundred Years of Solitude, 316. Gabriel Garcia Marquez.

“What hurts me most,” she would say, laughing, “is all the time that we wasted.”

-          One Hundred Years of Solitude, 405. Gabriel Garcia Marquez.

--

Reference: Marquez, Gabriel Garcia. 1967.  One Hundred Years of Solitude. New York: HarperCollins Publishers.

Siam || Lily Tuck

A book I came across a book sale (99 pesos for two books; that's 2 american dollars). So in other words, I really did not expect much from it.

Plot: The plot was really boring. Its as if we spent the whole book experiencing a very dull time in Claire's life, which was also a boring part of her life. Lily tried to bring culture into the poem by introducing translations and food. But using such tools, in my opinion, are very unoriginal and unew. Also, they were small and wasteful attempts. Too force feeding in my opinion. If culture was to be presented, characters must be used...

Character: And the characters were really dull. It was quite obvious and transparent that their dialogue and personality was coming from only one source: the writer. They weren't wise, or reflective. Even if Claire admitted she "reads a lot". The slightest attempt to humor and reflection was a bore too.

Imagery: None out of the ordinary. I guess Lily Tuck, or the translator didn't try to make the book at least interesting.

Reflection: Like I said was lacking. The rare times that there were, were just full of rantings and fast paced thoughts, as if a daydreaming segment from any time at any part of our life!

Writing Style: I'm not a fan of it. Its really boring and tasteless. There's no imagery attach to them to make the reader feel a bunch of new things and experiences, without the degree of entertainment in the plot.

Quotables:

“Do you think changing taxis had something to do with Mr. Thompson’s disappearance?”

                “I don’t know what to think anymore. All of a sudden it seems as if each event, no matter how mundane or trivial, has taken on significance.” Connie Mangskau spoke slowly, she chose her words carefully. “If, for example, on our way up to the Highlands, we had run over a dog—one of those mangy, emaciated dogs one sees along the road—wouldn’t that have also been perceived as a sign? Or if after you leave my store,” Connie Mangsaku was smiling at Claire now, “you go out and murder someone, and the police come around to question me, I would try hard to remember something in your behavior that would provide them with a clue. ‘Oh, yes, indeed,’ I might say to the police, ‘I saw her pick up a very rare and expensive blue and white Ming bowl and I was afraid she was going to drop it, she seemed so distracted.”

                “It’s a beautiful bowl,” Claire said, putting the bowl down.

-          Siam, 92. Lily Tuck

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Reference: Tuck, Lily. 2000. Siam. England, Middlesex, Harmondsworth: Penguin Books.

The Diary of Petr Ginz 1941-1942 || ed by Chava Pressburger

The book is another terrible account of the Holocaust from the experiences of a young boy, Petr Ginz. The accounts in his diary are short, quick, and subtle. We won't find much reflection in them, nor can sense his deep emotions from its tone. However, we could easily be struck by the small and relative events he's encountered during the time before his transportation.

We can find more of his reflection and sentiments from his poetry and novels though. If the translation gives enough proper justice, I find his poems (only two were offered here) to be more as a free writing draft, they speak too obvious without careful thought on imagery and sound. They could be interpreted in a way that Petr lets go of his sentiments whenever he writes poetry. His novels weren't available here except from an excerpt of one), but the very lone piece really impressed me. He is a young boy who loved reading and this reflected on to his talent in writing and reflecting. Petr Ginz definitely had the potential to be an influential artist, writer, in our time today. It is very sad that the world was never given a chance to see an adult Petr Ginz.

This could be seen as a small example of the potential great thinkers that the events in the Holocaust has burned away. Who knows, maybe there are thousands of Petr Ginz's out there that, if only survived, made instant change in our time today.

Here are a few passages from the book:

30. VI. 1942 (Tuesday)

I did more running around the Hilfsdienst and earned 5 crowns.
In the afternoon I was in school. I’ll have all A’ on my report card. Miss Lauscherova told me this so that I can tell Grandma before she leaves. A German man threw me off the tram in a very rough manner. He said Heraus! Out! In the proper order, first in German, then in Czech, and I had to get off; he said I was carrying an unwrapped duvet.
So I had to run in terrible rain all the way to the Hilfsdienst.

- The Diary of Petr Ginz 1941-1942, 117. ed Chava Pressburger.

--

from his sister, Chava:

In Israel, one day a year is dedicated to the memory of the Holocaust. On this day, called Yom Hashoah, Holocaust Day, the media deals with this subject, documentary films are shown containing horrifying witness accounts of Holocaust survivors from different countries. A great number of these accounts were recorded many years ago, immediately after the war, when the experiences were still fresh (even though I don’t believe that one can ever forget the horrors one lived through in concentration camps). Some testimonies were also used during the trial against Nazi war criminals in Nuremberg.

                Israeli television broadcast a witness testimony that was extremely upsetting to me because it also had to do with the death of my brother, Petr. I heard details about how mass murder was carried out in gas chambers. I ask the readers to forgive me for returning to that terrible description. The witness in question worked in the gas chambers. His task was to wait for the people shoved into the gas chamber to suffocate; then he had to open the chamber and transport the heaps of corpses to the ovens, where they were to be burned. This man could barely speak for tears. He testified that the position of the corpses suggested what went on inside the hermetically sealed chamber, when it began to be filled with toxic gas. The stronger ones, led by an overpowering instinct for self-preservation, tried to get to the top, where there was still some air left, so that the weaker ones were trampled to death.

                The picture of this horrific scene often haunts my thoughts, especially at night, even though I try to resist it. I see Petr in this terrifying situation and I find it hard to breathe myself. I ask myself: why him, and not me?

-          The Diary of Petr Ginz 1941-1942, 131. Ed Chava Pressburger.

--

Petr Ginz

EXCERPT FROM THE UNFINISHED NOVEL

THE SECRET OF SATAN’S GROTTO

... An adult usually pretends that he thinks only about sensible and worthy things, but this isn’t true. In unguarded moments when the ironclad vest surrounding his head opens up and his real face appears, the mask of social stiffness falls off. And I think he feels better when this happens. I know it from my own experience: having once lost my way in the woods and found a lake with dark, calm water, I threw a pebble into it and was very happy to see the circles spreading fast.

                It occurred to me then that my feelings at that moment were like a newspaper before it hits the rolling press. All the pressure from every side disappeared. I wondered: why does the pure paper of children’s soul have to pass from a young age through the rolling press of life and society, which imprints it with all sorts of qualities and crushes it under the pressure of worries about livelihood and the attacks of enemies.. Just as the paper thinks that the picture of its life has been printed, it reenters the printing machine, which prints more qualities and opinions on top of the others, often not complementing but rather contradicting them. Every colour tries to take up as much space as possible on the paper, then a new one comes and can replace the old one.  And it’s sad that the paper can’t change it any longer, it is moved back and forth and covered with print without any regard for its own will, and when the rotating press finally spits out the finished copy and sends it off into the world, it enters a battle against other printed copies, which were maybe accidentally produced differently.

                The world is a rumpus, if you look at it objectively...

-          The Diary of Petr Ginz 1941-1942, 142. Ed Chava Pressburger.