Rereading “Sputnik Sweetheart”

I remember when I was younger I had a natural disdain of rewatching shows, rereading books; my reasoning was, since you knew the ending and all that will happen, what was the point? Wouldn’t it be more useful to learn something new, discover a new plot, be exposed to as many unique possibilities as available? Rereading a book a long time after you first read it gives you a different experience, not only because you have forgotten what happened in the book, but also because the “you” that read the book years ago is not the same “you” that’s reading the book now.

At least, for me, that was the experience I had this weekend.

Recommended by a stranger at a Strand bookstore years ago, I was introduced to Haruki Murakami’s “The winded up bird chronicle.” That weekend, I locked myself up in my room and entered another realm. Although there was a lot I didn’t understand, the mystery of the lost wife pulled me through, the character’s loneliness touched my heart, and I didn’t want the book to end, of course it had to end at some point. Naturally I became an avid fan and bought all his translated works; I breezed through them as fast as my mind could comprehend and as fast as my eyes could read, I felt like it reached out to me with a sense of empathy I had not felt anywhere else; I loved the honesty of his characters, the average Joe characters, the bibliophiles, the image of just sitting at a book store and drinking coffee as strange events gathered around the characters, waiting for them to go on mystical journeys where they might end up with strange people, cats, weird worlds- as the characters slowly lost themselves in the chaos just to realize that the chaos was essentially what brought their sanity back and the emptiness of their hearts were filled with an understanding even if the mystery was left unsolved.

The faint image I had of my thoughts when I first read “Sputnik Sweetheart” was, rooting for “K” to find Sumire and confess his love for her. It was a romance novel to me at that time. I loved the wisdom K shared with Sumire.

Rereading it, I was rooting for Sumire to find her true self and to continue her writing. In her struggle of writing, I imagine Murakami, striving to weave the plot so seamlessly while offering a glimpse of the life of a young writer. In the novel, Sumire was given an allowance or stipend from her parents until the age of 28, after then, she will have to survive on her own. Murakami started to write his first novella when he was 28.

At one point, the character Miu of who Sumire is infatuated with, convinces her to work for Miu since what Sumire writes would not fulfill the expectation Sumire has for her writing because of her young age and experience. “At this stage in your life I don’t think you’re going to write anything worthwhile, no matter how much time you put into your novels,” Miu said, calmly, unhesitantly. “You’ve got the talent. I’m sure someday you’ll be an extraordinary writer. I’m not just saying this, I truly believe it. You have that natural ability within you. But now’s not the time. The strength you need to open the door isn’t quite there. Haven’t you ever felt that way?” (Page 37).

Just those lines alone reminded me of why Murakami’s work is so powerful to me. It touches an unspoken and obvious truth relevant to my own experience at any given time; it is the honesty of his feelings that touches the heart. He thought of the line, constructed the line from the semantics to the carefully chosen words flowing through the voice of a fictional character he had chosen, yet is is so visceral and relevant to those of us who struggle to write and find a voice to build a coherent story line, it envelopes you with empathy and makes you forget you are reading a fictional work.

The plot of the story is essentially a retelling of the actual story from our main character K. Using Sumire’s dialogues with K of her recollection of her meeting with Miu of who she falls in love with, K retells the story of the moment Sumire falls in love with Miu which started out with Miu’s confusion of the Soviet Satellite Sputnik with Beatnik which was a literature movement, of their trip to Europe where they ended up in a small Greek island, unheard of on the map, unknown to most of the world, but accessible and real. Sumire’s confession to Miu ended in her disappareance, leaving Miu frantic and not knowing what to do, she contacts K to come to Greece to help her find Sumire. Becasue of his love for Sumire, K goes to Greece without any hesitation.

K finally meets the love of Sumire’s life, Miu. They talk, Miu explains the situation and after a day, goes off to Greece’s main island to find more help in search of Sumire. She confesses to K what actually happened before the night of the disappearance where Sumire is portrayed as a carnal creature who could not hold her desires back and in return is pained by the rejection she feels because of Miu’s incapability to reciprocate her feelings and desires.

Of course, K is able to dig deeper. He finds Sumire’s floppy disk with two stories; she writes of her dream with her mother in it, reaching out to her and disappearing and another story of Miu’s incident from 14 years ago which causes her to lose part of herself in another world.

The story can’t go on without an explanation of Sputnik which was the first Russian satellite. The title could be interpreted simply as first sweetheart (maybe a bit too blatantly simple?).

I can’t really tell you what the novel is about aside from the plot. I think we discover what it means to us as we read along. The plot will not change but what is meaningful to us might change as time passes. This time around when I read it, I understood the meaning of letting go of things that we cling onto just because they are comfortable although they are meaningless(K’s meaningless relationship with his girlfriend which hurts his girlfriend’s son of which he chooses to let go of), the destruction of our insecurities which lead us to become people we are not (Sumire’s 180 degree change in appearance and what she cares about because she has fallen in love with Miu and is willing to do whatever is asked of her), the importance of our ability and willingness to find our true self so we won’t be empty (Miu became an empty shell a year later because she was not able to find the self she had lost 14 years ago and when Sumire offers a sparkle of hope, Sumire too disappeared like Miu’s other self).

There is a lot of possible interpretations and i could be off tangent but those are the things I thought of when I reread “Sputnik Sweetheart.”

The Secret History by Donna Tartt

Known as the reclusive author, Donna Tartt published “The Goldflinch” this year which garnered a lot of attention and praises. The patient readers wait roughly a decade for the publication of Tartt’s novel; therefore it is our special gift this year to have a new work by Tartt. To find the root of this celebrity profile, I got the first book she had written; I wanted to trace the root of the praises, of the admiration and talent; “The Secret History” was Tartt’s first novel which was published when she was 28. Just reading the first paragraph of the novel, you will figure out why it was such a big hit in 1992; It’s one of those novels so gripping, you cannot put it down, one paragraph leads you to another, keeping you completely engrossed until you look at the clock and realize it is 2am in the morning and you have work the next day.

The illusion of intimacy of the first person narrative and the reader is hard to ignore; you are listening to the voice of someone who is reminiscing past events. From the first paragraph, murder is evident. Natural response for the reader is conviction; morally, there is never a right reason to murder someone, anyone. The story unravels and you grow more sympathetic to the murderers than the murdered.

The story revolves around a group of friends who is in a exclusive program of Greek studies; the friends are from very different background; most of them affluent. However, our narrator is from a blue collar family so throughout the whole novel he has to hide the facts regarding his family’s financial background. He is excluded from a lot of activities within the group because he is the last to join; trust takes a while to build and his love for Greek is not as intense as theirs; it is his curiosity and desire to fit into an exclusive group that fuel his interest; more so than the subject itself.

The pack leader of the group is Henry- the intellectual and calm, incidentally the wealthiest one also, Camilla and Charles are twins, epitome of beauty, Francis who is vulnerable and sexual, Bunny who has a knack of discovering the secrets people try to hold and uses it to his advantage as he acts like a parasite to those whose secrets he holds. Our narrator seems to be the odd one out because he is actually a very normal guy. The professor Julian is like a saint who the group of friends worship; tales reminiscent of mythology and celebrities surrounded him; teaching a princess, friends with celebrity writers, the stories are endless and he is put on a pedestal by his students.

Obsessed with greek mythology and having too much time and no worries at the tender age of 19s to early 20s, the friends (excluding Bunny and the narrator) performed a ritual based on Greek story of Dionysus who is the god of wine, madness and ecstasy. We never find out the truth of what happened, only in fragments but a fact remains; they kill someone by accident. Found out by Bunny, he threatens the group; the group tries to appease him in the beginning by giving him everything he had wants; money, a grand trip to Italy and anything he asks for. Patience wears thin when it is still not sufficient to please Bunny. The group leader, Henry, devises a plan to kill Bunny. First plan is endearing and a bit funny to show how naive and how young they aree; Henry thinks of gathering poisonous mushrooms to kill Bunny. After much calculation, speculation and too much room for error, he realizes it is not a viable plan and comes up with a much more pragmatic plan; to push Bunny off the cliff as he goes on his hiking trail.

Bunny’s disappearance takes over a week to be discovered. When his parents realize his son is missing, they cause an uproar. It seems as though Bunny’s lack of presence means more than his actual presence. While the whole town is fixated on finding a body, satirically you realize finding the dead body is more important than finding Bunny alive; as though it is a lid just to close off the case.

Aside from Tartt’s ability to weave a wonderful page turning story, her writing is also beautiful.
“White sky. Trees fading at the skyline, the mountains gone. My hands dangled from the cuffs of my jacket as if they weren’t my own. I never got used to the way the horizon there could just erase itself and leave you marooned, adrift, in an incomplete dreamscape that was like a sketch for the world you knew-the outline of a single tree standing in for a grove, lamp-posts and chimneys floating up out of context before the surrounding canvas was filled in-an amenesia-land, a kind of skewed Heaven where the old landmarks were recognizable but spaced too far apart and disarranged, and made terrible by the emptiness around them.” (Page 376).

The imagery painted and meaning behind it could leave me thinking for hours. I can hear the echo of loneliness and the transition of space and time within the paragraph; the feeling of things changing right before you, and all you could do is stand there and watch, wondering what it is that had remained.

I also love the part where the writer realizes the professor who they have worshipped is not as great as they thought he is.
“When I disagreed-strenously-and asked what was wrong with focusing one’s entire attention on only two things, if those two things were Art and Beauty, Laforgue replied: “There is nothing wrong with the love of Beauty. But Beauty-unless she is wed to something more meaningful- is always superficial. It is not that your Julian chooses solely to concentrate on certain, exalted things; it is that he chooses to ignore others equally as important.” (Page 511)
The process of omission to support a view can be dangerous. Like a good story without purpose will just remain a good story; the depth is created by the writer who attributes meaning to it. To love beauty in its shallow context is similar to liking the marketing or packaging of an item that will not do anything for us except be visually striking. It also juxtaposes the story the narrator has weaved for his classmate; big pools and private school in California- it simply mean we all create stories to protect ourselves. A lie is not as simple as just a lie; sometimes we want to believe it is true, but when you delve into it, all that remains is superficiality because it is not true.

There is a lot more to the story which I do not wish to spoil. After reading the book in couple of days, I understand why Donna Tartt is an important writer of our generation; the consistency of the momentum, superb story telling, realistic rendering of the characters and the ideas behind it, makes it obvious why her writing takes so long. It is with a lot of thoughts, outlines and revisions that a piece of work like this can occur; raw emotions is often lacking as Tartt meticulously places the pieces together like the character Henry in the story.

PS- I was also excited when I saw Chip Kidd’s name on the back of the book for cover design. I remember reading his novel “The Cheese Monkeys” which was great fun!

The Story of a New Name by Elena Ferrante

Have I declared how much I love Elena Ferrante recently? I was so disappointed in myself, amidst my busyness; I had neglected preordering her newly translated book which was released in September. The second novel of the Neapolitan trilogy following, “My Brilliant Best Friend,” is “The Story of a New Name.” I picked up the book on Tuesday, finished it on Wednesday and had been in a sort of foggy trance between work, life, and just contemplating about the novel. Like love at its first stage, infatuation, I was waiting for my rational mind to breathe so I can try to put in words what this book was about.

In continuation of the first novel, the scene of the wedding was replayed as emotions are exemplified. Lila was shocked at the betrayal of her husband; it was a harbinger of the disastrous end of their marriage.

Without drama and seemingly ending peacefully, the Lila and her husband went on their honeymoon as our narrator was left on her own with her imagination and routine of life. However, Lila returned to tell her the story of her honeymoon in which she was playing the role of an adult and enduring the physical abuse of a husband she found monstrous. Instead of confronting fate normally, Lila vented her frustration through altruism; she gave to her neighbors in need, which ironically made her the neighborhood’s unsung hero. It seemed as though by sacrificing herself, she gave the sacrifice meanings by helping others.

The temperance of Lila’s beauty was captured by her wedding photo which was displayed in the studio. As a declaration that Lila was his property, her husband took the photo away from the studio. Bask by praises of her beauty, he kept it for himself. Their arch enemy, the Solara, wanted it for the shoe store they co-owned with her husband. Lila fought against it, but eventually relented; it wasn’t a sign of weakness but a sign of clever mischief that she accepted it. She used film strips to create an art piece out of the photo. The significance of this event was to show how headstrong Lila was. She would rather destroy herself, then let others destroy her. She would rather close off the world and disappear than let anyone cage her and control her will. As the store opened, to complete and amplify the destruction she caused, she also has a miscarriage; destruction of the loveless child she could have given birth to.

Our narrator’s life continued to try to juxtapose the life of Lila; when Lila had her extramarital affair with the boy Lena loved, Lena experienced the cruelty of losing her innocence by someone she found repulsive; ironically, it happened in the beach under the starry sky. In a conventionally romantic setting, the scene was ruined; our narrator was ruined by the chasing of the stars. The stars to her were Lila whom she always ran a few steps behind.

Here is a passage in the novel referring to Lila’s diary of her time spent in Ischia, I very much like:
“She talked instead about love and she did so in a surprising way…She described minutely a sensation of imminent death: lack of energy, lethargy, a strong pressure in the middle of her head, as if between the brain and skull there was an air bubble that was continually expanding, the impression that everything was moving in a hurry to leave, that the speed of every movement of persons and things was excessive and hit her, wounded her, caused her physical pain in her stomach and in her eyes.”
(Page 73)

Throughout most of the novel, Lila seems strong and undefeated. The passage from the Lila’s diary which transported us to her world showed us the fears and emotions she had hidden. The emotional depth of the passage is immeasurable but there is a universal statement in it. We know of this lethargy and blindness in which sight is loss and all seem blurry right before us.

Towards the last half of the book, we watch as Lila’s hopefulness turned into despair. Her husband’s violence continued, her love affair continued, in a sequence of unraveling events, she was left pregnant, her young lover left her, she went home, gave birth to her boy, found out her husband had been having an affair and chose his lover over her. She was left with her child whom she loved and a loyal friend who brought her to a town nearby; working in a plant that manufactured sausages. At the end of the novel, Lila was unable to escape the impoverished life; all seemed bleak.

Meanwhile, our narrator finished her university education; was engaged to a scholarly intellectual. On the surface it seemed like Lena and Lila are polar opposites. Upon our narrator’s strenuous journey of finding Lila, she was sadden to see Lila’s living condition, the callouses on her hands, the poverty her child was unable to escape, however there was one thing that had not died in Lila. It is the spark she always carried inside of her; in the evening, she would study with her friend Enzo who had helped with her escape- her cleverness had an outlet in the mathematics he was learning.

The narrator also found out her teacher from elementary school had thought “Blue fairy,” the story Lila had written as a child was her creation. It seemed to imply Lena had stolen the opportunity Lila was supposed to have. Through Lila who she had all sorts of emotions towards, love, hate, jealousy, betrayal, anger, resentment- sometimes one emotions at a time, other times, a convoluted concoction of all emotions, when in reality, it would seemed justified for Lila to have those emotions towards our narrator had she found out the truth.

The novel ends in a bittersweet note when the narrator went to an event for her first novel and she met the man she had loved at one point who is also the father of Lena’s child.

Project Writer by Nanansa 2007

Wow! I was looking through my old emails and found a short story I had worked on for a creative writing class. So nostalgic. The story was masterminded by my friend JL and executed and reimagined by me. Sorta like a minor collaboration.

Project Writer

“I learned this, at least, by my experiment;
that if one advances confidently in the direction of his dreams,
and endeavors to live the life which he has imagined,
he will meet with a success unexpected in common hours.”
from the “Conclusion” to Walden, Henry David Thoreau

The rain gnawed on the skin of the passerby who were unwilling to give up the day’s worth of time, fighting against the wailing wind with claws that gripped tightly onto the skin, making it hang loosely on bones like sticks to a wavering flag. The rain continued to storm consistently and gloomily, seeping between the small gaps between the plastic coverings that were supported by four weak pillars; they were made of wood, unsustainable of immense weight, vulnerable and unreliable. Like the wooden pillars of feebleness, a man stood by the side of the vending truck, observing the swarms of gluttonous people, feasting ceaselessly on colorful sustenance. Jake’s lucid but shadowy brown eyes were hidden by the dangling strands of black bangs; he looked as though the rain had eaten him alive and raw, the sheer apathetic and mind-numbing glare displayed on his countenance was far too much for passerby to grasp. They looked away as though this short stocky man, did not exist at all; in fact, he had never existed.

7 o’clock.
An end to a beginning, the clock ticked timelessly, tick tock, tock tick. Rolling down his sleeves, Jake greeted his coworkers with a small wave. He grabbed his black backpack and stuffed it with documents before leaving the office. He took each step with hesitation, his mind wavering between different thoughts. It has been seven months since his manager had quit, abruptly, silently, invisibly, and indifferently. In the printing office where hundreds of articles fly across the room, a million of thoughts investigated and abused, and staffs engaged in mind games every day, there was no room left to think of the old manager. They would say, “John was a nice guy,” as though those words actually meant something.

Taking the elevator down to the lobby, Jake was reminded of the times when John said, “Oh shit, it’s raining.” He didn’t place any significance on those words; why would it matter to anyone working indoor whether it was raining or snowing? Even if there were a blizzard, they were still required to work, for tomorrow’s newspaper still needed to be printed. Now it all seemed to make sense.

“Fourth floor please,” a woman with blond hair said as she entered.

She was carrying her small black purse along with an orange envelope. Jake gave a weak smile and pressed the button.

“Thank you,” she said politely.

“No problem,” Jake said.

His hands were sweating profusely as he held onto his black umbrella. Today was the day, he had convinced himself. He must gather enough courage to confront his ex-manager. To tell him how much they needed him back at the office, how everyone was falling apart, and how dreams were not part of reality.
The woman offered him a tissue.

“Here, take it,” she said with a smile.

“Uh…thanks.”

He took it and smiled weakly. Her display of kindness made him even more nervous. He didn’t deserve this; he deserves to be scorned.
Ding.

The elevator door opened and she walked out slowly, turning back to inquire him with her eyes whether he would be okay or not. He nodded. After she left the elevator, he clicked the close button, persistently as though it would take him to his destination of the day.
She had sharp olive colored eyes that were as sly as a cat’s.
—
Olive, the color of a muddy mixture of green and brown; the color of the swampy field that one refuses to enter especially on a rainy day. The trees covered the muddiness with their shadows; always hiding but never intruding. In the midst of this chaotic nature was a cottage, hidden under the canopy of trees, known only to a selected few.
It was an hour away by car to the urban area; cosmopolitan and trendy with high skyscrapers, literally reaching out to the sky with its outstretched height. The owner of the cottage was well aware of it; he could live a life intact with nature at night and an urban life in the morning. The wooden cabinets in the kitchen of the house contained boxes of instant cookie, cake and other dessert mix. Pillsbury doughboy with his protruding tummy smiled enthusiastically as though his sweets would bring happiness to everyone who ate them.

At six am in the morning, a hand emerged to take a few boxes out. John didn’t know how to make dessert from scratch but he was the vendor of a transportable cafe. Preparation was required each afternoon at 1PM so he had time to bake the instant goods. A 17x57x10mm digital recorder was carefully and meticulously attached to a table each day (chose randomly); it was essential to the business’s purpose. It was hidden; a device so sensitive that a soft sigh would be enough to activate the recording.

After the baked goods were made, they were put into plastic containers, then placed inside the van. John’s employees would arrive at the location listed on the schedule at about 7PM. Usually they arrived in suits and shirts, formal clothing that were rarely seen on vendors. At precisely 5:30PM, today’s destination was 105 Fort street, near the harbor.
—
The wind held its hesitation as Jake walked along Fort street. His office was a few blocks away; he could still see it from a distance; it was his retreat, he could always head back like he had so many times. Besides the rain was suddenly pouring, a better reason to head home and enjoy the silence held in four walls. Or he could always turn on the box full of meaningless and boisterous noise.

It took effort to hold onto his umbrella; his hands were trembling, the pain that tugged at his heart was excruciating, devouring his heart as it moved on swiftly to his organs. He used one hand to clutch onto his shirt as sweat covered his forehead. The truck was there already. The plastic covering protected the rain against the customers who sat beneath it; wooden tables and chairs lined up neatly in the small lot. It was an empty area near the broad walk by the sea.

Closing up his umbrella, Jack hid behind the vending truck like he had so many other times. He observed the activities; same as always, gluttons of all classes, consuming baked goods with a cup of tea and their pinky sticking out elegantly. Why did his ex-manager give up his job to be a full time vendor? No one had ever noticed Jake ; he took a peek at the white-board which announced the schedule of the truck hanging loosely onto a nail hammered onto the side of the truck. Monday, Fort Street. Tuesday, Harbor Bay.

Jake could choose any of the other days to come again. He didn’t have to confront John now. But the olive green eyes were staring at him intensely. She stared at him and walked towards him, her blond hair fluttering in the air like a silk cloth drenched in water, weighed down by the rain.

“Hey, it’s you again,” she said.

Her voice was soft and she let out a smile.

“Hi…”

“How did you find out about this place?”

How did she find out about him? No one had ever noticed him hiding near the truck.

“I saw your umbrella,” she said as though she had read his mind, “so I kinda thought it was you.”

He looked at his umbrella; there was nothing special about it, it was a banal, boring black umbrella with a long handle.

“I uh…just happened to pass by,” Jake said.

He wanted to leave, his heart beats were racing against the droplets of rain. Trickling rapidly. Drenching. Soaking. Seeping. Falling.

“Since you’re here, you might as well try their stuff. Their cakes are delicious. C’mon,” she said.
He realized he didn’t even know her name as she grabbed onto his hand and lead him to one of the tables. She smiled vibrantly, her crimson lips against the dim light of the place. And her olive green eyes, staring at him as though there was an impenetrable void in his dark brown eyes.

The customers were not that talkative today. John observed them as he served them with coffee and his instant baked goods. There was a dark lurking figure among them, he could almost feel its presence; but it was nothing more than intuition.

It didn’t matter. He looked at the table to the far right; the one closest to his truck. That was the table where he had installed the recording device earlier. He couldn’t wait until the clock finally strikes 10PM which would the end of the night. Only one worker had come to work today. He had started with a staff of ten enthusiastic people, slowly, they had been decreasing. One by one, they came less and less as though dreams weren’t enough to sustain them. Maybe this whole project was a failure, Jake thought. No. He had to continue on. The sight of the couple talking by the table he had installed the device motivated him; as long as they were talking, there would be more stories to be created, more plots to be made, and more characters to write about.

“Here you go,” the waiter said as he placed two cups of coffee and a plate of cookies onto the table.

“Thanks,” she said.

She smiled like the first time Jake had seen her smile. The waiter nodded and walked off. From his angle, Jake could see John. He was inside the truck preparing the orders. Jake was lucky John wasn’t the one serving today, he could still wait another day. He was also lucky her back had hidden him from John’s view.

“Oh, it was rude of me. I haven’t introduced myself. I’m Becky,” she said.

“Uh…Jake.”

“Do you work at the printing department?” she asked as she took a sip of her coffee.

“Yeah.”

There was an awkward silence.

“You know this place has been around for a year now. It’s kinda weird how they always have staff dressed in suits and whatnot, some of the faces even looked familiar,” Becky said.

“What do you mean familiar?” Jake asked.

Now that she mentioned it, he remembered the staff declining in number; they were down to two now including his ex-manager. He added a cube of sugar into his coffee.
She turned to look around, checking to see if the waiter was nearby.

“I mean, they look like they could be anyone from our building. Yet why would they work here? Besides, the pay must be crummy. This place closes early too.”

“Yeah at 10PM,” he said.

It slipped; he didn’t mean to say it.

“So this isn’t your first time here?” she said with a smirk of victory.

Caught.

“Uh…I guess-”

“I have actually seen you here a few times. Last time it was raining. You looked like you wanted to be alone so I just left you there.”

Becky had shifted her attention to him; trying to read him again with her eyes. Jake averted his eyes and looked at his coffee. It was as dark as a pit.

“Spill it,” she whispered as she leaned closer to Jake.

Her scent was enrapturing, a mix of cherry blossom and jasmine. He felt as though all the tension and burden he had carried with him from the time his ex-manager left to now were absorbed by her presence. He couldn’t explain the reason logically, but he must keep his head on his shoulders.

“It’s nothing.”

She was smarter than that.

“It can’t be nothing. You’ve been staring at John for a while. Don’t tell me you’re gay!”

“Uh…no.”

“Should I tell him-”

She was about to stand up but Jake grabbed her hand. He wasn’t ready. He would never be ready. Who was he to criticize his ex-manager’s way of living, who was he to prod; John didn’t need a reason.

“Stay.”

“I’m waiting,” she said with a smile.

Victory. Another one. 2:0.

“John was my ex-manager. He quit his job seven months ago, out of nowhere. Through contacts with one of his friend, I found out he has been working as a food vendor. Our office acted as though he has never existed but he took care of me when I first got the job.”

“So you think it’s weird he left?”

“Not weird. He usually does things for a reason, I just don’t understand.”

She stirred her coffee after adding a lot of cream and sugar. “Say, Jake, do you have any dreams?”

“Such as…?”

He was startled by her question.

“Like something you wanted to do as a kid? Like an astronaut, firefighter, a hero? I don’t know.”
Her eyes were dreamy, like her reverie had taken over and she wasn’t actually there.

“I guess I wanted to be a writer,” Jake said.

“What stopped you?” Becky asked.

“My confidence.”

“Are you not a good writer?”

This was getting nowhere. Jake cannot understand how this was connected to John the vendor.

“Does it matter? Why do you ask anyway?”

“No reasons. Maybe that’s the answer to his shop!”

She didn’t know John. She probably had never actually talked to the guy, Jake thought. There was no way in the world John would do something without a reason. How naive.

Maybe he was naïve, John thought. Staring at the empty paper cups, he looked at his customers. The rain didn’t stop, and the people kept coming to his stall of ten tables and forty chairs. It was a business that met its ends; he made enough to sustain it but the routine was getting boring. Once in a while a good story or two would emerge, mainly derived from the conversations he recorded of his customers.

John had came up with the idea a year ago; Project Writer. It seemed clever at first, but the moment he had taken action in order to execute the project, it seemed fruitless and naïve.
From a book club he had joined years ago, he had gathered ten members. They all had different day jobs, working from 9 to 5. Sharing the love for books, they were also amateur writers who felt they were not creative enough to make a story uniquely theirs. They felt like they didn’t have the language, the crafts, the disciplines nor the motivation to write a story.

John didn’t remember much of Edgar Allen Poe’s The Premature Burial, but he remembered what was imparted. “The truth is stranger than fiction.” Based on that philosophy, the members in the book club agreed that the gathering of information from random people would have made provocative stories. They decided to put a recording device somewhere hidden; they decided they could work after their day job for three hours. Each day, they would move to a new location so there would be new people in a different environment; they needed fresh voices and ideas. Sunday would be their day off where they’d gather all the recording, three hours per day, play it and make a story from it.
John even quit his job for this dream.

It wasn’t entirely for this dream, he had hated his job. The intense stress from his bosses who would put the weight of responsibility onto him while they enjoyed the song of praises; it didn’t bother him that he wasn’t praised for his hard work, but it bothered him he wasn’t getting a raise for the work he had been doing. Since John didn’t have to pay the other writers he had enough to sustain his life in the cottage and his basic necessities. He quit his job without any hesitation.

“Thanks Leon,” John said to his friend as he brought an empty plate and two cups over.

Leon smiled weakly. He looked tired.

“No problem.”

The table to the right was empty. It was almost 10PM.

“Closing time, I can handle this myself,” John said.

“Nah, Project Writer. We’re a team even if there’s only two of us,” Leon said.

He was the first one to know about John’s idea and had supported him ever since. Leon was an aspiring writer; he was anxious to hear the recording each day after work even if it were a long and tiring day.
Folding up the chairs and table and packing them into the truck, John would be surprised when they get into the truck to hear the content of the recording today.

It was a story of his life and the mysteries of Project Writer.

The Shadow of The Wind

I had trouble deciding what to post about; after all, it’s the 100th posts of this blog! Not that numbers mean more than its content; however I still wanted to celebrate this huge milestone for this petite blog of ours.

I could be an avid reader from time to time; the book that had got me really excited after five pages and prompted me to buy it from the actual store at retail price when I was a broke college student, was The Shadow of the Wind by Carlos Ruiz Zafron, a Spanish author. The novel is translated (the translator did a great job, not that I know spanish but the fluidly of the sentences and stories prove it all).

The story starts with a bookstore owner telling his son he must not tell anyone of this place he is going to bring him too; apparently it’s a place of forgotten books. The whole novel is a tribute to the love of books intricately weaving mystery stories of history and following the flow of time. The three books are set in parallel universe; sharing characters and a family owned bookstore that spans across generations.

I do not want to spoil the books for anyone. But if you’re out of ideas as what to read, The Shadow of the Wind is very awesome. I like the first two the most The Shadow of the Wind and The Angel’s game. The Angel’s game reminds me of Alan Judd’s The Devil’s Own Work which is also one of my favorite works. Years ago, I lent my copy to a friend and have not seen it.

It is about the art of writing; how the young writer naively sells his soul to the devil to create great works of Art. As an artist, to create art is excruciating; you work with so many uncompromising elements including your artist’s ego. Don’t get me wrong, there are also times when you’re so excited about your project, you’re myopically ecstatic in your own dream land. Those moments are irreplaceable and memorable; a feeling that could barely be described but wonderfully felt.

The last book, The Prisoner of Heaven is about the author of The Angel’s game. Some mysteries are solved and some are not. I am not sure if there will be another after the last book! But I am such a fan, I think if there is a 4th book coming out, I’d definitely get it in a heartbeat.

The Days of Abandonment by Elena Ferrante

After reading “My Brilliant best friend,” I couldn’t help but look for more novels by Elena Ferrante. When I went to Kinokuniya near Bryant park (Barnes and noble was a bit far away), I grabbed the only Ferrante book they had. “The Days of Abandonment” was her début novel. Being emotionally powerful and memorable, it paved the success and eminence of the mysterious Ferrante.

*Contains spoiler*

Emotionally charged, the novel started off with the clearing of the dishes one day, where the husband announced to the narrator he wanted a divorce. A million different thoughts occurred in our narrator’s head where she tried to convince herself this was one of those moments, one of those many times where her husband had been uncertain about life; he would come back.

Her husband would visit the children everyday but eventually stopped. The scene where she started being very distracted dropped a jar and accidentally left shards of glass in the tomato sauce of the pasta, which inadvertently and accidentally hurt her husband, of which he accused her of trying to hurt him, was a powerful scene. It made the victim the accused and the abuser the victim. In a split second, the table was turned.

Desperation slowly surfaced as she realized she had to take care of their two children despite not being able to stand on her feet. She started to ponder and ponder, from the past to the present, from the present to her identity. Lingering in the back of her mind was her neighbor from Naples whose husband had abandoned her and she lost her identity; the tragedy of her neighbor was not what scared her but of how vulnerable she was and how she could easily turn into a shadow of her neighbor; her neighbor who neglected herself and eventually drowned herself.
There are so many times when you’re lost in the narratives of the main character.

“A long passage of life together, and you think he’s the only man you can be happy with, you credit him with countless critical virtues, and instead he’s just a reed that emits sounds of falsehood, you don’t know who he really is, he doesn’t now himself. We are occasions.” (Page 75)

The quote described her husband. Sometimes we feel like we are close to someone but when that person shatters our expectations or becomes unpredictable, there is suddenly this emptiness and we ask ourselves, how well do we actually know that person. Was it a misperception or do we just know them from a point in time? The character started having self-doubt in her judgment.

After a chain of events, from doing detective work to finding the actual reason her husband left, her life was in shamble. She realized she had to take care of her two children and the death of her dog served as an alarm that her responsibilities as a mother and caretaker will not be shed and she could not run away irresponsibly. Her head was a mess at one point, where the narrative ingeniously repeated the small details in life such as turning the stove on, cooking for the children, worrying about the lock of her house and her sudden inability to turn locks because her mind was in complete chaos; there was an obsession with details that formed to protect the mind from thinking of the person who hurt us most. The lock may also serve as a metaphor for opening the door of her rational mind. Her obsession to details may also serve as a reminder of when we are suddenly assaulted with the truth that perhaps somewhere along the way, we blame ourselves for overlooking a small clue that a person might have given away to lead to this assault; we want to believe it is our fault to be surprised by the assault.

“But what frightened me above all was the nearly imperceptible images of the mind, the scarce syllables. A thought that I couldn’t fix on suffices, a simple violet flash of meanings, a green hieroglyphic of the brain, for the bad feeling to reappear and panic to mount. Shadows too dense and damp suddenly returned to certain corners of the house, with their noises, the swift movements of their dark masses.” (Page 153)

When she regained access to her rational mind, she knew there was still a chance for everything rational to go astray. Because she had experienced an emotional trauma, although she was healed at the moment, there was still a fear that it would surface and come back. A popular saying is time will heal, maybe it does, but it doesn’t stop the shadows of our dark memories to hurt us anytime or any mentions of something relevant to the negative experience from haunting us and making us react more dramatically than we would have, had we not experience the trauma at all.

When she was talking to her neighbor, she defended her husband who had abandoned her.

“He has the flaws of us all,” I murmured. “A man like so many others. Sometimes, we’re good, at times detestable. When I came to you didn’t I do shameful things that I never would have dreamed of doing?” They were gestures without love, without even desire, pure ferocity. And yet I’m not an especially bad woman.” (Page 161)

Universally true with all human beings; there is no absolute evilness or goodness. One action or an aspect of life does not determine who you are. We’re volatile beings with many personalities. Although she had not forgiven her husband, I love how she was able to set apart one event from another. There is grayness, not only black and white.

The Days of Abandonment sealed my admiration for Elena Ferrante. The psychological state of someone traumatized was so emotionally charged and realistically rendered, I felt like I was living in the character’s head. Objectively I know there are some scenes that are very unrealistic like her relationship with her shabby neighbor who was also a talented musician or the cliché of her husband running off with a younger woman. The book could be interpreted as a symbol of the strength of an individual and our ability to change our perception and to start the life we want as long as we strive regardless who is part of our life or not. We can fall apart but we don’t have to stay in pieces.

I couldn’t put the book down and kept flipping the pages till the very end. When I did finish the book, I couldn’t write about it until I gave myself distance and recalled what the book was about. This is amazing. Definitely recommend.

(Warning: Some vulgar scenes for ones with sensitive stomachs)

My Brilliant Best Friend by Elena Ferrante

I first read about “My Brilliant Best Friend” by Elena Ferrante in a New Yorker article online; the article is about the author more than the book. The mysterious author sent her manuscripts to the publisher and told them she refused to do any PR which should save the publisher money and she would like her identity concealed. There are several speculations as to who Ms Ferrante is, one is that she is a professor or person in academia, another speculation is she is the alter ego or pseudonym of a famous Italian author.

The setting of this book is in Naples, where poverty is eminent and experienced as a child by the narrator. The book started off with her best friend’s son calling her to announce the disappearance of her best friend. The narrator is up for a challenge as it was evident her best friend has destroyed every trace of her existence; the narrator starts to write a story dating back from how they met.

Lila, her best friend, has been brilliant in elementary school. With her wits and intelligence she easily got 10s and was able to read by the age of 3 just by self studying. In order to keep up with her, we learned that the narrator has to work diligently and even after so, she could not achieve the level of intelligence that comes so naturally to her friend. However, due to family situation Lila was not able to take the exam advancing to middle school or high school. Elena, our narrator, was able to after many arguments between her teacher and parents.

So here are two friends, following completely different paths. Lila’s life is stationary in the town she was born and grew up in, Elena has to travel out of town to go to middle and high school.

There are a few quotes I am really fond of!

“Step by step Lila convinced me that one achieves security in love only by subjecting the wooer to hard tests. And so returning suddenly to dialect, she advised me to become Gino’s girlfriend but on the condition that all summer he agree to buy ice cream for me, her and Carmela.” (Page 103)

There’s a rawness of the quote that makes it so heartfelt. I can imagine middle schoolers plotting something like that; on top of it, it shows Lila’s wit and the others willingness to comply because of her childish, naive and simple yet illogically logical response.

Here’s one of the most romantic quotes I have ever read from a passerby in the book who was having dinner with his family when he met Lila and tells her friends:

“You are fortunate: you have here a girl who will become more beautiful than a Botticelli Venus. I beg your pardon, but I said it to my wife and sons, and I felt the need to tell you as well.” (Page 146)

The quote is significant in that it shows how beautiful Lila had grown up to be and the responses she would soon to get; a harbinger to the fate and consequences she could not escape.

And lastly, but not least, a quote from the teacher who could not save Lila, who was not able to convince her parents to let her continue her schooling:

“The beauty of mind that Cerullo had from childhood didn’t find an outlet, Greco, and it has all ended up in her face, in her breasts, in her thighs, in her ass, places where it soon fades and it will be as if she had never had it.” (Page 277)

The novel revolves around Elena Greco’s memories of her friends. Through childhood to adolescent, she felt the need to compete with her friend. Her friend was the one who encouraged her scholastically through her desire to learn and self study. Elena tries to live a parallel life as Lila throughout the book by letting herself be engulfed in drama with boys or simply by the way she strives to act like an adult.

The first of the trilogy ends where Lila is getting married to the grocer in town and all the issues the wedding had caused. The ending is shocking and left me thinking for quite a bit. (Do not want to spoil this part).

You can see all the characters in so many dimensions, so many characters are revisited as an adolescent and you can see how your perspective of the characters really changed. The story has a lot of messages; about poverty, mobility, escaping and choices in general. My book review is really 1 dimensional since there are so many characters and politices involved. Each story in the book tells a bigger story. Through its vernacular dialogues and simple sentences, it elicit a lot more than it seems! A definite must read!

Climates by Andre Maurois

I am somewhat old fashion. I like to spend alone days at the bookstore; browsing through random books- starting from the summary on the back and then flipping through pages inside. Yesterday, I was wandering at Strand book store, after an hour or so found this little gem. Climates was translated from French to English and was written in the 1920s by Andre Maurois.

Look at the texture of the cover and the imprinted title! Makes me miss Letterpress printing a little bit.

*Spoiler Alert*

Beginning of the story, there was a boy Philippe whose illusion of love was shaped by a book he read as a child. He wanted the woman he loved to be like the beautiful Queen of the Amazon; in a world where boys would sacrifice for this woman under any circumstances. The reason for this grand illusion of his ideal woman was because of the contrast at home. At home, they never spoke of emotions. Everything was done properly; so in his head, his imagination was able to go wild through this projection.

He met his first true interest at 18. She was an older woman who fascinated him with her mysteriously experienced life. However once she became less mysterious and showed more interest in him than he had for her, he promptly pulled away and lost all interest in her. Because of constant loneliness and just plain desire, he jumped from one woman to another.

On a trip to Florence, he found the love of his life and married her. Odile was from a different background than his; his family had owned a paper mill while she lived a bohemian life style with her brothers and a single mother. Her life was full of energy which he wanted to capture as his own by being with her; on top of that she was beautiful; She was his Amazon. Throughout the relationship, he idealized her and tried to control every aspect of her life by perpetually questioning every detail of her life. She felt suffocated and pulled away; he felt miserable and tried to hide his jealousy but he could barely restrain it. At one point, she met a sailor whom she fell in love with. He noticed and began to monitor her every word and moves; tormenting the two of them equally. He convinced himself he loved her no matter what; waited for her return from a solo trip to the countryside where he knew she would meet her lover.
She returned and decided to divorce him.

He was heartbroken and lost. During her time apart from him, he had crystalized her; this was based on philosopher Stendhal’s philosophy of the crystallization of love. When someone is far away, we forgive the flaws that person has, and choose to idealize all the virtues and begin to solidify our love for that person based on solely virtues.
He lived aimlessly and realized he loved her more than ever although he also knew while he was living with her, he was always unhappy. His social life went on, he went through more flings with random women, eventually he heard of her suicide. Apparently her new husband had not loved her the way he had; all the follies and flaws he had seen in her, her childish ways which had charmed him and her incoherent stories were objects of contempt to her new husband. Philippe had wished she would go back to him while she was suffering.

Losing the greatest love of his life, he settled for a more sensible woman, Isabelle. She was of the same background and best of all, she loved him selfishlessly. She had been a nurse during the war; an epitome of the ultimate caretaker.

Second part of the story was interesting because the narrative was in Isabelle’s voice but occasionally, you hear Philippe’s voice through his diary which Isabelle was perusing from time to time. Isabelle was a strong woman who would not waver unless it was for Philippe’s sake. Their roles were suddenly reversed; Philippe imagined how Odile felt when they were married. The monotony of the marriage and jealousy that emerged in Isabelle created distance in their relationship.

However it was the way Isabelle handled their relationship and her unwavering love for him that saved him. Despite knowing he was the type of person who would always search for his Amazon even after marriage, Isabelle seflishlessly allowed him to be himself and told him he would never find her. I think it was Isabelle’s profound understanding of his character that saved this story from being a tragedy.
Although there are tons of flaws in his character and I do not advocate his actions in most of the novel, the story is full of raw emotions. There are some universal truth we can still feel despite the time that had passed since the novel was published.

Climate is the adjustment to life and love; the willingness to live against all odds. There is an endless pursuit to an illusion even though one knows it might be the cause of unhappiness; it seems to be an action of the dreamer but there is something so brave about it. There is no answer offered to this pursuit, but it seems to be suggestive that if we let go of our expectations of what might be, and focus on our raw emotions at the moment, it might save us a little bit. Live the moments and forget the might bes and forget the what ifs. Illusions may cause suffering; but it is up to us to realize it and change it if we desire.

The novel is really moving and made me cried twice. Which parts that happened will remain a mystery!