Book Ambrosia

The Year of the Flood

2010-03-25T21:32:00.005+08:00

What a joy it was to finally indulge in Margaret Atwood's latest novel, The Year of the Flood! It was my little reward for finishing Dostoyevsky's Demons. Reading The Year of the Flood is a bit like reading the prelude to the post-apocalyptic Oryx & Crake, one of Atwood's few sci-fi pieces featuring a male protagonist.

The Year of the Flood chronicles the beginnings of a destructive pandemic amidst an age of vegetarian cults, nefarious corporations unleashing viruses upon their own employees, and genetic projects to engineer the perfect human being. The book follows the lives of two women, jumping from different spots in time as their world collapses in a plague-ridden wasteland of technological failures and blue-skinned people.

If you have read Oryx & Crake, you will love The Year of the Flood as it details the genesis of Jimmy (the protagonist of Oryx & Crake) and Crake, genius in Oryx & Crake. The landscape of The Year of the Flood is at once horrifying and enthralling with a glimpse of what a technologically-driven future may look like centuries from today. A world of engineered viruses, not unlike the premise of the movie, Resident Evil; genetically-modified creatures like pigoons (pigs so big that they look like balloons) or liobams (lions spliced with lambs); and special pleasure-inducing second skins used by sex workers. The creation of a human being absent from the need of courtship, returning to evolutionary roots of straightforward mating, is a scary yet not entirely implausible concept.

The sci-fi Oryx & Crake and The Year of the Flood still retain Atwood's brand of intensity and emotional takes on her characters without being the slightest bit mawkish. Unlike Oryx & Crake that features a male protagonist, The Year of the Flood returns to Atwood's signature strong female protagonists. However, Atwood is still better at churning out her quintessential reality-based stories of women tackling affairs of life, unpredictable relationships, and florid pasts, such as The Blind Assassin or The Robber Bride. A notable exception is Atwood's older work, The Handmaid's Tale, a feminist rendition of Orwell's 1984.

If you are an Atwood fan, The Year of the Flood is a good read. But if you'd like a blast of an introduction to Atwood, you would do better off with her classic Handmaid's Tale.

Demons by Dostoyevsky

2010-03-22T23:30:00.002+08:00

I finally finished Dostoyevsky's Demons. A quintessential Dostoyevsky work with nihilist philosophical thought and a sombre, depressive mood that hangs over the entire story. Why are most Russian writers such saturnine people? Anton Chekhov, Leo Tolstoy - you name it. Going back to Dostoyevsky, Crime and Punishment was a much better work. Tight-paced with a singularly strong protagonist coupled with the complex and moral struggles associated with a random murder.

The dialogue in Demons could be stretchy and overly long at times. But, there were moments of brilliance, especially when a particular character debated about the will to be God, and how fulfilling that will necessitates the ultimate destruction of that very will. Most people are caught in the humdrum carriage journeys of life, afraid to truly exercise their freedom and will. The only way to conquer that fear of choice and to achieve true freedom is to purposefully destroy our will, ie: suicide. Of course, we wouldn't be around then to enjoy the fruits of our newfound freedom. But, that isn't quite the point.

The battle of the protagonist and other key characters of the secret society in overthrowing the government is nothing new. Anguish and guilt trip most of them up in the end. Predictable. The deep internal struggles of the protagonist are not entirely present, not as much as in Crime and Punishment.

As a whole, I found Crime and Punishment a much more thought-provoking and enjoyable read. If you are looking for an introduction to Dostoyevsky, read that first. Then, tackle Demons. Perhaps, when I read it again, I may grow to appreciate it. For now though, it's the start of the middle of the journey through CS Lewis, Mere Christianity.

Essence of a short story

2010-02-08T20:56:00.004+08:00

It's been almost a month since I've updated this blog - so time to be a little more disciplined. I'll try my utmost best to write at least once a week *fingers crossed*. I've been at work on a new short story called Shedding Skin - aiming to get it published in Marshall Cavendish's new anthology on Asian Short Stories. Plenty of sleepless nights, agonizing word-crafting struggles, and a discarded bland, hopeless emotional story on abortion, finally led to the creation of a decent story.

Well, it's a world of difference from my previous emotionally-tinged, heart-wrenching pieces bordering on mawkishness. So, I'm rather proud of it.

The delicate balancing act that a writer must engage in writing short stories is producing a tale with enough movement to get the momentum going - not too fast that it seems superficial, but not too slow that it takes five pages before the action begins. While a novel can afford a leisurely, nonchalant pace, the characters in a short story need to be developed realistically enough within just a few pages. The X factor in a short story is in telling a story that leaves a lasting impression, like ancient myths and legends. Details can be changed through time, but you don't forget the gist of a short story, or the emotions that struck you , sharp as an arrow, as you turned the last page.

A well-written short story is a rare gem to find in an oceanful of pebbles. Personally, I love Margaret Atwood's Wilderness Tips, an intimate collection on women and their austere yet passionate affairs, without the slightest bit of melodrama but real as a heartbeat.

Haruki Murakami's Blind Willow, Sleeping Woman plays on a different note altogether. His pieces are variegated anecdotes on life with a prism of perspectives - a poor aunt holding onto a protagonist's back, a couple that run away to Greece with barely anything but the shirts on their backs, the downright scary story of a guard and a mirror that he finds in the middle of the night. Whimsical and brimming with unspoken emotion, the effects of his stories hit you much later like shots of whiskey.

John Connolly also wrote a decent collection of horror stories called Nocturnes, some of which have the type of twists you would never expect, despite how inured you may be to so-called "unpredictable" endings that writers try to pull over their readers. Finally, my favorite short story collection of all has got to be Roald Dahl's Tales of the Unexpected. They're bold and sometimes comical insights into the oft-hidden dark aspects of human nature. Spellbounding and uncomfortable - his stories are not easily forgettable.

Reading multiple books - good or bad?

2010-01-12T22:15:00.003+08:00

My journey is almost done...whew. Journey of writing a story for a Marshall Cavendish competition that is looking for stories in their anthology of Asian short stories. Fingers crossed and with a thousand prayers, it'll be accepted. Then, that will be story no. 3 published!

I'm very close to finishing The Scarlet Letter, so keep a look out for a review! That book has been my faithful breakfast companion for the past few months. Amazing what dedicated reading can do, even if it is only a few pages at a time over ginger tea and Maggi mee. A friend told me that it's a bad habit reading more than three books at any one time. "You get the message of the book, but not the journey."

Well, there may be a pinch of truth in that. I'm currently in the middle of, let's see, The Scarlet Letter (Nathaniel Hawthorne), Demons (Fyodor Dostoyevsky), Blind Woman, Sleeping Willow (Haruki Murakami), Mere Christianity (CS Lewis). Four books isn't too bad, I suppose, as I'm almost done with the first book. And I am finally beginning to pick up scant threads of the once-recondite plot of Demons - a spot of encouragement for me to finish the book!

Reading several books at one time can, I find, cause you to forget the thread you've been following. So, I've resolved to only read The Scarlet Letter during breakfast; other times will be reserved only for completing the tortuous, lengthy but warmly interesting Demons book.

Mires of books

2010-01-05T22:07:00.005+08:00

There are a million other things that deserve my attention right now, but here I am blogging on a warm sultry evening. To heck with it; I have tomorrow to set my brain straight (whispers the procrastinator in me). Anyhow, this post will be about difficult books, where my feet are stuck in deeper than the foulest swamps of Brazil.

Okay, perhaps classics like Fyodor Dostoyevsky's Demons and Salman Rushdie's The Satanic Verses (not a classic though its reading merits shoot way up because of its ban in Malaysia) do not deserve such querulous statements.

Let's start with Demons. Compared to Crime and Punishment, Demons is far more recondite. Endless trails of desultory dialogue mark the pages of Demons. The story is about a bunch of Russian revolutionaries who want to overthrow the government. I'm at page 426 out of 787 pages, about halfway through. I don't think I am doing the book justice; there must be a reason why it's deemed a classic. I think I just need to steel my mind to wade through the passionate ramblings of Dostoyevsky with more enlightened understanding.

Then, there's The Satanic Verses. The only reason why I'm reading it is because it was banned in Malaysia due to Muslim sensitivities. There were occasional random jibes at Prophet Muhammad and the Islamic religion. However, on the whole, the story seems to be like a trip down the schizophrenia lane, complete with real (or unreal) characters, scenes and events.

I'm stuck somewhere and I only remember two main characters of an angel and a demon who are trapped on earth (or something akin to that). Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett's hilarious account of an angel and demon, Good Omens, makes for vastly easier and more entertaining fare to consume.

To date, The Satanic Verses is one of the most difficult books I've ever read. Its plot is like an unstoppable train that goes off track in glee and continues its random, chaotic journey at high speed, driven by a manic driver on coke and ice. And no, I'm not referring to a soft drink.

But well, Sunday Times calls it a masterpiece. So, as before, I shall steel my heart to continue The Satanic Verses till the very end. Wish me luck!

Pygmy: American culture and sex, sex and more sex

2010-01-03T22:04:00.000+08:00

Now, my very first encounter with Chuck Palahniuk's works was not through the perennial classic, Fight Club (that book is actually on my reading list now). I was introduced to him through a collection of his non-fiction works, simply called Non-Fiction. That book shone like an uncut diamond; it was brutal and honest, no frills attached. But anyhow, I am not reviewing that book. The book that I'd like to review is a fictional work of his called Pygmy.

The first thing that caught my attention in Pygmy was the way language was used. The book was written from the protagonist's first-person perspective, who spoke using broken English. Not once, not twice; but throughout the entire book. A sample of the way he writes:

Operative me ready. Could be simple two pointed elbows to father's chest, one-two, kam-pow, Flying Eagle maneuver, and three days, by after next today, will father be vomiting both lungs, turned inside out with massive blood, dead. Fast as easy, young child able do.

His use of such language is dead funny when he requests for a dance from a classmate at a school dance, which he terms "student mating ritual". In one instance, he says "Respected potential reproductive vessel, request engage preliminary foreplay ritual prior genital coitus". Jaw-breakingly funny.

The book is mainly about Pygmy, whose cultural background seems to be a mixture of communist China, Cuba, Russia and nazi Germany. He detests America and thinks that all Americans are homosexuals in secret. Pygmy is adopted by an American family and he is hell-bent on destroying America with the help of fellow spy comrades.

Pygmy is highly amusing, and its unique narrative is highly original. The protagonist is an especially strong character, which thankfully, is not treated just as a cardboard cut-out freak. Quite a fair bit of history is written about the protagonist, which lends depth to the story. However, the ending was a bit of a let-down; surprisingly, it was a wholly predictable happy fairytale ending. Its "predictability" was unpredictable; never expected it to come from Chuck Palahniuk. Perhaps, that was his way of shocking his readers. Compared to Rant, Pygmy ended on a corny, bland note.

Having said that, the ending of Pygmy doesn't detract from its brilliance. The surgically-precise dissection of American culture and its obsession with sex done in a funny, in-your-face manner is a must-read. Great as an intelligent light read. Be prepared to digest every single sentence thoroughly if you want to make sense of the novel. Pygmy's broken English takes some getting used to.

Good books - better than sex?

2009-12-29T22:54:00.000+08:00

A friend suggested that I blog on book reviews, since I love books to death. Plus, he said bookstores may come flocking to me for advertisements. Always so practical. I thought it was a good idea. Good books are like orgasms - they're hard to come by, for women anyway. But when you come across a really good book, it takes you to your most favorite place on earth...a quiet coffee joint with soft jazz notes playing upon the aroma of roasted coffee beans...hot chocolate in a beloved sofa on a tranquil rainy day...what better way than to recognize such good books than to write about them?

Brilliant idea eh? Another fringe benefit - it'll motivate me to finish my book, at least. As of now, I have these books to finish devouring, or swallowing slowly:

Fyodor Dostoyevsky: Demons (swallowing slowly...very slowly)
Salman Rushdie: The Satanic Verses (in force-feeding mode)
Salman Rushdie: Grimus (chewing has not yet begun)
CS Lewis: Mere Christianity
Haruki Murakami: Blind Willow, Sleeping Woman
Sir Arthur Conan Doyle: The Complete Sherlock Holmes (blame it on Robert Downey Jr's oh-so-sexy portrayal of Homes). I only read the abridged versions when I was young, which didn't include bits on Holmes' favorite seven percent cocaine solution.
Tan Twan Eng: The Gift of Rain
Nathaniel Hawthorne: The Scarlet Letter

And finally, the creme de la creme, Margaret Atwood's The Year of the Flood! Oh, such bliss! The first book I'll review in time to come is Chuck Palahniuk's delightful book called Pygmy, which I recently finished.