The Prose Portal

April 27, 2006

Snow Crash by Neal Stephenson

Filed under: science fiction — Javi @ 10:56 am

Snow Crash cover

Until a man is twenty-five, he still thinks, every so often, that under the right circumstances he could be the baddest motherfucker in the world. If I moved to a martial-arts monastery in China and studied real hard for ten years. If my family was wiped out by Colombian drug dealers and I swore myself to revenge. If I got a fatal disease, had one year to live, and devoted it to wiping out street crime. If I just dropped out and devoted my life to being bad.

If you've read The Fountainhead by Ayn Rand, there's a part in the book where the supposed powers that be influence collective consciousness by inserting supposedly innocuous references in media (carefully placed headlines, opinion columns, reviews popularizing slightly unusual plays, even words included in the daily crossword puzzles).

Well, that's how Snow Crash came to my attention.

(more…)

April 26, 2006

Just a hi hello

Filed under: Uncategorized — mika @ 4:41 pm

Hi guys, things are a bit on the slow side. Reviews by next week, though! On my part, White Teeth by Zadie Smith and Notes on a Scandal by Zoe Heller. 

April 21, 2006

An article

Filed under: bookstuff — mika @ 9:16 am

 

In light of Jaemark's post, I decided to dig up an article (that has yet to be named) I wrote about secondhand bookstores for a now-defunct magazine. I thought it would be relevant to the community, one way or another, especially since I know a lot of people can relate.

There are certain things about bookstores that make every booklover’s head reel: the shiny floors, the conspiratorial buzz of anonymous comrades, and the stacks upon stacks of gleaming, inviting pieces of heaven, in all their plastic-wrapped glory. It feels like home and how you know it like the back of your hand. Even if you are the most geographically-disabled person, you know that in a bookstore, getting lost is out of the question. How can you get lost when everything is so impeccably arranged? When everything is so compartmentalized? Fiction. Non-fiction. History. Philippine Publications. Everything is sorted in comfortable, foolproof, alphabetical order. Rest assured, you will always find your way. Running your fingers along the multiple copies of the multiple books, there is the assurance that no matter what, they will never fail you. No matter what, they will always be there – for you and whoever else needs them. At peace, you take your time to dawdle, to peep at what other people are buying, to stand around and take everything in, even until the last possible minute before it is time to leave and finally, take The Book home with you. You can do this with your eyes closed. It’s automatic.

 

Realize that in all its sterility and mechanization, you take part in its automation. All the world’s a stage, says Shakespeare. So what of your usual bookstores? Well, they’re anti-climactic, plot-less plays. Sure, it’s safe and dependable. What about the rising action, though? The climax? The catharsis?

That, my friends, is where the secondhand bookstores come in.

 

The place is usually small — inconspicuous except to keen observers and serious book-scavengers. More often than not, they are found in stalls located within groceries, markets, and malls. Inside, there are rows upon rows of well-worn wooden shelves filled to the brim with books, magazines and school supplies. Beneath each shelf, squished at the very bottom, are more books. The difference, however, is that they are endearingly scattered in a dizzying disarray. No categories here. The few signs that they have to point you in the right direction almost always fail. The Grishams are heaped along with the Atwoods. Sandwiched between two books on astrology is a Norton Anthology. Nothing is where it should be and tell me, what can be more exciting than that? You are required, then, to rapidly rummage through piles, feverishly flip over titles, and doggedly dig through every mound of material. The best part is, that you never know what you are looking for. One goes into secondhand bookstores with a wonderful sense of anticipation because, in the words of Forrest Gump, you never know what you’re gonna get.

There is an art to looking for these diamonds in the rough. Scared of dust? Away with you — get thee to posh, sterile, overpriced bookstores. Walking gingerly between shelves will not get you that “The Robber Bride” by Margaret Atwood, “Letters Home” by Sylvia Plath, or “In the Night Kitchen” by Maurice Sendak. The most effective and strategic way to look at all the books is to go down on your hands and knees. Yes. There is nothing to lose and everything to gain by prostrating yourself before literature.

Also, there is the fact that the books are used. Granted, there is a certain pleasure derived in breaking into the wrapper of a new book. Like a new baby, you develop an almost motherly affection. You make sure that your hands are clean before you start reading it, you make sure that the spine will not bend, and, just to be sure that nobody else held it, you take a book from the middle of the stack. It guarantees the true sense of ownership. On the other hand, it is only natural for books to age. They get liver spots, wrinkles and wet patches – no matter how fastidiously you prevent them from happening. So what happens to books that are pre-handled, dog-eared, and worn? Apart from their being dirt cheap, there is a certain romance in a pre-owned book.

Secondhand books have a history to them, which is, if you think about it, fascinating. Inside books, I had found shopping lists with 4 different kinds of pasta, inter-state boarding passes, names proudly written on the front page, doodles, etc. It turned the reading of the book into a whole new experience, knowing it came from other hands and touched other minds. It is a story – one that is scribbled hurriedly upon, behind and within another story. It is like holding a little hand mirror up to a full-length one, with different faces for each reflection.

Bringing Down the House

Filed under: gambling, nonfiction — jaemark @ 1:57 am

About a week ago, I was playing poker with a bunch of friends from high school. Now, we're smart people for the most part, having attended the country's top public high school, with most of us going on to take tough science and engineering courses in the best universities. Poker night, however, does not lend itself to erudition, and so the evening was filled with really stupid quips, such as "Poker is 50% betting and 100% luck" as well as dumb terms like a "suited pair". It probably had a lot to do with the Red Horse and the gin-and-juice we were having that night.

The characters in Ben Mezrich's book Bringing Down the House, who were all MIT students, are much, much smarter than we are. (Although, I must say, that the person who finished second in our class actually did go to MIT, and he finished with honors there as well.) They were all much better at cards than we are too, as the book tells the story about how they used their talents to win millions of dollars off of Vegas casinos.

Their success stems from the fact that they played blackjack. Blackjack is unique among casino games in that it has a memory; that is, the cards the are dealt directly affect the odds of the next card. Because of this, counting cards is possible, as you might be familiar with if you've seen the film "Rain Man".

The book detaals the story of a team of MIT student who take counting cards to the next level. It starts off by revealing their advanced methods, which rely mostly on their mental prowess. The book then chronicles the rest of their adventures in the seedy gambling world, with the highs: winning millions of dollars, sleeping with hot women, hobnobbing with celebrities, and living the life in Vegas; and the lows: the crackdown on them by the casinos, the threats on their lives, and the inevitable disintegration of their team.

If you enjoyed Rounders (which I did, immensely), or if you're into gambling (ditto), or if you just appreciate genius (this too), or if you're just a geek who likes mathematics (guilty), then pick up this book and brace yourself for a helluva ride.

Booksale treasures

Filed under: bookstuff — jaemark @ 1:27 am

I had made a promise to myself to spend less, since I'm going to have to spend a lot of money for some big changes coming soon. However, last Tuesday, I found myself at a Booksale in Cubao, and I couldn't help myself. I ended up going home about 700 pesos lighter, and with the following books under my arm:

Al Franken – Lies and the Lying Liars Who Tell Them
Frank McCourt – 'Tis
Elizabeth Wurtzel – Bitch: In Praise of Difficult Women
Pat Riley – The Winner Within
Roddy Doyle – A Star Called Henry
Jasper Fforde – The Well of Lost Plots

I love the fact that I wouldn't have picked up the last book if it weren't for Mika's review here. Now I can honestly say that this blog has helped my book-buying habit.

I think this has been my richest Booksale haul ever. My last memorable trip to Booksale, I think I came away with copies of East of Eden, All the Pretty Horses, and Snow Falling on Cedars. How about you?

April 18, 2006

The 2006 Pulitzer Prize Winners have been announced

Filed under: news — Javi @ 8:13 am

The complete list of winners is here
FICTION
March by Geraldine Brooks (Viking)

HISTORY
Polio: An American Story by David M. Oshinsky (Oxford University Press)

BIOGRAPHY
American Prometheus: The Triumph and Tragedy of J. Robert Oppenheimer by Kai Bird and Martin J. Sherwin (Alfred A. Knopf)

POETRY
Late Wife by Claudia Emerson (Louisiana State University Press)

GENERAL NON-FICTION
Imperial Reckoning: The Untold Story of Britain's Gulag in Kenya by Caroline Elkins (Henry Holt)

April 14, 2006

Specimen Days by Michael Cunningham

Filed under: fiction, science fiction — mika @ 4:27 pm

specimen days

The most potent incidences of beauty were the ones that felt like personal discoveries, that seemed to have been meant specifically for you, as if some vast intelligence had singled you out and wanted to show you something. - Specimen Days

If one is going to talk about Specimen Days, one is going to have to talk about the city, any city. Cities are generally thought to be places where people make something of themselves. It is not uncommon for people from rural places to relocate to cities for the promise of financial stability, however little. A city represents power; in the form of money, high-rise buildings, factories, various modes of transportation … even the smog may be associated with power. However much people are attracted to an urban setting, though, there are some who find it unbearably constraining and cannot wait to leave. In Michael Cunningham’s (of The Hours’ fame) latest, the characters all want out.

Set in New York, Specimen Days is divided into three parts, all of which talk about the same city but at different periods. The first part is New York at the height of the Industrial Revolution. Lucas, thirteen years old, is forced to grow up and stop school not only because of poverty but because Simon, his older brother, was killed operating a machine that manufactures spare parts. The factory then agrees to hire Lucas to take Simon’s place, a gesture that can be attributed more to employee shortage than compassion. As a result, the burden of finding food and caring for his sick parents is hoisted onto Lucas’ bony shoulders. At work, he discovers that machines, whether they are music boxes or sewing machines, have the uncanny desire and eventual power to suck their owners into themselves – they contain the dead. He hears Simon’s voice just behind his machine’s hypnotic creaking, and, the more he takes up his position behind its cogs and wheels, the more he feels the need to escape, though not alone. As befits a hero (and Lucas is a hero), there is someone to save; Catherine, Simon’s ex-fiancée, who Lucas believes is his only love and responsibility.

The second part of the novel shows present-day New York, where terrorist threats and racial issues are fairly commonplace. Cat Martin is a highly educated, middle-aged police officer, in charge of taking calls from, in her words, the “regular nuts” who announce that they are bombing a certain place or killing a certain person because of a wide variety of (often ridiculous) reasons. However, one of her callers, a little boy, actually followed through. He had a homemade bomb strapped to his chest, and, walking up to a stranger, hugged him, thereby detonating the bomb and killing both of them. The incident was a slap to Cat’s face because she had brushed that call aside, thinking it was not of any importance. Guilt-ridden, she received a call from another child several days later, asking if she had spoken to his “brother” and not divulging any information other than the fact that he wasn’t supposed to call and shouldn’t have. Despite their being able to trace the call, a second bomb went off by Central Park with the same details – crude bomb strapped to the chest and detonation by hugging a random passerby. Cat, who has not gotten over the recent death of her son and her failed marriage, is barely able to handle the physical and emotional strain of the recent happenings. Her boyfriend, perfect and dependable Simon, is now insufficient for the life she realizes she needs, which is to be away from the city that is gradually turning into a monstrosity.

The third and final part of Specimen Days is the New York of the future, where the city itself is a novelty and a thing of the past. Central Park is converted into a theme park, where foreigners pay to be harassed, mugged, etc., to get the complete New York experience, so to speak. Simon is a simulo – a robot endowed with almost all the human characteristics – and works as one of the park’s attractions. An unexplainable urge pushes Simon to desert his job and go to Denver to, again with the cliché, meet his maker along with a Nadian named Catareen, a creature with green skin and flame-colored eyes. Other than the mysterious pull, Simon has a lot of questions for the person who created him, the most pressing of which is why he feels that he is always “on the brink of something” and yet not getting there. For instance, he thinks he comprehends beauty and then discovers that it is merely a crude impression. Midway through their journey, they run into a child named Luke who prefers to join them rather than stay with a religious cult he had somehow ensnared himself with. This unlikely trio – a robot, an alien and a precocious child – sticks together through hunger, possible arrests and contaminated lake water, in the abstract hope that they find what it is they are looking for be it family, courage or love.

Aside from the city and the permutations of names, what binds Specimen Days together is the literal and underlying presence of Walt Whitman. The novel is named after one of Whitman's works, after all. Lucas, in the first part of the book, speaks in intermittent bursts of poetry, fits that are beyond his control. Leaves of Grass is his Bible, from which he reads a passage every night and recites as fittingly as a clairvoyant would. The child-bombers from the second part get their inspiration from Whitman’s principles and grew up in a house filled wall-to-wall with pages from his poetry. Finally, Simon the simulo is embedded with a Whitman poetry chip and cannot control his outbursts as well.

Specimen Days is beautifully and impeccably written. Cunningham’s language is haunting and although it seems odd that the book is romance, history and sci-fi all at the same time, it is seamless and requires so much effort to put down. It is definitely up to par with the Pulitzer Prize winning The Hours, and even more imaginative. There are a lot of wonderful books about poetry but those like Specimen Days are rare, in that they already are poetry. I cannot recommend this enough.

April 10, 2006

Amsterdam

Filed under: fiction — jaemark @ 4:39 am

I picked up a copy of the Booker-prize winning Amsterdam by Ian McEwan knowing very little about the book or the author. Because of this, I wasn't prepared for the novel's killer blend of wicked dark humour and surgically-precise psychological protraits. The most amazing thing was all of it was packed into 208 pages of delightful reading.

The story opens at the funeral of the lovely Molly Lane, one-time mistress to both longtime friends Clive, an influential classical composers, and Vernon, editor-in-chief of one of the country's leading dailies. Also at the funeral was another of Molly's former lovers, right-wing politician Julian Garmony, as well as Molly's husband, the rich publisher George Lane, for both of whom the friends held great contempt.

The nature of Molly's death affects the friends greatly; they had known her for a long time as a happy-go-lucky girl. The mystery disease that struck her had, according to rumors, turned her into a vegetable. Soon after, Clive and Vernon agree on a pact to kill each other if either of them contract such a disease.

The rest of the story revolves around the four men, as their worlds becomes entangled far more complexly than when Molly was alive. Clive and Vernon's friendship slowly falls apart with feelings of resentment and jealousy, as George produces photographs taken by Molly featuring Julian in compromising positions, and offers them to Vernon for publication.

While deep into the book, I kept thinking to myself how "macho" the whole novel read like, as McEwan shows off his amazing knowledge of the male psyche. Every bit of insecurity and pettiness is captured. There was even this brilliant stretch as he goes into the mind of his composer, documenting his creative process and pulling it off.

Some parts may have come off a bit contrived, and the ending was fairly obvious, but make no mistake about it. This book is a masterpiece, and Ian McEwan is the maestro tugging at the strings.

April 9, 2006

Haroun and the Sea of Stories by Salman Rushdie

Filed under: fantasy, fiction — wildflowersoul @ 9:02 pm


I'm twenty, and I think I've lost the hang of reading fantasy children's literature. I plodded through Abarat last year and I'm stuck in the middle of its sequel. I read every Harry Potter book that comes out the moment our family gets a copy. But all the same, something just tells me that I'm not enjoying the novel the way I should. I feel like I'm reading something watered down, and my brain feels like it's moving through mush, slowly and not too surely. I chalked it up to age, and the fact that the experience of reading a novel changes drastically with adolescence and subsequent adulthood.

The moment I started Haroun and the Sea of Stories by Salman Rushdie, however, I knew it was going to be different. It took a lot of time to get into it, but after a couple of pages I realized I was reading this book the same way I used to read books when I was younger — as fast as I could, gobbling up each and every word because I was so excited with the plot and much too in love with the characters. Rather than taking my time to carefully read all the lines (and sometimes in between them), I found myself running instead of treading carefully, and occasionally tripping. I'd go back and reread parts that I had accidentally skipped over in my excitement.

The plot of this novel effects this kind of quick, excited feeling in the reader. The story is that of a young boy named Haroun, the son of a storyteller named Rashid who suddenly loses all will and motivation to come up with new stories for the crowds. At a politician's campaign, he suddenly loses his tongue and ends up croaking in front of thousands of people. Haroun wants to help his father, who is in danger of death at the hands of an angry politician. His quest takes him to the earth's second moon, to a land where half of the world is submerged in light and the rest in darkness, where he encounters mechanical birds, strange gardeners, water genies, and many more.

Haroun and the Sea of Stories is an incredibly fast read. The plot travels at a lightning pace, with cliffhangers at the end of every chapter and exposition occuring at the mere snap of a finger. I finished this book within a couple of hours, and ended it just a few minutes before writing this review. On the one hand, while the plot realy is rather elaborate and quite "magical," the characters seem nothing more than strange and often irritating creatures. One is instantly reminded of the almost caricatural supporting characters found in Rushdie's other novels.

Yet while it is true that Rushdie may have sacrificed depth thanks to the length of his book, it's still something more than a meaningless fairytale. The slight but not too subtle political jabs could very well lead one to read the novel as being primarily about freedom of speech, or fact vs. fiction (ala The Life of Pi). All the same, doing so quickly erases the kind of breathless and enchanted feeling that can only be experienced when reading a fantasy novel as a child. And really, that's the most enjoyable kind of reading one can do.

LightWedge Harry Potter Lumos Booklight

Filed under: bookstuff — Javi @ 9:00 pm

The LightWedge Harry Potter Lumos Booklight is an acrylic sheet that fits on top of a page to illuminate your reading.

Lumos in Action

Product page on Amazon.com 

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