And Now I've Ended Mr. Y

I'm cheating. This is a repost of my review of "The End of Mr. Y" by Scarlett Thomas, originally posted on my Tumblr.  I've been remiss on my reading, so this is the best I can do at the moment. 

"The End of Mr. Y"

Scarlett Thomas

2006

“The End of Mr. Y” is not an easy book to read.

Not if you’re me, mainly because I suck at science stuff (I’m a history and literature geek, kids) and never could wrap my head around even the most basic details of physics, much less its quantum brother.

(SIde note: I’ve concluded that I’m shit at billiards even though I’m excellent at geometry because of my bad grasp of physics, hence the whole “force/distance/acceleration” calculation problem.)

The book tells a pretty simple story: self-destructive Ph.D. student Ariel finds a rare book by the author she’s studying in a second-hand bookstore, and reads it even though it’s supposedly cursed.

But that’s just the frame.

Inside the story is a multitude of other stories, each one incredibly real and difficult and painful.  

“The End of Mr. Y” challenges our notions of reality, consciousness, god and existence.  It’s a bit technical, thanks to the use of binary code as metaphor for reality (among other examples), and Scarlett Thomas can be quite wordy, but all in all it’s a decent and entertaining read.

I don’t know how exactly it happened, but Thomas manages to combine Poe, Sartre, Heidegger, Einstein and God into one entertaining thought experiment.

Maybe it’s because underneath all the divisions between science, literature, philosophy and religion is just man’s innate need to understand what it is to exist.  Forget the why; the very question of us living in a solar system seemingly devoid of other life forms is enough of a conundrum to last a lifetime.

What made us? What keeps us existing?

We’ve got a myriad ways of looking at it, but like “The End of Mr. Y”, there really is never enough of a satisfying answer.

Hello, Comrade

Pygmy
Chuck Palahniuk
2009

I actually finished reading the novel two days ago, but I was in some sort of funk (still am) and I simply didn't have the energy to open MacLovin and go online after work.  I kept sleeping. I'm always sleepy, I know, but I was sleeping earlier than usual, which was (I think) attributable to the aforementioned funk.

Anyway, enough with the personal drama.

This is my first foray into Chuck Palahniuk.  I have honestly no idea who he is, save for the "Fight Club" bit, which I did not even watch.  Yeah, I'm a caveman like that. Ooga booga.

So hey, I bought a Palahniuk book the last time I entered a bookstore.  The summary on the back cover seemed interesting, and it was kinda cheap.

Basically, the entire book is written from the point of view of "Pygmy" (technically not his name), a terrorist from some totalitarian state that has the United States of America at the top of its hitlist.  Disguised as an exchange student, Pygmy and a few other agents have infiltrated American society, designed a deadly weapon under the guise of a winning "science project", and undertook an attack that would shock the country.

Unfortunately, Pygmy falls in love. 

Ah love. That bit of rubbery rubbish that sneaks into the cogs of a perfect, totalitarian society. It *spoilers, just in case* foils the terrorist plot and Pygmy gets to stay in the land of the free, home of the brave.

Awesome.

Now then.  I think the book was a fun romp, all in all.  It's written completely in ENGRISH, which is a bitch and a half.  It's incredibly difficult to read. 

The plot itself is interesting, if not original.  Pygmy is a sympathetic character, despite the terrorism, and the constant hard on, and the sodomy.  He's intelligent, charming and somewhat endearing.

Despite that, I can't get over the smugness in Palahniuk's writing.  There's some sort of "wink wink, nudge nudge" quality to his paragraphs, particular when depicting the flaws that Americans possess.  The xenophobia, the obesity, the consumerist mentality -- these are all realistic faults, but Palahniuk seems so glib in depicting them that it all ends up insincere and completely negates whatever point he was trying to make in the first place.

Sort of like Michael Moore bludgeoning your brains with his beliefs.

I'd agree, but you're so over-the-top it seems clownish already.

This doesn't completely turn me off Palahniuk.  I think he's an interesting writer, and I suppose I'll read a few more of his books, provided the summary on the back cover is promising.

Breaking the Fourth Dimension

A Wrinkle in Time

Madeleine L'Engle

1962

I first saw the book on my favorite cousin's desk when I was ten or so, displayed resplendently along side a few of her other books.  I picked it up a few times but never did finish reading it; seemed like there were just too many books and so little time to read them all.

There's not a lot to be said about the book. 

It's a bit like some sort of Doctor Who primer, with all the requisite science mumbo jumbo and dimensions and time and space.  Reading about their complicated "tessering" (some sort of jump through a "wrinkle" in time and space that allowed them to travel to different planets and universes in record time), I couldn't help but think that having a TARDIS would have sorted their problem out in no time.

Beyond the science stuff that I could barely wrap my head around (and this is a bloody children's book -- I am quite certain now that I actually failed the science part of NSAT), the book is a very interesting coming of age tale.

Meg Murry is as immature as they come, completely insecure and IRRITATING in the most capital letters imaginable.  At this point, however, I can't help but wonder how beautiful it would have been if I'd read this book when I was actually a kid, back when I knew what it was like to rely on someone else.  I've gone past that.  

I know that people are fallible, that there really is no one for me to lean on, that to get things done I have to do them myself.  

I think I was going for "mature" but overshot to "jaded".

Despite my inability to sympathize with Meg, I do find her blossoming love affair with damaged-but-hot Calvin O'Keefe incredibly sweet.  The boy quotes Shakespeare and holds her hand whenever she's afraid -- definitely a keeper.  

Four more books in the series. Let's see if they can depress me more than the first one did.

Seek the Mean

I just started reading Mireille Guilliano's French Women Don't Get Fat a few days ago.

It all started with Longchamp bags. I saw them, realized they were the epitome of I-don't-give-a-fuck chic (you know how fashionable I am, daah-lings), and sort of decided I liked French people.

So I thought, hey, book about French people. This should be cool.

I'm entirely tangential that way.

Basically, the book talks about how French women think their way out of obesity.  Mind over matter, mostly, as Guilliano discourages the extreme fad diets that most women get into around eight to ten times a year. You indulge yourself, occasionally, making the indulgence a particularly savory treat and all the more rewarding when you finally get to eat it.

In case you're wondering, no I don't exactly need to diet.  I'm okay, I think, but I do have a terrible relationship with food.  I skip meals, I binge when I feel like it, and mostly I think my eating habits are NOT HEALTHY.

So this might be a helpful book after all.

What's more interesting, really, is how it's a helpful book for reminding us of the path of moderation.  Sort of like Aristotle's Mean, except a lot easier to figure out and infinitely tastier.  

I'm thinking it's applicable even beyond food.

I think work has poisoned my spending habits.  I earn my own money, I slave away every freaking day (yep, have freelance writing and translation projects to face on weekends), and I suppose I started thinking that I deserved to indulge my self time and again.  

Soon enough, indulgences became more regular and before I knew it, I've lost even the joy that shopping brings.

I'm not spending beyond my means, really, but I think I've lost sight of frugality in the past few years.  So reading this book, it really got me thinking.  

My main weakness is shopping for skin care, so I've decided to incorporate Guilliano's philosophy into my attitude towards unholy consumerism.    I'm avoiding temptations, recalibrating my needs and setting an incentive that will make the days of frugality joyful and bearable. 

A Longchamp, maybe.

The End

The Sweet Far Thing
Libba Bray
2007

I've done it.

I've finished the book.  

And I can't say it gives me closure.

The problem with trilogies is that they sort of leave you wanting more.  You've come this far, combed through a thousand-odd combined pages, and you feel like you know these people, love them.

The familiarity is oddly satisfying.

But then everything comes to an abrupt close, if you can call eight hundred or so pages abrupt.

The final novel in Libba Bray's Gemma Doyle trilogy begins sluggishly, constantly referencing the first two.  I found this unnecessary, honestly.  People don't just pick up the third book in a trilogy.  It's too weird a thing to do.  So if I'm reading this book, Ms. Bray, chances are I've read the first two.  No need to remind me.  I've slugged through lengthier book series (series-es?), so I suppose my mind can hold on to details from just two other novels, thank you very much.

Still, Bray finds her voice back halfway into the thick tome, which is much welcome.

Without giving away too much, the final novel offers bittersweet endings and new beginnings.  I'm not saying it's unsatisfying a conclusion, but Libba Bray, you broke my heart. Because I love Kartik, and I love Gemma and aaaggghhhhhh I have no words, woman.

I really haven't outgrown my childhood fear of Indians and their jute sacks, but Kartik and his cinnamon kisses have won me over. Le sigh.  

Ah, Libba Bray, you horrid, horrid woman.  

Gush, Gush

Rebel Angels

Libba Bray

2006

I cannot eat. I cannot sleep.

Or maybe "barely" is more suitable a description.  I did have a pretty big lunch, but I had nothing but soup for dinner.

Because of a book.

I was still awake around 2:30 this morning, twisting and turning to keep myself from going back and opening the book to read just another paragraph or two.

Please?

It's never good when I bargain with myself.

I managed to sleep eventually.  Maybe the realization that I had to wake up freaking early today finally convinced me to put the book down and get some necessary sleep.

The book in question: Libba Bray's "Rebel Angels", second book in the Gemma Doyle trilogy.

I can't explain how it happened, but I haven't been this obsessed in YEARS.

Blame it on my friend Baboyita, who got me hooked.

Yesterday, I stood up to lean over the partition that separated us, and I said with much conviction: "I'm getting the next two books in the trilogy."

She lent me the first one, like pushers are wont to do for potential addicts, knowing that I would not be able to resist the temptation.

It would be impossible to ask me for a proper review now.  I can't. I'm much too in love with the characters, daft and irritating they may sometimes be.  I love Kartik, the brave but wavering Indian boy with beautiful lashes and kisses that taste of cinnamon.  I love Gemma, the annoying and gullible girl with more secrets than anyone should be allowed to harbor.

I love every little inch of the book, and asking me for anything rational at the moment is seriously impossible.

It's like asking me to explain me why I like Harry Potter, or bubble wrap, or gnawing my fingernails.  There are no words.

And now I'm done with this book.

I'm just taking a quick and breathless break to gush, bathe and dive back into my bed with the next installment.

Greatly Terrible, Terribly Great

A Great and Terrible Beauty

Libba Bray

2003

Good writers know that it's not the story you tell, but how you tell the story.

There's really nothing new in "A Great and Terrible Beauty" -- the first book in Libba Bray's "Gemma Doyle" trilogy.  A girl discovers that she is the chosen one with supernatural powers she can barely control and an antagonist who seeks to destroy the world.  

Really not very original.

But this doesn't take anything away from the story itself.  

Libba Bray may have faults in her tone and style, but to get technical is to lose the beauty of the book.

The characters come alive after a rather dreary introduction, becoming flesh and bone before the reader's very eyes.  I half suspect Bray herself lost control over the characters halfway into writing the novel.  Infuriating, loveable, charming, awful -- the characters are contradictions in themselves, each one fully honest and human.

I hate to say this, but "A Great and Terrible Beauty" actually succeeds where "Hunger Games" failed.  I have little love for Katniss, but Bray's protagonist Gemma Doyle has me tripping head over heels.

She's vulnerable, feisty, stupid, clever, angry, pitiful, lovelorn, abandoned -- she's human.  

She's completely imperfect, which makes her perfectly lovable.

I'm excited to read the rest of the series.

PS: Libba Bray, when you write about Kartik's kiss tasting of cinnamon, you get me hot and hungry at the same time. Tsk. Mmm... cinnamon.

Who Takes Away the Sins of the World

LAMB: The Gospel According to Biff, Christ's Childhood Pal

Christopher Moore 

2002

“LAMB” is a book.  “LAMB” is a very entertaining book.

“LAMB” is the kind of book that, if Christians had the equivalent of fatwa, should’ve gotten author Christopher Moore killed seventy times seven times.

It’s the kind of book that gets good, pious panties all up in a bunch, which is fine by me really.  

Briefly: “LAMB” is the story of Joshua (Anglicized “Yeshua”) – confused son of God – and his best friend Levi who is called Biff.  Joshua and Biff travel to the east in search of the Three Wise Men, so that Joshua may learn how to be the Messiah. Along the way they learn much about philosophy, humanity and sex.  

Lots and lots of sex.

I suppose it says a lot about me that I find a twisted version of Jesus’ life incredibly funny but bristle at the inconsistencies in Moore’s explanation of Eastern philosophy and religion.

He made several crucial mistakes, particularly in his interpretation of “wu wei” (inaction) and his claim that Gautama Buddha was a bodhisattva.  There’s a reason why the title “buddha” was appended to his name, buddy.

And his depiction of the Cult of Kali was straight out of Indiana Jones, which is quite unfair, inaccurate and straight-up gross. I’m refraining from a tirade on the author’s Orientalist tone, because then you’d never hear the end of it.

The point, though, is that in a novel that plays fast and loose with Jesus’ life, the philosophical teachings he receives along the way should have been solid as rock. Otherwise, there’s no tying them to the development of Jesus’ teachings in the New Testament, right?

They’re supposed to be the controlled variables in a jumble of wild, Maury Povich-level variables, is what I’m saying.

But “LAMB” is a very good book, flaws and all. Some jokes are corny, some fall flat, and Biff can be annoying as fuck. Nevertheless, Moore presents a very human portrayal of his characters, divine origin or not.  

I’m not religious.  I’m sort of 90% Buddhist and 10% Christian – almost two decades of Christian education has made “oh my effing Lord please help me” prayers second nature already. I’ve read the Bible so many times I’ve lost count, and yet not once have I felt anything akin to emotion while reading the events leading to the crucifixion.

Perhaps it’s because I’ve always believed that Jesus was in on the plan, that he’d known about everything all along.  That it was a conscious decision on his part, sort of a kamikaze mission even.  If anything, I thought he viewed the crucifixion as an annoyance he simply had to go through to get rid of his mortal body and drive home the message before he went flying back home to heaven.

Reading “LAMB” reminded me of the prayer in Gethsemane – a crucial part of Jesus’ final hours yet rarely the focus of any Bible discussion.  Holy Week themes revolve around thorns and the seven last words far too much.

In Gethsemane, Jesus prayed.  It wasn’t a prayer of triumph, or excitement in what was to come.  He was afraid.  Completely and utterly afraid.  

Sometimes, when I think the world is crashing down and everything’s gone to hell, I shut my eyes and pray.  Because I’m afraid.  Completely and utterly afraid.  

It’s human.  All too human.

And in that respect alone, Christopher Moore succeeds where apostles have failed.

Man Does Not Live by Bread Alone

I wrote a very short review of Suzanne Collins' "The Hunger Games" a week or so ago, back when I'd just started the idea of having a book blog.

I thought I'd stick with Tumblr then, but I sort of thought otherwise eventually, thus ending up here.

The review was very short, really, but it took me a while before I could somehow capture the mixed emotions I was having after reading the book.  I did not "like it" like it, but it left me with dull pain in my chest and my palms twitching -- a sure sign of impact, given my stunted emotional growth.

But even after writing the review I felt that I hadn't quite hit the nail on the head, like I'd barely scratched the surface on this one.  I liked the book, but not expressly for the writing, or the plot.  What did I like about it then, and what makes me want to read the sequel?

Then yesterday, it dawned on me.

It was Peeta. 

Peeta Mellark, the boy with the bread.  It is perhaps no coincidence that his name is Peeta, and he bakes bread.  

Peeta Mellark -- a lumbering, unwieldy young man whose greatest talent is painting himself with mud and dead leaves to avoid detection.  Who knew cake-decorating would qualify as a jungle survival skill?  

I'm not very fond of Katniss.  She's interesting, true, with her very remarkable hunting skills and bravery.  But it's Peeta who, without attempting to, really shines and gives the book its humanity.  Katniss, for all her courage and intelligence, does not come across as a very "human" character.  Could it have been the way she was written, or the way she's described?  It's difficult to explain, but I find no sympathy for Katniss (except perhaps in her interaction with her sister).

Peeta, on the other hand, is weak and bumbling.  He's brave and well-meaning but he ends up a burden to Katniss.  And yet despite all of his flaws, he comes across as genuine and reliable, someone Katniss can actually believe in if she wanted to.

So, the boy with the bread.  He's got my vote on this one.

Man does not live by bread alone, but sometimes bread is all you need.