nAmpUchAng lAyf nI lEn: bOOk

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'gApO (At IsAng pUtIng pIlIpInO, sA mUndO ng mgA AmErIkAnOng kUlAy brOwn)

Saturday, February 18, 2012 | Labels: bOOk, nOypI, rEvIEw

Ang Gapo ay ang unang aklat na isinulat ni Lualhati Bautista.

Ito ay kwento ng apat na tauhan na sumasalamin sa buhay ng mga kababayan nating Pilipino noong panahon na ang base military ng Amerika ay nasa ating bansa pa.

Si Michael Taylor Jr. ay isang G.I. (Government issue) baby. Matapos maanakan ng isang puting amerikano ang kangyang ina bumalik na sa Amerika si Michael Taylor Sr. at hindi na muling nagpakita pa sa kanila. Ito ang nagging dahilan para magalit si Mike sa mga Kano. Madalas ang galit nya ay dinadaan nya na lamang sa mga kinakanta nya sa Freedom Pad kung saan sya ay tumutugtog gabi-gabi.

Si Modesto, isang trabahador sa base. Madalas syang nasa Freedom Pad, inuubos ang pera sa pag-inom dahil nais makalimot sa mga pang-aapi sa kanya sa base. Kung tawagin sya ng kanyang boss ay Yard Bird o ibon na nag-aantay lamang ng mga tira-tira. Ito ang dahilan kung bakit ayaw nyang dito magtrabaho ang kanyang anak. Sa labas kasi ay pinagyayabang nya na hindi sya nagpapaapi sa mga kano pero ang totoo ay kayan-kayanan sya ng mga ito. Ngunit nagpumilit ang kanyang anak at ng malaman nya mula dito na nabunyag na ang kanyang lihim. Napahiya sya sa kanyang anak higi't lalo sa kanyang sarili. Nung tinawag ulit syang yard bird ng kanyang amo ay nagpanting ang kanyang tainga at umalma na sya. Ito ang naging dahilan upang pagtulungan sya hanggang mapatay dahil sa palo ng tubo. Ninais syang ipagtanggol ng kaibigan na si William Smith. Isang Kano na nakapag-asawa ng Pinay, ngunit ito ay dinismiss sa kanyang trabaho at pinabalik sa Amerika ng opisyal ng base. Dahil dito hindi nabigyan ng katarungan ang pagkamatay ni Desto.

Si Ali, ay isang bakla na maykaya sa buhay at madalas maghanap ng mapipick-up sa Freedom Bar. Sya ang nag-aalaga sa kanyang pamangkin na lumaki sa States. Nang makilala nyang isang nya si Richard Halloay, isang kano akala nya ay may isang lalaki na na magmamahal ng tapat sa isang katulad nya. Huli na ng malaman nya na kakutsaba pala ito ng kasambahay nyang si Igna. Nang mahuli nya ang dalawa na nililimas ang kaha de yero nya, pinagtulungan syang gulpihin ng mga ito.

Kasama ni Mike sa bahay ang kaibigan ng kanyang ina na si Magda. Isang hostess sa Freedom Pad kung saan tumutugtog si Mike. Kung si Mike ay galit sa Kano, si Magda naman ay humaling sa kahit anong bagay na stateside. Isa sya sa mga kababaihang nangangarap na makasilo ng isang kano para matupad ang pangarap na makapunta sa Estados Unidos. Nung makilala nya si Steve Taylor akala nya ay matutupad na ang kanyang pangarap. Ngunit nung malaman ni Steve na sya ay nagdadalang-tao iniwan din sya nito. Pinagtapat na may pamilya na syang naiwan sa Amerika.

Naging kaibigan ni Mike si Steve kaya akala ng huli ay maiintindihan ni Mike ang sitwasyon nya. Pero nagbalik kay Mike ang nangyari sa kanyang ina, ang sarili nyang sitwasyon, ang naranasang pang-aapi sa mga kaibigan nyang si Desto at Ali, at ngayon ay si Magda nagdilim ang paningin ni Mike. Hinampas nya ngkanyang gitara si Steve hanggang sa mapatay nya ito. Nakulong si Mike pero hindi nya pinagsisisihan ang ginawa nya. Hindi ipinalaglag ni Magda ang pingabubuntis nya at balak nya itong pangalanang Michael Taylor III.

Ang sakit na ito ng Gapo ay sakit pa rin hanggang ngayon ng mga Pilipino. Ang mangarap manirahan sa ibang bansa lalo na sa Estados Unidos. Mapapatunayan ito sa haba ng pila sa US embassy sa Maynila araw-araw. Mahilig tayo buumili ng mga pagkain at gamit na stateside. Kahit gaano pa kamahal basta stateside, kahit mgakautang-utang pa! Ang paguna sa mga kustomer na banyaga dahil umaasa sa malaking tip samantalang binabalewala ang mga kababayan. At ang madalas ko talagang napapansin, basta nakarinig tayo ng nagiinggles, humahanga na kagad tayo kahit walang laman ang sinasabi basta ingles bilib kagad tayo.

Kolonyalismo! Sa 300 taon na pananakop sa atin ng mga Kastila, sumunod ang mga kano at Hapon tapos ang pakikipagkaibigan kuno natin sa mga kano masyado na tayong nasanay magpasakop sa iba. Hospitable daw tayo kaya kinakanlong natin ang lahat na gustong sumakop at abusihin ang bansa natin. Maraming mga Magda pa ang nabubuhay ngayon. Naghahanap ng isang anak ni Uncle Sam na magaahon sa kanya sa putik para dalhin sya lugar na umuulan ng niyebe. Pero meron pa ring mga Modesto at Mike Taylor Jr. na lalaban at hindi papaapi sa mga dayuhan.

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qUOtEs frOm Of mIcE And mEn

Sunday, November 27, 2011 | Labels: AddIctIOn, bOOk, qUOtEs

“God, you’re a lot of trouble,” said George. “I could get along so easy and so nice if I didn’t have you on my tail. I could live so easy and maybe have a girl.” – George

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“I don’t know why I can’t keep it. It ain’t nobody’s mouse. I didn’t steal it. I found it lyin’ right beside the road.” – Lennie

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“They was so little. I’d pet ‘em, and pretty soon they bit my fingers and I pinched their heads a little and then they was dead—because they was so little” – Lennie

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“Well, we ain’t got any! Whatever we ain’t got, that’s what you want. God a’mighty, if I was alone I could live so easy. I could go get a job an’ work, an’ no trouble. No mess at all, and when the end of the month come I could take my fifty bucks and go into town and get whatever I want. Why, I could stay in a cat house all night. I could eat any place I want, hotel or any place, and order any damn thing I could think of. An’ I could do all that every damn month. Get a gallon of whisky, or set in a pool room and play cards or shoot pool. An’ whatta I got. I got you! You can’t keep a job and you lose me ever’ job I get. Jus’ keep me shovin’ all over the country all the time. An’ that ain’t the worst. You get in trouble. You do bad things and I got to get you out.” - George

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“When I think of the swell time I could have without you, I go nuts. I never get no peace.” – George

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“George, you want I should go away and leave you alone?” “I’d find things, George. I don’t need no nice food with ketchup. I’d lay out in the sun and nobody’d hurt me. An’ if I foun’ a mouse, I could keep it. Nobody’d take it away from me.” – Lennie

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“Trouble with mice is you always kill ‘em.” – George

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“Guys like us, that work on ranches, are the loneliest guys in the world. They got no fambly. They don’t belong no place. They come to a ranch an’ work up a stake and then they go into town and blow their stake, and the first thing you know they’re poundin’ their tail on some other ranch. They ain’t got nothing to look ahead to.” – George

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“With us it ain’t like that. We got a future. We got somebody to talk to that gives a damn about us. We don’t have to sit-in no bar room blowin’ in our jack jus’ because we got no place else to go. If them other guys gets in jail they can rot for all anybody gives a damn. But not us.” – George

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“But not us! An’ why? Because . . . . because I got you to look after me, and you got me to look after you, and that’s why.” – Lennie

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“O.K. Someday—we’re gonna get the jack together and we’re gonna have a little house and a couple of acres an’ a cow and some pigs and—” “we’ll have a big vegetable patch and a rabbit hutch and chickens. And when it rains in the winter, we’ll just say the hell with goin’ to work, and we’ll build up a fire in the stove and set around it an’ listen to therain comin’ down on the roo f—Nuts!” - George

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“Nobody can’t blame a person for lookin’ – Curley’s wife

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His ear heard more than was said to him, and his slow speech had overtones not of thought, but of understanding beyond thought. – author, description of Slim

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“Ain’t many guys travel around together,” he mused. “I don’t know why. Maybe ever’body in the whole damn world is scared of each other.” - Slim

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“He’s a nice fella. Guy don’t need no sense to be a nice fella. Seems to me sometimes it jus’ works the other way around. Take a real smart guy and he ain’t hardly ever a nice fella.” – Slim

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“Look, Candy. This ol’ dog jus’ suffers hisself all the time. If you was to take him out and shoot him right in the back of the head, right there, why he’d never know what hit him.” - Carlson

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“Carl’s right, Candy. That dog ain’t no good to himself. I wisht somebody’d shoot me if I get old an’ a cripple.” – Slim

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“I ought to of shot that dog myself, George. I shouldn’t ought to of let no stranger shoot my dog.” – Candy

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“Books ain’t no good. A guy needs somebody—to be near him.” – Crooks

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“A colored man got to have some rights even if he don’t like ‘em.” – Crooks

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“Got him, by God. Right in the back of the head,” – Slim

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“Never you mind. A guy got to sometimes.” - Slim

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Of mIcE And mEn

Saturday, November 26, 2011 | Labels: bOOk, rEvIEw

Lennie Small and George Milton have one dream… which is to have a little house and a couple of acres with cows, pigs and vegetable patch. They have a pact to look after each other. Before they could turn this into reality they need to find a job. So off they went to a ranch in Soledad to work as a buckler.
They came in a day too late because the bus driver dropped them off a little too far from their destination which the Boss didn’t like a bit. They were showed to their beds by Candy, an old man who lost one of his hands in a farm accident and works as a swamper in the ranch. He has an old dog that is almost blind and has a stinking smell.

Lennie although being a big guy thinks like a child. George is the one who watched over him when his Aunt Clara died. They’ve been travelling together since then. Lennie likes to pet things like mice but always ended up killing them. This unusual habit of him always gives them trouble which has been the reason why they lose their previous job. So, George ordered Lennie to behave himself or else he won’t allow him to pet a rabbit they got their own farm. He also told Lennie to stay away from Curley and his wife whom he regards both as bad news. Curley is proud man being the Boss’ son and also a light weight. He is a short guy that is why he dislikes big guys like Lennie so much. Curley’s wife likes to get attention from the Ranch workers. She often comes to the bunkhouse making an excuse to look for Curley.

They also met the other ranch workers. Slim is the skinner whom the other ranch men have the utmost respect. Whatever he says were law to the guys. He has a dog that just gave birth to nine puppies, four of these he drowned. Hearing this Lennie urged George to asked Slim to give him at least on puppy which Slim didn’t object to. Excited, Lennie stayed on the stable to pet his new puppy. Carlson, one of the ranch workers is also interested with the puppies. He asked Slim if he could give Candy one so the latter can get rid of his old dog because he cannot take the smell of Candy’s dog anymore. He even volunteered to kill the dog himself to take it out of its misery by shooting a gun right at the back of its head. Candy, at first was reluctant but getting no support from the other guys consented to it. Crook, a Negro who works as a stable man, came to fetch Slim so they could put tar on a mule’s injured foot. Carlson and Lennie came back to the bunkhouse. Afterwards, Curley came in looking for his wife. When he found out that Slim was not there too he went looking for him in the stable. Whit and Carlson thinking that they might witness a scene went out to follow Curley.

Candy, George and Lennie were left on the bunkhouse. George warned Lennie again to behave himself. They once again talked about their plan which Candy overheard. Candy offered his savings to them if they would include them in their plan. George told him that this with be a secret and he should not tell anyone about it. Then Slim, Curley and the other guys came back. Slim was really upset with Curley for suspecting him that he was with Curley’s wife. Curley was explaining to Slim when he noticed Lennie, still happy about the conversation he had with George and Candy, smiling. He went after Lennie and started throwing punches at the guy. George ordered Lennie to fight back. Lennie got hold of one of Curley’s hand and crushed almost every bone in it. He didn’t let go until George ordered him to. Carlson drove Curley to the hospital after Slim made him agreed that he will tell everyone that his hand got caught in the machine. Lennie was really scared but George assured him that it was not his fault.

One day, while George and the other guys were in the whorehouse, Lennie went to Crooks room. Crook, being a Negro has his own room that is why he is not used to having visitors. Realizing that Lennie cannot be drove out of his room he let him in. While they were talking, Candy showed up looking for Lennie. He wants to tell him something about the land they are planning to buy. When Crook learned about this he told Candy if he could ask George to include them on their plan too. Afterwards, Curley’s wife came in too looking for Curley which Candy and Crook didn’t like. They tried to drive her away and only left when Candy says that he heard the other guys returned. George came looking for Lennie and got angry when he found out that Candy and Lennie have been talking about their plans to Crook. Then he ordered the two to leave at once before they all get into trouble. Crook told Candy to forget about what he said to him earlier.

Then one Sunday afternoon, while the others are playing horseshoes, Lennie is in the stable holding his dead puppy in his arms. Knowing that George will get mad at him, Lennie was really scared. Curley’s wife came inside the stable. Lennie throw hay over the puppy to cover it up but the woman already saw it. She sat beside Lennie and tell story about her past. When Lennie told her that he didn’t want to kill the puppy, he just like to pet things, she let him touch his hair. While Lennie was stroking her hair he gets too eagerly not knowing she’s hurting the girl. Curley’s wife tried to get away from Lennie but he got scared so instead of letting her go he hold on to her more and covered the girl’s mouth to keep her from screaming until accidentally he broke her neck which caused her death.

Seeing the lifeless girl, Lennie knew he did a bad thing. He remembered what George told him on their way to Salinas. If he get into trouble he have to return to the bush and wait there until George come for him. So he left, carrying the dead puppy with him. Candy went to the stable to look for Lennie. There he found Curley’s wife dead, lying on the hay. He went out to fetch George. George knowing that Lennie did this told Candy to get the guys but not to tell them that George already knew about the incident. When Curley knew about his wife death he gets really angry and suspected that Lennie killed her. They went out to look for Lennie. George knowing where Lennie is hiding was the first to find him. Lennie was so scared because he is sure that George is angry at him. George tells him that he is not mad and asked Lennie to look across the river while he tells him about their plans. While doing this he take out Carlson’s gun and aimed it at the back of Lennie’s head. He fired the gun and Lennie dropped dead beaside him. Curley, Slim and Carlson came rushing to him. He made them think that he killed Lennie out of self defence. Only Slim knew that he did it out of love.

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hArUkI mUrAkAmI, hIs fIrst nOvEl (thE rEvIEw(?)) And An AttEmpt tO wrItE (AgAIn!)...

Tuesday, November 08, 2011 | Labels: bOOk, mUrAkAmI, rEvIEw, wrItIng

This is the first time I read a novel by Haruki Murakami. I always see his book on the shelf of the nearby bookstore I frequently visit but I never did borrow one. Then I chance upon his name on one of the blog I read recently. I became curious and search for him on-line. Luckily, I was able to download all his works.

“There’s no such thing as perfect writing. Just like there’s no such thing as perfect despair.”

This is the first line on his the first novel he wrote “Hear the Wind Sing”. Maybe every writer or those who, like me, aspires to be one suffers the same problem. Always attempting to write a perfect story but only ends up writing nothing.

Writer’s Block! I always hear this among writers. No matter how hard they try to rack their brains out, they cannot come up with a single word to write. Maybe it is not that they can’t think of anything to write. Maybe it is because they have all these thoughts and feelings inside them that they cannot find the exact words to express it.

Writers need to be inspired and constantly motivated to come up with a good story. But I don’t think there’s a writer out there who would praise their own work. They are their own critic and for them their work is ain’t that good enough. They would make a lot of revisions before finally settling with what they think would be acceptable to their readers.

But writers are the fans of their own works too. They write with convictions… they write only things that they believe and feel that is real… even if it is only real for them. The first person they want to entertain with their work is their own self. When they read their work and realize that their feeling is not in sync with what they have written, then they have failed. It’s either they will abandon the project forever or re-write it until they are satisfied with what they are reading.

I can’t truly say that I want to become a writer. I just want to express my feelings and my thoughts through writing. And I want the story of my life to be perfectly written. But Murakami thought me one thing, that writing is a fun process. You can do anything with a pen and paper in your hand (or a laptop). You can create your own world, change it according to your whim. If it feels good… what’s the problem?
I’m no writer and I’m no critic. I can only tell some of my friends to read a certain book because I enjoyed it a lot. But I cannot tell them how it was beautifully written or if the writer sucks! I can only see that most authors have their own patterns in writing. And I cannot say that my observations on their work are correct.

So, what can I say about the first novel of Murakami “Hear the Wind Sing (Kaze no uta o kike)”? It was his first attempt at writing so maybe he just wrote whatever comes to his mind at that time. Without a particular direction, it starts with one story then go to another one. Non-linear? Some parts will make your eyebrow crease a little. There are characters in the story I didn’t quite follow. Maybe it is part of the mystery… or maybe only intelligent people would know it. I like the part where the main character and he’s sort-of leading lady were talking about their zodiac signs. I wonder if in his latter works, Murakami would speak of being a Capricorn. Is he as obsessed as I am? Like a true blue Capricornian?

Did I like it? I like most part of it, I’m confused with the others. They say if you have read other books of Murakami, the first novel is must read! Not because it was well written, but more of understanding the writer himself. Reading his first work made me crave for more. Can’t wait to read his other works. Maybe I would get to know the man more and would remind me that writing is fun!

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hEAr thE wInd sIng by hArUkI mUrAkAmI

Monday, November 07, 2011 | Labels: bOOk, mUrAkAmI, qUOtEs, wrItIng

“There’s no such thing as perfect writing. Just like there’s no such thing as perfect despair.”

In the end, writing a story isn’t a means of self-therapy, it’s nothing more than a meager attempt at self-therapy.

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For example, if I were to write about elephants, I’d have had no idea what words to use. That’s what it was like.

I’m not trying to make excuses. At least what I’m writing here is the best I can do. There’s nothing else to say. Still, here’s what I’m thinking: way before you’re good at it, maybe years or decades before you’re good at it, you can save yourself, I think. And when you do, the elephant back on the plains will be able to tell his story with words more beautiful than your own.

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The writer who writes literature, that is to say the writer who ensconces himself in his work, always checks his distance. The important thing isn’t what he perceives, it’s the ruler he uses.” -If it Feels Good, What’s the Problem?

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“People with dark souls have nothing but dark dreams. People with really dark souls do nothing but dream,” went a favorite saying of my late grandmother.

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For me, writing is a terribly painful process. Sometimes I spend a month unable to write a single line, other times, after writing for three straight days and nights I realize everything I’ve written is all wrong. Nevertheless, in spite of all that, writing is also a fun process. Compared to the difficulties of living, with writing it’s a lot easier to find meaning.

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If I could lighten up just a little, the world would move according to my whims, the value of everything would change, the flow of time would be altered…that’s how I felt.

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The things we try our hardest not to lose, we really just put create deep abysses in the spaces between them. No matter how long your ruler is, it’s an immeasurable depth.

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If you’re looking for fine art or literature, you might want to read some stuff written by the Greeks. Because to create true fine art, slaves are a necessity. That’s how the ancient Greeks felt, with slaves working the fields, cooking their meals, rowing their ships, all the while their citizens, under the Mediterranean Sun, indulged in poetry writing and grappled with mathematics. That was their idea of fine art. Those people digging around in the refrigerator at 3am, those are the only people I can write for. And that, is me.

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“I’ll just come right out and say it, rich people have no imagination. They can’t even scratch their own asses without a ruler and a flashlight.

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Everybody’s gotta die sometime. But until then we’ve still got fifty-some odd years to go, and a lot to think about while we’re living those fifty years, and I’ll just come right out and say it: that’s even more tiring than living five thousand years thinking about nothing.

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I can always buy another car, but luck I cannot buy.

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Living authors don’t have any merit. Dead authors, as a rule, seem more trusting than live ones.

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The Rat’s stories always follow two rules: first, there are no sex scenes, and second, not one person dies. Even if you don’t acknowledge it, people die, and guys sleep with girls. That’s just how it is.

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Do you think I’m wrong?” she asked.

The Rat took a sip of beer and shook his head deliberately. “I’ll just come right out and say it, everybody’s wrong.”

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“Well, some people are just born unlucky.”

“Who said that?”

“John F. Kennedy.”

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Whatever can’t be expressed might as well not exist.

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With civilization comes communication. Expression and communication are essential; without these, civilization ends.

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Whenever I look at the ocean, I always want to talk to people, but when I’m talking to people, I always want to look at the ocean. I’m weird like that.

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A girl lends you something…*hiccup*…you return it, understand?”

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I heard this joke in an old movie about the Great Depression:‘

You know why I always have my umbrella open when I walk by the Empire State Building? ‘Cause people are always falling like raindrops!’

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“Hey, what the hell do you think girls eat to survive?”

“The soles of their shoes.”
“No way,” said the Rat.

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Bigness, sometimes it changes the very essence of something into something else entirely.

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There are some things in the world you just can’t do anything about.

“For example?”
“Cavities, for example. One day your tooth just starts hurting. Someone comforting you isn’t going to make it stop hurting. When that happens, you just start to get mad at yourself. Then you start to get really off at the people who aren’t pissed off. Know what I mean?”
“Kind of,” I said, “still, think about this. Everyone’s built the same. It’s like we’re all riding together on a broken airplane. Of course there are lucky people, there are also unlucky people. There’re tough people, and weak people, rich people, and poor people. However, not a single person’s broken the mold with his toughness. We’re all the same. Everyone who has something is afraid of losing it, and people with nothing are worried they’ll forever have nothing. Everyone is the same. The sooner you realize that, the sooner you’ll want to get stronger. Even if you’re just pretending. Don’t you think? There aren’t any real strong people anywhere. Only people who can put on a good show of being strong.”

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The truth is this: life is empty. However, help is available. If you know that from the outset, it’s almost as if life’s not really meaningless at all. We’ve really worked tirelessly to build it all up, and then tried with all our might to wear it down, and now it’s empty. No matter how hard you work, or how hard you try to bring it down, none of that’ll be written here. ‘Cause it’s a real pain in the ass. For those of you who really want to know, you can read about it in Romain Rolland’s novel Jean-Christophe .It’s all there, written out for you.

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“If writers only wrote about things everybody knew, what the hell would be the point of writing?”

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Telling lies is a really terrible thing. These days, lies and silence are the two greatest sins in human society, you might say.In reality, we tell lots of lies, and we often break into silence.

However, if we were constantly talking year-round, and telling only the truth, truth would probably lose some of its value.

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“You’re a Capricorn?”

“Yeah, you?”
“Me too. January 10th.”
“Feels like an unlucky star to be born under. Same as Jesus Christ.”

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Even from whatever miserable experience you might have, there is something to be learned, and it’s because of this that I can find the will to keep on living.

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I’m going to try to only think positive thoughts. And I’ll be able to fall sound asleep at night. Because the worst thoughts usually strike in the dead of night.

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“What you give freely to others, you will always receive in turn.”

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Things pass us by. Nobody can catch them. That’s the way we live our lives.

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Am I happy?

If you asked me this, I’d have to say, ‘Yeah, I guess.’ Because dreams are, after all, just that: dreams.

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Then, in a flood of people and in the flow of time, she vanished without a trace.

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“In the light of day, one can comprehend the depths of night’s darkness.”

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“Compared to the complexity of the universe,” Hartfield says, “our world’s like the brain tissue of an earthworm.”

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dAtE A gIrl whO rEAds by rOsEmArIE UrqUIcO

Thursday, November 03, 2011 | Labels: AddIctIOn, bOOk

Date a girl who reads. Date a girl who spends her money on books instead of clothes. She has problems with closet space because she has too many books. Date a girl who has a list of books she wants to read, who has had a library card since she was twelve.

Find a girl who reads. You’ll know that she does because she will always have an unread book in her bag.She’s the one lovingly looking over the shelves in the bookstore, the one who quietly cries out when she finds the book she wants. You see the weird chick sniffing the pages of an old book in a second hand book shop? That’s the reader. They can never resist smelling the pages, especially when they are yellow.

She’s the girl reading while waiting in that coffee shop down the street. If you take a peek at her mug, the non-dairy creamer is floating on top because she’s kind of engrossed already. Lost in a world of the author’s making. Sit down. She might give you a glare, as most girls who read do not like to be interrupted. Ask her if she likes the book.

Buy her another cup of coffee.

Let her know what you really think of Murakami. See if she got through the first chapter of Fellowship. Understand that if she says she understood James Joyce’s Ulysses she’s just saying that to sound intelligent. Ask her if she loves Alice or she would like to be Alice.

It’s easy to date a girl who reads. Give her books for her birthday, for Christmas and for anniversaries. Give her the gift of words, in poetry, in song. Give her Neruda, Pound, Sexton, Cummings. Let her know that you understand that words are love. Understand that she knows the difference between books and reality but by god, she’s going to try to make her life a little like her favorite book. It will never be your fault if she does.

She has to give it a shot somehow.

Lie to her. If she understands syntax, she will understand your need to lie. Behind words are other things: motivation, value, nuance, dialogue. It will not be the end of the world.

Fail her. Because a girl who reads knows that failure always leads up to the climax. Because girls who understand that all things will come to end. That you can always write a sequel. That you can begin again and again and still be the hero. That life is meant to have a villain or two.

Why be frightened of everything that you are not? Girls who read understand that people, like characters, develop. Except in the Twilightseries.

If you find a girl who reads, keep her close. When you find her up at 2 AM clutching a book to her chest and weeping, make her a cup of tea and hold her. You may lose her for a couple of hours but she will always come back to you. She’ll talk as if the characters in the book are real, because for a while, they always are.

You will propose on a hot air balloon. Or during a rock concert. Or very casually next time she’s sick. Over Skype.

You will smile so hard you will wonder why your heart hasn’t burst and bled out all over your chest yet. You will write the story of your lives, have kids with strange names and even stranger tastes. She will introduce your children to the Cat in the Hat and Aslan, maybe in the same day. You will walk the winters of your old age together and she will recite Keats under her breath while you shake the snow off your boots.

Date a girl who reads because you deserve it. You deserve a girl who can give you the most colorful life imaginable. If you can only give her monotony, and stale hours and half-baked proposals, then you’re better off alone. If you want the world and the worlds beyond it, date a girl who reads.

Or better yet, date a girl who writes.

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Wednesday, November 02, 2011 | Labels: AddIctIOn, blOg, bOOk

Date a girl who doesn’t read. Find her in the weary squalor of a Midwestern bar. Find her in the smoke, drunken sweat, and varicolored light of an upscale nightclub. Wherever you find her, find her smiling. Make sure that it lingers when the people that are talking to her look away. Engage her with unsentimental trivialities. Use pick-up lines and laugh inwardly. Take her outside when the night overstays its welcome. Ignore the palpable weight of fatigue. Kiss her in the rain under the weak glow of a streetlamp because you’ve seen it in film. Remark at its lack of significance. Take her to your apartment. Dispatch with making love. Fuck her.

Let the anxious contract you’ve unwittingly written evolve slowly and uncomfortably into a relationship. Find shared interests and common ground like sushi, and folk music. Build an impenetrable bastion upon that ground. Make it sacred. Retreat into it every time the air gets stale, or the evenings get long. Talk about nothing of significance. Do little thinking. Let the months pass unnoticed. Ask her to move in. Let her decorate. Get into fights about inconsequential things like how the fucking shower curtain needs to be closed so that it doesn’t fucking collect mold. Let a year pass unnoticed. Begin to notice.

Figure that you should probably get married because you will have wasted a lot of time otherwise. Take her to dinner on the forty-fifth floor at a restaurant far beyond your means. Make sure there is a beautiful view of the city. Sheepishly ask a waiter to bring her a glass of champagne with a modest ring in it. When she notices, propose to her with all of the enthusiasm and sincerity you can muster. Do not be overly concerned if you feel your heart leap through a pane of sheet glass. For that matter, do not be overly concerned if you cannot feel it at all. If there is applause, let it stagnate. If she cries, smile as if you’ve never been happier. If she doesn’t, smile all the same.

Let the years pass unnoticed. Get a career, not a job. Buy a house. Have two striking children. Try to raise them well. Fail, frequently. Lapse into a bored indifference. Lapse into an indifferent sadness. Have a mid-life crisis. Grow old. Wonder at your lack of achievement. Feel sometimes contented, but mostly vacant and ethereal. Feel, during walks, as if you might never return, or as if you might blow away on the wind. Contract a terminal illness. Die, but only after you observe that the girl who didn’t read never made your heart oscillate with any significant passion, that no one will write the story of your lives, and that she will die, too, with only a mild and tempered regret that nothing ever came of her capacity to love.

Do those things, god damnit, because nothing sucks worse than a girl who reads. Do it, I say, because a life in purgatory is better than a life in hell. Do it, because a girl who reads possesses a vocabulary that can describe that amorphous discontent as a life unfulfilled—a vocabulary that parses the innate beauty of the world and makes it an accessible necessity instead of an alien wonder. A girl who reads lays claim to a vocabulary that distinguishes between the specious and soulless rhetoric of someone who cannot love her, and the inarticulate desperation of someone who loves her too much. A vocabulary, god damnit, that makes my vacuous sophistry a cheap trick.

Do it, because a girl who reads understands syntax. Literature has taught her that moments of tenderness come in sporadic but knowable intervals. A girl who reads knows that life is not planar; she knows, and rightly demands, that the ebb comes along with the flow of disappointment. A girl who has read up on her syntax senses the irregular pauses—the hesitation of breath—endemic to a lie. A girl who reads perceives the difference between a parenthetical moment of anger and the entrenched habits of someone whose bitter cynicism will run on, run on well past any point of reason, or purpose, run on far after she has packed a suitcase and said a reluctant goodbye and she has decided that I am an ellipsis and not a period and run on and run on. Syntax that knows the rhythm and cadence of a life well lived.

Date a girl who doesn’t read because the girl who reads knows the importance of plot. She can trace out the demarcations of a prologue and the sharp ridges of a climax. She feels them in her skin. The girl who reads will be patient with an intermission and expedite a denouement. But of all things, the girl who reads knows most the ineluctable significance of an end. She is comfortable with them. She has bid farewell to a thousand heroes with only a twinge of sadness.

Don’t date a girl who reads because girls who read are the storytellers. You with the Joyce, you with the Nabokov, you with the Woolf. You there in the library, on the platform of the metro, you in the corner of the café, you in the window of your room. You, who make my life so god damned difficult. The girl who reads has spun out the account of her life and it is bursting with meaning. She insists that her narratives are rich, her supporting cast colorful, and her typeface bold. You, the girl who reads, make me want to be everything that I am not. But I am weak and I will fail you, because you have dreamed, properly, of someone who is better than I am. You will not accept the life that I told of at the beginning of this piece. You will accept nothing less than passion, and perfection, and a life worthy of being storied. So out with you, girl who reads. Take the next southbound train and take your Hemingway with you. I hate you. I really, really, really hate you.

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