Reading is the best medicine

The Whitby Bookshop by artist Tom Gauld

The Specialist's Hat by Kelly Link

"When you're Dead," Samantha says, "you don't have to brush your teeth."

"When you're Dead," Claire says, "you live in a box, and it's always dark, but you're not ever afraid."

Claire and Samantha are identical twins. Their combined age is twenty years, four months, and six days. Claire is better at being Dead than Samantha.

Read the rest of this deliciously creepy story here.

I was an island

Believe me, I'm just as surprised as you are. I'm back after only a week of silence. I thought I should take advantage of this random bout of diligence.

This is what the world looks like now: A theater teacher shrewdly uses Joss Whedon's Firefly to demonstrate honor and principle, and is threatened with criminal charges. In the Philippines, government officials are so obtuse and out of touch, they think it's okay to Photoshop themselves into disaster photos. Yes, the world is one big facepalm.

Space Ghost is not amused. [Image source]

There was another typhoon today. I hear Baguio has been having a hard time of it. My family and many of my friends live there, and I am thinking of them. The Philippine name for Typhoon Nalgae is Quiel. It is a strange name. It's the sort of thing fantasy anime fans might name their first born.

It is quiet in the house tonight and I am looking for something to watch to ward off the blues. Earlier today, I found out that Edgar Wright has included Rushmore in his Criterion Top 10. Coolio. I have been itching to watch it since. Acquiring it now because, apparently, I do not have Rushmore among my files. I am not sure how this could have happened, and now I am worried about the state of my Bill Murray collection.

Kelly Link has been an excellent companion during these stormy days. Her stories are smart and spine-tingling, and her writing is just delicious. Really, I can't get enough of it. I am putty in her hands, dazed by her literary swag. First, she makes me laugh. Then, she makes my skin crawl so I am forced to look behind me. Then suddenly, she comes up with a paragraph that is absolutely heart-breaking, like:

Jeremy's father's office is above the garage. In theory, no one is meant to interrupt him while he's working, but in practice, Jeremy's father loves nothing better than to be interrupted, as long as the person who interrupts brings him something to eat. When Jeremy and his mother are gone, who will bring Jeremy's father food? Jeremy hardens his heart.

Kelly Link, I can't even.

In music, I have been listening to more or less the same stuff. Except I've been enjoying a lot more of Allison Weiss. I like her poetry: "I was a wolf, dear, apart from the pack/ But you answered my cries in the dead of the night/ And told me that you had my back."

My Supernatural download has finished, care bears. I'm off to commune with the boys. I'm like a Twi-hard, but for these guys. Later.

[Short Title, please]

I finished Noisy Outlaws, Unfriendly Blobs, and Some Other Things That Aren’t as Scary, Maybe, Depending on How You Feel About Lost Lands, Stray Cellphones, Creatures from the Sky, Parents Who Disappear in Peru, a Man Named Lars Farf, and One Other Story We Couldn’t Quite Finish, So Maybe You Could Help Us Out this afternoon. It's a short story collection edited by Ted Thompson, published by McSweeney's in 2005. The book mostly contains heart-warming/ mildly disturbing tales that can be appealing to both young and adult readers. The entire collection was a delight, but my particular favorites were "Monster" by Kelly Link and "Grimble" by Clement Freud.

Kelly Link writes so cleverly and subtly that you can't tell that the eerie has made a home in your spine. By the time I was finished with her story, I wanted to burrow into my blankets and turn on all of the lights. It was mid-morning. Another thing I wanted to do was read all of her stuff.

I loved "Grimble." It reminded me so much of when I was growing up, when my parents had to travel a lot for work. So, very much like Freud's plucky title character, I learned how to be alone at a young age. In the story, Grimble's parents leave him a list of neighbors he could go to for help. These dears would help him make dinner through notes and thoughtfully written recipes. When both my parents were out of town, I had my grandmother. She told me stories about funny relatives and let me read while she did the crossword puzzle. Grimble was quite the sensible young man, smart and observant in the ways only small people can be. But even more endearing was, he was really still just a little boy missing his parents. I have been missing mine, too.

Neil Gaiman's "Sunbird" and Jonathan Safran Foer's "The Sixth Borough" were also in the collection. It made me happy to read those stories again. "The ACES Phone" by Jeanne DuPrau was the real surprise. I tried hard not to cry. But come on. A puppy and a boy. A recipe for tears.

The stories in the collection were affecting in a deep, quiet way. They alone were a genuine pleasure. But the book itself was an interesting encounter. I'm a sucker for pretty books (yes, I do judge books by their covers). Who would not be drawn to a round, green monster imploring you to hold it? But there's more: inside the dust jacket is the beginning of a story by Lemony Snicket. It was to be finished by brave, willing souls and sent back to the publisher as a contest entry. "The winning entry [was to] be published in a future book, and the author [to] receive a complete set of A Series of Unfortunate Events, signed by Mr. Snicket himself, along with eleven pounds of chocolate, a Venus flytrap, six hundred tiny glass bottles, and a large sack of dirt from Winnipeg."

The proceeds of the book help fund a reading program for young people. A very worthy book for a very worthy cause.

Please read this book.

Looting at the 32nd Manila International Book Fair

Well, this is awkward. I really want to start writing about this big book fair but my brain is obliging me to explain my long absence. I would have to go back a quite a ways because the last time I wrote here was the beginning of June and it is, in fact, the end of September. So, how about we skip that and go straight to the book porn?

I am temporarily putting my blog sabbatical (cough) on hold because I want to write about the 32nd Manila International Book Fair. There were these lovely blog posts on the fair (namely Carina's at Nothing Spaces, Aldrin's at The Automaton, and Bloo's at Bookmarked) and I was inspired to write my own. I love it when people take photos of their books. Hanna and I put up loot posts regularly on The Exchange. It's our mechanism of enablement (this is not a word goodness, it is a word).

Anyhow, I went to the MIBF with Lem. We were there on September 17th, so the fair had already been going on for four days. We got to the convention center pretty early so the crowds were still a bit thin. This is when things started to get crazy:

This is me sniffing around in the National Bookstore bargain bins (I spent most of my time here).

This is Lem smiling behind a new edition of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory by Roald Dahl. The folks at Penguin sure know how to make pretty covers. And look, an introduction by Lev Grossman.

A copy of Jonathan Safran Foer's Tree of Codes. It is a beautiful book. We admired the pages in hushed, reverent tones. I took a photo because I couldn't afford it.

There was a cosplay next door. The Joker and the rest of the Arkham gang came out to play:

These are Lem's bags:

These are my bags:

A third of Lem's buys. He found these during the first five minutes and, just like that, his money vanished into the cash machine. He was particularly taken with the Justice League of America Volume 1: The Tornado's Path. He asked me to read it, and I did. I cried. Damn you and your heart, Roy Harper.

This is my haul:

The most expensive of the lot was the graphic novel Black Hole by Charles Burns, which I got for 20% off. The rest were rooted from the bins. I'm especially pleased with Little Brother by Cory Doctorow and Zeitoun by Dave Eggers. I have long been curious about Little Doctor because Neil Gaiman likes it. And since reading You Shall Know Our Velocity, I've been wanting to get me some more Eggers. Also, he has such pretty books. During a quiet moment at the fair, I started reading Zeitoun and it took my breath away. Look:

On moonless nights the men and boys of Jableh, a dusty fishing town on the coast of Syria, would gather their lanterns and set out on their quietest boats. Five or six small craft, two or three fishermen in each. A mile out, they would arrange their boats in a circle on the black sea, drop their nets, and, holding their lanterns over the water, they would approximate the moon.

I've always wanted to own Fevre Dream, George RR Martin's classic vampire novel. This was before A Song of Ice and Fire. On a side note, I finally have (okay, borrowed) a copy of A Dance with Dragons. I will read it when there are no more papers to write and no more workshops to document.

I bought Girl at Sea by Maureen Johnson because YA is the source of my happy while living in The Big City. Also because she'd already won me over with a bunch of blue envelopes (and yes, cute English boys). It had a green sticker, and I took that for a good sign. I was lucky, because it did actually mean a 40% discount. Not bad in the way of deals.

My funds are still recovering from that single day of reckless sensible spending. These days, my default financial state is broke. It has been a week since then, and already I am suffering from book-buying withdrawal.

Later.

The once and future king

Roger Federer made it to the Finals of the French Open. He defeated Novak Djokovic 7-6 6-3 3-6 7-6, bringing the Serb's 41-0 streak to a grinding halt.

A frustrated Novak (Photo from Roland Garros 2011)

And so, a Nadal-Federer final. Just when you begin to think the world is out of joint, something like this happens and restores your faith in humanity.

(Source)

We're halfway.

Yesterday was my last day as an instructor. Havoc duly wreaked.

The end of an (kind of) era has made me introspective.

A lot of my thoughts have been settling on last summer. I'm remembering random details about spending time with my family in The Netherlands and traveling alone. The other day, I suddenly thought about the grey sweatshirt I left on a train to Florence. A gust of nostalgia blew through my rib cage, and consequently rattled my heart. Far-away places tug at me. I miss the mobility.

 

This is me on another train, before I lost my sweatshirt.

Anyway, there will be some of that next week. My return to the Big City is properly underway. Apart from the minor debates on whether or not I should bring the rice cooker or how many mugs I should take, the preparations have been uneventful. Ma has been going around the house, unearthing things that could be useful in the apartment.

For a while, the idea of living in Manila carried stigma. I couldn't think about the place without getting hyper acidic. I suppose, these days, the strong adverse reaction has dialed down. I now respond to Manila in pretty much the same way any Northerner would. I have spent enough time in the mountains putting my soul back together. I love living with my family, but I feel like it's time for me to jump back into the trenches.

Later.