It almost feels like I’ve read nothing since last year till now, and already it’s the beginning of the end of the year of 2011. How shameful is that?

Come to think of it now though, I can’t say I’ve read that many books anyway. And looking at my blog again, I see (with yet another surprise), that I’ve only got two posts in this year! It’s a little scary to think of how work can get me this busy.

Given my complete lack of time to do some proper reading, though, I’m glad still that I’ve managed to fit a book in between my last book, Shades of Grey and now. I read The Red Dragon, Thomas Harris’s novel. It’s a prequel to The Silence of the Lambs, which I’ve heard about since forever, but just never thought of reading.

It’s quite a good book, The Red Dragon I mean. But I’m not sure about how much I liked it though. I remember being younger and really enjoying books like this that make me think about when the killer’s finally going to get caught, and how he/she would get caught. I remember feeling the suspense in the waiting for something really drastic to happen. I remember loving books like this.

That’s not to say that The Red Dragon failed to deliver on the suspense part of things. In fact, it did have a certain thrill to it.

Maybe I was just in the wrong mood in the past couple of weeks when I was reading this book. It feels like the kind of book where you have to finish in just one sitting, devouring every page as if your life depended on finding out when Graham would finally catch on to Dolarhyde. I wanted to be dragged into the story, I wanted to be disturbed by Dolarhyde’s disturbed mind. I wanted to be immersed.

That never did happen for me. On the other hand, I almost glided through the entire story without once feeling like I was a reluctant participant of the plot. In stories like these, its success is in making us unrelated readers of the story feel like as if we’re not only watching the plot unfold up close and personal, but also in making us feel like as if we’re party to whatever is happening. We should feel guilty about knowing what’s really happening, but yet unable to tell the protagonist about it. We should feel guilty at the fact that we know someone else is going to die, and we can’t tell anyone.

The Red Dragon had a good plot, it had good characters. But really, I wish it did more for my, psychologically. It is, after all, a psychological thriller.

—–000—–

Anyhow, it’s now the beginning of the last month of the year 2011. Though I’ve done minimal reading, the same cannot be said about my buying of books. I’ll post something up here in the next couple of weeks (definitely before the year closes), boasting of the books that now brace my shelves.

Oh, sheer happiness.

It’s a time when the present world we live in is already the past. It’s a time when the systems as we know it are archaic and long gone. It’s a time when colour determines your status in society. Welcome to a world of colours. Welcome, also, to Shades of Grey.

It was a happy accident that I picked this book up at a SUPER book sale some time last month. It’s hardcover, absolutely beautiful, and only cost me RM8. Of course, I also picked up some other books in that same sale, but that’s a story for some other day.

My picking this book to read first, despite my many other new books I’ve gotten this year, was also a rather happy accident. I was cleaning up my room and putting my newly bought books onto my shelf. Had a brief peek into the first page of this book, and I was hooked straight away.

The language was easy flowing, though the concept and story line was anything but. I was just explaining to my partner about this book the other day when I was reading it. The world is so unbelievable, but so believable at the same time. It’s like reading a Murakami, without all the stress and the heaviness that comes with it.

On the contrary, Fforde’s book is light, sprinkled with much humour in his writing. The breeziness actually SHINES through the lines in the pages. It’s like listening to someone talk on the phone, and you know that person is smiling even though you can’t see his/her face.

The story itself, is full of coincidences and complex ideas. Something that doesn’t make sense on page 54 might suddenly explain all that you need to know once you get to page 275.

What are Prefects, and how does one become a Prefect? What does it mean to be a Red, or a Green? We know the colours, but do we really know what they mean?

It’s not a book I’d like to explain about here. It’s not a book that can be explained, even if I wanted to. All I can say, is to be prepared for a fun ride.

On the first page of the book, it said Shades of Grey is the first of three in this series. I was a little frustrated, as I normally don’t like reading books that come in a series. However, when I got to the end, I went online straight away to see when the second part would be out. Tough luck, I think it said 2013.

** I finished this book about 3 weeks ago, and many details have left me, especially since I don’t physically have it with me now as I’m writing this. But rest assured that I was fully entertained.

But I suppose it’s always nice to know that this place hasn’t disappeared, and knowing I can still come back and write here gives me some comfort, despite my having neglected it for so long.

So now. Since my last post, which I notice sadly, is about Revolutionary Road which I read so so long ago, what have I been up to?

Well, it’s not like I haven’t been reading at all. I’ve read a couple of books, barring the ones that I had to for work. Like this one:

I read this during my trip back to New Zealand earlier this year. I was back with the family for about 3 weeks, and with almost zero workload (I say almost, because I did have some work I had to submit online), I finally had time to read. My dad had just finished this book, and he highly recommended it to me.

I quite enjoyed the book. Maybe it was because it was just too long since my last book. Or maybe it was just the fact that I didn’t know much about the Vietnam War, much less the massacre that happened in My Lai, so everything was new to me. The writing itself wasn’t too shabby, though there were some parts that were repetitive, some a little dry. But otherwise, I enjoyed it much.

And then I also read this book:

My verdict? This book is a work of genius. Absolutely loved it to bits. The way Saramago could weave the story and the characters was nothing short of amazing. I had heard some wonderful things about Saramago, and when I saw this book in the library, I thought I’d give him a shot, instead of sticking with the authors I normally do. Boy, am I glad I did.

It’s a little sad, though, that I can’t find Saramago in the Malaysian National Library. Or maybe I just wasn’t looking hard enough. His books are also a little hard to find in the bookshops in Malaysia. I wonder why. But anyway, after reading Blindness, I’m sold. I really want to read his other books. Lovely writing, amazing storytelling.

I also did some short stories while I was in NZ:

This book has got some crazy, funny stuff in it. Some were rather weird, and I don’t think I quite got it. But I read somewhere that his stories are satirical, and they did remind me of Jonathan Swift somehow. I love Jonathan Swift, I think his stories and his writing is just out-of-this-world funny. This book gave me the same feeling.  It’s funny, and you can’t help but laugh. But then again, there’s a certain realism to the situations in the stories, it rather feels like you’re laughing at yourself and at society.

**

So. What else is new?

These books are new. *cue happy face*

I bought these earlier in June, when there was a huge book fair going on in Kuala Lumpur. Some of them were on 70% discount, and they are brand new. How do you resist heavenly smelling brand new books that are on discount?

It does not happen. There is no resisting this temptation.

I bought some other books as well, but they’re not here right now (I’ve got a couple of places where I live sometimes, so I spread out my books so that there’s something for me to read if I have the time).

I also bought the entire collection of Sherlock Holmes, though it’s not the fancy collection. They were going for a very cheap price, and I’ve always loved Sherlock Holmes, so into my bag they went. I’m now reading one story a day, just before I go to sleep. It feels good.

From top:
Yukio Mishima’s After the Banquet (I’ve always liked Mishima, though I have yet to read a single book of his. This is my first.)
The Ox Tales Fire series (I’ve heard some good things about the Ox Tales series. And I was on the hunt for short story collections.)
Margaret Atwood’s Moral Disorder (Atwood was also an easy choice, since I liked the couple of books I’ve read from her. This is another short story collection, so into the basket it went.)
Anthony Burgess’s Earthly Powers (I was actually thinking of buying The Malayan Trilogy, if for no other reason than that it is about Malaya. I hope I’m right about that deduction…. But I couldn’t find it, and this book did entice me from the first few paragraphs.)
Virginia Woolf’s A Room of One’s Own & Three Guineas (Yet another author I think I’d like, but haven’t tried.)
James Hogg’s The Private Memoirs and Confessions of a Justified Sinner (The title just caught me.)
Haruki Murakami’s Hard-boiled Wonderland and the End of the World (It’s a Murakami. How to resist? How to RESIST?!)

I also got some second-hand books for an awesome deal of RM8.50:

These books were, although used, rather well taken care of. And they were going for such a great price, I just couldn’t walk past without going in. And you know what happens when a book lover goes into a bookshop.

From top:
Archie Comic (From way back when I was a kid. I didn’t own them back then, just used to read them at my friend’s house. I got one for old times’ sake.)
Raj Kamal Jha’s Fireproof (The opening lines sounded interesting, and the premise sounds promising.)
Donna Tartt’s The Secret History (A book I’ve been wanting to read for a long long time.)
Sebastian Faulks’s Birdsong (I’m not really sure what this book’s about, but I remember noting it down somewhere in one of my many notebooks that I’d like to read this, so…)
Jonathan Safran Foer’s Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close (I jumped at this the moment I saw it. I remember wanting to read this book because of all the good things I’ve heard/read about it.)

So there you have it. Some old some new.

But wait, there’s more:

Because of my absolute love for notebooks, I got some new ones, if only just to sit on my shelf and look pretty. Of course, I’m meaning to use them, because I’m the kind of girl who still loves the old way of pencil on paper.

They’re pretty things, they make me happy. *cue smiley face*

And because I’m so happy, I’ll just pop in a couple of other photos of what’s sitting on my shelf.

And another couple more for the ones who love manga/anime as much as I do:

Have a beautiful day!

It’s been such a long time since my last post on something I read, I’m not sure I remember how to do this anymore. This book by Yates is the last book of 2010, and it simply means my year ended beautifully. I’ve only read two by Yates so far, the other being The Easter Parade, which I also loved. So that basically means, Yates is fast becoming a favourite.

This post is going to be a little unfair to Revolutionary Road, because I’m going to be mixing it with an end-of-year sort of post as well. But seriously speaking, I probably don’t know what to say about Revolutionary Road, other than that it was an exceptional read.

Typically, I would have tagged some of my favourite phrases from the book, but for some reason or other, I completely forgot to do so when reading this. It wasn’t that there weren’t any good phrases, because there were plenty. In fact, it was the opening that so captured me, I sacrificed a book I already had in my hand so that I could borrow this instead. The picture of the theatre was painted so well, it was almost real for me. It was as if I was sitting there at their rehearsal, feeling their tension and excitement and anticipation. I could see the curtains and the stage and the rows and rows of seats. I could see the lights and smoke and shadows.

Honestly, I think anyone would be able to tell by now how drawn I was to the opening scene. (I haven’t watched the movie. I’ve been told it’s good. But I hope and pray that the opening scene is as breathtaking as I have imagined it to be…)

Like The Easter Parade, it’s not so much what actually happens, but rather what the characters go through, their feelings and emotions. It’s about their pain, their anguish, their hopes and dreams and desires.

You just gotta love Yates, the way he finds his way into your heart with his characters.

Rating: 4.5

+++

So. That was the last book of 2010. I didn’t quite make it to reading 100 books last year, but to be quite honest, I’m not nearly as disappointed as I thought I would be.

Looking back, I had an amazing first half of the year. I had just graduated, and had all the time in the world to scan the libraries, to lie in bed and just read the whole day. It was reading heaven.

And then after that, I moved back to Malaysia. Life took on a different pace. Now I had to work, to earn my keep, to make a living. Reading had to take a back seat. And then again, libraries in Malaysia are nowhere as well-stocked as those in New Zealand.

But the second half of the year, though not so good in reading, was also an amazing time for me. I went through 3 different jobs, trying to find my place, to find work that I could enjoy and love. Now in 2011, I think I’ve found it, in the form of photography.

Reading will still have to take the backseat for the time being, as I’m juggling one too many jobs at the same time. But reading is supposed to be joyous, not a chore. And so is life.

Books may not be my life, but they definitely enrich it with colours and imagination. I’d never totally give them up. Books still take me where I have never been, they make me explore things I might never have thought of. They teach me wonders, they make me laugh and cry.

So yes, I still don’t have 100 books per year. But 2010 has been a great year for me.

Here’s to a greater 2011 year ahead.

I’m choosing thinner and slimmer books with every library trip I make. I’m trying to convince myself that I’m not reading because the thicker books intimidate me. But even with novellas, I’m having a hard time just keeping my eyes on the pages.

It’s not the books; I know I’d enjoy most of them had I been in a more bookish mood.

It has been a super long time. I’m hoping it’ll blow over soon.

The grey area, I’d discovered, had been misnamed: really the grey area was a whole other spectrum of colours new to the eye. She had the swagger of a girl. She blushed like a boy. She had a girl’s toughness. She had a boy’s gentleness. She was as meaty as a girl. She was as graceful as a boy. She was as brave and handsome and rough as a girl. She was pretty and delicate and dainty as a boy.

It’s one of my personal projects, really, to try and read as many books from the Canongate Myths Series as I can possibly get my hands on. Ali Smith’s Girl Meets Boy is one of those books in this series that I’ve been meaning to read for a long time now. Well, I’m glad to say that this book did not disappoint me.

This time, Smith re-tells the myth of Iphis. In this story, the queen is expecting, but a wise (?) man comes along and tells the queen that if it is a son, then all is well and fine. But if it is a girl, they will have to kill her, as the kingdom simply cannot afford to bring this girl up. The mother prays to the goddess Isis, who tells her that no matter what, she should bring up the child, and that all will be well after.

..

I’m not even sure why I’m re-telling the myth right here. Go read this book!

But on the other side, this story didn’t feel so much like a re-telling, but rather much more like putting a modern twist to the original plot, and changing it in such a way that if not for the fact that we’re told this is the retelling of Iphis’s story, I wouldn’t have been the wiser.

In its own way, it’s different from some of the other Canongate Myth books I’ve read. Like Jeanette Winterson’s Weight, which was a re-telling of the story of Atlas and Hercules: that was a story that felt like going back to the original plot, only seeing it and reading it from a totally new and slightly skewed perspective. As it was with Philip Pullman’s The Good Man Jesus and the Scoundrel Christ. But in this book, Ali Smith managed to write a story that I wouldn’t hesitate to call completely her own, sharing, of course, some salient points with the original.

The beginning was a little slow for me. I get easily confused, especially when I’m not sure who’s talking, who’s narrating, and what on earth the story is all about. But it is also easy for me to get swept into the book if the telling is good, the language easy, the prose free-flowing. Which was the case with this story.

I felt like the Internet, full of every kind of information but none of it mattering more than any of it, and all of its little links like thin white roots on a broken plant dug out of the soil, lying drying on its side.

The truth is this. This is my kind of love story. Daring. Different.

Did their hearts hurt? I said. Did they think they were underwater all the time? Did they feel scoured by light? Did they wander about not knowing what to do with themselves?

Rating: 4

The reason death sticks so closely to life isn’t biological necessity – it’s envy. Life is so beautiful that death has fallen in love with it, a jealous, possessive love that grabs at what it can.

There are some books that you have to plunge into without the slightest clue as to what the book is all about. And there are some books, I feel, that would do much better if the reader, in this case, myself, had in the beginning, some form of understanding as to what can be expected from reading it. This is one of those super-rare times when I wished I had read the blurb at the back of the book before diving straight into it.

It’s not to say the book was awful, or that I think it completely lost the plot, but it did have be confused for a fair bit of the book. I would probably have been less confused, and much more entertained, had I known right from the beginning that the story, in its entirety, is about this young Indian boy being stuck on a lifeboat with a hyena, a zebra, and orang-utan, and an adult Bengal tiger.

I don’t know for how long I held on to the assumption that all this was just a prologue to something else. I kept on thinking that they would see land soon, and the story would take off from there. Little did I know that Pi (that’s the Indian boy’s name) would not see land until the end of the story.

I think I was halfway through the book when I finally gave up, and turned the book to read its blurb. Believe me, my eyes widened in something that equates to disbelief. All I had going through my head at that point was, “So THAT’S what the story is about?!”

I guess in a way, I quite liked the real prologue to the story, the part where Pi is still firmly on ground and talking about religion and zoos. Perhaps that’s what led me to believe that there would be more than just floating in the Pacific.

There are always those who take it upon themselves to defend God, as if Ultimate Reality, as if the sustaining frame of existence, were something weak and helpless. These people walk by a widow deformed by leprosy begging for a few paise, walk by children dressed in rags living in the street, and they think, “Business as usual.” But if they perceive a slight against God, it is a different story. Their faces go red, their chests heave mightily, they sputter angry words. The degree of their indignation is astonishing. Their resolve is frightening.

These people fail to realise that it is on the inside that God must be defended, not on the outside. They should direct their anger at themselves. For evil in the open is but evil from within that has been let out. The main battlefield for good is not the open ground of the public arena but the small clearing of each heart. Meanwhile, the lot of widows and homeless children is very hard, and it is to their defence, not God’s, that the self-righteous should rush.

Once I got into the flow of the book, knowing now that the story is about the lifeboat and the boy and the tiger, I was less caught up with thinking, “So what’s going to happen next?” and instead concentrated on the pictures that Martel painted, of the skies and the seas and the Bengal Tiger. Which, in all honesty, was quite compelling.

There were many skies. The sky was invaded by great white clouds, flat on the bottom but round and billowy on top. The sky was completely cloudless, of a blue quite shattering to the senses. The sky was a heavy, suffocating blanket of grey cloud, but without promise of rain. The sky was thinly overcast. …

There were many seas. The sea roared like a tiger. The sea whispered in your ear like a friend telling you secrets. The sea clinked like small change in a pocket. The sea thundered like avalanches. …

Judging by the number of pages I tagged (with blue Post-Its), I would say that I quite enjoyed the writing, the prose, the flow of the language. I wasn’t captured by the plot or story itself, but it was definitely enjoyable even if just for the writing alone.

Why do people move? What makes them uproot and leave everything they’ve known for a great unknown beyond the horizon? Why climb this Mount Everest of formalities that makes you feel like a beggar? Why enter this jungle of foreignness where everything is new, strange and difficult?

The answer is the same the world over: people move in the hope of a better life.

—–

Hindus, in their capacity for love, are indeed hairless Christians, just as Muslims, in the way they see God in everything, are bearded Hindus, and Christians, in their devotion to God, are hat-wearing Muslims.

—–

All living things contain a measure of madness that moves them in strange, sometimes inexplicable ways. This madness can be saving; it is part and parcel of the ability to adapt. Without it, no species can survive.

—–

I must say one word about fear. It is life’s only true opponent. Only fear can defeat life. It is a clever, treacherous adversary, how well I know. It has no decency, respects no law or convention, shows no mercy. It goes for your weakest spot, which it finds with unerring ease. It begins in your mind, always.

Rating: 3.5

… there is only one sin, only one. And that is theft. Every other sin is a variation of theft. Do you understand that?

The Kite Runner is one of those books that I’ve heard about from all sorts of people and all sorts of sources, and have been meaning to read for a long long time, but just somehow managed to dodge it for equally as long. I had imagined that I would love reading this book, as I’m very interested in the middle East, and stories set there, whether fictional or otherwise. But still, I had my reservations, as my own experiences have taught me that sometimes, very popular books just don’t click with me.

So in a sense, I was tiptoeing around the book, unsure of whether I wanted to immerse myself in it, unsure also of whether I liked the language. Somewhere around page 80, I was pleasantly surprised that I was already that far into the book. In other words, the story itself was enough to draw me in despite my earlier suspicions.

I’m not sure I can say that I was impressed with the prose, but it was simple enough, and flowed really smoothly for me. The immediate plus point is the story. Maybe a little sensational at parts, but then again, this is a story set partially in Afghanistan, so sensationalism feels like it fits in quite well.

I had initially finished the book and thought, well, that was a nice story. There weren’t many major heartbreaks, nor were there any specific scenes that came into my head as I put the book to rest and looked for another to start. But as it is today, about 4 days after I’ve last touched The Kite Runner, it suddenly feels like I’ve only just read it yesterday.

So many scenes pop up in my head now, some more often than others. It’s almost like the story is coming back to haunt me. And for a while, I felt like Amir himself, the main character of the book, where he was constantly haunted by a memory. It’s almost as if the spirit of the story has come alive.

Is it a book, a story, that will stay with me? Yes, I think it is. Maybe not the book in its entirety, but definitely some of its more memorable scenes.

Rating: 4

It has been quite a while since I’ve read non-fiction for leisure. I had initially picked this book from the library as a reference point for the job I’m doing right now. The contents, however, weren’t quite what I had expected it to be, and so was of little use for what I had intended. But I came to a point in the book where history became real for me, and it was like re-living the past. And from there onwards, it was just like going on a journey.

We all learn the basic history of how our country came about. We got our independence from the British on 31 August 1957, and during our school years, we were taught about the processes that our leaders then had to go through, and how they negotiated gaining independence for Malaya (now Malaysia).

Little is known besides what is officially in our history books. Probably because there is definitely a lack of reading habits in Malaysians in general. And also probably because the way we are taught history in school, we grow up thinking of it as a bland boring subject.

I’ve always been interested in history, though not Malaysia’s history in particular. This book, however, opened my eyes and mind to a whole new perspective from which to view my country. Besides what we are told in school, it turns out that there are so many other dimensions to the story, so many different characters that I thought were minor, and now it turns out that they are in fact very influential in the process of our country-in-making.

Look out for more posts and thoughts on books similar to this. =)

Rating: 4

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

I don’t think there are many ways to go wrong with reading Haruki Murakami, especially during a time when reading for leisure is taking a backseat (slightly). I mean, if that’s how he starts his books, there is simply no better way to pull this reader in.

Hear the Wind Sing is the first of Murakami’s work. And because of this, he has simply refused to allow this book to be translated and published outside of Japan. It is only thanks to Tanabata that I managed to get a hold of this book. This is also the first of the Rat Trilogy (as I am told it is so), the next two being Pinball, 1973 and A Wild Sheep Chase. It’s also widely recognised that Dance Dance Dance makes this Trilogy into some sort of quadrilogy.

So anyway, back to this lovely book. I have to admit, I’m somewhat not used to reading such a thin Murakami book. All the books I’ve read were full-length novels (I think Sputnik Sweetheart and After Dark were probably the two shortest, but still, much much longer than this one), and maybe it’s for this reason that I am left with a little of a dilemma on my hands. You see, I’m just so used to getting a minimum dosage of Murakami, that this book just doesn’t give me enough.

This book being his first ever published, it also reads a little less deep compared with his other more recent work. There seems to be less layers, less ambiguity, less confusion all-round. Though there are some signature phrases that you just know comes from Murakami, this book is, in a way, not quite complete.

Still, it’s awfully hard to tell things honestly. The more honest I try to be, the more the right words recede into the distance.

To be honest, I’m probably a bit biased with my thoughts on this book, myself being such a fan of his work. Not quite as satisfying as the others that I have read of his, of course, as I’ve already mentioned. But still, it’s just the way his story flows – the language, the structure (or non-structure) – that sweeps me along with the characters and their emotions.

You keep looking at the sea and you start to miss being with people; you stay around people all the time and you just want to go look at the sea.

For me, though not my favourite Murakami by a mile, but still worth every grain of salt. I’m now really wanting to read Pinball, 1973. Though it’s available for download on the internet somewhere (it should be easy enough to find. Just Google it), I just want to get my hands on the physical book, which is also not published outside of Japan.

Rating: 3.5