A reunion with Disquiet, anyone?

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Excerpts, Fernando Pessoa, Fiction - Novel, Poetry

So. At the close of June 2011, I picked up The Book of Disquiet by Fernando Pessoa. In the weeks that followed, I frequently dipped into the book–at first linearly, and then I had to throw up my arms and say, “Aw, fuck it,” and just opened the page at random. Always with my high-lighter aloft, my pens at the ready.

I had the purest intentions, I did. But now, Disquiet has been sitting forlornly in one shadowed corner of a shelf somewhere–I think I’ll know where it is, if pressed. I seem to have fallen off, although, please, the first nine days, at least, can attest to the fever of my infatuation with this ridiculously beautiful books:

Dated 04 July 2011 [see original post here].

Nine days ago, I began reading The Book of Disquiet by Fernando Pessoa. The above picture was taken in the first hour I spent with this book, and by then I was already more than a little scared of how it would eventually matter to me, how it would be my book. Perhaps only five hours in total in those five days, but this book—it will unhinge me.

I am enamored by its utterances:

• Could it think, the heart would stop beating.
• I feel the chill of a sudden sickness in my soul.
• Everything was sleeping as if the universe were a mistake.
• And the chill of what I won’t feel gnaws at my present heart.

This book is threatening to be a record of my disquiet, my factless autobiography. That’s me when he says, “If I write what I feel, it’s to reduce the fever of feeling,” or, “Ah, it’s my longing for whom I might have been that distracts and torments me!” That’s my tedium, too:

A tedium that includes the expectation of nothing but more tedium; a regret, right now, for the regret I’ll have tomorrow for having felt regret today—huge confusions with no point and no truth, huge confusions.

And that’s me, petty and alive with it: “Let’s not forget to hate those who enjoy, just because they enjoy, and to despise those who are happy, because we didn’t know how to be happy like them.” And all that bordering on being Alarmingly Pathetic Goat, that’s me, for the love of cheesecake.

It’s embarrassing how much of me is in this book, and it’s a relief. How many times does this happen in a reader’s life? A book that is not only yours, but describes you, articulates what you cannot—will not?

Futile and insensitive, I’m capable of violent and consuming impulses—both good and bad, noble and vile—but never of a sentiment that endures, never of an emotion that continues, entering into the substance of my soul. Everything in me tends to go on to become something else. My soul is impatient with itself, as with a bothersome child; its restlessness keeps growing and is forever the same. Everything interests me, but nothing holds me. I attend to everything, dreaming all the while.

Bernardo Soares—who lamented, “Ah, how often my own dreams have raised up before me as things, not to replace reality but to declare themselves its equals…”—Bernardo Soares I officially my latest spirit animal.

And Soares/Pessoa even wrote: “How I’d love to infect at least one soul with some kind of poison, worry or disquiet! This would console me a little for my chronic failure to take action. My life would be to pervert. But do my words ring in anyone else’s soul? Does anyone hear them besides me?”

And in the margin, in mauve ink and minute cursive, I wrote, I do, sir.

Long-winded and self-indulgent flashbacks of my schmaltz aside, I’m sharing that the awe-worthy Tom of Wuthering Expectations is having a group read of The Book of Disquiet, and I’m reckless enough to join in on the fun. I apologize in advance if this means that more of the above posts will continue to appear in this page. No dignity of mine goes un-crumbled in this book blog, ladies and gentlemen. Brace yourselves. Oh, and also, join us. Take it from Tom:

Imagine the poor reader, trapped in his deathbed, who has read all 1,001 books except #PessoaDisquiet. He feebly turns the pages of the Richard Zenith translation, but his eyesight and concentration are insufficient for the difficult concepts and miniscule type of Pessoa’s text. His strength wanes; the book slips from his fingers; he feels the icy shadow of Death approach, knowing that he ends his life unloved, and badly read. Just one book short of being well-read, actually.

Do not be that reader.

Nope, don’t.

My first dip into Dawkins

Tags

Atheism, Excerpts, Richard Dawkins, Science

Seems handy to keep a notebook ever-ready when reading this book. It threatens to rock my world, yes, it does. Anyway. Have taken a peek at The God Delusion by Richard Dawkins [which I discovered through this post by Laura of Laura's Musings], because this is how I like to spend my weekends. Knee-deep in atheism and grumpy ol’ men who pooh-pooh all things otherwise. But, well, I picked this up because I need a frame for what I’ve long suspected as my foray into atheism [or whatever approximates it]. Let me be clear that I need not be convinced. I already know there’s something niggling within me, but I just can’t seem to articulate it. Dawkins’s book, well, I need to witness someone argue the case for me.

That peek I took? One measly paragraph into the book, in a special foreword to the updated paperback edition, Dawkins scratches his head over “a bafflingly large number of intellectuals [who] ‘believe in belief’ even though they lack religious belief themselves.” And I was like, hell, I can’t hazard to claim myself an intellectual, but I do tend to act as though I believe in belief, even if—yeah, you get the picture.

I dunno, Mr. Dawkins. I mean, for one, it’s hard to break away. It’s only been a couple of years since I grew comfortable with the fact that I just wasn’t too keen on religion. Specifically, the Roman Catholic religion, as an institution. More specifically, the spectacle of Catholicism in the Philippines (as a [political] institution), which never fails to give me the heebie-jeebies. I guess what “God” there was, what construct, what belief, was inevitable for me, for my personal philosophy, but to stop believing in belief itself? What?

But it’s also hard to act like a rude ass. In a noble light, it’s respect—respect of people’s opinions, culture, how they want to live their own lives. In a chill kind of thing, it’s passive tolerance. Shrug.

Gah. One measly paragraph into the book, and I’m already thinking a lot. What the hell, dude. What do you want from me?

I’m trying to read this book in tandem with A Demon-Haunted World: Science as a Candle in the Dark, by Carl Sagan. I’ll follow that up with Dawkins’ River Out of Eden. Maybe Stephen Hawking’s A Brief History of Time, why not?  And, in the interest of fairness—something I’ve noticed Dawkins’ is too cute-grumpy to allow me entertain—I’d try reading The Case for God by Karen Armstrong, because it just so happens that it’s lying around the house. Yeah. What is going on, Sasha?

Because I can’t mind my own business

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Maya Banks, Romance Novel

So I’ve finished reading Maya Banks’ foray into historical romance: the McCabe Trilogy, featuring the three brothers McCabe, warrior highland men who, of course, have swoon-y heart bits—and the women they love. Or, in most cases, the women who convince them that, hell, love is awesome, and can they put aside their broad-axes for a sec that they can partake of its sauce? Yeah, that’s a good lad.

I like the books, I did. [You should’ve seen me squeal in the bookstore when I saw the third book had arrived, dude.] These books are yummy, they are. But I’m rude enough to want it to be better, and argue why it can be better, and argue for how it can be better.

I’m going to cut to the chase here and make my proposition—a proposition that, yes, I know wouldn’t have made a difference anyway because the industry doesn’t work that way, but call me stubborn. So. I’m thinking that the McCabe Trilogy would have been a better, more kick-ass, a more modern classic kind of book if Banks [and her editor/publisher?] had followed her heart and pushed the envelope and given us readers one big, fat, sweeping historical highland romance—full of lurve and blood, of battle cries and plaid. Yep. That’s my far-fetched idea.

I know. This is what writing-about-books frequently cautions against: Wishing that a book was something else, writing about a book the way you wish it had been written in the first place. Bah. But I’m feeling all creative-pants and nosy. So, well, turn away now, if ye know what’s good for you. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Why am I doing this? Blaaargh.

Ahem. As I was reading Book 03, it was very, very clear to me: this trilogy would’ve gotten everyone’s crazy-reader on if it had been allowed to be as rich and expansive as its premise and its characters promised.

Let’s revisit Book 01. So. Because the last draught of 2011 made for painful blogging, my recorded thoughts on the first installment, In Bed with a Highlander, were brief—basically, I told myself that I had loads of fun with it:

Heiress and potential political pawn, through sheer grit and gumption, saves herself and a laird’s son from the baddies? H&PPP reluctantly finding a home in a crumbling keep of three strapping Highland men? Yes. A lot of easy laughter and believably messy characters? Sure.

Not two months later, I’m trying to figure out how that’s so. Because, frankly, my problems with the next two books—oh, I will get to them later—kind of makes it all hazy for me. The first book, like the next two that followed it, have pressing political issues at stake serving as backdrop to the romance. And it must be said that, generally, Banks effectively uses this premise to add dimensions to and to further the relationship between the protagonists.

For example, in Book 01: The forced marriage, the less-than-ideal consummation scene (there’s a skirmish goin’ on, Mairin, sorry!), and the inevitable learning-to-love-each-other bit. There’s also that scene familiar to me [in my reading of romances featuring literal warrior-heroes]—the necessary, urgent choice between the honorable vendetta and one true love. [This particular scene, it must be said, occurs too in Books 02 and 03, though in different incarnations. Bekez that’s how your prove your love in politics.]

I have a stronger memory of what I felt with Book 02, Seduction of a Highland Lass, than its actual content. Heh. It was, in a word, outrage. Basically, middle child Alaric is on his way to marry the daughter of the neighboring clan [alliances must be formed!] when he’s ambushed. Keeley, outcast of the McDonald clan and a healer to boot, takes him in and nurses his wounds. And other stuff. Ewan, being all Laird-y and stuff, basically kidnaps Keeley so she can make sure that 1) Alaric is hale and healthy, and 2) Mairin’s baby will be delivered safely.

Now. Let’s remember the central conflict: Alaric is promised to another woman—it’s a political alliance. He and Keeley fall in love and get jiggy with each other with some lip service to honor and ooh-I-need-this-one-night schtick. I get that. I get that kind of conflict. But I wanted a little more spine from Alaric. His thoughts on their relationship, it needed more urgency, more shame at the potential political disaster he was brewing, more shame that he was treating Keeley like a doily—but, also, the undeniable necessity of having Keeley in his life. I wanted more agency from Keeley, who’s shown herself a pretty strong chick, kidnapping notwithstanding. For most of the book, I wanted to reach in grab Keeley by the shoulders and say, “Hey, find a man who loves you right. Gannon looks awesome!” [No, seriously, does Gannon get a book?]

And then there was Book 03, Never Love a Highlander. A lot hinges on this particular book, mainly because it has to fulfill the role of trilogy-closer, even as it makes sure it delivers a solid romance between the protagonists. So, one, this is where we expect a culmination of the clan’s war with David Cameron—who, by the way, is an unreliable villain, given his arbitrariness. This is where the overreaching narrative arc of the trilogy comes to a head, and we deserve, don’t we, a satisfying resolution?

And, also, also: The initial looks I had of the protagonists, youngest brother Caelen and the neighbors’ warrior daughter Rionna, had me salivating. I was ExcitedPantz. Here was the gruff guy, whose personal history is essential to why the McCabes are where they are now. Here’s that awkward, sword-wielding girl who’s been passed on from one brother to the next. This is not only conflict, this is potential for rich characters! I need more of them! Their story is awesome as it is, but I need more because I love them before I even got to know their together-story, don’t you see?

Ahem. It may please the bloodthirsty in me that the ultimate battle scene was fucking kick-ass. [However, in keeping with the theme of me being a know-it-all, may I suggest a reading of that raiding scene of the Mother Confessor painted white, in one of Terry Goodkind’s books. That is warrior-princess slash lover slash political powerhouse to aspire to.] What I especially loved about it was that Caelen and Rionna, as this particular book’s protagonists, was central to the resolution of that bigger narrative arc.

I do think that all these issues can be addressed if Banks relented to turn this trilogy into a happy love monster. Romances can be explored and made more whole. The whole bit with the couples keeping tabs on each other in and out the books? Yeah, not as annoying now, huh? And the politics! The backstories! The babies!

Lastly [and I use that word to pretend that this hot mess of a post is anything but], that umph I noticed was sorely lacking in these books—in comparison to Banks’ other works—was gravitas. In her erotic romances, Banks’ characters had issues that seem trivial compared to all the bloodshed in this trilogy—but they treated them real seriously. They laughed and fell in love, but they were always aware that there was a lot at stake—especially in the relationship they were trying to build with each other. That shit was intense, and it was so very good. I miss that intensity.

Ahem. Again, I liked the books. I’m just a terrible person in writing this post to express that crooked brand of liking. Hells, yeah.

[Again, not drunk! Just flaky.]

Let’s get the duds out of the way

Tags

Books About Books, Fiction - Short Stories, Joan Silber, Paulette Roeske, Reference

I think I’m learning how to take bad and mediocre books in stride. That is, I’ve decided that 2012 will be when I don’t take it as a personal offense that the book I just read dared be craptastic or so-so. That sounds wise of me, I know.

So. Five books into the year, and I’ve encountered my first DNF. The dubious distinction belongs to Bridge of Sighs, a short story collection by Paulette Roeske. It was, well, it wasn’t nice. I was intrigued by the first paragraphs of the stories [and one novella!], but, ultimately, there was no rewarding follow-through from the author. Off the top of my head, Roeske seems to settle with bland language. She sets up moments that demands for a reach to the poetic, but the language just lies there like a dead fish, and it won’t even give me the courtesy to flop. Gah. In contrast to the contrived lyric atmosphere, the floo-floo mood of the pieces? More than halfway through, I set the book down. I’d rather read some Alice Munro. She gets shit right.

And then there’s Joan Silber’s contribution to the Art of — Series, with The Art of Time in Fiction: As Long As It Takes. Now. I’m not quite exaggerating when I say that Silber’s short story collection, Ideas of Heaven, changed my life—and helped educate me on expert manipulation of time in fiction. This book, however, was lifeless. Like an elaboration on a little section of Wikipedia entry on time-techniques. It was just so dead. Blech. I’d rather read some Alice Munro—or any of the pieces Silber mentioned to see how those authors accomplished it, and then there’d be goddamned art going on. Sheesh. Happy bleepin’ New Year.

Sweeping Declarations

Here’s to another year, and let’s hope it’s above ground.

- From The Stone Diaries, by Carol Shields.

Not even I, with my faux coolness, can resist the symbolism of the new year. Logically, it’s nothing more than continuation, or even an arbitrary transition. But I can’t help but feel the momentous-ness of this shiz. [Not unlike me and my mother and my little cousins looking up at the New Year's Eve sky with our mouth agape--"Why do we do this, Mom? Because, ooh, shiny-pretty lights!"] The Universe may be cackling behind a shower of stars, but I do feel as though I’ve been given the authority to wipe the slate clean. It is the new year and, suddenly, there are better things, there are spankin’-new opportunities–to laugh at myself, to fall on my butt, to laugh at myself all over again, I guess. It’s not so much a reinvention or that the aforementioned slate really is wiped clean–as it is a blessing to proclaim, “Yeah, we’ll get better at getting it right this time,” and mean it.

So here’s to 2012. I don’t know what the Universe has in store for me, but you can expect that I’m more than willing to arm-wrestle it, drink it under the table, out-fucking-read it, for good things to come my way, and stay warm and fuzzy by my side.

I would be honored and tickled muchly pink to have you guys with me when that happens.

Cobwebs for Christmas

It’s Christmas, and so I thought I’d do this blog a well-earned kindness and shut it down. Heh. I kid. Revive it, more like. I hope.

The past several weeks were an unexpected—albeit not an unwelcome—hiatus. I haven’t had time [or, truthfully, the inclination] to read as much as I usually do, and so I sure as hell don’t have time to goddamned blog. Which is a pity, because back in November [see how long ago I’d fallen off?] I read some awesome books—off the top of my head: two romance novels by Courtney Milan, a lush belle epoch novel by Richard Mason. I would’ve wanted to blog about them, but, myeh. Life got in the way—plus, December rolled around, and I am suddenly an alcoholic.

I think I will let this blog rest some more. I’ll be back come January. I’ll manage to cram in posts on books read [not a lot, lately], a year-ender that I know will only be more-than-tedious for y’all by then, and a lot more shenanigans. I will revive this, I will. I think I can. Ugh. Yeah. I miss all of you. I miss my friends, I miss the community. I miss cackling with cackle-minded people over at Twitter. Eh, I can do this. It’s only a matter of time. I hope.