Hello, Sylvia

I saw my life branching out before me like the green fig tree in the story. 

From the tip of every branch, like a fat purple fig, a wonderful future beckoned and winked. One fig was a husband and a happy home and children, and another fig was a famous poet and another fig was a brilliant professor, and another fig was Ee Gee, the amazing editor, and another fig was Europe and Africa and South America, and another fig was Constantin and Socrates and Attila and a pack of other lovers with queer names and offbeat professions, and another fig was an Olympic lady crew champion, and beyond and above these figs were many more figs I couldn't quite make out. 

I saw myself sitting in the crotch of this fig tree, starving to death, just because I couldn't make up my mind which of the figs I would choose. I wanted each and every one of them, but choosing one meant losing all the rest, and, as I sat there, unable to decide, the figs began to wrinkle and go black, and, one by one, they plopped to the ground at my feet.

― Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar

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About time for me to finally read this. :))

Pride and vanity

Vanity and pride are different things, though the words are often used synonymously. A person may be proud without being vain. Pride relates more to our opinion of ourselves, vanity to what we would have others think of us.

 — Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice

Extraordinary ordinary

— Phil Kaye, Jesus Will Do It For Half (A Light Bulb Symphony, 2010)

 

The tongue-in-cheek cleverness notwithstanding, this poem hits home.

Because maybe, I was once guilty of romanticizing what it's like to be in a relationship, but have known better since. 

Because at the end of the day, it's not all about blinding fireworks and overwhelming waves nor about earth-shattering promises and immaculate ideals. Instead, it's how you learn more about each other, about life–together and as individuals–through all the mistakes and the flaws. It's in the quiet assurance to do one's best for each other, for the partnership, day after day, week after week. It's how you celebrate the little victories together, or how you could take comfort in each other's presence, whether in times of joy or fatigue. It's how the simplest, everyday moments could feel brand new after all.

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'But I suppose it’s often that way. The brave things in the old tales and songs, Mr. Frodo: adventures, as I used to call them. I used to think that they were things the wonderful folk of the stories went out and looked for, because they wanted them, because they were exciting and life was a bit dull, a kind of a sport, as you might say. But that’s not the way of it with the tales that really mattered, or the ones that stay in the mind. Folk seem to have been just landed in them, usually – their paths were laid that way, as you put it. But I expect they had lots of chances, like us, of turning back, only they didn’t. And if they had, we shouldn’t know, because they’d have been forgotten. We hear about those as just went on – and not all to a good end, mind you; at least not to what folk inside a story and not outside it call a good end. You know, coming home, and finding things all right, though not quite the same – like old Mr. Bilbo. But those aren’t always the best tales to hear, though they may be the best tales to get landed in! I wonder what sort of a tale we’ve fallen into?'

— J.R.R. Tolkien, The Two Towers (The Lord of the Rings Volume II)

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The first month of the year is almost over and I still am not yet done with my first book for the 2015 Reading Challenge. Haha. I am thoroughly enjoying reading this high fantasy classic and finally understanding why it has become such an important book. I know, I know. I should be fed to Shelob for reading/finishing it only now. The magnitude and, well, objectivity are so sweeping I can't help but root for the characters–despite knowing already what will transpire, thanks to the movies–and wonder what sort of bigger epic the Elder Days of the Middle-earth used to be. 

'In love one advances by retreating'

Why do we care about singers? Wherein lies the power of songs? Maybe it derives from the sheer strangeness of there being singing in the world… that such things should exist, that we should have discovered the magical intervals and distances that yield the poor cluster of notes, all within the span of a human hand, from which we can build our cathedrals of sound, is as alchemical a mystery as mathematics, or wine, or love. Maybe the birds taught us. Maybe not. Maybe we are just creatures in search of exaltation. We don’t have much of it. Our lives are not what we deserve; they are, let us agree, in may painful ways deficient. Song turns them into something else. Song shows us a world worthy of our yearning, it shows us our selves as they might be, if we were worthy of the world.

I think of faith as irony, which is perhaps why the only leaps of faith I’m capable of are those required by the creative imagination, by fictions that don’t pretend to be fact, and so end up telling the truth.

Power, like love, most fully reveals its dimensions only when it is irrevocably lost.

But let’s just suppose. What if the whole deal—orientation, knowing where you are, and so on—what if it’s all a scam? What if all of it—home, kinship, the whole enchilada—is just the biggest, most truly global, and centuries-old piece of brainwashing? Suppose that it’s only when you dare to let go that your real life begins? When you’re whirling free of the mother ship, when you cut your ropes, slip your chain, step off the map, go absent without leave, scram, vamoose, whatever: suppose that’s it then, and only then, that you're actually free to act! To lead the life nobody tells you how to live, or when, or why. In which nobody orders you to go forth and die for them, or for god, or comes to get you because you broke one of the rules, or because you're one of those people who are, for reasons which unfortunately you can’t be given, simply not allowed. Suppose you've got to go through the feeling of being lost, into the chaos and beyond; you've got to accept the loneliness, the wild panic of losing your moorings, the vertiginous terror of the horizon spinning round and round like the edge of a coin tossed in the air. 

You won't do it. Most of you won't do it. The world's head laundry is pretty good at washing brains: Don't jump off that cliff don't walk through that door don't step into the waterfall don't take that chance don't step across that line don't ruffle my sensitivities I'm warning you now don't make me mad you're doing it you're making me mad. You won't have a chance you haven't got a prayer you're finished you're history you're less than nothing, you're dead to me, dead to your whole family your nation your race, everything you ought to love more than life and listen to like your master's voice and follow blindly and bow down before and worship and obey; you're dead, you hear me, forget about it, you stupid bastard, I don't even know your name. 

But just imagine you did it. You stepped off the edge of the earth, or through the fatal waterfall, and there it was: the magic valley at the end of the universe, the blessed kingdom of the air. Great music everywhere. You breathe the music, in and out, it's your element now. It feels better than "belonging" in your lungs!

If Ficino believed that our music is composed by our lives, the contemporary Czech Milan Kundera thinks, contrariwise, that our lives are composed like music. “Without realizing it, the individual composes his life according to the laws of beauty, even in times of the greatest distress.” To stand the old principle of good design on its elegant head: in our functioning we follow the dictates of our need for form. 

—Salman Rushdie, The Ground Beneath Her Feet

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This book. Seriously.

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She loved the sea only for the sake of its storms, and the green fields only when broken up by ruins. 

— Gustave Flaubert, Madame Bovary

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Lettie shrugged. "Nobody looks like what they really are on the inside. You don't. I don't. people are much more complicated than that. It's true of everybody." 

I said, "Are you a monster? Like Ursula Monkton?" 

Lettie threw a pebble into the pond. "I don't think so," she said. "Monsters come in all shapes and sizes. Some of them are things people are scared of. Some of them are things that look like things people used to be scared of a long time ago. Sometimes monsters are things people should be scared of, but they aren't." 

I said, "People should be scared of Ursula Monkton." 

"P'rhaps. What do you think Ursula Monkton is scared of?" 

"Dunno. Why do you think she's scared of anything? She's a grown-up, isn't she? Grown-ups and monsters aren't scared of things." 

"Oh, monsters are scared," said Lettie. "And as for grown-ups..." She stopped talking, rubbed her freckled nose with a finger. Then, "I'm going to tell you something important. Grown-ups don't look like grown-ups on the inside either. Outside, they're big and thoughtless and they always know what they're doing. Inside, they look just like they always have. Like they did when they were your age. The truth is, there aren't any grown-ups. Not one, in the whole wide world." She thought for a moment. Then she smiled. "Except for Granny, of course."   

 — Neil Gaiman, The Ocean at the End of the Lane

Alba

... I felt as if I were assembling a jigsaw puzzle in which each piece has a specific place. Before I put the puzzle together, it all seemed incomprehensible to me, but I was sure that if I ever managed to complete it, the separate parts would each have meaning and the whole would be harmonious... At times I feel as if I had lived all this before and that I have already written these very words, but I know it was not I: it was another woman, who kept her notebooks so that one day I could use them. I write, she wrote, that memory is fragile and the space of a single life is brief, passing so quickly that we never get a chance to see the relationship between events; we cannot gauge the consequences of our acts, and we believe in the fiction of past, present, and future, but it may also be true that everything happens simultaneously...  

— Isabel Allende, The House of the Spirits

Férula

She was one of those people who are born for the greatness of a single love, for exaggerated hatred, for apocalyptic vengeance, and for the most sublime forms of heroism, but she was unable to shape her fate to the dimensions of her amorous vocation, so it was lived out as something flat and gray trapped between her mother's sickroom walls, wretched tenements, and the tortured confessions with which this large, opulent, hot-blooded woman – made for maternity, abundance, action, and ardor – was consuming herself. 

 — Isabel Allende, The House of the Spirits

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"Ender, come see me. China's a beautiful country. More variety inside China than in the rest of the world." 

"I will if I can," said Ender. He didn't have the heart to point out that China was full of human beings, and that the mix of good and bad, strong and weak, courageous and fearful was bound to be about the same as in any other country or culture or civilization... or village, or house, or heart. 

—  Orson Scott Card, Ender in Exile

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I'm really enjoying this sort-of accidental find of a series. Ender Wiggin is as good a child hero character as it gets. ASA<3!

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<That is the tragedy of language, my friend. Those who know each other only through symbolic representations are forced to imagine each other. And because their imagination is imperfect, they are often wrong.> 

<That is the source of their misery.> 

<And some of their strength, I think.>  

—  Orson Scott Card, Xenocide

Retail Therapy

My latest hoard

I was supposed to buy books to give to the interns but I ended up buying them for myself. Their presence on my shelf makes me feel a little less shitty these days.

Yes, I still buy Sidney Sheldon books when I can, if only to tick them off my bucket list. I won't say I don't like him anymore, claim that "it was just a phase." I owe the man quite a lot, and I did enjoy his books for what they're worth. Back when I was still in high school and trying out new things to read, my highly-impressionable teen self looked up to his heroines.

And yes, I am (still) a sucker for YA books.

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Perhaps it is indeed time I began to look at this whole matter of bantering more enthusiastically. After all, when one thinks about it, it is not such a foolish thing to indulge in--particularly if it is the case that in bantering lies the key to human warmth.  

-- Kazuo Ishiguro, The Remains of the Day

Winter has come

These past few months have seen me wallowing in emotions and journeying through the fantastic lands of Ice and Fire. I first encountered this world through the HBO series "Game of Thrones." And though I'm quite wont to reproaching myself for having discovered it just now instead of years and years earlier, I am still glad to know, experience and learn more about the exquisite and vivid world crafted by George R. R. Martin. In the shuttle on the way to work, during lunch breaks, while waiting in line, before going to sleep, and basically whenever I had free (and actually not-so-free) time, I found myself reading each of the current five books of the saga "A Song of Ice and Fire." All of them are almost a thousand page apiece and all of them gripping, intriguing and... addicting.

"'The north remembers, Lord Davos. The north remembers, and the mummer's farce is almost done. My son is home.' Something about the way Lord Wyman said that chilled Davos to the bone."

The line is from "A Dance with Dragons," the fifth book from the saga. And all the five books are filled with such breath-stealing moments and utterly captivating plot lines that flow seamlessly through the pages. I did feel cold fingers down my back when I read that line spoken by Lord Wyman Manderly, even before I got to the part about Lord Davos. "The north remembers" resonate so well to us readers who have journeyed and empathized with the northern men, and the sequence of the dialogues in this part just set the delivery of the line at its most affecting. 

"I think it passing odd that I am loved by one for a kindness I never did, and reviled by so many for my finest act." 

-- "A Clash of Kings" (Book II)

It has been known that the dynamic in "A Song of Ice and Fire" is not the usual good versus bad. In this land of continuous power struggle and betrayal and personal ambitions, every single character is capable of fighting his way through the labyrinthine quasi-medieval society of Westeros and the lands beyond the Narrow Sea. Each book in the series is bursting with action and twists that don't let go, and the high fantasy elements of dragons, skinchangers, and prophecies add more fervor in the events that transpired. 

In stories of the scale such as "A Song of Ice and Fire," there are bound to be a dazzling array of characters--from knights to sorcerers, from bards to sellswords, from kings to slaves, from bastards to lords, I have met their kinds. And what's so addicting about GRRM's world is that every single character he cared to introduce ends up being a personality that sticks in the mind even if his/her appearances in the books are hundreds of pages in between. It's easy to get lost in the tangled plot and subplots set in many wondrous places. But when a character you thought you don't exactly know or care about appears again, something clicks in your head and everything amazingly snaps into place... and you're just... awed. It's such a thrilling experience and one I can't get enough of, honestly.

"'You lie,' (the kindly old man) said. 'All men lie when they are afraid. Some tell many lies, some but a few. Some have only one great lie they tell so often that they almost come to believe it... though some small part of them will always know it is still a lie, and that will show upon their faces.'"  

-- "A Feast for Crows" (Book IV)

I know I'm not really an expert reader to generalize literary expositions, but another thing I liked about "A Song of Ice and Fire" is that GRRM seemingly deconstructs the ideological foundations of the character tropes. Knights and princesses, mothers and kings--they're not always what we might know them to be. Suddenly the soiled fighter is actually a man of honor, a woman becomes more of a knight than any anointed ser in the kingdom, the child soldier transforms into a vengeful and dark warrior, the domestic ladies find strength in their grief and are actually able to wield more power than their male counterparts. Every character is so well-made for me, and it's really thrilling to watch them struggle to achieve what they want or battle it out against one another.

Another thing I liked about GRRM's chef-d'œuvre is the exquisite imagery of places and people, of culture and myths, of the lands' own histories and heroes. I find it really amazing how fluid the ideas flow from one to another. I have probably said this, but I love how unapologetic GRRM is in his writing. The chapters are filled to the brim with tales from this fictional world so vividly written I can't help but feel it's real. The symbols are so deftly constructed, the ideologies (be it religion or other societal norms) so innate in every character you end up reasoning with yourself defending and contending their actions. 

"She loved the sea. She liked the sharp salty smell of the air, the vastness of horizons bounded only by a vault of azure sky above. It made her feel small, but free as well. She liked the dolphins that sometimes swam along beside Balerion, slicing through the waves like silvery spears, and the flying fish they glimpsed now and again. She even liked the sailors, with all their songs and stories."  

--"A Storm of Swords" (Book III)

I have never been this obsessed in a fantasy series, or any material for that matter, before. I thought maybe it's because I'm older when I started being enthusiastic about it (contrary to, say, being obsessed years ago with "Harry Potter") and that I am more capable to act upon this fascination. (I actually actively searched for fanfictions because I. Just. Can't. Get. Enough. Of my favorite characters.) I also thought maybe it's because I have friends I could fangirl with over the books. I also thought maybe because "A Song of Ice and Fire" is so different from anything I have encountered yet, that even the languages used fascinate me. And I have never felt this attached to this many characters. GRRM has a gut-wrenching way of dealing with characters and their fates (and deaths), and as a reader, the emotional torture can sometimes be quite disconcerting. But in a sick way, you can't really stop and give up, can you?

"A craven can be as brave as any man, when there is nothing to fear. And we all do our duty, when there is no cost to it. How easy it seems then, to walk the path of honor. Yet soon or late in every man's life comes a day when he must choose." 

-- "A Game of Thrones" (Book I)

More than anything though, I think I'm so deeply obsessed because the whole saga is a really rich narrative that saying it's a complicated tale is an understatement. Every reading, every character you root for, every chapter makes you think. GRRM's world is so convoluted it leaves so much room for discovery. And it's exhilarating to analyze things you might have missed the first time, and realize its effect to the whole story. I think it's one of the irresistible factor of the series--you're never ever sure so you have to keep reading (or wait for the succeeding books and discuss theories with fellow fans while at it).

Honestly, I didn't know what I have signed up for when I began my journey first in Winterfell, beyond the Wall, and then through Westeros and then father away into the lands beyond the Narrow Sea and in the Free Cities. My thoughts are a train-wreck for weeks now because of "A Song of Ice and Fire" and gods know what I'm supposed to do with my life while waiting for the sixth book "The Winds of Winter."

Currently the most beloved pieces in my book collection. :))

The sure-fire way to making me happy

A day before my friend and I trooped to the Mall of Asia for the 33rd Manila International Book Fair (MIBF), I bought myself a copy of J.R.R. Tolkien's "The Children of Hùrin" from the bookstore in the mall nearest to where I live. It shames me to admit that despite a handful of tries to get through "The Lord of the Rings," I never got to finish the books, although I loved the films. However, I couldn't just leave the copy of "The Children of Hùrin" in the bookshop. I bought it even if I still haven't read the series it was derived from because I was not able to resist the relatively cheap price and the perfect condition (and stunning cover) of the copy.

And the next day, to MIBF we go!

Because I was kind of restricting myself on spending, the book fair was such a treat and torture. The walls and the aisles were filled with books, and my friend and I were beside ourselves from all the choices available. I believe almost everything there were marked down, but the limited amount I had in my pockets then left me helpless.

I saw one of the books my cousin illustrated! *proud*

I had to settle with Ramon Bautista's debut book (with free "artista notebook") and his autograph (which took us almost three hours on the line to get and terribly reminded us of our "training" for patience during  long lines, i.e. our enrollment process at the University especially for prerog for PE and other highly in-demand subjects). 

Three loops of this is the line for the booth where Tado Jimenez, Stanley Chi, and Ramon Bautista were holding their books' launch and signing event

With most of our afternoon spent at the book-signing event, my friend and I had at most a couple of hours left to wander and visit the rest of the booths. The venue was big, so we just chose one bookstore to scour, and there we meandered and searched for titles we wanted to buy.

The "A Song of Ice and Fire" series on display seemed to mock me and Claire, saying "Come get me if you can."

I decided to buy George R.R. Martin's "A Dance of Dragons," the fifth and latest in the series "A Song of Ice and Fire." My friend, on the other hand, bought the first ("A Game of Thrones"), and the second ("A Clash of Kings"). I think it's odd that it's the fifth book that I decided to buy, instead of the first book or the third one which is what I'm reading at the present. My reason was that I needed the map, because I only have the e-books currently and the maps don't show properly, and the illustrations on the fifth book are more comprehensive than the others'. Either way, we both decided that sooner rather than later, we would be able to complete our copies of the series. Because Winter is Coming.

So here goes the latest addition to my books. (RB's book cover is superb and panalo. XD)

I have heard of MIBF only last year, and was not able to attend then because of school and work. This year, I was not able to prepare so I only had a couple of take-home volumes and the new experience of attending such a huge event made for the love of books. Nonetheless, MIBF made the bookworm in me truly happy. Next year, though, I swear my haul will be definitely bigger.

And finally, some words of wisdom from Ramon "The Dragon" Bautista himself. :))

Of fliggers and balimbing and national identity

Ilustrado (Miguel Syjuco, 2008)

The back cover of the book says:

"To understand the death (of his teacher, Crispin Salvador), Miguel scours his teacher's life, piercing together Salvador's story through his poetry, interviews, novels, polemics, and memoirs. The result is a rich and dramatic family saga of four generations, tracing 150 years of Philippine history forged under the Spanish, the Americans, and the Filipinos themselves. Finally, we are suprised to learn that this story belongs to Miguel as much as to his lost mentor, and we are treated to an unhindered view of a society caught between reckless decay and hopeful progress."

Miguel (in the story) patches up the life story of his mentor, his own, and of his Motherland, while Ilustrado tries to unravel and solve the enigma that is the Philippines--the Philippine literature and all its potential, the Filipino people themselves, and the despondent country that holds them together.

The mere premise of Syjuco's debut novel excited me but I wasn't honestly prepared for the awe-inspiring story it truly is. It is wrought with themes adeptly ingrained, thoroughly witty, and possesses a pleasant brand of humour that takes the reader by surpise at times. With a host of narrative devices and techniques, with brilliant use of language, Ilustrado sets out to be a work of fiction that is both complex and aggressive. A truly remarkable and splendid read crafted by an undeniable lit virtuoso.

The Tale Behind the Mask

Phantom (Susan Kay, 1990)

Only some days after I started trying to learn everything about the Phantom of the Opera from both the Andrew Lloyd-Webber musical and the novel by Gaston Leroux that I discovered the spin-off novel written by Susan Kay titled Phantom.

Kay's novel followed the story of the terrible musical genius, from being born as Erik to a middle-class family in the French village of Boscherville, to being the fearsome Opera Ghost who made the cellar of the Paris Opera House his lair. Using the main character and the different points-of-view of the other characters who managed to interact and live with Erik throughout his seemingly accursed life, Kay laid the foundation of the Phantom's genius and  motives. She insterspersed the background from the canon novel, with thoroughly researched factual events and places to serve as the background of the well-loved gothic classic of Leroux. The novel traced Erik's education from childhood, to his travels within Europe and beyond the Mediterranean, learning various trades and skills, and fighting his way for survival and affection.

I have always loved the Leroux classic, my copy almost battered with constant re-reading. But Susan Kay's Phantom is a truly outstanding addition to the ageless tale of the Opera Ghost. Kay managed to fill in the gaps in the novel and had developed a firm foundation of the characters. The novel is filled with vivid imageries of the grotesqueness of Erik from birth, the Gyspy caravan he belonged to for a time, his apprenticeship to an Italian stonemason, his traversals in the fairs of Russia, his adventures in the exotic land of Persia, his wanderings in Europe and finally back to France, where he met his boon and bane, the young and beautiful chanteuse Christine Daaé.

There was no shortage of philosophical meanderings as well as allusions to religion. The characters Kay created to surround Erik were truly sound and affective at some points. He was given a human face, to put it simply. He was given the chance to care for people and be cared-for in turn. Whereas Leroux's Phantom was a fearsome monster, Kay "redeemed" Erik through his achievements in the world of music, art, and even architecture.

The novel as a whole is dark, at times witty and emotive. After the last page, Kay's creation of Erik still haunts me, along with the other characters and scenes that sprang forth from the pages, particularly the development of Daroga from the Leroux novel (which the musical left out), and the introduction of the Italian master stonemason, Signor Giovanni. ("There was so much beauty in your soul, Erik, so much beauty that I fear now, because of one old man's folly, will never see the light of day.") It is a brilliant albeit strongly imaginative take on The Phantom of the Opera, and I could see that my copy of Phantom, despite being electronic, will be re-read as much as the original Leroux has been.

A Potterhead reflects, laments, rejoices

Last week, I decided to start re-watching all of the seven Harry Potter movies. In a month, the second part of the final installment will be released, and it would mean the ultimate end of the phenomenal series. There would be no more books nor films to look forward to anymore.

I don't think I am the only one in this kind of pinch--wanting to relieve and cling onto the past decade of magic, bravery and kindness, and at the same time dying to see the glorious end of the fantastic story we have followed since we were kids.

 I can not call myself the biggest Potter fan, but J.K Rowling's masterpiece had affected me in more ways than one. The series had rekindled my love for books, made me stay up until the wee hours of the early morning, created a venue for conversation with my friends. I clung on to each and every word, to every peculiar British expression, to every archaic- (and Latin-) sounding magical spell, to the excitingly different renditions of different familiar fictional creatures, to the fascinating characters as they made me care about their losses, triumphs, their (sometimes feeble attempts at) jokes, their peculiarities.

The adventures at and beyond Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry showed me just how boundless true friendships really are, how kindness comes in different sizes and appearances, how love can conquer the most difficult of odds, even death, how to accept tragic losses and keep level-headed in times of triumph, how to stand up against the powers that be, how to ward off nargles, among so many others.

 I am a part of the Potter generation and there's no use denying it. I was 11 when the first movie came out, and I could say that I have stuck with Harry until the very end, just as Ron and Hermione were constantly there for him even in the face of death. We are the generation that grew up looking up to the wisdom of Professor Dumbledore and cracking jokes along the lines of Fred and George Weasley. We have seen Luna not as a crazy teenage girl but as a dependable friend with a firm set of beliefs. Like the rest of the Wizarding World, we were scared of and awed with the power Voldemort held in his hands. We are taught to be in constance vigilance by Mad-Eye Moody, always on guard for surreptitious malevolence, and always prepared to do what's right.

 The books are a wonder to read. Rowling made it possible to turn everything we in the Muggle world deem as ordinary to magical. I have had my dose of laughter from her witty remarks and snides. My eyes welled up as she painted touching and heartbreaking scenes. I adore how she alluded to the real-world issues by way of characterizations and plot archs--Oh, Rita Skeeter! Oh, Dolores Umbridge! Oh, Ministry of Magic! And as an aspirant writer, I believe one of Rowling's greatest achievements from the series is her creation of fantastic settings--a world so different from our own, a world we want to be a part of, yet so familiar, so easy to understand.

This wondrous alternative world we got to see in the films, as the words and pages become cinematic elements combined to produce complete audio-visual experiences. As separate works of art, the film adaptations and the novels are different and comparing them is pointless. For me personally, the movies and the books are co-existent. It is hard for me to read the books and not imagine the Gryffindor common room as seen in the movies, or dissociate Rupert Grint from the character of Ron Weasley.

 Come July, Potter fans all over the world will prolly think so, too. We might have read about the end of the series already, for the first time almost four years ago. But within those four years, there were still the movies we go to the theaters for. It would would be a lot different this time. This will be the last time the cast, which we have come to associate with the characters we felt strongly about, would come together in the amazing world of wizards and Muggles alike.

I therefore think the screening of the second part Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows is an event of a generation. We will hop on to platform nine and three quarters for the last time (and in my case, with a heavy heart). Along with the billowing smoke and the scarlet blur of the Hogwarts Express train speeding away, we shall send off the magical experiences of our childhood, waiting to be rediscovered.

And in between bouts of nostalgia, we live the lives outside the safe and guarded walls of the castle we know we could always go home to.

Finally, a book and the sound of the rain

School will start next week and I finally realized that I have to make the most of the remaining days of my (non-existent) vacation. After all the trouble and work from my internship stint, I finally get to sleep late and bond with my pillows and bed as much as I want to.

I seriously miss the me who would rather choose to read a book until the wee hours of the night rather than go online and spend countless hours doing pointless things. I think the last book I read and was able to finish was "The Phantom of the Opera" which I re-read last January. Looking at the classic titles I bought last December, I finally grabbed "Little Women" and began reading the tale of Meg, Jo, Beth, and Amy.

I read the book without any notion of Louisa May Alcott's writing style, or what the story is all about. I just knew it's a beloved classic so I didn't expect it to be such an easy read. Half of me was wary of how stereotypical the writer's portrayal of women was--domestic and fragile at times. Half of me, on the other hand, was elated at how good-natured the characters were. I think the charm of "Little Women" lies in its notion of everything being dainty and pastoral, the girls being cultured and independent... and a good dose of Teddy Laurence along the way. Haha.

It's been so long since I huddled up in bed and read a book until 4 in the morning listening to the gently pattering rain. It was genuine bliss.

I hope that with the coming (final and probably stressful) academic year, I would still get to read more books than I was able to in 2010.