Analysis of The House Behind the Weeping Cherry by Ha Jin

(In which love is the one to blame . . . again.)

***

Ha Jin, just like other writer-immigrants in the United States, write about his people with a socialist perspective, especially focusing on the social conditions in the setting and its effect on the characters. In The House Behind the Weeping Cherry, Ha Jin once again weaved a story of “immigration blues” – a glimpse in the life of foreigners in a country promising a “greener pasture”.

Wanren, a Chinese man who worked in a garment factory ironing clothes, lived in an apartment where three other Chinese female tenants (Lili, Nana and Huong) worked as prostitutes. He used to have a roommate. But after discovering what the women do for a living and realizing that they also brought clients to the apartment, he decided to move out. The story unfolds with Wanren worrying about the possible increase of his rent due to the loss of a roommate. He couldn’t leave the apartment and sacrifice its convenience since it’s near the city and his workplace. Besides, he has grown comfortable with the girls and learned to see them not through their job description. She has grown especially fond of Huong. 

To be honest, I didn’t feel comfortable about that, either, but I had grown used to the women, and especially liked Huong, a twiggy Vietnamese in her early twenties, whose parents had migrated to Cholon from China three decades ago, when Saigon fell and the real-estate market there became affordable. Also, I was new to New York, and at times it was miserable to be alone. (Ha Jin, 2008)

The introduction generally presented the common problem of a Chinese immigrant – or any immigrant for that matter – in the United States: lodging. In an urban setting, looking for a place to live poses a lot of conflicts, be it financial or convenience. This part of the story also provides an insight as regards to the reason why people stay in a certain place. In the case of Wanren, aside form the financial issues involved, he also considers loneliness. It is also a manifestation of the cohesiveness of Asians. Mrs. Chen, the manager of the apartment, was also Chinese. Immigrants, no matter how independent they were, tend to stay where their people stay; perhaps as a source of Maslow’s idea of security and belongingness. 

The story progresses as Mrs. Cheng told Wanren that he could still pay the same rent on the condition that he drive the girls when they meet their clients outside. She said Johns (the term used to refer to the male clients) would be more careful in dealing the girls if they have “a driver at their disposal”. He agreed to take it, again clinging on to the idea that he’s not supposed to leave the house on the grounds of convenience. However, this changed his status from a detached tenant to a more involved companion to the girls. But he still managed to keep his relationship with them friendly, even to Huong, to avoid conflict. 

“I’m single because I’m too poor to get married,” I confessed.

“Do you have a girlfriend?” Huong asked.

“Not yet.”

“So would you go with me if I wasn’t a sex worker?” Nana asked, her oval face expressionless.

“Your taste is too expensive for me,” I said, laughing, though it was only partly a joke.

They all laughed. Nana continued, “Come on, I’ll give you a big discount.”

“I can’t take advantage of you like that,” I said.

That cracked them up again. I meant what I said, though. If I slept with one of them, I might have to do the same with the other two, spending a fortune. Then it would be hard to keep a balanced relationship with all of them. . . 

Through his listening to the girls’ conversation, he found out more about their jobs and their clients. He got a different view of what they do. Their life was lucrative, yes. But the risk that goes with their job is daunting too. So Wanren thought of giving Huong an option so she would not have to work in the dirty sex business. 

Our factory advertised for some sewers to replace the ones we’d lost, and one evening I brought a flyer back to the house. Lili was busy with a client in her room, but at dinner I showed it to Huong and Nana and said I would try to help them get the jobs if they were interested.

“How much can a sewer make?” Nana asked.

“About three hundred a week,” I said.

“My, so little—not for me.”

Huong broke in, “Does your boss use people without a work permit?”

“There are some illegal workers at the factory. I can put in a word for you.”

“If only I could sew!”

Her words made my heart leap. I went on, “It’s not that hard to learn. There’re sewing classes downtown. It takes three weeks to graduate.” . . .

 “I still owe the Croc a big debt, or I would’ve quit selling my flesh long ago,” Huong muttered. . . 

Not all of them were prostitutes because of dire need of money, however. It was only Huong, for she needs to pay The Croc, the boss of an illegal syndicate behind the prostitution business. Her debt was the reason why Huong cannot leave her job despite the danger. But she had enough inspiration that would urge her to quit selling herself – she likes Wanren, too. She told him when he confessed that he wanted to be with her. What actually hindered her was the idea that before she can be a sewer, she needs experience and training. And she doesn’t know where to get the money to pay The Croc. Even though Wanren offered to shoulder one thousand dollars every month, she still has to pay one thousand more to cover the two thousand dollars she needs to pay every month. And on top of all that, she still needs to study sewing. 

The situation mirrors the conflict each individual faces when confronted by poverty – the choice of doing something illegal for the sake of survival and the desire to follow one’s conscience and experience hunger, thus creating a dilemma. Knowing that both their financial resources were insufficient, Huong and Wanren decide to deal with the problem in a diplomatic way.

. . . I suggested that we speak to the Croc in person and see if there was another way of paying him. Before she went back to the house, she kissed me on the cheek and said, “Wanren, I would do anything for you. You are a good man.”

However, the Croc is a typical gangster as elucidated by films and literature set in the urban community. He refused to listen to their plea and threatened them if they ever dared to defy him. At this point, readers were confronted with questions as regards to what their next move would be. Huong could continue being a prostitute and wait until she paid her debt fully. She still owed him eighteen thousand dollars, which meant she would have to stay for at least nine months. But during those times, she cannot be with Wanren. Or she could quit her job and get sewing classes so she can live decently while being with Wanren. But she couldn’t pay the Croc that way. 

The conclusion was surprising, albeit not in a very delightful way. But it was understandable since the characters were left with no other choice than to flee. 

So we decided to leave as soon as possible. She had some cash on hand, about two thousand dollars, while I still had fourteen hundred in my savings account. The next morning on the way to work, I stopped at Cathay Bank and took out all the money. . . 

Fortunately, there was no outcall that night. When the other two women had gone to bed, Huong and I slipped out of the house. I carried her suitcase while she lugged my bag. The weeping cherry blurred in the haze, its crown edgeless, like a small hill. A truck was rumbling down Main Street as we strode away, arm in arm, without looking back.

More questions will be generated in the minds of the readers this time as regards to how far they could go hiding. But more disturbing than this was the fact that Wanren and Huong’s way of “solving” the problem made their world even smaller. This shows the sad facets of human decision making. Escape seems to be the best way out in situations like these. But then again, these were the experiences of immigrants in a country where they rely on no one but themselves. Huong had to decide to stop selling her body for her family who doesn’t seem to care. And Wanren had to cut connections with his family, too - for their sake and Huong's. These, among others, were the results of their previous decisions. It was tempting to question their reason, or say that they are too overwhelmed by their love that they become blind to everything else. But when all hope seems to be lost, are people supposed to be so stubborn not to cling to that one thing that seems to beautify all else?

Ha Jin. (2008, April 7). The House Behind a Weeping Cherry. New Yorker. Retrieved from http://www.newyorker.com/

The Lost Diary of Don Juan by Douglas Carlton Abrams

(In which old diaries are still the best.)

***

One thing, among others, that is considerably underrated nowadays is privacy. Almost all of us posts not only what we're thinking but also what we're eating, doing, seeing, as well as who we're hating or loving and all the other stuff that used to be private at least half a decade ago when internet access was a luxury and blogs and networking sites were uncommon. At the rise of these groundbreaking technological innovations, almost everybody can see what's in other people's minds, hearts or stomach even if (sometimes) they don't want to. It has indeed become an age of public diaries.
But honestly, if there's something more joyfully intrusive and sneakier in the past than stalking someone on Facebook now, it's peeking into someone else's diary. Now reading someone else's diary in its entirety is another story. It somehow becomes something like reading or watching prohibited media - still taboo, yet without the adrenaline rush and the mystery. Fortunately, though, that's not always the case. Take Abram's first novel for example, in which he offers a traverse in the mind of one of the most notorious (if not the most already) womanizer of all time, Don Juan..
Abandoned in a monastery and raised by Sevillian nuns, Don Juan Tenorio grew up to be the romantic figure that he was known today after a tragic love affair. He rose up to nobility through the help of Marquis de la Mota. He worked as a thief, a spy, and a galeantador, seducer of women. He seduced women after women of various colors, social and marital status. Loved by virgins and wives and widows, he was terribly abhorred by husbands and most specially the Holy Inquisition. Just when he thought that he was only capable of giving women pleasure, he found Doña Ana, the girl he willed to give his heart and fight for, even at the expense of his friendship with the Marquis.
Starting with the editor’s disclaimer regarding the diary’s authenticity and ending with the last entry by Don Juan’s coachman, readers are bound to be intoxicated with the life of this love guru. Told in his eloquent voice and masterful lectures on love and passion, one would perhaps cease seeing Don Juan as an insouciant bed hopper but as a person in need and worthy of love and companionship.

Currently reading:
Tolstoy Lied: A Love Story by Rachel Kadish

Spring Moon by Bette Bao Lord

(In which I dare post an excerpt of my mediocrity.)

***

The night was still. Soon only moonlight stirred, unveiling cliffs and the giant reclining Buddha, smiling for eternity. They sat for a while in silence, and then Glad Promise spoke.

“We have been happy, you and I – despite of all – have we not, my wife?”

She squeezed his hand, “I have never known such happiness.”

“And if it could not last, would you regret becoming my wife?”

. . . “My husband, why do you ask if I would regret our marriage? Why do you ask such a thing?”

He took her face in his hands and kissed her gently on the lips. “Because . . . “

“Because, my husband?”

“Because you should never have regrets. You should never change.”

“Why would I change?”

“Ours is a time of change,” he said gravely, looking toward the Buddha. (Lord, 1981, pp. 152 – 153)

It is the nature of historical fiction, or literature in general, to mirror how change transpires in the lives of men; for it is the nature of men, of time and of life itself, to change. Along with the changes comes danger, the severing of ties, the throwing away of the old and of starting anew. History records changes for posterity; literature depicts changes for uplifting humanity. The combination of both must aim to awaken among its readers a passion to know and understand the past and link it with the present and future along with a heightened sense of culture and of self. Seldom is it achieved successfully, though. For the reconciliation of fact and fiction is not an easy feat. So when one encounters a historical fiction that can serve the purpose with style, it is treasured, just as Bette Bao Lord’s Spring Moon is.

Bette Bao Lord, in her highly celebrated 1981 debut novel, Spring Moon, writes of change as it swept the history of China from antiquity to its enlightenment and its opening to the modern world. Chronicling the lives of several generations of the Chang clan in Soochow, China, the novel takes off in 1892, during the Ch’ing dynasty, when Spring Moon once again offends good manners as she searches for her slave girl, Plum Blossom. A spoiled and innocent child of nine, Spring Moon grows up among the illustrious members of the House of Chang and enjoys privileges exclusive to their era’s elite. It is at this tender age when she learns one important virtue prevalent in the traditional Chinese culture – to yield. That self-same virtue she carries on in her transformation as years went by. From a rather domestic, albeit incompetent, girl, she becomes learned under the tutelage of her eldest uncle, Bold Talent. From a blind follower of wedding traditions, she becomes an accomplice of her husband in defying them on their first night. From the insensitive, tactless brat, she seeks wisdom both in reticence and in peaceful arguments. She learns to work hard and shed the aristocracy of the names she bears for she also learns to shoulder the consequences of her actions and decisions without bothering her slave let alone the elders in her clan.

As a transition literature, Spring Moon remarkably covers not only one historical metamorphosis to the next. Its vastness stretches from the final dynasty of Imperial China to the Communist nation the modern world saw emerged. Yet events flash as if in a motion picture – fast, vivid, smooth. Apparently, it is Bette Bao Lord’s powerful narration and realistic characters from which the strengths of the novel emanate. Every chapter opens with a reference from written literature, oral tradition or history, thus laying out a background for the events soon to unfurl – a clever maneuver of tenses, all linked and interrelated. Epistolary narration is also employed, creating variety so as not to fully adhere to conventional storytelling. Also, the omniscient narrator’s generosity for details doesn’t compromise the narration’s need to be challenging, barring the readers from getting too close too soon, thus allowing the story flow smoothly.

Bao Lord’s creative use of English translations of the character’s Chinese names as well as their realistic presentation provides variety and ease in reading. Her characterization makes the people in the novel real – with all the vulnerability and darkness innate to human beings. Their humanity allows readers to read their story and identify themselves to be like one of them, or perhaps to be like people they know, as if they were reading the history of their own people. It was as if Jews were reading Joel Gross’ Books of Rachel, or the Filipinos Jose Rizal’s El Filibusterismo or Azucena Grajo Uranza’s Bamboo in the Wind. For while China was facing changes, so is the rest of the world. People reacted to these changes in the same way as the Chinese did. When threatened by war, people exhibit the same terror and pain. When reforms were introduced, people manifest the same inimical attitude and skepticism. When oppressed and abused, people succumb to the same anger and revolt.

Realistically portrayed in the novel is the fact that with the effort to bring social and political change comes the vicious cycle of the impermanence of things. Enemies do not remain enemies in the same manner as friends do not. Promises aren’t all kept let alone meant. In times of political crisis when personal interests are top priority, loyalties can be bought and sold.

Another noteworthy strength of this novel lies in the balance of presentation. Bette Bao Lord’s narrative style is careful enough not to be impartial as shown by \the juxtaposition of conflicting ideas in the novel. Spring Moon and Lustrous Jade being the symbols for old and new China, respectively, basically show how the new wave of information both threatens tradition and hopes for a national rebirth. The author shows the strong impact of tradition to the flow of the story by using an oracle as a foundation for the story’s plot. She depicts the tyranny of the Empress Dowager but also mentions her capacity to govern. She speaks of the soldier’s valor and dedication, yet portrays him as human enough to be subjected to disillusionment and fear. She also discusses the need to move forward and adoption of new ideologies for the sake of national development yet is audacious enough to write about its dehumanizing effect.

I learned two important things from this novel, the first one dealing with history and change. History documents times of changes since the emergence of the earliest signs of humanity and civilization, the rise and fall of empires and religions, the establishment and abolition of laws and the start and end of wars. History keeps on being written, even repeated. Indeed, the wind of change doesn’t cease from blowing, from sweeping lands and seas, hence the necessity of yielding to it as elucidated by Spring Moon. And the second one is about something that remained, astonishingly, almost undisturbed throughout the entire novel – one’s sense of family.

Currently reading:

Love Medicine by Louise Erdrich

Lord, B. B. (1981). Spring Moon. NY: Avon Books. pp. 152 – 153.

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Love Medicine

Gerald’s Audacity and the Definition of a Poem

(In which Carl Sandburg reminded me.)

***

And so, I have recently written a poem about an innocent, anonymous individual, which, by the way, may sound creepy otherwise you’re informed of the darkness surrounding the verse. But provided you were informed, it will only sound creepier if not utterly crazy. Not that that was supposed to be cryptic or something like Pérez-Reverte. But that’s something ought to be left to the benevolence of time and pizza to be completely healed.

The poem, anyway, was visible in two separate sites and received a little more attention than most of the posts I dare publish online. One comment was of theological inferences and the other, structural and/or formalistic. I just love it when my readers dare or ask me. Besides, that is the threshold of communication – you ask, then I answer, or the other way around, and then we already have a conversation.

Coincidentally, my lesson with Gerald was about Carl Sandburg’s poem “Languages”. Yesterday, I read it aloud, with the enthusiasm and (pseudo) passion highly reserved for speech and drama class rather than ours, which recently consisted of his “knight in dire lovesickness” syndrome – he lurking on their national chat room and sighing every now and then.

Languages
By Carl Sandburg

There are no handles upon a language

Whereby men take hold of it

And mark it with signs for its remembrance.

It is a river, this language,

Once in a thousand years

Breaking a new course

Changing its way to the ocean.

It is mountain effluvia

Moving to valleys

And from nation to nation

Crossing borders and mixing.

Languages die like rivers.

Words wrapped round your tongue today

And broken to shape of thought

Between your teeth and lips speaking

Now and today

Shall be faded hieroglyphics

Ten thousand years from now.

Sing--and singing--remember

Your song dies and changes

And is not here to-morrow

Any more than the wind

Blowing ten thousand years ago.

And the ubiquitous comprehension questions were asked, this time about style analysis.

“What tells you it’s a poem?” I asked, reading from the textbook and avoiding looking at his downcast eyes, the ones that tell you their owner doesn’t give a damn about a letter on the book, let alone anything to do with poems.

“I don’t think this is a poem. But I have to believe because it’s in the book,” he answered rather robotically.

“What”? I asked, perplexed.

“This,” he stressed, “is not a poem. I think he just pretends it is.”

He! And he’s referring to Carl Sandburg as a poet whose theme song for the moment, as Gerald claimed it, was something from The Platters! Alright. My blog readers can comment anytime with a question meant to target my writing style, i.e., whether what I wrote was a poem or not. But to actually tell me “Languages” by Carl Sandburg wasn’t a poem and he just pretends it to be one, is a crime against literature!

“Okay, Gerald.” I started explaining, “There are two kinds of literature – prose and poetry. It’s prose if it’s written in paragraph form. If it’s written otherwise, like using lines or verses, it’s poetry. In fact, poetry can come in the form of an apple or the letter S. So that,” I pointed out to the poem on the book, “is a poem.”

And then I remembered something I wrote almost four years ago. Yes, it’s a poem, too.

What a Poem is to Me

To me a poem is beyond words that rhyme
and measured lines.
It has a body like that of a man,
That sees loveliness in simple things,
Hears the songs of birds in fields of gold,
Smells the fragrance of roses upon one’s nose,
Tastes the sweetness and bitterness of tears,
And feels the softness of the breeze upon one’s skin.

A poem has a heart
that knows the hidden beauty and darkness
of humanity –
and a soul
that lives within the body;
gives life to the words and
essence to the thoughts.

A poem may be a prayer,
a phantasm,
a song
or a hymn.
A poem’s grace is far beyond word’s that rhyme
and measured lines.
It is beauty.
It is life.
Once it is written, it never dies.
Its beauty lives on
from eternity unto eternity.

March 16, 2007
11:35 PM

The Scent of Apples by Bienvenido Santos: An Analysis

(In which I am somehow nostalgic, too.)

***

In my recent lurking on websites that feature blog posts about writing and reading fiction, I have come across an article created by a freelance writer. In her post, she explained the manner in which she writes. At first I thought I was in for a very discombobulating read, considering that her writing style was actually not average and that her method may involve serious reference to classical didactic writers found on literature textbooks. But her style was surprisingly simple. She said that before she can write anything, she needs to come up with a single word from which all thoughts and ideas in the article would be derived.

The Scent of Apples by Bienvenido Santos reminds me of this writing style. Of course, that statement wasn’t intended to pose a comparison but was just an effect of a serious and curious rumination of an amateur reader – a sudden gush of ideas stemming from a glimpse of literary schema. Nostalgia, as it seems, is the word from which the entire short story emanates. What’s more wonderful about the literary work was that the author doesn’t have to be blunt to elucidate. In fact, the work is simple yet it can rival the literary audacities of other short stories.

It is an established rule in writing that one needs to carefully think of a title that makes a literary work worth reading. Santos’ choice of title is an effortless adherence to this rule for it runs from the literal to the metaphorical and back, suggesting that various interpretations of readers from all ranges of literary exposure are appropriate. The story itself is a display of artistic versatility - a confirmation that however one interprets the title, the story won’t lose its meaning. For this, The Scent of Apples is more than just a story of an immigrant Filipino.

The story opened with a brief introduction of where the narrator was. The imagery was vivid albeit the absence of several sentences teeming with adjectives, an introduction which writers like Sarah Dunant and J.R.R. Tolkien may consider a literary Scrooge.

When I arrived in Kalamazoo it was October and the war was still on. Gold and silver stars hung on pennants above silent windows of white and brick-red cottages . .

To compensate, however, the writer brings up a scene which everyone could relate to. And why would the physical environment matter when loneliness is already palpable in the mere look of a stranger’s face, enough to see and feel how longing creeps in their whole being.

. . . an old man burned leaves and twigs while a gray-haired woman sat on the porch, her red hands quiet on her lap, watching the smoke rising above the elms, both of them thinking the same thought perhaps, about a tall, grinning boy with his blue eyes and flying hair, who went out to war . . .

The historical period in which the literary work was written also contribute to the creation of an almost tangible environment despite the sparseness of descriptive text. One thing that unites humans into an unwritten bond of brotherhood is the war, along with the bitterness of living during its span and surviving its cruelty. Everything seems to be reminiscent of souls sent to a battle falsely thought of as great; for what is great in something when it takes lives, tears hearts and ends happiness?

. . . where could he be now this month when leaves were turning into gold and the fragrance of gathered apples was in the wind? . . . Under the lampposts the leaves shone like bronze. And they rolled on the pavements like the ghost feet of a thousand autumns long dead, long before the boys left for faraway lands without great icy winds and promise of winter early in the air, lands without apple trees, the singing and the gold!

Amidst the gloominess of the location, the narrator was expected to speak before an audience regarding the culture of the Philippines, which was now becoming a “lost country”. It is when a Filipino farmer, Celestino Fabia, asked about the difference between Filipinas then and now, to which the narrator responded that though their physical appearance changed, they remain the pure-hearted and nice women like their past counterparts. The farmer was pleased with the answer and he invited the narrator over to his house so he could meet his family.

During their trip to Celestino’s house the next day, the narrator discovered what his life in the Philippines was. And when he met his family, he was struck by their simplicity and contentedness. Celestino’s life stories hit him with the realization that women, or people, regardless of whatever culture, possess a charitable and kind heart. That hospitality is not a racial trademark but an innate human quality.

Ruth got busy with the drinks. She kept coming in and out of a rear room that must have been the kitchen and soon the table was heavy with food, fried chicken legs and rice, and green peas and corn on the ear. Even as we ate, Ruth kept standing, and going to the kitchen for more food. Roger ate like a little gentleman.

Along with this, the farmer’s relationship with his wife manifested that theirs was a relationship beyond the notion that companionship is a commodity. They stayed with each other through thick and thin. Women, even miles beyond the Pacific, are loving, loyal and warm-hearted – the same characteristics Celestino used to describe Filipinas he was acquainted with. His wife Ruth, at some extent, went way beyond the adjectives.

Ruth stayed in the hospital with Fabia. She slept in a corridor outside the patients' ward and in the day time helped in scrubbing the floor and washing the dishes and cleaning the men's things. They didn't have enough money and Ruth was willing to work like a slave.

Celestino’s life seemed to hit a sensitive cord within the narrator for he offered to send news to his family back home. But the farmer declined. This scene creates the peak of the climactic revelations of the life of an immigrant Filipino in times of war. No matter how strong the nostalgia is, or dire the desire to be home, an exile can’t leave the place to where he was banished. It may be because of fear of being long forgotten, or the consolation one gets from people who tried to complete them no matter if the attempt can only get them somewhere still far from nirvana. Whatever that is, the pain of an individual whose heart stretches to both ends of the world has no measure. And Bienvenido Santos clearly, albeit succinctly, showed all those truths. Thus, The Scent of Apples was an expected masterpiece. Besides, who else can understand things “peculiar to the exile” other than an exile himself?

Currently Reading:

Collected Poems of Sara Teasdale with an Introduction by Marya Zaturenska*

Photo Source:Collected Poems of Sara Teasdale

*The link was directed to the introduction in the collection.

Summary: Dead Stars by Paz Marquez-Benitez

(In which I transferred and extended.)

***

Oh what a shame! I haven’t posted anything for a long time. Though I did not want to blame it to the fact that I was recently buried in a terrible work load and a painful school schedule made more complicated by tasks and deadlines, I just can’t. But come to think of it, it won’t hurt if I post the summaries and reviews that hinder me from reading and blogging, will it? Besides, they’re still literature!

Dead Stars by Paz Marquez-Benitez

Alfredo Salazar was betrothed to Esperanza, his girlfriend for four years. The start of their relationship was relatively “warm”, with Alfredo wooing Esperanza like a man in dire lovesickness. But as the years went by, the warm love’s fire slowly flickered. And it was because of Julia Salas.

She was charming and gleeful. He shared moments of light but sometimes deep conversations with her when the lawyer Alfredo visited Julia’s brother-in-law, who was a judge. He always went there with his father and since it was his father who needed to talk to the judge, he was always left to Julia’s company. He never told her he was engaged. At first he didn’t notice that a change in his heart was taking form. But then he started keeping details of his activities to his fiancée and then the guilty feeling crept in. When he found out that Julia was about to head back to her distant hometown, he felt blue and frightened.

He met her in church after the Holy Thursday procession, although he knew that Esperanza was already waiting for him. He approached her and she conversed with him with an expression that told him she finally knew. She congratulated him and said she will be at his wedding. Then they parted.

When he visited Esperanza in her house, he overheard her talking to another woman about infidelity and immorality, to which he reasoned in favor of the condemned. The statement caused an intense fury to Esperanza and she told him that she knew. She dared Alfredo to abandon her, along with morality and reason and her dignity as a woman as well as her image before the society all for the sake of his “being fair to himself”.

Eventually the wedding took place. And after several years, Alfredo was sent to a distant village due to a legal assignment. It bothered him so much because it was near Julia’s hometown. But he still found himself making his way to her house despite of himself. And he found her there, just as how and where he expected her to be. She never married. And he wondered how life would be if he ended up with her. But all was too late and he could never bring things back. He also noticed that Julia lost something, albeit the fact that he didn’t know what that is – youth, love, luster? And when he looked at her he doubted if she ever cared for him, if he has mistaken the past light in her eyes as manifestations of a possible romance. But now they’re all gone. And so it was indeed all done.

Full Text:Dead Stars by Paz Marquez-Benitez

On Infidelity: The Life Room by Jill Bialosky

(In which it confuses me more.)

***

After reading the book, I was confused as regards to what really moves men to do things. I remember writing a poem about love as being a prime mover of people. But in this novel, the character’s decision seemed to be fueled by passion, which may or may not come from love.

Eleanor Cahn, (whose eyes of different colors remind me of Yuna of Final Fantasy X) lived with an emotionally intense childhood and an erotic series of past relationships. Her relationships with these men defined the way she sees and understands things. She is a professor of literature and a writer who was working on a paper about Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina and by coming in contact with her past and analyzing her present, she further understands the aforementioned classic piece.

First there was William, her first boyfriend who had a sensitive childhood like her because of their fathers. They seemed to be out of reach despite being physically present. He has a huge interest about nature and the universe. He is a loner and prefers reflection. When Eleanor went to New York to study, William started to be distant to her. She tried to reach him but he resisted. Then she met Adam.

Adam was an artist who hired Eleanor as his model for his latest series. He developed a passionate interest with Eleanor although he was married and he knows Eleanor loves William. He tried to win her and was somehow successful. They started having an affair so intimate Adam has to be separated with his wife. But all the while, Eleanor never forgot William and just when she thought they could reunite, William killed himself. Adam’s career suffered and so did his behavior. He realized that no one understands him more than his wife and decided to go back to her.

Presently, all seems well – Eleanor was happily married to Michael, a heart surgeon and they were blessed with two beautiful kids, Noah and Nicholas – until she was invited to Paris to present her paper. There she met Stephen Mason, a childhood friend who apparently still holds an important role in her life. Their encounters in Paris and then in New York awakened something unknown to her and threatened to destroy her and her family.

When she met Stephen in Paris, she thought the meeting will not be more than anything but friendly. But when he kissed her and then went to New York to see her more often, she realized she still wants him. Stephen has been Eleanor’s friend and they have always had this special bond between them. He also had a sad childhood because of the relationship of his parents which made him more connected to Eleanor. He thought he is the only one who understands and knows Eleanor. He has been watching her from a distance, afraid that in coming near her he would destroy her. But the connection between them never ceased. Eleanor felt it too and tried to reach Stephen but the latter keeps on running away, leaving something literally burned upon doing so. When he finally had the courage to approach her, he was too late. What he only holds now is an upcoming novel and his past with Eleanor.

Eleanor, knowing that Stephen is in town feels so bothered that it started to affect her relationship with her kids and her husband. She thinks she is too emotional to be understood by a man from the field of science. She then started to think of Anna. She formulated that perhaps Anna really loved her husband but at some point she feels disconnected with him. And with Vronzky she might have felt understood so she had an affair.

Stephen doesn’t stop leaving her voice messages and e-mails telling her what he’s been doing and how he remembers her. Eleanor is filled with excitement and elation at the sound of his voice and it confuses her. If she lets herself be governed by her passion and the longing for her unfinished romance with Stephen, she will put her marriage and her family at stake. But if she resisted she will be denying herself of something as urgent and valuable as life and she then has to watch herself die internally.

The Life Room discusses human relationships – that of parents and children, of spouses and of friends. The novel revolves around the issues in Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina – infidelity, passion, desire, the society and the consequences of choices. With every turn of the pages, the novel draws the readers to understand what the characters feel and think in their life rooms and somehow encourages them to create a life room of their own – a place where to reflect and understand themselves through imagination and association.

Currently reading:

Inklings by Melanie M. Jeschke

The Master Butchers Singing Club by Louise Erdrich

(In which the lonesome and kind-hearted deserve refuge.)

***

I have been reading this book before Christmas and another season is already approaching yet I haven’t even finished half of it for lack of time. It is about the daughter of a drunkard and a romantically unfortunate (at least for now) Delphine Watzka and the German butcher Fidelis. When Delphine met Eva, Fidelis’ wife, she was overwhelmed with admiration for everything she does and she loved Eva as a dear friend. She stayed with her until she finally died and so her children went under the agonizing supervision of Tante, Fidelis’ sister – a pious Lutheran who despised Eva being a Catholic.
What made Delphine’s “married life” (for she has only made a self proclamation that they were married and even bought a ring to save her from utter shame) miserable began right after she discovered her husband Cyprian’s homosexuality one afternoon on a park bench. The proverb “The truth will set you free” seems appropriate as they came to understand each other more after the truth was out. Delphine realized that Cyprian loved her with a love for a sister. And now she has lost Eva and was somehow bound to take care of everything that she has left which includes her sons and Fidelis. And then she has her own life to fix.

I wonder how it is to be there to take care of people yet no one’s there to look after you. And I was in a state of sheer disbelief when she still took Cyprian in her arms and home right after he came from another man’s lap without any questions asked. And then there’s the doubt if she really loved him and until when she can put up with the nights they spent sexually together which happen very rarely and only out of obligation and not will. And how about the days when he travel? She is no dummy not to know what he does but she still hangs on to every moment she has with Cyprian as if they were true manifestations of the self-same love she has for him.

What I have in my mind right now as I continue to flip the pages was the hope that Delphine marry Fidelis someday and have a normal life. Besides, they were two lonely souls. Well, it’s too early to tell, I know.

Currently Reading:
The Master Butchers Singing Club by Louise Erdrich

Pornography, Art and the English Hayden Kho

(In which the painter in me speaks.)

***

The moment I began to be more familiar with the horribly disfigured John Ashe from Harrison’s novel, I couldn’t stop myself from comparing him with the Phantom of the Opera not only because both half of their faces was hideous but also because of the darkness in them. Erik’s was passionate and murderous; Ashe’s was passionate and lecherous. I am still uncertain whether I consider Ashe murderous. But I blame him, albeit incompletely, for Suzannah’s misfortune and death.

***

What convinced me to buy this book is its inclination to art and artists, particularly painters in which I was restrained for being in a long time. As the secrets become known to me, an old debate among artists, and non-artists, rose again:

When is a work art and when is it considered pornography?

In our third year in the high school for the arts, we had a chance to have an exclusive nude painting session done not at our studio but in a private residence. The mere fact that it was done outside the school’s premises gave the experience a spirit of illicitness but it was nonetheless thrilling. We have painted her – our very professional model – the same way we do a bunch of fruits in a basket, only we are not allowed to touch our sitter.

When we got back to our dusty studio the next week, our professor asked our opinions –the only three girls in the group.

“How did you feel during the session?”

I was asked first. “Nothing,” I answered, “we’re artists anyway.” The other guys chuckled at the sound of the self proclamation. I looked back at them and we shared a moment of silent laughter through eye contact. We’re artists.

The other girls were asked too and replied the same way. Whether it was done to make our comments unified so as not to make a fuss or it wasn’t really a big deal for them as it was for me, I don’t know.

We studied each others’ works and told some their flaws and accepted our own. We looked at pictures of naked women – some solo shots and some showing them in the middle of busy painters. I noticed at once that the usual poses show women sitting on a bed or a couch with their arms on their sides for support as well as to expose their breasts, with one of their legs over the other to conceal what is necessary; or lying down with their head resting on their palm a-la Kate Winslet in Titanic; (Yes, with the signature necklace.) or just standing against a wall.

Honestly, I don’t find it pornographic, or even insulting, despite my professor’s deeper probing.

“Don’t you find it embarrassing, considering that it’s another girl you’re painting? Don’t you feel as though it was you being painted in the nude?”

All of said no. We reasoned out that it was not really us to begin with and that having them in the center of our attention is not for the sole purpose of staring at their nudity. It was all for the proverbial sake of art. For, as they say, a woman’s body is a timeless work of art. I took that at face value. Besides, those drawings and pictures were not meant to incite lust.

As for John Ashe’s collection of women who interest him, it was pornography. For one reason, the women whose pictures he took manifest an image of humiliation and insult. Although it was a consensus between the photographer and the subject materialized by the camera, I still couldn’t erase from my mind how the writer described what she saw in the woman’s faces. Regardless of whatever pose they were asked to do or roles they were asked to portray by this terribly rich, powerful and ugly man the camera still shows the real emotions beneath the surface. And the pictures could land on anyone’s hands – at the right price – without the negatives. Surely it was just another display of a fetish rather than of artistic expression. Ours, I believe is different. To pose in front of teen-aged painters somehow means a challenge to the inexperienced artists’ thin portfolios. The crowd, composed of disinterested stares and busy, paint or charcoal-stained hands gives less tension that being in an exclusive red room alone with the “artist”.

Ashe’s “interest” again reminded me of another man whose “journal” consists of videotapes of his intimate moments with women – with or without their knowledge.

Fortunately for John Ashe, he has a super discreet secretary and a power so palpable he doesn’t need to exert much effort to make people follow and be quiet. For Hayden Kho however, secrecy has a price which apparently he was unable to pay. Keeping dark secrets the way he did is like putting a living puppy in a thin box – it will always have its way out. Then he’ll wonder how on earth the truth is now ruining around him. (What happened to this poor guy anyway?)

Now, I am not having myself to be taken as a judge, I both dislike these men. As what my co-artist once pointed out, a woman’s body is a work of art, but I dare say that using it as a way to serve man’s baser instincts defies the art that I loved and that’s where another story starts.

The Stranger by Chris Van Allsburg

(In which I learn by asking.)

***

One of my telephone students is using a book from the new program under the category SENIOR. However, my class with him makes me think as to whether he lacks confidence or he’s just plain lazy which brings in ineffectiveness since he doesn’t respond like a senior in our class. Now we’re on another story by Chris Van Allsburg. We have taken up The Garden of Abdul Gazasi in the previous book (which is another post worthy story) and now we’re on The Stranger.

The moment I saw the cover page I noticed that mystery is the dominant flavor of this story. Not only because the book says so but because of the natural dark aura that its totality brings. However, the darkness that emanates from it is not something you’ll be scared of but rather something that will make you think.

I asked my student, “What’s the season described in this story?”

“Uhmm…”

“Yes? What season is it?”

“Fall?”

“Oh. Is it already fall?”

“No. but it will be.”

So I went on asking what fall looks like and how he finds it, which resulted to more hmm’s and ahmm’s than sensible sentences. Then I asked what Farmer Bailey felt and what happened next.

“He felt a cool breeze?”

“Good. And then?”

“He heard a thump.”

“What does he think it was?”

“A deer.”

“So there was an accident and he thought he hit a deer. Let’s move on.”

“What did Mr. Bailey found on the road?”

“A man.”

“What do you think was his reaction?”

“He must be surprised?”

“What did he do next?”

“He went closer to the man.”

When I asked him what Farmer Bailey feared the most and after being subdued in dead air, I said, “He was afraid that he might have killed him, don’t you think so?”

He agreed like he has always done.

“Okay. What did the man do afterwards?”

He answered by reading the text and I asked him to answer in his own way. He refused so I have to provide a “scaffold” for him.

“He opened his eyes and got terrified. Then he got up.”

As I saw that the text was longer, I had to make sure he really understood it and asked literal questions.

“Where did the farmer take him?”

“What do they think of the stranger?”

“What is the doctor’s diagnosis?” In this point I had to define diagnosis. Then I asked about the thermometer.

“What is the use of a thermometer?”

“To get the temperature? If it’s hot or cold?”

“How do you know if it’s hot or cold?”

“The mercury. If it’s low, it’s cold. If it’s high, it’s hot?”

“Okay. Why did the doctor tell them to throw the thermometer away?”

“Because it’s broken.”

“What seems to be the problem?”

“The mercury was stuck at the bottom.”

After asking the obvious literal questions, I then asked about the strange things that he noticed in this part.

“The stranger is strange.”

“Why?”

“Maybe he doesn’t know the soup?”

“He seemed to be ignorant about the soup. But then he lost his memory according to the doctor, right? What about the temperature?”

Silence.

“Mrs. Bailey shivered, right? It must be cold then.”

“Aaahhh.”

Then we talked about the rabbits. He seemed to understand that part so we moved on.

This time I asked him what kind of person the stranger was, aside from him being strange.

“He’s a good worker.”

“Why do you think so?”

“He can use the pitchfork well.”

“Okay. What else?”

“He works hard and well.”

I was supposed to hiss or sigh at these exhausting moments of bringing out his interest to talk more.

“Good. Is there anything strange in this part?”

Silence.

“Do you think he gets tired?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“He didn’t even sweat.”

Again, he used the text in verbatim but I didn’t care.

“What in this scene is he fascinated about?”

“The geese?”

“What about these geese?”

“They are in V formation.”

So I went on asking when geese do the fascinating V formation and after some encouragement, we arrived at the answer that it happens in autumn.

So now we have talked about how long the stranger had been there as well as the changes that took place, or were supposed to take place but didn’t.

“The trees in their farm were still green.”

“How about the other trees?”

“They were red and orange.”

“What does the stranger prefer?”

“Red and orange.”

So it was obvious something was wrong. And of course we have to understand it.

“How does the stranger feel as each day pass?”

“He feels sad?”

I grew tired of this exchange of interrogations when he’s supposed to answer with a declarative sentence. “Are you asking me?”

He gave out his little laugh with the light touch of the k sound and said “No. he feels sad.”

“Why does he feel sad?”

“There is something wrong, he thinks. Maybe.”

“What did he do as he becomes more upset?”

“He pulled a leaf and blew on it.”

“Did he intend to do it?”

Silence.

“He did it without thinking. It was as if it was second nature to him.”

“Aaahh..”

As we took a look at the picture, I asked, “What happened to the leaf?”

“It becomes red.”

We talked about the departure and what happened after it.

“The trees were not green anymore.”

“Did the strange things stop happening when the stranger left?”

“No.”

Right. In fact, it becomes nothing less than strange. I asked him why and we talked about the trees in the farm and the words etched in frost.

What makes this story worth reading is that you have to activate your senses to understand it. It could be like any other story since descriptive images were created by writers to make the scenes vivid. But since this is a mystery, there is at least one core question to answer at the end of the story and you have to cite reasons to give justice to your deductions. As I ask questions, I try to look even for the simplest clue that is there and link it with the other ones I’ve found and see if they make sense. It makes our class exciting since you try to help the student forebode and to increase his interest and excitement. I just hope I was able to do that with the kind of student as cold and unfeeling as this one.

Now the question is, who’s the stranger?