With each page, each word
Knowledge and Beauty unfolds:
My life’s salvation.
On These Slim Volumes
Within these slim volumes Entire worlds beckon Swim through the eddies of the brightest minds of this evanescent civilisation Skim through these words Read them with deep introspection They glimmer with Wisdom's lustrous glow.
On The Norrington Room at Blackwell’s, Oxford
Subterranean
Cave of literary joys:
Euphorical me!
Tentang Nikmat Membaca
Nikmat sungguh amal membaca
Teman setia sepanjang hayat
Tiap baris mewaris makna
Segar sarat membuah nikmat
Untung sungguh insan budiman
Malar hayat berdamping makna
Tiap hari tiada rawan
Tenang dalam taman saujana.
On the Shittiest Boss in Kuala Lumpur
I was in my favourite bookshop in Kuala Lumpur yesterday, sitting in my usual spot at the staircase and browsing for books. (I eventually got myself a copy of Boccaccio’s Decameron, thanks for asking hehe.) As I was browsing, I spied at the corner of my eye, someone who used to be the boss of a friend of mine. My friend had related his travails of working for this man – the shenanigans, the tantrums, the late salary payments. I pretended not to see him, which was not that difficult, since I didn’t really know this man – only that he was a terrible boss.
Not long after, I got up and made my way to the cash register, paid for my book, and walked upstairs to the cafe where my wife was sitting, drinking water while going through her own reading.
I saw down and immediately said, “Hey, guess who I saw!”
“Who??” Kat looked at me quizzically.
“I just saw the shittiest boss in KL, just browsing for books!”
“Wow! So **** is here looking for books??” Kat asked, her brows furrowed.
“Err, nope. Not him. Guess lah. I’ll give you another guess!” I said, enjoying this little game.
“Hmm. Ah, I know! You saw ****!!” Kat made her declaration with gusto, utterly convinced that she was right this time around.
I frowned for a while and said, “Wow! Hmm you are right, that person really is a shitty boss!! Wah this is rather stiff competition! You might be right, she might be the shittiest boss in all of Kuala Lumpur! But no, it wasn’t her that I saw.” I shook my head in denial, even as I was marveling over the fact that it really was stiff competition.
“Oh, I don’t know! Who is it???” By this time, Kat’s curiosity was really piqued. She needed to know.
“Haha it’s **** lah! Remember??” It was Kat, after all, who was regaling me with stories of this man’s horrific treatment of our friend.
Kat laughed out loud and said, “Oh yes, haha yes he really is a terrible boss! But you must admit though, **** really is a terrible boss herself! In fact, I think the margin is pretty thin between the two!”
I laughed along, nodding my head in agreement with my wife. I suppose there are quite a number of shitty bosses out there!
On Mikhail Sholokhov’s And Quiet Flows the Don
One of the joys of reading is to walk into a bookshop, browse around to look at books (preferably for some hours), and stumble onto a new book that you had not meant to read, and probably did not even know about until you stepped into the bookshop that day. That was the case with me and Mikhail Sholokhov’s And Quiet Flows the Don, which I discovered as I was browsing around Kinokuniya in KLCC a few weeks ago.
What caught my eye? Firstly it was the fact that Sholokhov had won the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1965, with this book being his magnum opus. The other was the inevitable blurb on the back cover, comparing the book to Tolstoy’s War and Peace.
So, having finished reading the book, here are some observations and reflections from Sholokhov’s work.
The first is that, sadly, this book is no War and Peace. The comparison is inevitable, I suppose, given that Sholokhov deals with relatively congruent themes of intertwined lives, family drama and love affairs, and how these get strained and tested amidst the horrors and travails of war. But thenceforth the comparison grows thin.
Sholokhov is a capable enough writer, and his love for his native Cossack life shines through at regular moments throughout the novel. He grows especially lyrical when describing the titular Don river, and how it frames and shapes the lives of the novel’s characters. But Sholokhov lacks Tolstoy’s supreme skill and ability as a writer, especially in the ways that Tolstoy draws very accurate psychological portraits of the main characters of his novel. Sholokhov’s characters are believable, and for the most part the very likeable, but lack the realistic depth and psychological heft of Tolstoy’s cast. Also, while parts of the book were given to expositions of Bolshevik ideology, which the reader assumes Sholokhov has deep sympathies, if not allegiance, for, Sholokhov shies away from the essential questions that form, to this reader at least, the core of War and Peace. Gregor Melekhov is an interesting and admirable Cossack protagonist, but he is no Pierre Bezukhov, with the latter’s almost desperate search for existential truth.
The other observation is that, as a paean to Cossack life, the book certainly hits all the right notes. The reader gets a panoramic sense of the daily lives of the Cossacks, deeply religious, very agrarian, and always engaged in hard and strenuous labour. The Cossack is also a famed warrior, and the Cossack cavalryman is a key linchpin of the Russian Army of that era. But what is especially poignant is the way in which the individual characters in the novel convey, through their choices and decisions, the unique way of life of the Cossacks: independent-minded, free-spirited, courageous, democratic, passionate.
The other thing worthwhile noting about the book is that it does not shy away from portraying the horrors and senselessness of war. The fact that Tolstoy took great pains to paint realistic portraits of military action during the Napoleonic invasion of Moscow, especially the battle at Borodino which takes centre stage in the early part of War and Peace, is clear to see. But when the reader steps backwards to survey the novel as a whole, one cannot escape the feeling that for Tolstoy, the war was merely one part of the overall framing of the lives of his characters, especially Bezukhov and his search for universal truth. Whereas for Sholokhov, the war was interesting and worthy of attention, in and of itself. Throughout the novel, we read of various depictions of military action, and the ways in which the principal characters – Gregor Melekhov, Eugene Listnitsky, Ilya Bunchuk and others – are shaped and wounded and transformed by the experience of war. The drama peters off somewhat in the third quarter of the novel, but this is consistent with the chaotic time between the February and October Revolutions of 1917, and the narrative has stayed largely true to the historical drama of the time.
Overall, I enjoyed reading this. A four-star read, and especially recommended as a Deep Cuts selection for readers who have gone through the Tolstoy, Dostoyevsky and Turgenev books, but still crave further exploration of Russian literature.
On Carson McCullers’ The Heart is a Lonely Hunter
I just read this recently, and finished the book satisfied but also deeply ruminative.
The clue to this book is in the title: it is about a collection of people living in a poor rural town in the South of the United States of America, each plagued by loneliness in their own way.
The bar owner who loses his wife. The young girl making her way awkwardly into adulthood, and nursing a passion for music that she can share with no one else. The vagabond who sees too keenly the injustices around him, and is bursting with rage and socialist righteousness. The black man who worked his way up to become a doctor, only to find himself seething and raging against the continued oppression and privations of his people.
They all gravitate around John Singer, a man that most call simply “the mute”. Indeed, The Mute was supposed to be the original title of the novel, written at the age of 23 by a precocious young author. Almost unique for her time, Carson McCullers wrote of the sorrows and joys of simple people, and masters that very difficult art of shading each character’s narrative so that the reader can almost feel themselves living in the minds of these persons as they make their way through unremitting sadness and misfortunes, in a time when very few cared for the plight of the black man, or the poor.
I enjoyed this book. Each character was believable in their own individual loneliness, and as each of them sought the company of the mute to pour out their worries and sorrows, the reader gets a sense of how difficult life can get. The mute himself, even as he plays the oblique role of being the receptacle of others’ deepest concerns, is struggling with his own loneliness, which culminates in a tragic and senseless ending.
This was a 4-star read. Some rough edges here and there, understandable in the context of a young author finding her footing, but still miles ahead of many writers out there. Recommended.
On Literary Heroes
This week has seen the passing of two of my literary heroes: Cormac McCarthy and Robert Gottlieb. This essay will serve as an inadequate eulogy to two people who have, in different ways, shaped my recent literary tastes and sensibilities.
Cormac McCarthy is today celebrated in the public mind mainly for his Pulitzer Prize-winning novel, The Road, which depicts a father-son relationship in a harrowing dystopian world.
But the core of his oeuvre, and I think what will make his legacy truly lasting, is what I think of as his “cowboy” novels – the Border trilogy (which is made up of All The Pretty Horses, The Crossing and Cities of the Plain), No Country for Old Men, and what many consider to be his masterpiece, Blood Meridian.
All these novels have a shared style and mood: taciturn protagonists, terse dialogue, stark depictions of nature and beauty, and an almost tyrannical approach to punctuation (no quotation marks, no semicolons!)
The distinct style of Cormac McCarthy’s novels have often been described as “cinematic”, which probably explains the profusion of Hollywood productions that have been based on his novels: the Coen Brothers’ No Country for Old Men, The Road featuring Vigo Mortensen, All The Pretty Horses featuring Matt Damon.
Sometime late last year, his final two novels were published, a twinned publication of Stella Maris and The Passenger. I was not impressed by the novels on the whole, sadly: the digressions on mathematics and physics were fascinatingly geekcore, but the fantastical elements felt like a warmed-up version of Blood Meridian’s Judge Holden, and the supposedly-unspeakable love at the core of the story did not feel entirely fleshed out or believable. This does not, of course, detract from Cormac McCarthy’s legacy – I still believe he is one of the most important novelists in the English language of the late 20th and early 21st century.
Robert Gottlieb, in contrast, lived a life mostly in relative obscurity, even though, in the literary world, he is a veritable rockstar. The list of those who have benefited from his wise editing is littered with household names and acclaimed authors: Joseph Heller, Toni Morrison, John le Carré, Michael Crichton, Robert Caro, Doris Lessing. He was editor of the New Yorker. And he had an unexpected side gig as a longtime member of the board at the New York City Ballet.
I encountered Robert Gottlieb for the first time some years ago, when copies of his memoirs, Avid Reader, hit the shelves of my local bookstore. It still remains emblazoned in my mind that he had finished all seven volumes of Proust over the course of one week while in university!
Both of these men, in their lifetimes and in their own way, changed the ways in which people see the world. The community of readers across the world, of whom I consider myself to be an enthusiastic member, will mourn these men and cherish their legacies.
On Literature and Being Human
A few months ago, in a short essay on reading that I had written in reflection of the recent turns in my evolution as a reader, I wrote briefly on how, starting off as someone who was focused mostly on reading histories, biographies and other pieces on nonfiction, I have slowly gotten around to adding more literary and fictional works into my reading diet.
In recent weeks, I have come to the belief that my reading experience and pleasure would be best served by focusing even more on literature, and to reduce even further the mix of nonfiction works in my reading queue.
Let me explain.
Like many, I spent most of my youth believing that “nonfiction” means what it says on the cover: that by reading works of history and biography and science, one would get a better appreciation for the reality of the world that surrounds us. What better way to prepare oneself for the world, than to gain deeper knowledge and appreciation of how that world works: its grand design, the outsized historical figures that direct the currents of politics and nations, the workings of human societies and the vast natural endowments that surround and support those human civilisations, the animals and the trees, and the physics of pebbles as well as planets.
By contrast, the very term “fiction” conveys a certain sense of fakery – why should I spend my time being immersed in the doings and goings of made-up characters in some random person’s imagination? And “literature” added another sheen of (what I then perceived as) stuffiness and pomposity around works of fiction; as if there was a certain class of nonfiction that ought to be elevated above others, by the simple device of approbation from peer writers and the reading public. “Apa yang bagus sangat?” as one would say.
As I mentioned, it was only after marrying a committed lover of literature, that my attitude towards this dichotomy was finally broken. And in more recent weeks, I find myself feeling even more committed to the value and pleasure of reading good literature.
One could ask: what do you think of as “good literature”?
The answer to this, I think, rests in what I believe to be the essential nature of the contribution of literature to the human spirit: by dramatising human dilemmas and struggles and travails in fictional terms (which are often just thinly-veiled depictions of real events), the best authors are able to capture in words and on paper, however fleetingly, essential and timeless truths about human nature and the struggle of existence.
As I mentioned to a good friend recently over coffee, in nowhere else but in literature, I believe, can one human being truly immerse themselves in someone else’s mind and consciousness, to walk in someone else’s shoes. I am thinking here of Victor Hugo’s depiction of Jean Valjean’s internal struggle on whether to give himself up in place of someone else who was mistakenly arrested by the authorities. I am thinking of James Agee’s masterful narration of the inner monologue of Ralph Follet, the alcoholic brother struggling against his addiction and self-loathing. I am reminded here of Tolstoy’s Pierre Bezukhov, and his long journey towards finding himself amidst the hedonism and travails of early 19th century Moscow. Moments in Proust and Austen and Eliot when a smattering of letters and punctuation marks and lines can come together to paint a picture of utter realism in the lives of people who are recognisably human in their frailties and concerns and inner doubts.
This is why I read literature. For pleasure, yes, and to while away the time, certainly. But more than anything, it is through literature, I believe, that we can best get past the superficialities of our mundane existence, to attempt to touch the very core of what makes us truly human.
On Political Ambition
When I was in university, I got involved in student politics, and got bitten by the politics bug. Perhaps it was natural – at a place like Cambridge, you suddenly find yourself a small fish in a big, big pond, filled with many other fishes, big and small, many of whom have grand ambitions for themselves. I remember, in my earliest days at university, visiting the room of one of my fellow Malaysian students, and noticing a copy of Margaret Thatcher’s memoirs on his bookshelf.
It is a small and flitting memory, but distinct for several reasons.
The first is that after many years of being in high school where I got ribbed often for reading too much, I had found myself in a new social environment, one in which it was almost taken for granted that everyone reads. More than that, it was an environment in which ambitious and competitive young students would often compete to see who has read what. It took a while to get used to this.
The other reason why this was so memorable was that I had finally found myself in a place where mostly everyone would have some opinion on politics, and many others would (often not-so-secretly) harbour ambitions of politics. I remember hearing, in hushed tones, of recently-graduated seniors having been recruited to become a special officer to so-and-so. I had contemporaries who were themselves scions of political dynasties, or hungry to make their own.
Of course, little did I know that coming up to university in the summer of 1997 was soon to thrust me into a world I had scarcely imagined, when the comfortable assumptions of what I thought I knew about Malaysian politics would be exploded by the arrest of Anwar Ibrahim and the rise of Reformasi.
I am old enough now to see friends in university now taking on important jobs in Cabinet, and many others over the years in the halls of government, as speechwriters, as special officers, as political operatives, as aspiring front-line politicians themselves. And of course there are many others who started out with that fire in their eyes – but later on, choosing different paths in life: corporate law, or working in MNCs, or taking up big jobs in GLCs, or investing in private equity.
What I can say, after having lived this long on this earth, and observing others and myself as we wrestle with our own individual hopes and ambitions, is that there is no one right way to live life. The years will come and go, and the fires of youthful ambition, as important as they are, are only as important as you would like them to be.
Know why you are carrying this ambition within you, and if and when you let go, know for whom and why that decision is made. For those who are still in the arena, I congratulate you and I wish you all the very best. In the end, we have nothing and no one to answer to but our own selves, and our Creator who will be waiting for us at the end of this long journey through existence.