It was supposed to be a fete for British author James Hamilton-Paterson. Gathered in the upstairs chamber of National Artist F. Sionil Jose’s Solidaridad bookstore are the author of Playing with Water, Ghosts of Manila and America’s Boy, plus Ambeth Ocampo and Nelson Navarro and Gilda Cordero-Fernando, Sarge Lacuesta, Jing Hidalgo and other literati.
But in this day and age, it quickly becomes an Irish wake of sorts: the still-warm corpse on display is the future of writing. We are mourning the decline and inevitable death of our profession. Yes, they said it. But while it proceeds, we at least can discuss it over whiskey and beer and nibbles.
“I am very pessimistic,” Mang Frankie says about our current livelihood.
“Yes, I am, too,” says Hamilton-Paterson, who’s made his home in Austria, Italy, the Philippines — everywhere, it seems, but his native England. Mind you, these two authors have managed to chart their way to enduring livelihood through the published word.
“Of course, it goes without saying your books and my books won’t last,” James says to the author of The Rosales Saga. “Hardly any books do. But we’ve made a living out of it. We’ve met a lot of interesting people. We’ve drunk a lot of beer.” He pauses to shrug. “You’ve got to do something to get from one end to another.”
Think of it: humans have been gathering together in warm caves for close to 100,000 years, staving off the chill by telling each other campfire stories, whilst just outside the cave, ignorant armies clash by night (to invoke Matthew Arnold). So are we now gathered, trying to convince ourselves — whistling in the dark, as it were — that there’s a reason for our persistent tap-tap-tapping.
Beers are poured. Whiskies sipped. Our discussion flits from writing to traveling to politicking. James can be blunt. “Is anybody here really optimistic about this country?” he asks the room. Many Filipinos pause, shrug, then slowly nod their heads. He must have expected that answer — the trademark persistence of optimism. “I’ve been all around the world, but when I came back to the Philippines this time, it all came back at once. It was as if I’d never been away,” says James. He described walking near Shaw and EDSA’s flyovers, new since his last visit, as “like being on the set of Blade Runner, almost as sinister.’’ “I’ve never, ever been in a country like that before. So what it is you’ve got here, I don’t know, but it’s better than shabu.” Nelson Navarro chimes in: “It’s chismis.” There is laughter.
Yes, laughter persists. And ills persist. It’s all part of the mix.
I ask about the fate of Imelda, now a convicted criminal.
“There does seem to be a creeping amnesia amongst younger people here about the Marcoses,” James says. “As though Bongbong is being groomed for office, and here they come. I’m personally against it, because I’m dead against amnesia. Very simple. They shouldn’t be allowed back.”
Yet America’s Boy took a longer view of history. Imelda’s excesses were balanced against the politics of statecraft, and America’s self-interested intentions.
“Personally, I am pessimistic about the Philippine polity,” the British author tells us. “To be frank, the fact that you can go on electing people who’ve been convicted of crimes seems extraordinary to me,” citing Joseph Estrada’s political comeback.
We talk of corruption (“If you want to run for office here, you make a lot of money quickly, and in my opinion the only way to make a lot of money quickly is to bend the law”) and the worldwide rise of nationalism.
We kick around the idea that people cling to leaders who promise to be anti this or that, and their growing appeal nowadays. I ask: Are we having a moment now in history that’s post-truth? Where people have so much trouble deciding what’s true, they’ll believe any revised version of history?
“Yes, I think that’s very dangerous,” says Hamilton-Paterson. “It’s clearly being facilitated by electronic means. Social media. But what you do with that, I don’t know. I can’t see the optimistic way out of that.”
More beer is sipped. This little den above Solidaridad might be one of the few places left where such discussions take place. Meaningful or not, it’s what writers can still do.
“Today it’s so easy for someone to say ‘Oh, fake history,’” the author says before signing books and chatting with fans. “And that all sort of plays into the amnesia thing. Also people read less. I mean, it’s all there in the books, but people don’t read. It makes it impossible for us. It’s a grim profession. I think Frankie’s right, we’re probably a dying profession anyway.” Then, a little flake of hope: “But thank goodness we’ve lived to do it. For as long as we could.”
Hey, somebody’s got to describe those ignorant armies.
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James Hamilton-Paterson’s books are available at Solidaridad Bookstore, Padre Faura, Manila.