Three books for the halcyon days

Book it: Reserve these reads for the rainy days.

You know summer has come to an end when reading for leisure gets swamped by the necessities of real life. In my world, this means school.

So to commemorate a glorious two months of words, words, and more words; allow me to share a brief list of the books that made my summer:

The Book Thief By Markus Zusak

If a story is set in Nazi Germany then you know what that means — bombs, poverty, death, the persecution of Jews, hunger… anything morose enough, you name it. Then there are the stirring bits of humanity that are a staple of just about every bit of WWII fiction (or non-fiction) out there. And The Book Thief is no exception. An outcast father teaching his foster child how to read, a boy braving the icy river for his best friend, a son committing suicide for the horrors of war, a German family hiding a Jew in their basement. Oh, and a little girl who finds herself by stealing books.

Another wartime story of sorrow, misery, and everything in between? You bet. The Book Thief dishes out all the poignancy and heartbreak of wartime Europe as good as the rest of them (The Diary of Anne Frank, City of Thieves, Schindler’s List, to name a few), but what makes it so endearing is that the narrative chooses to leave the backdrop as just that: a backdrop. There’s death and destruction all around, Liesel Meminger and her family are hiding a Jew, but somehow, life goes on, despite it all. Liesel plays in the ragtag Himmel Street Football Club, shares nightmares and words with Max Vandenburg in the basement, indulges in book thieving with her best friend Rudy Steiner. The narrative flows along like a montage, an assortment of scenes that don’t seem to want to expose themselves as part of any real plot — which works just fine. Because life, whether we like it or not, simply happens; as Zusak masterfully conveys.

His language is beautiful — simple and direct, but poetic and detached all at the same time. Devastating when used to show Rudy’s love for Liesel, or her willingness to take a whipping for Max, the Jew. At the end of the book I wanted to stand up and clap. The scenes don’t write themselves, his characters do.

Don Quixote By Miguel De Cervantes

I know, I know. What else can possibly be said about Don Quixote? It’s only been voted the greatest book of all time by the Nobel Institute, studied and written about by critics the world over, and considered as the first modern novel. Naturally, I had to see what all the hype was all about. It took me a few years and a plethora of bookstores to finally get the edition I wanted (the Penguin Classics version, translated by John Rutherford), and then a few months more before I actually sat down to read it.

The whole of Don Quixote is actually two novels put together, and it is with shameless gusto that I admit I’ve only finished the first half. But I’ll get there soon. I’ve heard the second part gets only more metafictional and self-conscious, which I find nothing short of brilliant, considering that this book was published more than 400 years ago. Metafiction, after all, seems to be overused in today’s supposedly postmodern culture.

But back to Don Quixote. Yes, I’ve only read the first 500 pages so far, but I can unabashedly say I love it. This is a 16th-century novel that actually makes me laugh. Out loud. Precisely because the humor is the situation. A wealthy old man saddles his skinny steed and rides off with his overweight squire in a quest to revive the glory days of knight-errantry. He attacks windmills, frees dangerous criminals, uses a barber’s basin as a helmet, and mistakes a run-down inn for a beautiful castle. He accomplishes nothing, really; and yet, really, he does. The figure upon which the novel’s whole satirical point revolves around, Don Quixote, is the story. I didn’t think I’d enjoy a million-year-old tale this much. And now I really should get back to finishing…

Killing Time In A Warm Place By Jose Dalisay, Jr.

Filipino novels are always an interesting read. Especially the ones that have garnered critical acclaim and are more often than not tied to national, as well as personal, history.

I think every young, idealistic college student must have entertained the thought of a revolutionary life. At some point in her undergrad life, at least. I know I did. Though, apart from joining a few rallies, running for student council under the reds, and writing for our famously militant school paper, I never really crossed the threshold. I’m not that noble.

This is why, for all that Dalisay’s book reads like an apologia, a fleshing out of bourgeois guilt and the inability of his character (or is it the author himself?) to unite theory and practice — I get it. This book made my summer, not so much because of an engaging story line, but for its honesty. There’s nothing grand or uplifting about the novel (although the language, coming from no less than Dalisay, is, of course, superb), but it’s as close to biting hard reality as you can get about forgoing the struggle, and it manages to elaborate on this in such a way that at the end, you don’t hate Noel Ilustre Bulaong — you can’t. Because you know there are many more like him out there. Ah, bourgeois guilt. Read this for the insight, if not for the plot or characters. Let he who has not sinned cast the first stone, after all.