A Literary Love Affair

We live in a sea of resources that doesn't quite run out, no matter what economics tell us. There is always alternatives, and ways to make things work good, if not better. There was abundant oil reserves, it runs out, no problem, we research and discover alternative sources of renewable energy.

Likewise, books. They don't run out. We are a fortunate generation living in an advance age of unprecedented technology and communication and never found wanting of media resources.

I always cherish good books like I do a precious, new found treasure, and as much as I relish every word read, I dread every page turned, because that spells the end approaching. As I bask on cloud nine each time with a terrific book, I fall into bouts of despair at the end of each read. I'd caress the book gently, re-reading the cover page and back credits, and skimp through the folded pages which bear lines and sentences that I favor much. After a day or two, I reluctantly drag my feet to the local library and watch the bookdrop swallow my friend whole. The vicious cycle doesn't end there. I'd mull about aimlessly, like a ship without anchor, lost in a sea of restlessly, until I start running and listening to podcasts on books and authors and make a mental note of titles that piqué my interest. I'd hunt the title down on the library online catalogue, find the book and reserve to pick it up; or if it's dead urgent, where I gotta have the book instantly as if my life depended on it, I'd make a special trip to the library during my one-hour lunch break, never mind the rush, and march triumphantly out of the library, with my new book-bride in hand.

Yes, I'm eccentric, and I make no apologies for my frequent, short-lived, literary love affair. If anything, my husband wholly supports it.

The Kite Runner - the movie

The most anticipated movie since I picked up the book exactly a year ago, in Nov 06.

To gain a little understanding on the background of the book, I have previously posted an interview with the author, Khaled Hosseini: http://lilwritergie.blogspot.com/2006_12_01_archive.html

Now here's a trailer of the movie - an amazing story of 2 friends, close as brothers, set in Kabul. A journey of friendship, kinship, love, trust, betrayal, redemption and faith.

The written word

I’ve always been an ardent student of history, partly because I love stories. And history is full of intriguing histories and worthy lessons to be learnt. The many Chinese historic stories in A Thousand Pieces of Gold brought me much insight into the richness of the written word.

Here’s what the back cover of the book says – and I pray it inspires you as much to pick up a copy for your personal mental and cultural enrichment…


Proverbs are fascinating in my country but in China they still play and have always played a far more significant role.

One written word is worth a thousand pieces of gold

Most Chinese proverbs are based on historical events and the greatest number originate frm that extraordinary period of history when the first Emperor of China – creator of the terracotta soldiers – ruled.

Precious treasure worth cherishing

Kings, warlords, scholars and courtiers plot and counter plot in a vigorous, energetic, restless society brought vividly by Adeline Yen Mah. She combines the historical narrative with personal insights fromher own life to illustrate the influence of proverbs in contemporary situations, creating a window into Chinese life for Western readers.

Little sparrows with dreams of swans

Pearl S. Buck

Carrying a book in one's hands is a good thing to do - it has almost always sparked off conversations in an otherwise quiet lift. I have had that happened to me several times now and have thus drawn this fine conclusion.

As is my usual morning routine, I'll reach my work area an hour earlier, settle myself comfortably at a nearby breakfast eatery with my ham and egg mayo sandwich and a hot cup of coffee, with my favourite read in hand. I'm currently trailing Adeline Yen Mah's collection. At a quarter to nine, I'll usually rise to make my way to the office. This morning a colleague spotted me holding Adeline Yen Mah's A Thousand Pieces of Gold and found that I enjoy Chinese history and recommended me an excellent American writer, Pearl S. Buck, an American who spent most of her growing up years in China and who would return years later to dwell in the great land.

More than a great writer with a dozen award winning books under her belt and the first American woman to win a Nobel Prize in Literature, Pearl was a compassionate humanitarian. She personally adopted about a dozen children and established the Pearl S. Buck Foundation, which provides sponsorship funding for thousands of children in half-a-dozen Asian countries

According to wikipedia, Pearl wrote over 100 works of literature, her best-known being The Good Earth. The Good Earth chronicled the fictional life of the farmer Wang Lung against the backdrop of 20th century turmoil and revolution in China. It traces the rise of Wang Lung from the abject poverty of his early days to his final years by which he had accumulated great wealth and power. The novel portrays the complexities of marriage, parenthood, joy, pain, and human frailty. Pearl stresses in the novel the value of fertile land, hard work, thrift, and responsibility. The novel has a very circular feel to it, recreating the ebb and flow of life, the change of seasons, and the cycles of age and family. Pearl's writing is unique in the way it blends the technical language of the King James Bible with the simplicity and directness of the old Chinese narrative sagas.

Her writing career only began at the age of 41. Now that speaks volumes to me - there's hope for struggling, aspiring writers. I should be grabbing a title from Pearl's collection soon - probably beginning with The Good Earth.

A Thousand Pieces of Gold

As a young girl my father often told me, "never forget your roots, or you'll be a worthless person." In that he meant someone who doesn't know where he came from, what he's made of and what he's capable of becoming. How wise my father's advice was! And many years later, I remember his words fresh as if it was spoken to me yesterday, especially so upon my reading of A Thousand Pieces of Gold by Adeline Mah.

Walt Whitman once said, "Into the English language are woven the sorrows, joys, loves, needs and heartbreaks of the common people." The same can be said regarding Chinese proverbs and metaphors.

Renowned British poet, Philip Larkin once described Chinese proverbs as "white dwarfs" of literature because each was so densely compacted with thoughts and ideas. White dwarfs are tiny stars whose atoms are packed so closely together that their weight is huge in relation to their size. The enormous heat radiated from these small stars is equivalent to the vast knowledge and profound wisdom contained in certain sayings gleaned from China.

In this book, Adeline May provides a fascinating window into the history as the cultural soul of China. Combining personal reflections, rich historical insights, and proverbs handed down by her grandfather, she shares the wealth of Chinese civilisation with Western readers. Exploring the history behind the proverbs, she delves into the lives of the first and second emperors and the two rebel warriors who changed the course of Chinese life, adding stories from her own life to beautifully illustrate their relevance and influence today.

To Mr. Khaled Hosseini

Questions I'd like to ask and thoughts I'd like to share with Mr. Khaled Hosseini, author of The Kite Runner:

How do you write like that given that your profession is a doctor?

Have you always written stories growing up like Amir?

How did you come up with such a gripping plot?

Do you write with the end in mind or do you weave the characters and plot into your story as you go along?

Really, I dread reaching the last page of the book because I’m so enraptured I can’t let go. Not a middle easterner myself yet I could identify so closely with the characters that my heart bled as though their grief were mine.

How do you capture the readers’ hearts and minds the way you do?

I have never been this inspired to work on my passion before. Thank you for bringing to surface what has been brewing in my heart and dream machine for so long – a desire to write a great story.

Confession from The Kite Runner

I kept my tumultuous emotion contained till page 219 when I gave way and cried. I’ve never really cried reading a book before, save once when I read a moving story on forgiveness in Chicken Soup for the Christian Soul 5 years ago.

From page 1 till page 219 of The Kite Runner, I shared the characters’ grief and felt the sting of Baba & Hassan’s death as did the protagonist Amir. I too, like Amir, live a life stricken with guilt. I too, like Amir, let down and betrayed a dear friend. I too, like Amir, wonder many times looking up to heaven if I’m deserving of God’s many blessings of new friendships.

Amir in the book had the opportunity to make up for his debt to his dearly departed friend Hassan. While there is life, there is hope. I pray and hope that like Amir, I too, will be granted a sacred chance to make up for the pain I’ve caused.


P/S: The Kite Runner has 371 pages worth of emotionally, culturally, politically & historically provoking gems. I'm currently at page 219. And I dread arriving at the last page because I want this journey to my literary enrichment and personal reflection go on a little longer. I pray that in this lifetime I'll never be in lack of such life-changing books.

The Kite Runner

We can all move out of racial, cultural and political prejudices by being outstanding in what we do and being known in our craft in the international scene.

Consider Maya Angelou, out of her African American roots and sexual abuse she was lifted out of shame and poverty by her writing prowess.

Consider Khaled Hosseini who grew up in the dodgy streets of Kabul and obscure Afghanistan. Who would have thought that his experience turned novel would triumph as an international best seller?

Allow me to introduce a fantastic read by Khaled Hosseini, the book that brought him international fame - The Kite Runner. The review below can be found at http://www.reviewsofbooks.com/kite_runner

In The Kite Runner, Amir and Hassan grow up together in Afghanistan like brothers, although they couldn't be more different. Amir is the son of a wealthy businessman, a Sunni Muslim, a Pashtun, and he's educated and reads voraciously. Hassan's father is a servant to Amir's father, and Hassan is a Sh'ia Muslim, a Hazara, he's illiterate, and he has a harelip. But neither boy has a mother and they spend their boyhoods roaming the streets of Kabul together. Amir, though, continually uses his superior position to taunt or abuse Hassan, and one day hides in fear as Hassan is beaten mercilessly by bullies. The Soviet invasion of Aghanistan sends Amir's family to the United States, but he returns there as an adult during the Taliban rule to atone for his sins to Hassan. Khaled Hosseini is an Afghan émigré living in San Francisco and his debut novel has received mostly good reviews. The Denver Post says The Kite Runner "ranks among the best-written and provocative stories of the year so far."

May I persuade you to get a hold of this book and devour its content from cover to cover as you journey with the author through the weaves of love, kinship, betrayal and atonement.

By the way, the book's made it so big that a movie is underway, due for release in the US in Nov 2007.

Books & Writing

I was brought up surrounded by books. As far back as I can remember, books were everywhere in the house, in school, even the Presbyterian church that I attended since I was five. I love reading. By jolly, I do!

My cousin Alinna is 6 years older than I, and being the only child, she was pampered with all she desired. I believe she loved reading too – she had more books than I had clothes in my wardrobe! When she grew older, my siblings and I were at the receiving end of her treasures. I didn’t care about anything else but the tonnes of books which packed my father’s bookshelves in the living room, spilling over to the dining area that we had to buy a bigger cabinet and bookshelf to store them (I was of course happy as a bee).

Besides studying hard, participating in sporting championships in school, playing myself crazy in the evening with my dad and the neighbourhood kids, I was reading all the time. I did not go a day without a book in my hands (no kiddin’!). I especially love lying on my bed reading (a bad thing to do – my vision is badly impaired because of that and there’s no point crying over spilt milk). I read every book that Alinna passed on to my family – Enid Blyton, Alfred Hitchcock, Nancy Drew, Roald Dahl. Reader’s Digests. I love those hot sunny after school afternoons where after a quick lunch and bath, I’ll leap onto my bed (literally!) with a book in hand, all ready to devour and drool all over the yellow stained pages. Dad was very pleased that his little daughter loved reading and he used to come to my bedroom - first he would smile, then he would enquire which page of the book I was at, and then he would ask me when do I reckon I would finish reading the book, and I would tell him in a day or two and I would make sure I kept my word. And I did.

At fourteen, he bought over from Alinna her entire collection of The Times Encyclopedia (I have never finished reading them all – I only like 2 of them – one on Space, and the other on the Mind). Now that I’m much older, I feel bad at not having fully utilised the entire collection that my Dad paid good money for, thus I make it a point whenever I go back home to visit my parents, to read a little if not glance through the pages of some of the other topics.

Love strikes quickly and fatally. I fell in love and never out since – with Penguin’s Classics – great literature by my all-time favourite English writers – Charles Dickens, Mark Twain, Robert Louis Stevenson. I would say it was literature pieces like A Tale of Two Cities, Great Expectations, David Copperfield, Oliver Twist, The Adventures of Tom Sawyer & Huckleberry Finn that left a deep imprint in my soul and etched an innate longing for English products – books, movies, songs. You’ll probably find this an exaggeration, but please trust my integrity – I read The Adventures of Tom Sawyer over 20 times, averagely 4 times a year. I had no sense of boredom reading the adventurous and often mischievous Tom Sawyer trading junks for pearls with his richer, snobbier but dumber friends. If you ask me, Tom Sawyer makes a mighty good businessman!

Sometime later a friend recommended Christopher Pike’s fiction/mystery novels – a whole series of ‘em to get you imagining monsters and believing that chain letters were real. I started checking out John Grisham’s legal thrillers in poly because I majored in law (duh!).

Looking back, I was a more rampant reader. I devoured any book that came within sight. I borrowed books extensively – from libraries of all sorts – school library, church library, public libraries, friends’ libraries. Now I am a more picky reader. I read less and from a narrower range of topics – mostly autobiographies, cultural stories and Black American experiences. I feel for the sufferings of the characters and I empathise with the injustice inflicted upon the weaker ones.

I love to read. And I want to translate my reading (input) into writing (output). I dislike being distracted from what I’m meant to do. Here's a list of distractions that has won me over too many times. It’s adapted from Jane Schneeloch's poem, an amateur writer trained in well-known writing teacher, Pat Schneider’s Amherst workshop.

WRITING TIME

I stop writing
to check my email
to make a cup of coffee
to read the mail
to put a load of wash in
to play a game of Minesweeper
to straighten out the piles on my desk
to pluck my eyebrows
to cut my nails
to call my mother
to pay a bill
to text a long lost friend
to get another CD to play
to transfer pictures from my handphone to my laptop
to buy lunch
to watch Discovery Travel & Living
to watch the news
to read the newspapers
to take a nap
to dry the clothes
to shut off the computer
and wonder where
I will find time
to write great things.

So don’t be surprised the next time you find me missing from writing for days and weeks on end. The above list is the reason why.

P/S: This must be the longest post I've written and published thus far. And I'm only doing so to prove a point - strike while the iron is hot - I got to write while I can before I start losing my heart to a thousand other "important" to-do things.

Wordy Gems

There's nothing quite like the inexpressible glee upon setting sight on titles by one's favorite authors. For me, names like Maya Angelou, James Edgar Wideman, Mark Twain, Charles Dickens, and my recently discovered gem, Joyce Carol Oates. Ooh... this is sure better than the heightened pleasure of love. This is a drop of heaven's cool drink upon a parched dry desert ground. Truly, from the bottom of my heart and depth of my thirsty soul.

Discovered these 2 titles today and set me skipping thru the day.

I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings

Below is an exceptional excerpt from "I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings" by Maya Angelou. She writes her autobiography and teaches us lessons on being undermined, rejected, despised. Yet the agony of her childhood brought out the very victory of humanity that otherwise would not have been learnt by those who had it all easy in life.

_______________________

We were maids and farmers, handymen and washerwomen, and anything higher that we aspired to was farcical and presumptuous.

It was awful to be Negro and have no control over my life. It was brutal to be young and already trained to sit quietly and listen to charges brought against my color with no chance of defense. As a species, we were an abomination. All of us.

A poem by James Weldon Johnson, and a music composed by J. Rosamond Johnson, which became the Negro national anthem:

"Lift ev'ry voice and sing
Till earth and heaven ring
Ring with the harmonies of Liberty

Stony the road we trod
Bitter the chastening rod
Felt in the days when hope, unborn, had died.
Yet with a steady beat
Have not our weary feet
Come to the place for which our fathers sighed?

We have come over a way
that with tears has been watered,
We have come, treading our path through
the blood of the slaughtered."

Oh, Black known and unknown poets, how often have your auctioned pains sustained us? Who will compute the lonely nights made less lonely by your songs, or by empty pots made less tragic by your tales?

We were on top again. As always, again. We survived. The depths had been icy and dark, but now a bright sun spoke to our souls. I was a proud member of the wonderful, beautiful Negro race.

John Edgar Wideman

Next to the creation of man, language is perhaps the next most outstanding masterpiece. In reading words of another I find my own. In listening to viewpoints of another I find understanding and tolerance, and perhaps; patience and love. In the life of John Edgar Wideman, I find a master of the English language.

We create a protective shell around us in an attempt to survive the turmoil and chaos of growing up.

Here is a brief introduction to the thoughts and writings of the man.

“The trouble with this survival mechanism was the time and energy expended on the upkeep of the shell. The brighter, harder, more convincing and impenetrable the shell became, the more I lost touch with the inner sanctuary where I was supposed to be hiding. It was no more accessible to me than it was to the people I had intended to keep out. Inside was a breeding ground for rage, hate, dreams of vengeance.” - John Edgar Wideman

An excerpt from “In Praise of Silence”

by John Edgar Wideman

“For a people who have endured a long, long history of waiting – waiting at the Jordan river, waiting chained in stone forts on the west coast of Africa, waiting for slavery and discrimination to end, waiting for justice and respect as first class citizens, waiting for prison gates to open, waiting eternities in emergency wards and clinic lines in sorry urban hospitals – silence is an old, familiar companion. Time and silence, silence and time. The silence attending waiting, waiting through times of enforced silence. Silence upon the ground which wishes are inscribed while the endless waiting continues. Silence a dreaming space where what’s awaited is imagined and, when it doesn’t come, the space where dreams are dismantled, dissolving again into silence. Dreams born and dying and born again in the deep womb of silence, and silence, tainted though it is by disappointment and waiting, also a reservoir of hope.”