12.30.08
Posted in Life Betwixt Book Covers at 1:48 pm by Miracle ♪♫
“For now, he starts to read.”
This is doubtlessly among the best last lines I have ever encountered. It embodies an entire world of meaning; so does Jhumpa Lahiri’s book from which this last line is carved out.
Pulitzer-winning author Jhumpa Lahiri is an extraordinary writer who, in The Namesake, centers on the Ganguli family and their son Gogol. Lahiri exceptionally interlaces Bengal culture, American culture, Russian literature, and the nostalgic tale of how Nikolai Gogol’s The Overcoat saved the life of Gogol Ganguli’s father who in turn gave him his weighty name. In the melange of contrasting cultures, meticulous details, and stirring events, the story transcends the namesake itself and becomes an inquiry into one’s identity.
Named best book of the year in 2003 by many literary establishments, I think it is also a great book to end my year. It is not exactly pleasant, but it leads me to serious rumination, not just introspectively but also extrospectively – which is what any book worth reading, should induce.
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Additional Trivia:
Similarly, my name was bequeathed to me a week after I was born. This is a fact that worried a multitude of relatives. Honestly, I wouldn’t have minded waiting longer just to end up having “Miracle” for a name. ;-)
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I was subsequently left to ponder on our namesake, our namesakes as “Christians”, the name from which we receive grace and apostleship, and how it is abused today.
Scott Hoezee writes:
“If anything there are at least some in our society who think that the more we can parade God and Jesus into classrooms, courtrooms, political debates, and laboratories the better. But the third commandment remains firmly in place as a reminder and a warning: God is not our mascot. He did not lend us his name to do with what we please but to do with it what pleases God. And what pleases God is an honest proclamation of his covenant faithfulness which climaxes in the death and resurrection of Jesus his Son. That is the message we need to proclaim first and foremost, for his Name’s sake.”
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“We all came out of Gogol’s overcoat,” Gogol Ganguli’s father said, quoting Dostoevsky. Thus, *Miracle draws out Nikolai Gogol’s The Overcoat from the shelf and puts her chores on hold. For now, she starts to read.*
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12.28.08
Posted in Life Betwixt Book Covers at 6:23 pm by Miracle ♪♫
After dipping in the arduous depths of Mann, I vowed to read something lighter as a breather and thought that I could get away with a romantic Parisian adventure, but one which was also uncompromisingly outside the sphere of chick-lit. So what perfect time to cull master storyteller W. Somerset Maugham’s Christmas Holiday from my shelf! Carla Bruni’s music even suitably accompanied the brighter prelude of the story, but the mood sombered when Charley, an English young man intending to have a grand Christmas vacation in Paris met Lydia, a wrecked Russian woman on his first night. Then I discovered that this was not the romantic holiday I had in mind, but the sort that has “the bottom of your world fall out.” Regardless of my realization, I began to appreciate the book for its penetration into the darkness of humanity. At the end I was convinced that Maugham really is a master storyteller - not mainly because of his style in narrative but through his perception of humankind.
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I felt like Charley the protagonist, who was initially shielded from the brutal realities of the world until an immediate encounter with a battered soul. What affects me deeply is the similar eye-opener I experienced several years ago through a particular friend who showed me that not all families are as intimate as mine, that not all fathers love their families the way mine does, that within a family it is possible to experience violence, betrayal, and divers kinds of evil that in my knowledge were limited to the movies and fictitious stories. Both my friend’s and Maugham’s tale continues to leave a nagging impression that allows me to perceive life on a deeper degree.
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Surprisingly, Christmas Holiday complements to my views pertaining musical expression. Earlier in the book, Lydia criticizes Charley’s piano rendition of a Scriabin. She said something about it not being “Russian”. In the latter pages, after Charley’s moving experience with the Russian spirit, he played the Scriabin one more time and his father commented that the latter performance was different; “You get a sort of tremor in it that’s rather effective.”
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Experience, experience… it is what completes us as musicians, it is what consummates us as humans.
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12.26.08
Posted in 2008 Potpourri at 4:27 pm by Miracle ♪♫
This may come as a surprise to everyone but I do not believe in Christmas. “A Grinch”, you may say. But what is a Grinch? Someone who plunders the merriment of others during Christmas season, is it not? Then you may take it back, I am no such person. I believe in Love, Joy, and Peace. I partake in the happiness and togetherness of loved ones during this time of the year, and I absolutely believe that Christ was born to save mankind. Nevertheless, I cannot reconcile Christ’s birth and December 25 among other things. An old entry of mine explains this – although in a rather adolescent astringent tone which could have been mellowed down and formulated better had I written it recently. Despite all these, I am not offended by those who believe in Christmas and do not think any lesser of them, and I am still so thankful for the heart-warming and enlightening experiences that befell during this season. Here are some:
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Rehab
Earlier this month, a beloved cousin who has been lost to the world of drugs and a wayward lifestyle returned to us. Completely rehabilitated and back to his very adorable self, we embraced his homecoming. For me this was the best gift the family could ever hope for and it was worthy of the grandest celebration. It was meet that we should make merry, and be glad: for this thy brother was dead, and is alive again; and was lost, and is found. (Luke 15:32)
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Lessons in Preparation
The irony of the “holiday” season is how more people are busier than usual – people such as myself. I completely overlooked practicing music due to the make-up lessons with my students, year-end janitorial duties, preparations for visitors, etc. Needless to say, I neglected my first love in the flurry of what seemed to be more pertinent at the moment. Then a visitor arrived from New York who wished to hear Rachmaninov. Unprepared, surprised, un-warmed up, and being unable to decline, I sat on the piano silently as Dandi began the Allegro Scherzando of the third movement with a tempo that fuelled my panic. What bothered me was the fact that I had been reviewing this piece earlier and while doing so, nobody wanted to listen to it, and when I stopped practicing it, somebody did!
Nevertheless, I’m relieved that this time, it only concerned Rachmaninov… and yes, you may have predicted a brewing analogy, and here it is! It is so easy to lose oneself in the bustle of what seems to be important in life. Our careers, studies, and even trifling hobbies usually get in the way of our first love who is Christ. We engage ourselves with preparations for promotions, job opportunities, deadlines, even marriage, and so much more that we forget what we should groom for most importantly: Eternal Life. Let us continue practicing and working hard for this because at the last moment, in the twinkling of an eye, there may not even be room for panic, and the preparation time endowed unto us will come to an end, and of that day and hour knoweth no man, no, not the angels of heaven, but my Father only. (Matthew 24:36)
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Pyrotechnics
Of firecrackers Mama commented, “It’s good that lesser people decided to burn their money this year.” Misha with surprised eyes immediately queried, “Firecrackers are made of money?!”
But seriously, one has to discover that there are more meaningful ways to have a “blast”! I had my fulminating Joy basking in the Love and blessings from God, and in the company of dear people who make this life explosively brilliant! But the greatest of these is love. (1 Corinthians 13:13)
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12.23.08
Posted in Life Betwixt Book Covers at 1:06 am by Miracle ♪♫
Doktor Faustus
Das Leben des deutschen Tonsetzers Adrian Leverkühn, erzählt von einem Freunde
(The Life of the German composer Adrian Leverkühn, told by a friend)
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No more Mann puns. No one can possibly come out with the faintest tinge of humour in mind after being submerged in Doktor Faustus, and the translator H. T. Lowe – Porter was in no jesting state when of this book she revealed, “It is to be feared. The author himself has feared it.” The tears of undistinguishable emotions and the cold sweat I experienced during the concluding chapters were attestations to this articulation. For all my frailties as a reader, this book turned out to be a behemoth as I struggled through the staggering passages. One must not misunderstand this statement as an aversion towards Mann’s work, for it is truly a product of virtuosity, and Mann is doubtlessly a genius!
The book (and not the “novel”, the narrator constantly indicates), was returned to its place alongside Goethe and Hesse yesterday and after I had seemingly gathered my wits, I allowed myself to skim through some literary commentaries – partly to prove whether my dim understanding had at least grasped some essential issues. I’m glad I read none of these beforehand because most of what was presented online focused on very technical matters that may have weakened my urge, but only because the spellbinding experience that the book provides the reader and the depth of it all can never be recapitulated in stark little paragraphs; and a stab at that, this inexperienced reader shall not pursue. But if I were really to be solicited for a few words pertaining Doktor Faustus, I can only answer in the same manner the narrator Serenus Zeitblom spoke of one of Adrian Leverkühn’s compositions; “Very rarely in all literature have word and music met and married as here.”
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Note to Mika: It is very interesting how you mentioned Arnold Schönberg earlier. This book reputably enraged him because Thomas Mann merited Leverkühn for the development of the 12-tone technique and Schönberg feared that history would praise Mann for the discovery instead of him, hence the author’s note crediting Schönberg in the last pages of Doktor Faustus.
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How fascinating that reading creates the impression of measuring time but altogether makes one oblivious of time - and how time hastens! The year is coming to an end and on a lighter and brighter angle I wish everyone a blessed season and pray that we not exhaust ourselves with the festivities but spend this occasion for giving thanks and contemplating on the past and coming year. I shall leave you all with a simple song from the musical A Christmas Carol that never fails to touch me the whole year round:
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Let the stars in the sky
Remind us of man’s compassion
Let us love till we die and
God Bless us everyone
In your heart there’s a light
As bright as a star in heaven
Let it shine through the night and
God bless us everyone
Till each child is fed,
Till all men are free
Till the world becomes a family
Star by star in the sky and
Kindness by human kindness
Let me love till I die and
God bless us everyone!
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12.18.08
Posted in Life Betwixt Book Covers at 5:50 pm by Miracle ♪♫
If I were to begin with paltry foolishness, I could tell you that for some neurotic reason, I was prompted to buy another hardbound copy of Doktor Faustus even though I’m still halfway through the same book, and I can also continue by saying that from this moment on, Thomas Mann will officially be a favourite author, “He’s the Mann,” “SuperMann,” “I love the Mann,” etc., but that would completely ruin the gravity of his work. Therefore, I’ll calm down and behave myself. No, this is not a review. For how would someone such as myself review Mann? By attesting that he trounces every attempt at speed-reading? That every line requires brain-bending cognition? That no other novel has overwhelmed me this much? That my notes on Doktor Faustus have exceeded my usual amount of notes taken from a book?
As I was beginning to wonder why German literature suddenly appeals to me more than Russian literature does, this line stated by a fleeting character appeared, “The Russians… have profundity but no form. And in the west they have form but no profundity. Only we Germans have both.” Deutschlin’s comment was laughed at, and this statement may or may not be subject to scrutiny and argument but then again, even in music, why does it seem to be true? And what did he really mean by “form”? Thoughts anyone?
I do not think that Germans are superior, but I am driven to believe that their cultivation for the intellect is truly superior. (…and somewhere, there’s Franz, shaking his head, because I’m dwelling on a somewhat insignificant line and “taking things too seriously” again. =p)
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*returns to Doktor Faustus* 
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12.15.08
Posted in Uncategorized at 1:00 pm by Miracle ♪♫
[Espressivo]
Lately, I am often admonished that I take my students too seriously and I can only concur that there is so much truth in these concerns. Many sleepless nights have been spent worrying about them, and I honestly credit my few strands of silver hair to “my kids”.
As an ancillary result of previous contemplations about pursuing studies in Music Therapy for special children, I used to classify my students into two groups; ADHD and Non-ADHD. (Hah! I even used to classify my friends in this manner. Sometimes, I still do. That’s why they’re special to me! Vinz, amishu! Hahaha *teasing grin* ) However, I learned soon enough that those who were identified as non-ADHD had their own behavioral maladies, some even worse than ADHD, and that I could not really categorize them in such a way despite the startling number of children with neurobehavioral problems. In fact, one cannot really classify children. They are particularly special and unique with their different fortes and weaknesses, and if a teacher is really dedicated enough to see an improvement in the student’s musicianship and character, no one can possibly adhere to a single approach. Because of this, I strongly believe that no one is impossible to teach.
Yet, there is a problem. Owing to this belief influenced by the Suzuki method that any child can play music and any child can be taught, parents and audiences alike expect that I can also teach the children musical expression.
Assuming that all students in a certain group have been taught technical things equally, this is where a teacher cannot avoid a more “advanced” classification between the musical and not-so-musical children. I have observed that the most musical students are those who have had exciting or extraordinary (happy or sad) experiences in their young lives, and this cannot be taught, because musical expression is not mere feelings, rather, it is entirely about what one has been through and the amount of these experiences that a person may consciously or subconsciously incorporate in the music.
In my humble opinion, a teacher can only encourage a student to haul these experiences from within, but attempting to teach musical expression would be futile. It would only produce an artificial expression that might severely reflect a false passion.
Musical expression is the entire cosmos between one note and another, musical expression is one’s own heartbeat, one’s own breath, one’s own sorrows and joys embodied in the music. It is one’s love story. These cannot be duplicated, these cannot be taught. Musical expression can only be lived.
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My reply to a mother who complained of her daughter’s lack of musical expression; “Wait ‘til she gets her heart broken.”
Sad but true.
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12.12.08
Posted in Life Betwixt Book Covers at 7:51 pm by Miracle ♪♫
If one were to rely on my inferior storytelling, the attempt to summarize this book would rob it of its marvel. Earlier this afternoon, a friend inquired about its contents and after my lame effort at a synopsis, she asked, “Hindi ba corny?”
I should have let her read Bel Canto’s back cover instead.
“…in South America, at the home of the country’s vice president, a lavish birthday party is being held in honor of the powerful businessman Mr. Hosokawa. Roxanne Coss, opera’s most revered soprano, has mesmerized the international guests with her singing. It is a perfect evening – until a band of gun-wielding terrorists takes the entire party hostage. But what begins as a panicked, life-threatening scenario slowly evolves into something quite different, a moment of great beauty…”
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It may be many things but corny is not one of this novel’s qualities. It is no surprise that it snagged both the United Kingdom’s prestigious Orange Prize and the United States’ PEN/Faulkner Award. Each character and phrase is beautifully crafted and one can only wonder how Ann Patchett successfully weaved music, politics, and love. The musicality contained in the pages is amazing and it has the power to move one to recognize the force and virtue of music as it unites the diversity of language, beliefs, and personalities. The ending seemed unsatisfactory at first, but when one begins to relish its fading sentences, a bittersweet-ness sinks in, similar to that of an aria which possesses a silencing essence.
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Earlier this week, someone was promised an explanation on why I make notes of the books I read. A few lines have been prepared (e.g. it is my way of digesting what I have devoured), but these, like the Bel Canto summary in my own words, have been canceled in order to make way for better words. This time, Marcel Proust’s greater words:
“There are perhaps no days of our childhood we lived so fully as those we believe we left without having lived them, those we spent with a favourite book. Everything that filled them for others, so it seemed, and that we dismissed as a vulgar obstacle to a divine pleasure: the game for which a friend would come to fetch us at the most interesting passage; the troublesome bee or sun ray that forced us to lift our eyes from the page or to change position; the provisions for the afternoon snack that we had been made to take along and that we left beside us on the bench, without touching, while above our head the sun was diminishing in the force in the blue sky; the dinner we had to return home for, and during which we thought only of going up immediately afterward to finish the interrupted chapter, all those things which reading should have kept us from feeling anything but annoyance at, it has on the contrary engraved in us so sweet a memory of (so much more precious to our present judgement than what we read then with such love), that if we still happen today to leaf through those books of another time, it is for no other reason than that they are the only calendars we have kept of days that have vanished, and we hope to see reflected on their pages the dwellings and the ponds which no longer exist.”
“On Reading” (1906)
…and my friend, the explanation? I am merely doodling childish markings on my calendar. ;-)
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12.10.08
Posted in Uncategorized at 7:21 pm by Miracle ♪♫
How many times can one die?
How many instances can one feel alive?
For what is a lifetime?
A momentary nestling of hands?
A kiss?
A musical passage?
A smile?
A submersion into each other’s eyes?
A suspension of a breath?
How many lifetimes can one have in a lifetime?
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12.06.08
Posted in Life Betwixt Book Covers at 10:08 pm by Miracle ♪♫
“The mouth, as feminine principle, as empty space, as cavity, was the best place for words to be engendered. And the tongue, as masculine principle, sharp, pointed, phallic, was the one to introduce the created word, that universe of information, into other minds in order to be fertilized.
But what would fertilize it? That was the great unknown.”
Malinche, Laura Esquivel
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Due to my being unwell for several days already, I am prescribed tsunamic amounts of fluids and “light-reading or none at all”.
The larger font size and apparent plot convinced me this was easy to read, and the thought that I needed some South American zest made me settle for Malinche. It was indeed an easy read and honestly quite inferior to Like Water for Chocolate. The seemingly rushed accounts did not appeal to me so much, although I have speculations that this might have been intended so that the narrative would resemble the recapitulation of epics in Mayan codices. On the other hand, it still turned out to be an interesting and unique tale. Scrutinizing beyond the historical affair of the controversial Malinalli and the conquistador Hernán Cortés, the lurking religious arguments make this story provoking, but the best thing about it is the abounding evidence of the author’s songlike language. Malinche teems with melodious passages and I am still excitedly awaiting my copy of Laura Esquivel’s The Law of Love.
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What piqued my interest were the words that Malinalli’s grandmother imparted to her. They reminded me of my own Lola (Mama’s mom who also happened to be Papa’s grade school literature teacher), who during our childhood entertained us with Greek mythology and other unconventional bedtime stories instead of the typical fairy tales. These story sessions dissolved as the grandchildren grew up and Mama’s siblings moved to different cities along with our cousins. We may have already forgotten details of mythologies, but until today, one story perseveres being told over and over everytime the family reunites during Christmas season. It is especially the favourite of our grandparents’ princesses (Arabela, Arantza, Kristine, and I). The Dalman girls are special – at least that is what we’d like to believe – since Mama has three siblings and they have only one daughter each out of their wealth of “thorns”. But that’s not why we fancy ourselves as princesses. Our fantasies involve the story of a real Subano princess and a wanderer from Borneo; our ancestors from several generations back.
Princess Daulanay was a beautiful and treasured daughter of a Subanen chief. The chief was overly protective that he sentenced Daulanay to a tower where ordinary men could not lay eyes on her. A fugitive seeking sanctuary in Mindanao after being involved in a coup d’état in Borneo heard of Princess Daulanay and was much intrigued. The daring man was determined to see the princess and schemed his way up to the tower where they both fell in love. A romanticized version of the story claims that the man had magic powers thus creating pyro-feats to divert the princess’ guards, but magic or no magic, the rest is history… and I’m sure I’ll hear about it again a few weeks from now. =)
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12.03.08
Posted in Life Betwixt Book Covers at 10:34 pm by Miracle ♪♫
Despite the title’s provocative temper, I expected to finish this book disturbed and sickened. What could one anticipate from a fusion of fact and fiction set during the Wagnerian era, psychoanalysis, the “unholy trinity” of Friedrich Nietzsche, Paul Rée, and Lou Salome, the topic of obsession, Sigmund Freud, and Josef Breuer? Still, curiosity got the best of me and instead, I found myself engrossed in this riveting intellectual thriller.
When Nietzsche Wept was not ordinarily about Nietzsche but the exploration of obsession, despair, pride, catharsis, introspection, love, lust, morals, fate, choices, and friendship. In the end, I was amazed at my satisfaction and degree of appreciation for the author Irvin Yalom and this mesmerizing work – even if there looms a possibility that Nietzsche would not have approved of it.
“Can you imagine your tears having a voice? Give your tears a voice.
What would they say?” ~ When Nietzsche Wept, Irvin D. Yalom, M.D.
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I read this in the departure area, in the plane, and finally finished it in Cebu. This may surprise my Cebuano friends but… yes, I was in Cebu during the past few days. Apparently, Dandi was able to avail of a promo ticket for me and I was destined to tail along. I nicknamed my being away “L.O.A” since it was an absence under exceptional circumstances from my daily routine and it was not deemed as a vacation at first – even though it turned out to be one anyway. My dear Cebuano friends, please forgive me if I failed to notify any of you. The few people who knew of our arrival were Paulina because they invited to host us and it was her dad who actually booked the plane tickets, Cressi because she’s Dandi’s bestfriend, and Princess because Dandi informed her. I did not consider the trip “mine”, thus entrusting the entire three-day schedule to my brother. Other than being Dandi’s tag-along and reading my book, I had no other business being there – – oh, alright, alright, I was also itching to visit the week-old FullyBooked branch in Ayala. Haha They were still a bit disorganized but I nonetheless emerged from the shelves in a book-drunk stupor, a light wallet, and with C.S. Lewis’ Mere Christianity, The Screwtape Letters, The Abolition of Man, The Great Divorce, The Problem of Pain, Miracles, and A Grief Observed – all in one book!
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Dandi and I are back in Dipolog. I already had a student after unpacking my little bag. I am once again alone with my thoughts and my books. Taking small trips make me ponder on so many things, and this time, the reigning thought is all about traveling lightly. (An entire entry will be reserved for that subject.) The sky is weeping; it is raining… what if heaven’s tears had voices? What would they say?
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