An Affair to Remember

From StarMag, 25th November, 2007

Review by DAPHNE LEE

EVENING
By Susan Minot
Publisher: Vintage Contemporaries, 288 pages
(ISBN: 978-0099273493)

WHEN I’m on my deathbed, I wonder which of my boyfriends I’ll remember as the love of my life.

Reading Susan Minot’s Evening, it occurred to me that one might not be aware that one is experiencing true love while it is actually happening. If you have six lovers your entire life, you would surely need to have had them all before being able to rate them.

Ann Lord, dying of cancer at 65, married thrice and mother of five, is overwhelmed and overtaken by memories of Harris Arden, a man she met when she was 25.

It is the summer of 1954 and she is a bridesmaid at her best friend’s wedding. The bride’s brother comes to meet Ann at the train station and, with him, is a stranger: “She noticed his mouth was full though set in a particular firm way, the combination of which affected her curiously. She felt as if she’d been struck on the forehead with a brick.”

On reading this description, the reader is bound to think, “Ahh ... love at first sight”. But Ann ... does Ann know it’s love? And does she know she will be thinking of this man 40 years hence, while her body is being eaten by disease and her mind is filled with a jumble of words and pictures overlaid by a drug-induced fog?

Visitors come and go, the doctor drops by, her children whisper in the next room. Reality recedes and advances, and is overlaid by and inter-woven with memories, fantasies, visions and dreams.

Ann’s thoughts move seamlessly from the present to the past – Minot uses no quotation marks, which, although confusing at first, is an effective way of portraying Ann’s hazy state of mind.

She is only occasionally aware of where she is and her lives, with various men, in various houses, with various people, merge. She begins a conversation in 1954 and ends it in 1994. Her children are babies, then adults, then toddlers, and then adults again. Her husbands fill her with grief, lust, pity, disappointment, apathy. She is full, full, full of love for Harris. Three days were all they had and then there he is, again, finally. Or is he?

The drug-induced hallucinations allow Ann to return to that enchanted summer when she met a wonderful man who made her self-conscious and drop things like a nervous, lovesick schoolgirl. They allow her to revisit the past, allow him to grace the present, allow questions to be asked and answered or asked and left unanswered.

Was Harris really so lovely, his face “lit from within” or is it the morphine talking, transforming someone who was perhaps just rather sexy into a creature so sublime he eclipses everyone who came before and after?

Perhaps he was truly special. Perhaps he was, only because Ann did not see him grow old and bitter and unfaithful.

This 1998 novel was re-issued this year because a movie based on it was made. But watching the interaction on the big screen earlier this year between Claire Danes as the young Ann and Patrick Wilson as Arden, it’s hard to understand the attraction between the couple. Well, obviously, Danes is a beautiful young woman. However, Arden’s attention seems driven solely by lust. Their first meeting is unremarkable; subsequently they seem merely horny, inspired, perhaps, by fine scenery.

But the movie does not have the benefit of Minot’s fine, poetic prose, her ability to spin emotions into vivid pictures that shine with the transparent light of summer evenings and glow with the brilliance of cloudless star-filled skies.

The three days Ann and Harris shared contain a lifetime’s worth of ecstasy and agony. Doomed love usually does, the emotions experienced by its victims are intensified by the futility of the situation. What if they had never met, fallen in love and been forced by convention, good sense and misadventure to go their separate ways? What if they had not parted, but stayed together and become disillusioned and tired of each other?

Happily, the heartbreak of Ann’s loss casts a light on the shadow of her impending death. Imagined and remembered, Harris is probably better than he ever was in real life.

Sink Your Teeth In

A human girl and a luscious male vampire decide to go steady. A werewolf offers the girl an alternative (hot-blooded) romance. Obviously, some females attract all the right monsters!

From StarMag, 30th September 2007

Review by DAPHNE LEE

ECLIPSE

By Stephenie Meyer

Publisher: Little, Brown, 629 pages

(ISBN: 978-0316160209)

THE story so far ... Bella Swan is a regular teenager in a small American town. She moves there in her junior year of high school and promptly falls in love with Edward Cullen, a handsome senior. Edward seems aloof at first, but, as Bella soon discovers, the reason he’s keeping his distance is that he’s a vampire and finds the scent of her blood intoxicating.

In vampirical terms, Bella is one hot (and living) chick, never mind she’s a pretty average-looking (human) girl. Edward is in love (and blood-lust) with her and is terrified that he will harm her. It turns out that he and his undead mates (all equally scrumptious) are reformed vampires who feed on wildlife, not humans. This makes Bella think that there’s a future for her and Edward. Unfortunately, although she’s safe from him and his friends, a group of rogue vamps have marked her as prey.

This is basically what you learn in Twilight, the first of Stephanie Meyer’s series about young love undead-style. In the second book, New Moon, things get decidedly hairier (or rather, furrier): Following an incident involving a paper cut and some seriously thirsty vampires, Edward decides to check out of Bella’s life to ensure her safety. Bella, feeling rejected and angry, decides to drown her sorrows in some reckless behaviour. She starts hanging out with her friend Jacob Black, a young motorcycle-riding Native American wild child. Nothing very naughty happens, though. All the pair gets up to is performing motorcycle stunts.

But then Jacob gets turned into a werewolf and, suddenly, Bella has two extremely personable monsters in her life – we should all be so lucky!

Although Bella gets on really well with Jacob, she can’t forget Edward. The latest book, Eclipse, sees her reunited with the love of her life – cue sighs of pleasure and longing from teenage girls the world over.

Okay, as a certain teenager I know likes to tell me, I am “excruciatingly old” and, thus, probably not the reader Meyer had in mind when whipping up her tale of love, lust and chastity in Forks, Washington, pop 50,000. In Eclipse, Bella and Edward spend an inordinate amount of time snogging. Such scenes always include Bella waxing lyrical about Edward’s cold, hard body, his icy lips, glittering golden eyes, etc. Bella, by the way, is hot to trot, but Edward is a gentleman vampire to the hilt. His self-possession is admirable, astounding even, and also, if you ask me, rather tedious.

My first impression of Eclipse was that of a whole lot of heavy breathing and heaving chests capped inevitably with the breathers and heavers having to metaphorically slap each other with cold towels. I guess all that self-control is kinda sweet, especially coming from a boy who’s really hundreds of years old. However, as I started to lose count of the scenes in which Edward firmly but kindly stops Bella from ripping his clothes off, the word “tease” started to occur to me.

No, no, not Edward. After all, he is just acting according to the will of his creator. Ms Meyer on the other hand ... well, I’d just like to say that there are a great many teenage girls out there who are going to keep on buying these books until Edward and Bella finally do the wild thing.

Meyer, a practising Mormon, has likened the conflicts and challenges faced by her vampire characters to what human teens have to experience in real life. True enough, but I remember being a teenager and I really don’t think that most fans of this series would give a damn about Edward’s inner demons if he weren’t cute.

Is there more to Eclipse than Bella and Edward’s romance? Well, Jacob makes his presence felt more than ever and the rogue vampires are closing in. It looks like Bella is in for a bloody (or even bloodless) graduation, but can you blame the girl for finding it hard to concentrate on werewolves and possible violent death while the monster of her dreams goes on ad nauseum about saving “it” for marriage?

Poor Bella. The desire to find out if she gets her ... erm ... heart’s desire was what kept me turning pages. Obviously, as much as sex sells, abstinence keeps one coming back for more. That’s what Meyer’s books seem to say, anyway.

Bella: She's such a tease!

Consider Death

... and life. That’s what this book makes you do. It also makes you see your neck in a whole new light....

From StarMag, 29th July, 2007

Review by DAPHNE LEE

I FEEL BAD ABOUT MY NECK: And Other Thoughts on Being a Woman
by Nora Ephron
Publisher: Knopf, 137 pages
(ISBN: 978-0307264558)

COINCIDENTALLY, the day after I finish reading this book, Nora Ephron appears on Oprah Primetime to talk about it and discuss (alongside Diahann Carroll and Geena Davis) ageing (or, really, anti-ageing).

What I find interesting is that Ephron answers questions (from Oprah and members of the audience) by “quoting” almost verbatim from the book. It doesn’t sound like she’s quoting, though. You’d only know if you’ve read it.

I am disappointed because I thought she’d have more up her sleeve than that. I mean, this is the woman who wrote When Harry Met Sally, Sleepless in Seattle, and Heartburn (to name a few modern masterpieces) for goodness’ sake. Still, although I’ve heard it all before, I laugh. The woman has perfect comic timing.

Heartburn, by the way, is a novel based on Ephron’s divorce from Carl Bernstein (the Washington Post journalist who, with Bob Woodward, broke the Watergate presidential scandal in the 1970s). Just months away from delivering their second son, Ephron (Rachel in the book) finds out that her husband is having an affair. It’s heartbreaking, but Ephron manages to make you laugh about it. What’s funniest (both ha-ha as well as bizarre) is how a seemingly intelligent man like Bernstein could have (if you believe Ephron) behaved like a complete ass.

Anyway, if you’ve ever had to deal with a donkey in man’s clothing, Heartburn is a must-read. The movie, starring Jack Nicholson and Meryl Streep, is also pretty good.

Back to I Feel Bad About My Neck and Other Thoughts on Being a Woman. I do not feel bad about my neck, but I’m certainly not over the moon about various other body parts. This book is, of course, not about necks per se. It’s about how we women are never happy with the way we look. However, Ephron herself has problems with her neck. She appears on Oprah with a scarf wound round it and, watching her, I wonder the whole time what on earth she is hiding.

We know about necks, though. We’ve noticed wattles on our grandmas and grandpas. I feel bad about my thick waist and have done so ever since I had one, which is practically forever. But I have never considered my neck. This is probably because I don’t have a problem neck. Ephron writes that one of her biggest regrets is “that I didn’t spend my youth staring lovingly at my neck. It never crossed my mind that I would be nostalgic about a part of my body that I took completely for granted.”

I guess I should start staring lovingly at my neck from now on.

Ephron’s neck is just one chapter in this collection of essays about the trials and tribulations of being a woman of a “certain age”. She writes about hating her purse, about her life as a serial monogamist, about maintenance (or “Pathetic Attempts to Turn Back the Clock”), about falling in love (with an apartment), about falling out of love (with Bill Clinton), about the joy of reading (my favourite chapter – surprise, surprise).

There’s a list of all the things she wishes she’d known as a younger woman: nothing on it surprised me, which probably means I am no longer a young woman.

The book ends with thoughts on death. I have re-read this chapter a couple of times. It’s very funny and extremely moving, and just a tiny bit depressing. It would probably be much more depressing if you were in your 60s and above, or if you were ill.

Death seems unreal when you’re young. It might even seem glamorous. Or romantic. The older you grow, the more you realise that death is the least of your worries. Dying is the real problem. If only we could all slip away peacefully in our sleep, fully moisturised and wearing our best silk nighties. Oh, the horror of a painful death. A long, lingering, conscious and painful death. Incontinent. Ga-ga. Drooling.

And so, you close the book in a thoughtful mood. You consider death. You consider being happy about your nice neck. You think that no matter how ridiculous you look in a bikini now, you might later regret not ever having worn one. You consider death. You feel happy that you are not dead and not dying. You consider life. You count your blessings. Including your neck.

Dark Delights

From Tots to Teens, StarMag, 22nd July 2007

MY SWORDHAND IS SINGING
By Marcus Sedgewick
Publisher: Orion, 228 pages
(ISBN: 978-1842555583)

I’VE been trying to remember what it was I used to like about vampires and vampire novels. Of course, I still think Bram Stoker’s Dracula is one of the best gothic novels ever written, but it’s been a while since I called myself an Anne Rice fan. Was I ever in love with Louis, the central character in her Interview with a Vampire? I think I might have been!

In a recent article about Stephenie Meyer’s vampire trilogy, teenage readers gush about Edward Cullen, the heroine’s vampire boyfriend. There are online forums dedicated to him. One girl, in a review posted on amazon.com, describes him as “one of those male fictional characters like Mr Rochester you can’t help but fall in love with”.

In the article (published on Arizona State University’s website, www.asu.edu/news/stories/200705/20070504_prom.htm), a professor discusses how teenagers are drawn to vampires because they identify with these characters and the conflicts they face.

A vampire is an outcast, an outsider, and teens often feel similarly misunderstood and alienated. Vampires are also often depicted wrestling with their conscience and trying to decide between right and wrong – again, just the way teens are.

Finally, vampires are usually drop-dead gorgeous and most of us (girls, especially) find handsome, mysterious men irresistible. Throw forbidden love into the mix and we’re sold. Until, that is, we grow up and realise that handsome mysterious men (non-fictional ones, anyway) are usually just hiding something (usually a girl friend) and will, invariably, want to borrow large sums of money.

Personally, I’m tired of the recent spate of novels about well dressed, immaculately coiffed teenage vampires. I like vampires to scare me, not make me stress about my mismatched wardrobe. The vampires in Marcus Sedgewick’s My Swordhand is Singing (Orion, 228 pages, ISBN: 978-1842555583) are bloated corpses who tear out their victim’s hearts and couldn’t give a toss about the latest Parisian fashions. They scare me. Silly.

The book is set in a small village at the edge of a vast forest. In the first chapter, a man is being pursued by another through the trees. Through the haze of his fear, he realises that he is being hunted by someone who is dead.

It is winter, a few days before St Andrew’s Eve, which the villagers believe is the start of the dark time of the world, when evil walks freely. The woodcutter Tomas and his son Peter, however, do not share in the old beliefs and superstitions. Tomas is an abusive drunkard with a past he hides, obsessively, from his long-suffering son.

Peter is lonely, raised a cynic but naturally curious. He is in love with Agnes, the daughter of the village draper; her father recently died but, it is whispered, he returns nightly to visit his family.

Unfortunately, Agnes is chosen to be the bride of a recently murdered man (a ritual that was once practised in Transylvania). As the bride of a corpse, she has to spend 40 days in isolation, mourning for her husband. This, of course, makes her easy prey for vampires and forces Peter to consider that the stories he has been raised to scoff at are not entirely a load of poppycock.

As Peter tries to separate fact from myth, sense from superstition, a band of gypsies arrive and reveal the truth behind his father’s past.

In his “author’s note”, Sedgewick describes how he researched his story, even travelling to Eastern Europe to learn more about the region’s superstition and folklore. Apart from the supernatural elements, Swordhand probably comes close to describing the life in a typical 17th century village Transylvanian village.

Although it’s unlikely that vampires ever roamed the forests of that land (Transylvania actually means “land beyond the forest”), belief in them was strong and real. So, while we can read Swordhand knowing all along that it is merely a spooky story, the author so successfully conveys the terror experienced by a community that believes in the possibility of falling prey to the undead that even the most sceptical of us might still experience shivers and goose bumps when reading this book.

And while there are no moody, mysterious and devastatingly handsome vampires in My Swordhand is Singing, Peter’s not to be sniffed at either. These days I prefer my men (even fictional ones) alive and kicking.

Makeup for the Soul

Offering cosmetics and perms to the hungry and oppressed may seem a bit Marie Antoinette-ish but what value can one place on a smile where, before, there wasn’t any?

Review by DAPHNE LEE

KABUL BEAUTY SCHOOL: THE ART OF FRIENDSHIP AND FREEDOM

By Deborah Rodriguez

Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton, 275 pages

(ISBN: 978-0340935248)

MANY of us spend our lives marvelling at the good done by others. We read or hear about those who have given their time, resources and talents to the less fortunate and we feel impressed, wistful and incredulous.

Often, we are encouraged by others’ generosity to ask ourselves how we can contribute to our fellowman.

The truth is that everyone has something to offer others. Unfortunately, most of us just think about it and talk about it. Very rarely do we take time to actually do it.

Deborah Rodriguez just did it. When she decided to open a beauty school in Kabul, Afghanistan, she didn’t worry about practicalities, logistics or what people would say.

A beauty school in Kabul sounds like a frivolous plan for a war-torn country whose people are hungry and homeless, but a project like that is about so much more than highlights and lipstick.

Recalling a visit to an “undercover” beauty salon (run by local women) in Kabul, Rodriguez writes:

“There were women’s voices, women’s laughter – and that feeling of women relaxing with one another, laying hands on one another, telling one another the details of their lives and news of the lives around them.”

The salon, like salons the world over, was a female enclave, a place where women gathered, free from male scrutiny, criticism and control, and Rodriguez wonders if the real reason the Taliban is so against beauty salons is that they give “women their own space”.

A beauty school, thus, makes sense in Afghanistan, and on many levels. It’s a place where women can gather and support each other emotionally. It’s also a place where women can have fun, a pursuit many of us take for granted, but is rare in a place like Afghanistan.

In the short term, it offers a measure of respite from the grey and grim realities of life. And in the long term, the skills learnt at a beauty school arm women with the means of making an independent living, which boosts confidence and self-esteem, and, often, provides an escape route from a life of abuse.

Rodriguez first went to Kabul as part of a Christian aid mission, but found that she couldn’t contribute much as part of the team.

Back in her hometown of Holland, Michigan, Rodriguez was practically raised in her mum’s beauty salon and became a professional stylist herself.

During her first visit to Kabul, while her aid colleagues were out in the field, treating the sick, Rodriguez was given the task of sitting in the hotel and praying for them.

Instead, she ventured out to the town with her new Afghan friends. She trimmed their hair and one of them, Roshanna, became a fast friend and one of the first students at the beauty school that Rodriguez later helped to establish.

Roshanna is also one of the many Afghan women whom Rodriguez bonded with and whose stories help make Kabul Beauty School more than just a tale of shampoo, perms and hair removal .

Reading about what the average Afghan woman has to bear makes me feel very ashamed of the whinging I do every so often about really inconsequential stuff.

What are traffic jams, the lack of parking in KL and apathetic bank clerks compared with constant beatings, forced marriages and rape?

In Afghanistan, the rape victim is also considered to have committed a crime and is imprisoned. In a case described by Rodriguez, the rape victim’s father kills the rapist and is given a much shorter sentence than his daughter!

Rodriguez is appalled by the suffering she encounters and she tries to help by improving lives through employment and training.

The need to love and be loved obviously plays a big part in Rodriguez’s decision to move to Afghanistan. Twice married and divorced, she left two teenage sons in the States to live among strangers in a strange land.

Describing the moment when she left her abusive second husband, she adds, “I flew to Afghanistan, where my heart would soon fill with new people to love.”

Some might call her spontaneous and brave, while others might say she was simply self-indulgent and foolhardy. Rodriguez strikes me as a free-spirited risk taker with her heart in the right place.

I liked Rodriguez’s straightforward and matter-of-fact storytelling style.

She doesn’t dwell on the depressing aspects of her new life, but she does not avoid them either.

Not one to mince her words or gloss over the harrowing details, she spits them out with a fair bit of anger, directed at the guilty, and doesn’t bother to hide her own anguish and despair.

It’s comforting to know that there is someone who is trying to make a difference and it helps to be able to cry along with her. It’s a start anyway. Tomorrow is when you, and I, can do something, too.

Swedish Meatballs Optional

How many pieces of Ikea furniture do you own?

Review by DAPHNE LEE

Great Ikea: A Brand for all the People
Author: Elen Lewis
Publisher: Cyan Books, 192 pages

ALMOST my entire book collection sits in Ikea bookcases, more specifically Billy bookcases in white foil. The Billy that contains my extremely precious out-of-print books have a glass door that I installed myself. My two younger children sleep on Ikea beds and I have an Ikea armchair, sofa bed, stool, rugs and bathroom trolley, plus various Ikea odds and ends like coasters, plastic clips, electrical two-pin adapters and photo frames. Sometimes I flip through the Ikea catalogue and imagine my house fully kitted out with stuff from the Swedish furniture company.

I think a great many Malaysians (those who live in the Klang Valley anyway) feel the same way. Most of my close friends love Ikea products and the store itself. My kids like the playroom and the restaurant. I like the free coffee (with my Ikea Friends card) and the money-back policy for goods returned within 30 days.

No, I’m not going to continue singing Ikea’s praises for a further eight paragraphs. However, I did want to review this book partly because I am a fan of the furniture retailer and wanted to know more about the company, its history and policies.

Great Ikea is one of the Great Brand Stories books. Other top brands featured in the series include Guinness, Starbucks, Adidas and (coming soon) Banyan Tree. The cover blurb says that the books “focus on brands that have not only reaped huge profits ... but also established themselves as icons of contemporary society.”

The books should be of interest to those in the fields of business, marketing and advertising, but I daresay consumers (certainly, regular users of any of these brands) would also enjoy them.

I said I was a fan of Ikea but I think I would be more accurately described as having a love-hate relationship with the store. Here’s what I dislike about it: it “tricks” me into thinking I need stuff that I really have no use for; very often, when I have tried to assemble furniture myself, I end up with something rickety and lopsided; in the showroom, walls are built around furniture and accessories - just try making everything fit in your hovel in Kelana Jaya; the chipboard shelves that suffer from worse sag than even women whose bra size is 38DD; and seven out of 10 times, what I want is out of stock.

One of the things I learnt from reading this book is that I am not alone in my ambivalent feelings about Ikea. In most European countries, things are even worse for Ikea customers. The stores over there are usually situated in the middle of nowhere, whereas it takes me just 10 minutes to get to the store in Mutiara Damansara, Selangor. Also, in Europe, customers have no choice but to lug their flatpacks home and assemble the furniture themselves. Unlike in Malaysia, there is no delivery or assembly service. We are one of the few markets (including Singapore, China and Japan) where these services are available for an extra charge.

The whole idea of self-service is to keep prices down. Saving money is what Ikea is all about. The man who started it all, Ingvar Kamprad (his initials are the I and K in Ikea, while E and A stand for Elmtaryd and Agunnard, the farm Kamprad grew up on and his hometown respectively), is famous/infamous/notorious/admired for his frugality. Managers have tiny expense accounts. When they travel, they fly economy class. And they stay at budget motels.

At the Ikea HQ in Almhult, Sweden, the carpark is filled with its employees’ decidedly unflashy cars. Rumour has it, however, that this is because Ikea staff are smart enough to leave their Porsches at home!

I really enjoyed this book and it’s made me curious about the other titles in the series. What you get here is an in-depth look at the retail giant and the people behind it, encompassing the brand’s history, philosophy and culture. You learn what makes Ikea tick, why it’s a success and why that success is often a long time coming and certainly not guaranteed.

There is lots of trivia, anecdotes and gossip. And Elen Lewis’s writing is totally accessible – it’s like she’s chatting to you over a plate of Swedish meatballs. But this is not an ad in book’s clothing. Although, much of Ikea’s story will impress, there is quite a bit that is dodgy too. Nazism, child labour accusations, eco-unfriendly materials, not to mention furniture that you’re supposed to self-assemble but comes with incomprehensible instructions are just some of the black marks against the store.

In Malaysia, it’s not even as if the furniture is so cheap that it helps us overlook Ikea’s faults. Dollar for dollar, I reckon Malaysians pay more for Ikea furniture than the rest of the world. For example, Ikea’s Mammut three-legged plastic stool costs US$6.99 (RM23) in the States, S$5.90 (RM13) in Singapore and ... wait for it ... RM19.90 in Malaysia. Dollar for dollar, Malaysians pay the most for the stool and, even considering the exchange rate, it’s cheaper for Malaysians to buy the stool in Singapore. It’s the same with other pieces of furniture, small and large. If anything, reading this book has made me think longer and harder before making a purchase at Ikea. I’m still buying though.

Interestingly, Elen Lewis reveals, in her foreword, that although Ikea agreed to co-operate in the writing of this book, it later changed its mind. I wonder if the company would answer my burning question about the cost (in Malaysia) of the Mammut stool.

For the Love of Books

From StarMag

Review by DAPHNE LEE

Finally, an easy-to-read book about books, written for those who love to read books.

THE YELLOW-LIGHTED BOOKSHOP:
A MEMOIR, A HISTORY
By Lewis Buzbee
Publisher: Graywold Press, 216 pages
(ISBN: 978-1555974503)

MOST avid readers love nosing around other readers' book collections. And it's always great fun having a private snigger at a fellow bookworm's (so he says) reading preferences ... while looking suitably impressed of course! Readers love books like The Complete Polysyllabic Spree by Nick Hornby, Ex Libris by Anne Fadiman and So Many Books, So Little Time by Sarah Nelson. Not only do they appreciate the recommendations (any excuse to buy books is welcome), it's terribly encouraging to discover that celebrity authors like Hornby are pretentious gits with dubious tastes. Plus, there's nothing like reading impassioned descriptions of books to make you feel like you've read them without actually having done so. So many books, so little time? Just let someone else read them for you and then read about it!

Oh, yes, reading about other readers' (famous or otherwise) reading habits is fun. But if you love books and reading, it doesn't necessarily follow that you'd be interested in the history of book making, publishing and selling. The Yellow-Lighted Bookshop is about all that. It's also a personal history of one man's passionate love affair with books.

The author, Lewis Buzbee, worked in a bookseller and publisher's representative. He recounts his experiences in both areas of the book trade, describes his love for books and bookshops, and interweaves his own stories with all things book-related, from bookstores and libraries to printing and binding to the technicalities like ISBNs (International Standard Book Number) and barcodes.

Just typing the above paragraph made my mouth water and heart beat increase, but then, it's always been my dream to own a bookshop. To me the book trade is steeped in romance. It's not just about selling the printed word. It's about dealing in dreams and mysteries and ideas. I also happen to have bookcases with sagging shelves and so it's fascinating to know that bookshelves weren't always where books were kept, and that even when the practice first started, books were placed horizontally, with their spines facing inward. It's also interesting that once upon a time, spines didn't bear the book's title or author's name. And that there were no spines for the longest time since books (as we know them today, or near enough anyway) didn't come into existence until round about the first century CE. Before that, scrolls were all the rage!

Buzbee has a relaxed, tongue-in-cheek, easy-to read style. And, whether he's talking about the invention of paper, the establishment of the lending library, or the rise of the softback, he presents his topic in a clear, concise and engaging manner. With Buzbee you, as someone who is interested in the subject, but not planning to write a thesis on it, learn exactly what you need or want to.

In contrast, a writer like Henry Petroski, in The Book on the Bookshelf, overloads the casual reader with facts, dates and details, delivered in a dry, academic fashion. Even anecdotes are related without humour or enthusiasm. Bookshelf covers similar ground to Bookshop but I couldn't get past the third chapter.

Buzbee lures you with tales of a love affair that started from the time he was a boy in San Jose, California, and then holds your interest with his infectious enthusiasm. He is candid and witty, personable and personal, never self-indulgent or pompous. His fascination with books is evident and the fascination rubs off. When you read Bookshop, you smell the books Buzbee lovingly describes, hold them in your hand and feel the magic and power of the words they contain.

And I love the trivia: John Milton received a grand total of £10 (RM68) for Paradise Lost. The sum was paid in two parts over seven years. In 2004, American publishers produced "between 135,000 and 175,000 new titles". If you live until you're 80 and read a book every week from the age of five, you'll have read 3,900 books by the time you shake off this mortal coil - and that's just one percent of the books currently in print!

One of my favourite chapters is Big Business, in which Buzbee talks about, amongst other things, remainders, ISBNs and the price of books. When discussing whether books are just too costly, Buzbee looks at what happens to the US$25 (RM86)one pays for the average hardcover novel: US$1.88 (RM6.50) to the author, US$3 (RM10.30) to the printer, US$8.87 (RM30.65) to the publisher, US$11.25 (RM38.88) to the bookseller. The bottom line is that books aren't so expensive after all. (As I mentioned earlier, any excuse to buy more of them).

In his penultimate chapter, Buzbee describes some of his favourite bookshops and bookshop-rich cities. There are some rather different but interesting ones, like the one near San Francisco that boasts a "walk-in humidor with a complete selection of cigars and pipe tobaccos"; and Walter Swan's One Book Bookstore, which sells Swan's first, self-published novel, and The Other Book Bookstore, which sells his second novel.

Buzbee, like all bibliophiles who don't live in 30 room mansions, does not have the luxury of keeping every book that passes his way. He only keeps books that he's sure he's going to re-read; the ones he's definitely going to read before he dies; and the ones he can't "bear to part with because of an aesthetic or emotional attachment". The Yellow-Lighted Bookshop is most definitely staying put on my shelf. It's a neat little hardback, with a lovely deep blue cover and a silver-tooled spine. The print is neat and easy to focus on, the pages thick, creamy and lovingly handcut. Inside, a heady mixture of praise and worship, facts and figures, memoir and history. I will re-read it often, I'm sure.

Train Man Rides On ...

From Otaku Zone, Jan 2007

TRAIN MAN: A Shojo Manga Paperback

Story: Hitori Nakano

Art: Machiko Ocha

Publisher: Ballantine Books;

179 pages

(ISBN: 0-345-49619-1)

For ages 13+

IKUMI Saiki is an anime fanboy. This breed of humans is notoriously anti-social. They do nothing but read manga, watch anime and hang out on Internet message boards. But, like most geeky fanboys, Ikumi harbours hopes, albeit not very high ones, of having a social life and, most importantly, a girlfriend. Well, wonders never cease, but one day, he tells a drunk off for harassing a girl on a train. The girl is impressed and grateful and sends him a pair of pretty Hermes teacups. Ikumi is filled with hope … could she be the one?

If you’re a manga fan, this story should ring bells. There have been several other versions of it, not to mention a television series and a movie! In fact, Train Man is based on a true story and its original printed form was edited copies of message board conversations between Ikumi (who called himself Train Man) and his various online friends to whom he turned to for advice on how to win the heart of Hermes (as the girl on the train was nicknamed, thanks to the teacups).

It’s a rather sweet story, I guess, if you’re into happy endings, but I don’t think it merits all the publicity it has received. Only in Japan, surely!

This manga was a chore for me to read. The way the pages are sectioned, it’s not very obvious what order the text should be read in. I also had problems recognising Ikumi. His hair seems to change colour every other page. Maybe it’s what they call art! Maybe I’m too cynical and this story is just too upbeat for me!

I wonder what the real Ikumi and Hermes are up to now. Instead of 500 versions of the story of their blossoming romance, someone should write a sequel. Are they still together, I wonder? Or has Ikumi, flushed with success, taken to stalking girls in trains and/or become a playboy? Someone hunt them down and find out!

A Reader Unravelled

From StarMag

Review by DAPHNE LEE

THE COMPLETE POLYSYLLABIC SPREE: THE DIARY OF AN OCCASIONALLY EXASPERATED BUT EVER HOPEFUL READER

By Nick Hornby
Publisher: Penguin Viking, 278 pages
(ISBN: 978-0670916722)

I LOVE spying on people as they browse in bookstores. I pay attention to what the person in front of me at the cashier is buying. I always want to know what my friends and family are reading and what they have blown their allowance/pay packets on at their favourite bookshops.

That's why I love Nick Hornby's collection of articles about books. I was thrilled to see, on first flipping through this book, that each chapter begins with two lists: “Books Bought” and “Books Read”. If you are a book addict, you'll know that the two lists don't always overlap. If you own over a thousand books and you haven't stopped buying more, it's unlikely that you will read every book you buy the moment the shrink-wrap comes off.

First of all, there's the question of mood. You may want to (nay, need to) buy a book on the spot, but, years may pass before you feel like reading it! This is why my bedside table is stacked with books. I'm usually in the middle of at least three at any one time because I never can tell what I'll feel like reading first thing in the morning or last thing at night.

It's good to see Nick Hornby publicly identifying with and acknowledging the problem. Not that it really is a problem. It's only those spoil sports who read maybe half a book every couple of years who see it as such. Their main concern would probably be shelfspace or lack thereof, but if you truly love to read and like owning what you read (or will, one day, so help you God, get around to reading), shelfspace ceases to be an issue. Who needs bookcases when there are other kinds of surfaces that will as readily hold your books? Who says your wardrobe is only for clothes? Or kitchen cabinets are just for crockery? Has it ever occurred to you that there's a lot of useable space under your bed?

Anyway, if you're an enthusiastic reader and buyer of books (and if you're a Hornby fan) you will love The Complete Polysyllabic Spree. It comprises two year’s worth of the author’s column, Stuff I’ve Been Reading, for American literary magazine The Believer, and, besides revealing that Hornby buys a lot of books and reads a lot of books but that the lists don't necessarily overlap, it also describes the method-in-the-madness way he chooses his reading material; how one book or author leads to another; what makes him want to read more, and what puts him off the activity.

It's all written in a very chatty style. And at times Hornby also nags and whines, scoffs and simpers. But that's the book's greatest charm. You don't feel intimidated by Hornby. You don't think, “Cor, he's so widely read, how will I ever catch up?” and “My goodness, that book sounds deep! He must be a clever clogs!” Hornby is like that friend with whom you go book-hunting on weekends, who sometimes buys books simply because of their cool covers and who's looked at his copy of Candide for the past seven years and never ever felt the slightest inclination to read it. In short, a perfectly normal, ordinary guy who just happens to like reading.

He does read widely, but he's guided by curiosity and a desire to have a good time, not worthy reasons like the pursuit of knowledge and the quest for peace. We've all been at the mercy of people who stroke their chins and say stuff like, “Denise Robbins? What could a book by her possibly teach you?” Oh, yawn.

I have not learnt a whole lot from Polysyllabic apart from the titles of some books that I might very well enjoy and the fact that Hornby is, like me, the sort of person who panics about silly things like not having something to read (even though they live in a house where there is no where to park your bum because there are stacks of books on all the chairs). He is also the sort of person who might impulsively buy books on obscure subjects like the migration patterns of the peregrine falcon. I am much comforted by this fact as I once bought a book on fly fishing in New England.

Hornby is as funny, wry and sarcastic in Polysyallabic as he is in his novels, but this book is a much more enjoyable and relaxing read than his fiction because whereas his characters are always in the midst of personal crises and trying to come to grips with life, Hornby, the main character, so to speak, of Polysyallabic, is just a man wandering aimlessly through a wonderland of books, rambling on, rather pointlessly, but quite engagingly, about the delights and frustrations of reading. Well, it suits me anyway and I can't see why anyone who loves books wouldn't be just as entertained.

Sunday, January 28, 2007 in Book Reviews

Prince of Darkness

I'm currently biting my nails over Elizabeth Kostova's The Historian, which is part-detective, part-horror fiction, about a group of scholars investigating the truth behind the legend of Vlad the Impaler, the cruel medieval ruler whose crimes formed the basis of the myth of Dracula.

Reading this book, prompted me to re-read Bram Stoker's Dracula. Coincidentally, two new versions of the classic tale arrived on my desk about a month ago: an illustrated edition, and a graphic novel.

Review by DAPHNE LEE

THE ILLUSTRATED DRACULA

By Bram Stoker

Illustrated by Jae Lee

Publisher: Studio, 400 pages

(ISBN: 978-0142005156)

PUFFIN GRAPHICS: BRAM STOKER’S DRACULA

Adapted by Gary Reed

Illustrated by Becky Cloonan

Publisher: Puffin, 176 pages

(ISBN: 978-0142405727)

AS my eldest sister (who is 13 years older than me) was a fan of the macabre, in particular vampire stories, I was familiar with the legend of Count Dracula from a tender age. My earliest brush with the aristocratic fanged one was even before I turned five. My sister took me with her to watch Christopher Lee in the Hammer House of Horror cult classic, Dracula. This was probably very silly of her, but, thankfully, I suffered no lasting damage from the experience. (Some may disagree though.)

I have next to no recollection of the movie (although I do remember Dracula’s blood-red eyes), but I understand that although it is based on Bram Stoker’s Dracula, the script is not faithful to the novel.

For example, the film begins with Jonathan Harker arriving at Castle Dracula with the intention of killing the vampire. Although he manages to destroy one of Dracula’s brides, he is overpowered by the Count and is turned into a vampire. His fiance meets the same fate and both are killed by vampire-hunter Van Helsing.

In the novel, Jonathan is a solicitor at the English law firm hired by Dracula to purchase property for him and when he arrives at Castle Dracula, he has no idea that his host is one of the undead. He manages to avoid being bitten, although he does end up very ill. Later, his fiance, Mina’s life and soul is threatened by Dracula when the vampire sets up home in Britain. However, Stoker allows the couple a happy ending.

I suspect the movie wasn’t too scary or I would have remembered more of it ... just as I remember The Exorcist. The book, on the other hand, is one of the creepiest tales of horror I have ever read. It comprises the various characters’ journal entries as well as log entries, letters and newspaper reports.

I’ve never been able to believe that anyone writes such detailed journals as they do here (or in Bridget Jones’s Diary for that matter), complete with dialogue, but that may just be me projecting my own sloth onto others. It doesn’t matter though, because the reader gets so drawn into the story that unfolds that he soon forgets its source and is simply swept along by the events described.

Like the best scary stories, the details are subtly drawn, relying on the power of suggestion and imagination to horrify and repulse. The scene in which Jonathan Harker looks out from his bedroom window, in Castle Dracula, and sees the Count crawling down the wall is one of the most powerful in gothic fiction.

Another episode that makes a lasting impression is set aboard the ship carrying Dracula to England. The account, from the ship captain’s log, is dark, despairing and heavy with fear, dread and nail-biting suspense: One by one, ship hands disappear and the first mate suspects the cause to be supernatural. When his worst fears are confirmed, the captain makes a brave and horrifying decision. The episode ends with a newspaper article about the arrival of the ship in port with the dead captain strapped to its wheel.

The report is written in a dispassionate and stark journalistic style, but the facts, as they stand, are ghastly enough to make your hair stand, your flesh crawl, and all the other signs and symptoms connected with having the daylights scared out of you.

Two new editions of this classic story were published last year: an illustrated version and a graphic novel. Marvel Comics regular Jae Lee provides the artwork for the former – mostly terribly slick and sophisticated portraits, in which the subjects look posed. It’s all very beautiful and very cold, and not terribly inspiring. I also expected more action-oriented studies, for example, of the infamous wall-scaling scene.

I prefer the illustrations in the graphic novel, drawn by Becky Cloonan, which, although rather amateurish, possess a liveliness missing in Lee’s work.

Gary Reed, scriptwriter for the graphic novel, has done an admirable job, too. Stoker’s fans will appreciate how he has condensed the story without losing any of the marvellous atmosphere of the original, while those unfamiliar with the novel cannot fail but be enticed to read it.