15 Mins of Hillary A Day

During pregnancy going to the city library became my religious. Walking between shelves of books and skimming through pages of whatever that would catch my eye was a great pastime. And coming home with a bunch of books to read felt pretty great, too. And to think that it's all free of money! Libraries are so underrated these days, I tell you.

Since A's arrival, however, it's virtually impossible to find the time to sit and read a book to finish. Either she starts crying for attention or to be fed, or I have unfinished work - and I always do! - around the house that I must attend to while my hands are free of a baby. Or, if I do have, say, a half hour to spare, I'd rather do something that's brainless like browsing Internet or writing a new post for my blog as I am doing right now.

Yet, it's been a while since the last time I actually finished a book. I walk A in a stroller every day now, so I decided to start going to the library with her like I used to before. She likes the outside better (floor's too smooth and the atmosphere's too dim-lit and quiet in the public building) so I had to hurry through the shelves to find what to bring home, but got something that I had been meaning to read for a long time... and a magazine that I can skim through while holding A.

I think I can manage to spare 15 minutes a day for it. The presidential election might have been done by the time I finish reading this. We'll see.

Until next time,

Sak

Book Report -Our Days Are Numbered

Haven't read a non-fiction in a while. As a matter of fact, I don't recall reading any books that are about mathematics, and that includes, sadly, my algebra textbook in high school.

I was at the library the other day with T, and while waiting for him to come out of the bathroom I was by math & science shelves. I was skimming the backs of the books there with not much of an interest, until I came to this one: Our Days Are Numbered -How Mathematics Orders Our Lives.

Had I not been watching The Big Bang Theory over and over on Watch Series, my eyes would have most likely passed right by it and kept on going. T would have come out of the bathroom, and I would have left the place with him to the newspapers, and that'd be the end of my ever so brief relationship with the math & science shelves forever. I would never step into that section of the library ever again. But like I said, I'm a bit of The Big Bang Theory fanatic. I am not going to dignify that my brain is tv-washed, but when I read that title, I totally heard Sheldon Cooper in his condescending tone of his voice, "Sak (the way he calls Penny), everything in our lives are numbered. How do you live and not see it?"

I laughed at that in my head, took the book in my hands, turned to some random pages and skimmed the sentences to see the way the author, Jason Brown, writes, decided that it was neither annoyingly expository the way I hate in non-fiction books, nor too wordy for me to comprehend (don't you hate it when people make a boring subject even more boring simply by lack of better words to explain it?). I sat on the chair nearby and started reading it. T came out. Asked me what book it was I was reading. I showed him the hard cover. "Looks a lot of fun, " he said, adding, "you know, you are good at shogi. You're probably better at math than you claim yourself." His words were all I needed to hear. I took the book home.

I am still in the first half of the book, but I gotta tell ya, I wish I could go back to my high school years and give this to 16-year-old me. So this isn't much of a report. I've simply told you the story on how I've slowly opened the gate to the world of mathematics for the first time in my life at age 32.

Until next time,

Sak

p.s. BTW, T's choices that day were "The Jurassic Mystery" and "Science in Fairy Tales". What a nerdy couple we are...

Book Report - A Promise

Another visit to the city library brought me this book, again, by Ira Ishida that I blogged about a little while ago.


The title translates A Promise. It's a collection of various types of short stories that deal mostly with loss of beloveds.

The last time I found myself crying so much over a story was when I watched Notebook. I mean, I literally bawled my eyes out. I was never a big short-story fan, but this book really got me. I am gonna start being fair to all shorties in form of literature and give them a fair chance from here on.

Until next time,

Sak

Book Report -One Pound of Pain

Never had reported on a Japanese book here till now. (In fact I haven't done a book report in a while). Well, I never really did read a Japanese novel after coming back from the states until very recently. The library that I have come to love going to happens to have a section entirely dedicated for English books, but, as one can easily imagine in a non-English speaking country, their selection sucks big: majority of what's in the shelf being whatever is world-wide famous and considered classic, many of which are straight out of high school English class. Don't get me wrong, I got nothing against John Steinbeck and Mark Twain; I happen to think they are great even, but hey, I'm an Eng. Lit. graduate. I'm done with all of that.

So I spend most of my time at the library skimming though hard covers of Japanese literature that I am yet to familiarize myself with.

When it comes to reading, I like it when I know nothing about what awaits me as I get to know of the story. No presumptions. No expectations. Sort of like meeting new people and getting to know of them for the first time; books disappoint as much as entertain. I'm all for surprises.

And my latest surprise was this one by Ira Ishida.

The title translates One Pound of Pain. I am not a big fan of titles that are too suggestive of a certain emotion in the book, this one being a great example. Pain?? I mean, come on! What a promising word to be planted in my head before I even open the book, you know? If I hadn't been all that curious about the author, I would have put the book right back where it was and never turn back to the same shelf ever again. But I was curious. I was curious for a long enough while about this Ira person. And here's why.

He writes a column in the magazine that I read. And! The author's birthday was the same as mine, only 20 years prior. Who can deny the immediate cosmic connection with a person who shares the same birthday with you? Not me. (I also share the birthday with Lady Gaga, and it's gonna be very hard for me to have to hate her just because of that.

At first I thought he was female. After all, the magazine is of women's fashion and life. Duh?! And when I learned that he was in fact a he, I stopped reading his column as fondly as I did before. Call me a sexist, but the whole notion of a mid-aged male human being, however smart and popular an author he may be, talking about women's work and life and love like he knew everything was, in my cynical 30-something-year-old mind, a bullshit. I mean, what the hell could he possibly know of us??? Of me???

But I had nothing to lose. I read the book by Mr. Can't-come-up-with-a-better-title anyway with a little chip on my shoulder, in an I'm gonna read your books even though I already know I'm not gonna like it! attitude.

Aftermath: I LOVED it! And I'm not saying I loved it like when I say I love donuts. I'm saying it in a much, much profound, intimate way. Like I found something that I didn't know I was looking for, you know what I mean? I thought I was done with encounters like that in my life when I met my husband, but bang! This book hit me as hard as when I read Ian McEwan for the first time. Hmmm. Speaking of which, Ishida does write a bit like McEwan. The heart of a human being on a very fundamental level, that's what speaks to me the most, and the two authors do that for me really well.

Anyways, so here's the book report. READ IT if you are literate in Japanese.

Until next time,

Sak

Book Report -Different Seasons

I am in awe wtih Mr. King. My English could not have been what it is today without his books. And Different Seasons was one of many of his books that I read during my English-as-my-second-language period of time in life, and I can honestly say that the amount of things that I learned from it is simply unfathomable. It could easily have 50 pieces of new information, both linguistic and cultural, to a 16-year-old Japanese girl, on every page. On my first attempt in reading it, I'd be going, "Your mother blows a dead rat...????" Utterly dumbfounded, I'd then repeat the phrase slowly in blocks, like "your mother.... blows... a dead rat...?" but in vain. This was when the idea that something can either "suck" and "blow" in the world of English was still beyond my conception, and that "your mother blows a dead rat" is not something you understand by looking up a dictionary.


I don't remember when exactly I started understanding everything in a book written in English and not having any problems with any quirky phrases or expressions. But I majored in English Lit., and by then I should have mastered the lingo, right?



Anyhow, like I said, I am in awe. Stephen King is one of top five reasons why my English got where it is today.

I am reading this book for the 4th or so time, and, though I have no problem understanding his choice of euphemisms and each and every cultural aspects that the story draws on, I still am amazed at the genius of the Mr. King's wordings.


Until next time,


Sak

Book Report -Stardust

They've made a film as well, which I have seen and also adore, but the original is always better, I'd say.

At first the same book in Japanese translation was handed to me to try, but knowing that the words and phrases were all veiled, I just could not get into it for the life of me. So I honestly yet apologetically expressed my problem in reading a translated version of an English novel, which disappoined the owner of the book a little. Then a couple of weeks later, the original version was delivered and given to me. I cannot express enough how much I adore the gift. Thank you, T!

Had I read this book a few years ago, I would have not liked it as much, if at all. I would have probably not finished this book, or even worse started it. The whole idea of a fairy tale made for adults was something I would shrug off just as well as I would, say, a romantic comedy starred by J Lo.

So, for those of you readers who do not buy into romanticism or idealism in literature, this book should stay as far away from your bookshelf as a galaxy (you can take the very title quite literally, really). Those of you whose heart, or a piece of it, still remains alive in the mind of a child, dig in!

Until next time,

Sak

"The Sun Has Wept Rose"

I am not a big fan of translated literature works of any kind. The culture that the language in the original work bolsters is bound to change its meaning or to lose at least an aspect of it when it's forced to be clad in a different language. BUT, all is so, given that you actually know the two cultures to begin with. I mean, it never was a problem for me until I actually went outside of my home country and learned the new language and its culture. Until then, you just don't know any better.

So, while I go through my favorite book at the moment, I have swallowed the notion that I am only getting a version with a cloudy veil over it, or a version that has been nibbled at a little bit. But hey, when ever did a poem become clear to a reader anyway, even if the original was written in her mother tongue? Besides, I have read the translator's introduction and what he had to say about the poet and his verses and other works that I adore and hold dear to my heart, and I have become quite fond of Mr. Schmidt himself due to his beautiful writing.


So I am completely giving my heart up to trust his English translation of my beloved "Arthur Rimbaud Complete Works." Bought on Amazon.com for about $30.00. Its original price: US$14,00. Brand new. Shipped from New York City. Sent in two weeks after order. I consider my money very well spent.

Here is just one of many reasons why I cannot put down the book every night since its arrival:

The sun has wept rose in the shell of your ears,
The world has rolled white from your back, your thighs;
The sea has stained rust the crimson of your breasts,
And Man has bled black at your sovereign side.

Now, try and defy me not to want to read and understand in original French version of this beauty.

Until next time,

Sak

p.s. Time for bed. Another one-hour date with Arthur before sleep.

A Return of Sweet Sorrow

I am a big bookworm, if that word still exists. One of many daily habbits that I have is that I read before I sleep. I had been reading a book of short stories by Henry James, but last night I felt like reading something different.

But before I get into that, let me talk about something else.

When I moved back to Japan two and a half years ago, I had to bid my tearful farewell to virtually the two thirds or more of what I owned. Just to clear out of my flat to move to another country after 12 years of material accumulation came with quite a bit of a cost. It hurts to think back on just how much I had to leave behind.

The hardest thing that I had to let go of was my books. I had about 300 books in my flat, including the textbooks for my Eng Lit. courses. Sadly, books weigh hell of A LOT when you have a whole bunch. I had a moving company come over to my flat and estimate the cost of the total shipment to Japan, and I was told it would be close to, I kid you not, 2 grands on books alone. It didn't help that I had always preferred the hard cover editions. I still do. It might have been one of the hardest decisions I had to make in my life, but I finally decided to let go of about 70 % of my books. I actually regret having done it (and I rarely regret anything). I wish I used the money I got from selling my car on a voyage ticket for all my dear books, every single one of them. 2 grands or not, it would have been worth it in a long run, because the emotion that I shared with each and every page of the books is simply too priceless to make it happen again the same way.

Swallowing the sorrow, let me move forth for now.

One of the precious survivors is the complete works of William Shakespeare, the textbook they used for Shakespeare I and II in Eng Lit.

This gigantic item, with its hard board cover-box, weighs what seems like 10 lbs. It comprises of 3450 very, very, very thin, almost transparent, leaves. When a book is too heavy to hold with just one hand, it's just too big-fat-assed for its own good. Yet, despite the completely unpractical size and weight of it, I just love this holly grail of all books on earth.

From time to time, whenever my spirit moves, I read this - bits and pieces of it at least, and I am always reminded of what I was feeling when I was a college student: the genuine hope, fear of not knowing, wanting and willing, openness to possibilities and love... the whole complexity of it all. And last night was one of these times when I felt quite nostalgic of that particular time period of my life, and I started reading his sonnets in bed.

My favorite has always been 116, which I'm sure anyone who shares its love for Shakespeare or English literature is familiar with. I hadn't read this in a long while. Before I began reading, I admit, I was half afraid it may not seem as good as it used to because, I don't know, it might be too purely idealistic for my 1-decade-older idea of love and hope, to which I'm afraid but might have to call cynicism. Yet...

...thank you, Bill!

Allow me to quote that which never fails to shine a light of hope in my heart after all these years.

Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds
Or bends with the remover to remove.
O no, it is an ever fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wand'ring barque,
Whose worth's unknown although his height be taken.
Love's not time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come;
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.

To read is to escape. But to escape, there has to be hope. In the end of the day, as I turn the pages of yet another story, I am a hopeful person.

And as a prince of Denmark once said dying, "the rest is silence."

Until next time.

Sak