I bought an mp3 player not a long time ago because I was getting bored with the same music they were playing at the gym. And so looking for songs that get the blood flowing and help with the exercising I came across this.
Enjoy!
Just because it’s not the weekend it doesn’t mean we shouldn’t have some music. This next song has a story, too.
I was on an airplane trip last year and it was night and I was too sleepy to watch any of the movies they had available. So I listened to some music. Leaned back in my chair (not too much though, as airplane chairs are one of the most uncomfortable I had to sit on), closed my eyes and drifted away. This piece of music was so relaxing and soothing I nearly fell asleep. Naturally, I was curious who the artist was and naturally, I didn’t have anything to write on – I did have a pen, though – so I put down the name on a piece of paper napkin and placed it in the book I was reading at the time which was The Collector, by John Fowles. I still have both and I haven’t forgotten the song.
Enjoy!
“A good book should leave you slightly exhausted at the end. You live several lives while reading it”. (William Styron)
The perfect paragraph to describe how I felt about this book.
I found it browsing through an used book section in a weekend market. Rows upon rows of heaped books sealed in plastic covers, like miniature towers.
The Thirteenth Tale was the last brick on one of these towers, sitting there like the finishing touch, the end of a building process.
The name itself was enough to arouse my curiosity but I didn’t buy it then. By the next day I felt sorry I didn’t. Luck or fate or the God of Books made it so that a friend of mine went to that market not long after and I asked her to look for the book. That is how it got to me in the end. More and more, I’m beginning to think that we are meant to read some books at a certain time to fully appreciate their stories.
I had started reading it on the 31 of January and finished by the 2 of the following month. A nice combination of 2’s. And if I add the mention of 2 of my favorite books which are brought forth at different times (Wuthering Heights is one) as the story goes on and the fact that the story revolves around twins, the number 2 becomes even more prominent.
Two women are the protagonists, one telling her story, the other listening and taking notes: Mrs Winter, the famous author of 12 previously published stories, now old and ailing, and Miss Lea, a young avid reader, whose mission is to put on paper the last story, the elusive 13th tale, the famous writer’s life story. Others have tried to convince Mrs Winter to let them write it but she has always evaded the truth, conjuring up other tales instead, to lure them away from her best kept secret: her true identity.
The book has the elements of a Gothic story: the old large house, tragic love stories, a baby abandoned on a doorstep with a crumpled page from Jane Eyre (this is the second) stuck in the bag he was placed in, even a “ghost”. It tells about the Angelfield family, a man’s obsession with his sister – the beautiful Isabelle, and the birth of twins Emmeline and Adeline. As the book slowly reveals its secrets, one cannot help but make assumptions and try to get one step ahead of the writer. Is Mrs Winter one of the twins, and if yes, which one, the quiet, sweet, plump Emmeline, or the wiry, energetic, strange Adeline? With every word, with every event, the reader is brought closer to the riddle only to be offered an unexpected answer at the end.
I found myself turning page after page, anxious to see the mystery solved. The real world became just a place I had to go back to but didn’t really want to, and I resurfaced from the story as if from underwater, dazed and totally ensnared in its events.
The poetic language, the vulnerability of the young writer, the suffering of the elder one, past and present, pain and relief, all intertwined to make for a very enjoyable read.
The street is like a great storyteller, waiting for me whenever I have the time to listen to one of its stories. Sometimes it’s just a jumble of words and images but every now and then it tells me a story, a short fragment from its vast collection. That day I listened and it told me about the girl with the marble eyes.
The people bring the street to life. They ride the motorcycles and push the food carts along the crowded sidewalks, or travel in a songteaw like me. There isn’t much space in one of those vehicles but ten people can usually squeeze together on the small benches. A few days ago I was in one (in my imagination I pretend they are carriages and I’m riding through open country fields and not in a polluted, crowded city) took out my book (The Thirteenth Tale) and got lost in it until a sudden braking made the words jump from the page and I looked for some fixed thing to grab hold of. Then I looked straight ahead and totally forgot my book. She was sitting across from me, our knees almost touching because of the cramped space, and the first thing I noticed were her eyes. Somehow they reminded me of the aristocratic Siamese cats I’d seen in a cartoon as a child, with their upward elongated slanted eyes, the pupils a rich dark brown that was almost black, and so perfectly round and big it seemed almost impossible that the eyes themselves could contain them. They looked like two shiny marbles and I was afraid that the next gentle shake of her head would make them tumble into her lap. Gliding easily from left to right, I imagined them rolling slowly over the smooth surface of the eye.
I tried hard not to stare so I shifted my gaze to the woman sitting next to her. She was older and fatigue had marked her eyes, making the light brown pupils look very much like a piece of cloth faded from too much washing, the whites streaked with tiny red lines and actually not white at all but a sickly yellow. She blinked and looked away and my gaze returned to the girl with the marble eyes. She never once looked straight at me but always somewhere behind me and into the street. Her eyes were always moving and I became absorbed with this new occupation of watching them glide effortlessly from side to side. Hands folded neatly in her lap, the blue and white uniform of a schoolgirl, straight black hair tied up in a ponytail with a brown piece of lace; face devoid of any makeup, a mouth with full lips slightly thrust upward and the flat small nose common to the Asians, a wide forehead but not high, and those eyes that seemed to dominate all her other facial features.
I looked at the book in my lap but its magic pull had been broken so I raised my eyes to her again.
The white surrounding the pupil had almost the crispness of the snow, making a brilliant contrast with the brown of the pupils. Her expression was neutral, serious. I could not see the trace of a smile nor the shadow of sadness, no movement of lips, no movement of hands. She just sat there almost like a statue if not for the motion of those dark shiny pupils: left to right and left again.
I had to get off, my stop was close, and I fumbled for a coin with which to pay for my trip. Pushed the small button on the roof of the songteaw and braced myself for the customary lurch and brake. Never get up until it comes to a complete stop, that’s one lesson I learned the hard way. Got off, placed my coin in the outstretched palm of the driver and started walking, leaving the girl with the marble eyes to carry her story forward.
Here we are, in the year of the Rabbit. May it bring you peace, health and everything else your heart desires.
Enjoy!
Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul
And sings the tune
Without the words,
And never stops at all… (Emily Dickinson)
There is a book I read every few years, a book with covers yellowed by age and coffee stained pages. I found it ages ago it seems, in the bookcase my parents had in the living room. Every time I hold it in my hands I make a mental note to ask them how it got there and every time I forget.
It never crossed my mind to write a review for it until now. I do so today (after I finished re-reading the book just yesterday) because I don’t want this book to be forgotten, because it deserves more than that. Much more. Every time I read it I find new meaning in its words and even though I know sections of it by heart, I still look forward to reading them.
The story, ah, the story! Who hasn’t heard of Don Juan, one of the most famous myths in literature! His name is like a cloak under which hide young noble men whose only pursuit in life is the pleasure of the flesh. A myth as old almost as time itself. And yet, this story is alive. Every word seems to burn the page, rushing like blood through the veins after a quick run. It never falters and every page brings about a new and unforeseeable turn.
The events start in 1640, the year Miguel de Mañara turns fourteen. We get a glimpse into his family life and we see his hot- tempered father, one of the richest nobles of Spain, and his quiet religious mother whose heart hides a secret known to very few. Their lives play out against the background of a tormented country weakened by constant wars, where the gap between the rich and the poor is like an abyss with an invisible end, and where the Inquisition sees with its ever watchful eye and reaches with its greedy hands into the lives of people.
Miguel is the main character of the tale, and we get to see him grow from the young, timid boy, whose emotions are greater than he can control, to the impetuous ruthless young nobleman whose money and adventures make him feared throughout the land.
There are two people who will influence his life, both priests and both chosen by his parents, but they are as different as night and day, and under their teachings and their advice his life alters with dramatic consequences. Will he follow the path of his good Padre Gregorio, will he succumb to the twisted views of Trifon, or will he find another way? Will his search for love bring him peace or will it crush him? Questions I never tire of reading the answers to, time and again.
Manuel de Falla‘s name was unknown to me until I found him in the pages of a book I was studying at university. He was being hailed as an important Spanish composer and with curiosity nudging me along, I went to youtube in search of his songs. What I found was this amazing song that has been one of my favorite pieces of classical music ever since.
I wonder if anybody else likes it too. A simple yes or no will do. Call it a little musical survey if you like.
I still find each day too short for all the thoughts I want to think, all the walks I want to take, all the books I want to read, and all the friends I want to see.
(John Burroughs)
I’ve wanted to read Murakami’s work for a while now. It was one of those authors whose name would pop up every now and then, just enough to arouse my curiosity. One day, as I was wandering through a bookstore, I saw a few of his books lined up on a shelf and decided to pick one. After Dark felt like a good choice, because it was short (and I thought I’d start small) and the name was intriguing.
From the very first pages I had the feeling of being drawn into a strange environment, some sort of autopsy room where Murakami was the coroner performing the operation of cutting the flesh open. He uses his pen like a surgeon would use a scalpel, making a precise incision, exposing exactly the parts that he wants his readers to see. And we look, mesmerized, unable to move or think of anything else while he works away, slicing briefly here and there, making us draw closer, horrified and fascinated at the same time.
The narrative starts on a well defined path which little by little takes us from the real world into the realm of fantasy and back again.
The characters are well shaped and each of them vulnerable and mysterious. Over the course of one night, their lives intertwine in unexpected ways.
The action revolves around Mari, a 19 year old college student who spends a night in a diner, hoping for some temporary relief, a brief escape from the oppressed atmosphere at home. There she meets young Takahashi, a wannabe musician, and what seems an awkward encounter at first, changes gradually as the two of them start talking, sharing brief episodes of their lives, getting to know each other.
The dialogue is captivating, with unexpected turns, making it yet another tool which the author uses to expose more of his characters’ lives. Drama is ever present, and beneath their seemingly calm appearance, people’s feelings are raw, confessions abound and impressions change.
The final pages don’t bring closure but it’s more like the end of a phase and the beginning of another. There is plenty of mystery left but also the unspoken reassurance of hope, fragile yet palpable.
Read in September 2010
