Murky Clarity

Book Review: In Perfect Light by Benjamin Alire Saenz

I fell in love with Benjamin Alire Saenz's writing when I was reading Aristotle and Dante Discover the Secrets of the Universe. Not after. During. What I did after was look for more books from Mr Saenz. Unfortunately, Kinokuniya only carried another title, Last Night I Sang to the Monster. I had to buy other books through Amazon.com.

I love technology.

In Perfect Light arrived a little worse for wear, with dented and creased edges, brownish discoloration of the pages, and a black marker mark at the bottom. It's the first paperback edition, printed in 2008 (the hardcover was first published in 2005). I've had it for a couple of years now, I think, but only came around to reading it last Sunday. And I finished it in one night.

I love the book.

Specifically, I love the story. Mr Saenz is a brilliant storyteller. Having read several novels and a book of poem of his, I appreciate the recurring themes he employs in his writing. He conveys the harsh beauty of the desert and El Paso, Texas. He brings to light perspectives and characters that are inherently Mexican, the pain of life as harsh as the desert. The pain that only he can tell, the way he tells it.

In Perfect Light tells the story of twenty-six-year-old Andres Segovia who, because of his past (which unravels as the book progresses), has lost his drive to live. He's not suicidal, but living for him means getting through the day, pushing everyone away. The book also tells the stories of three main supporting characters, Dave Duncan, who is Andres's lawyer and guardian angel, Grace Delgado, a therapist who has helped Dave before, and now is recruited to help Andres, and Mister Delgado, Grace's son who, despite not having any direct contact with Andres, plays a pivotal role in helping the story reach its end.

In Perfect Light is, despite its name, far from perfect. There are short chapters, interludes, that are told in the present tense, that show a glimpse of all four main characters at that very same moment. These interludes take getting used to, and they distract readers (well, me at least) from the story. There are parts where we jump into one character's head for a short dialog-paragraph when the section is told in another's perspective. There are long-winded sentences that have no punctuation marks. There are conversations in Mexican that are not translated into English and at times can alienate readers who do not understand the language. The prose itself, when compared to the elegance that is Aristotle and Dante Discover the Secrets of the Universe, feels clumsy. The beat, the lyrical arrangement, the signature storytelling are all there, but less refined. Perhaps the reason is that In Perfect Light was written years before Aristotle and Dante Discover the Secrets of the Universe. Perhaps this book was written this way for an adult audience, and the other was made more minimalist for its target young adult audience. The magic that Mr Saenz offers in his works is still there, just not as brilliant as I expect of him.

That said, the story itself makes up for more than the clunky prose. There is pain in this book, pain that transcends written words, transcends fiction. Andres's pain, his past and his present, it feels real. It is real. Andres is not a character out of a book, but a young man who has been through so much hurt, it's a miracle he's still a whole person. Andres's character and past are similar to Zach's in Last Night I Sang to the Monster, and  like other main characters in Mr Saenz's other books, has an affinity toward poetry and the beauty of the desert. Despite his harsh upbringing, Andres has an unquenchable thirst for books and learning, and this thirst makes him stand out, and saves his life.

All four main characters in this book are fully fleshed out, and feel absolutely real, but it is Andres that pulls us in. It is his past that brings us to tears, and it is his pain that makes us want to reach out to him. Even though it has been several days since I finished reading the book, I still think about Andres. I want to buy him lunch and just hang out with him. I want to show him that I'm there for him, whenever he's ready to reach out to others. I want to sit beside him as he leans back against the wall, a lit cigarette in one hand, and a crumpled piece of paper with a poem he's written in the other. I want to hug him and tell him that everything will be all right. I don't know if anything will be, but I want to tell him that.

I wish I were half as good a writer as Mr Saenz is. I wish I can have that effect on others, that they want to hang out with the characters in my stories, that they want to hug them and tell them that everything will be all right.

For me, this book is not about the technique or the poetry in the prose or the storytelling. I can talk about the plot, but I want you to experience it yourself. This book is about evoking a raw urge to protect children from the ugliness in the world, and if that is too late, help them see the beauty the world still has to offer. It's about realizing the depth of a person's resilience, and the strength of one's spirit.

It's about Andres Segovia, who, despite being a fictional character, feels so real that I hope one day he'll read this, and know that there is still beauty in the world. There are still things that can be seen in perfect light.

To all the Andres Segovias out there, I don't know how, I don't know when, but things will be all right.

Never lose hope.

May angels keep them safe, no matter where they are

"Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls. This is your captain speaking."

The plane cruises over the South China Sea. The endless expanses of sky and sea are of the exact same shade of brilliant blue, and the clouds, patches of sun-kissed cotton candy, greet the rising sun as if they were a congregation of angels. And maybe they are. These clouds. Maybe they are angels watching over the land, and this is how we perceive their existence.

"This is your captain speaking."

How often do I hear this, without really paying attention? I never register the names of the flight crew, not even the good-looking ones as they make their rounds along the aisle, serving food and beverages and making sure the flight is as comfortable as possible for everyone on-board.

I'm sitting beside the window, the kind of seat I'm always willing to pay extra for whenever I book a flight ticket. I'm watching the sky and the sea and the sun-kissed clouds. Earlier I requested for a pillow for the little girl sitting beside me. I don't engage in small talk with her or her mother. Or maybe her grandmother, who has aged gracefully. I don't even ask for their names, though they remind me of my mother and my niece, those two who share an inseparable bond only unquestioning love can forge. In front of me, a man is snapping pictures of his teenage son. He's holding his dSLR wrong. He's even using the built-in flash. Amateur.

The plane sings a constant hum, though I'm sure outside it's roaring in defiance. A human-made bird of metal dares to take flight, to traverse across mountains and oceans to reach lands half a world away in a matter of hours.

"This is your captain speaking."

It's almost two weeks since the disappearance of flight MH370, bound from Kuala Lumpur to Beijing. In the almost-two-weeks, the entire nation has moved from shocked disbelief to rallying people to pray for the safety of the 239 people on-board to craking jokes about our efforts to search for the plane that include employing shamans, and officials who appear to hide more than they are willing to share, and to conspiracy theories cropping up faster than malignant cancer cells do.

A baby is crying somewhere in front of me, and I can see heads turning, discomfited by the noise. I can only imagine the parents cycling between trying to calm the baby and stealing apologetic glances at other passengers. I have my noise-canceling headphones on, so the cries are muted. I may not come across the child again, or the parents, or the other passengers, or even the flight crew.

After the initial flurry of show of solidarity and prayers offered to God (and other deities) via Facebook status updates and Twitter and hashtags, things have noticeably slowed down. In my head, an army of angels are sitting in front of rows upon rows of computer screens, taking down all the typed prayers. Maybe the hashtags make things easier for them to monitor those prayers. Things sure have changed since the days of prayers whispered in the reverent hush of mosques and churches and temples.

The hashtags may have slowed down, but the conspiracy theories are only picking up steam. So are the jokes and parodies. And bomoh mobile apps. In a little less than two weeks, it is evident that the rest of the world is moving on. Their own lives are more interesting. It's back to hashtags like #foodporn and #selfie and #holiday. Maybe more than half the angels assigned to monitoring the internet are reassigned back to their original tasks.

A woman accompanying her son to the toilet stops to chat with another woman sitting behind me. They know each other. They exchange names of mutual friends, and promise to catch up back home. Or something like that. I don't really care. I'm writing this.

First the speculations revolved around the two passengers using stolen passports. Then it was hijacking by people of countries much more powerful than ours. Now it's the pilot who's under scrutiny. For some reason, his unyielding support toward a politician is emphasized. Maybe it's because his support is for a prominent opposing party, and not the ruling one. And his home-built flight simulation, first mentioned to show how dedicated he is to his work, now an object of further speculation, what with the wiped-out data.

I don't really pay attention to speculations and newspaper articles. In my head, I visualize a plane bigger than the one I'm in, with over 200 passengers on-board, flying over a pitch-black ocean, under an even darker sky but with silent starlight forming constellations. Maybe one of the passengers were looking out the window, figuring out the configurations of starlight that looked familiar but somehow different than those seen from outside the window of his or her home. I imagine a colicky baby crying, inconsolable, and the parents darting apologetic glances to everyone around them. Or maybe both the babies in the plane were sleeping in their parent's arms when all communications from the plane stopped.

I can only imagine, based on fiction and movies about airplane disasters, what went on when the blip of the flight disappeared from radars. I can only imagine the abject terror that gripped those on-board, the frantic prayers and the regrets and the anger and the love and the resignation. I don't know any of the passengers or flight crew. I don't eve know their names. I can only imagine the fear that overrode everything else. The absolute certainty that you are about to meet the Maker, but you don't want to. Not now. Not yet. I've lived through that same fear, though for me, I was ready to let go of everything.

I can only imagine. I can only speculate.

Perhaps I am no better than the conspiracy theorists and opportunists, after all.

We may have moved on, and the hashtags may have changed back to normal, but the lives of the families of the missing persons are forever changed. They are still holding on to that frail hope that gets ever smaller with each passing day. I can only imagine how hard it is for them, the fear of not knowing the fate of the missing people.

Missing people.

That's what we're forgetting. In the comfort of our offices and homes and restaurants, we speculate and crack jokes about how backwater our country is in handling this crisis. We share photos of parodies of bomohs (who were actually doing something, though using highly questionable practices) and apps that make light of the situation. We chat about corrupt politicians and conspiracy theories. We conveniently forget about the 239 people on-board that flight, because we don't know them at a personal level. Their lives don't really matter to us because despite the crisis, our lives are not affected. We can still Instagram delicious-looking food in restaurants and tag #foodporn and wait for strangers to click 'Like'.

When a crisis occurs, our first instinct is to find something or someone to blame. Let's face it. It terrifies us when something bad occurs and we cannot explain it. It means that the same can happen to us and that life is beyond our control and comprehension. It means that life is much larger than you and me and we have no say about it. Hence, the urge to villify someone. If the passport thiefs were terrorists, then it makes sense. If the pilot deliberately hijacked the plane, then it makes sense. If there was a technical error depriving everyone of oxygen at such a high altitude then it makes sense.

In order to make sense, in order to feel that much safer when we book a flight ticket, we come up with all these theories. We start scrutinizing everyone, from the flight company to every passenger. Compassion turns to morbid interest. We deconstruct people and make them less human. Even a pilot's political affiliation comes into question. Even a co-pilot's social activities become his undoing.

"Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking."

How many times do we hear this and feel reassured by it? How many times do we trust our lives in that stranger in a sharp uniform and a distinct cap? How many times do we trust our lives in that gargantuan metal construct that seems impossible to take flight just by looking at it?

Our lives may have moved on, but for the families of the people on-board MH370, life is at a standstill. So please, find it in your heart to respect that, to respect them, and may we offer silent prayers in our own hallowed spaces even though the hashtags have slowed down to a trickle.

May angels keep them safe, no matter where they are.

May angels lead them home, no matter where that home is.

Al-Fatihah.

 

Book Review: Nazi Goreng Marco Ferrarese

If there is one word to describe this book, unapologetic would be it.

Nazi Goreng by Marco Ferrarese is about a young Malay man, Asrul, who goes through a traumatic experience in the hands of a group of Indian thugs, and is then taken under the wings of one charismatic Malik, who is several years older than Asrul. I don't normally emphasize on race, but race is everything in this book. Everything. You see, Malik is a Malay supremacist skinhead who sees other races as impure, corrupt, a cancer that gnaws on the sovereignty of Malaysia. Much like White supremacist skinheads in the US or UK.

I kid you not.

This duo then escapes backwater Alor Star for better opportunities in Penang, and get involved with drug traffickers. Much like White supremacist skinheads from Lima, Ohio, who get involved with Mexican drug cartels. Why do I keep comparing the protagonists with White skinheads? Because, essentially, if you transplant these Malaysian characters and settings into an American one, you'll get the makings of an American novel/movie.

So is the book inherently Malaysian, you ask? I've been implied to take into consideration an author's Whiteness in writing a Malaysian book. In truth, I don't really care who the writer is; to me, the writing is everything. I got irked when author Marc DeFaoite kept using "Kay El" regardless the narrator is Bangladeshi, Indonesian, Nepalese, Malay, Indian, or whatever nationality that is not Western. In this book, Mr Ferrarese injects Italian sensibilities in a protagonist that has never been out of Alor Star. He compares characters and objects with Venus, Cyclops and Jesus. The main character, Asrul, is a practicing Muslim, by the way, though 'practicing' is a strong word for what he does.

But oh. My. God. Mr Ferrarese is one hell of a compelling writer. I finished the book in less than a day. The opening chapters are beautifully written, with exquisite imagery and characterization. Despite what I will say in the following paragraphs, reading this book makes me feel that the culture of skinhead Malay supremacists is pervasive throughout peninsular Malaysia, and that they represent an actual cancer that gnaws at the fragile equilibrium that is Malaysia. Reading this book makes me believe that the threat is real, and racism in Malaysia has deeper roots than I'm willing to admit. And that, to me, makes for a successful novel.

Nazi Goreng, in the introductory chapters, holds so much promise, so much potential. It has the makings of something great. Killer opener? Check. Excellent writing that feels real? Check. High concept? Skinhead racists plus Iranian cartels plus trigger-happy Africans plus multiple locations in Malaysia (and one in Taipei). Check. Page-turning thriller with danger at every corner? Check. Stakes that grow bigger and bigger? Check. A likeable protagonist? Check.

So what went wrong?

When Asrul and Malik get involved with the Iranian drug lord and aspire to do more than just trafficking drug at the Malaysian/Thai border, Asrul's life careens out of control. Unfortunately, so does the book. It's like the author introduces too many action/thriller elements and doesn't know what to do with them. Good news is, he tries to tie these elements together at the end of the novel. Bad news is, he loses interest in the main characters and is more invested in the stolen money instead. More on the ending later.

In the middle of the book, the author breaks off from the main characters and writes a few chapters on a group of four immigrants, Ngoc, Nyan, Cam and Than. I know, right? Not only are the names too close and confusing, introducing new named characters that are not essential in the middle of a book is not a good idea. Sure, Mr Ferrarese is smart enough to use these characters later in the book to move it, but if his intention to spend two chapters on their backgrounds and wants and needs to humanize them, to build sympathy toward marginalized immigrants, I say he's not done enough. In the end, these chapters and characters become mere fluff to thicken the novel, fluff that distracts a reader's attention, risking losing that attention altogether. Even if the author did not employ these characters' perspectives, did not even name them, he could still use them later on to move the story as he needed. This bit of fluff has earned the author some negative marking.

So Mr Ferrerese throws in Iranian drug lords, African rival cartels, sleazy bartenders, one hot Chinese national drug mule, and one not-so-hot Indonesian maid, with high-speed chase and machine guns, kapows and ratatatats that lead to torture and murder, all in the name of stolen money with a grand total of…drumroll please…

RM40,000.

That's USD 12,182.12, according to Google.

Even a terrace house in the outskirts of Kuala Lumpur costs over a million ringgit. Heck, give me forty-thousand ringgits and half a day at Pavilion, and I'll ask if you have another forty-thousand to spare at the end of three hours. Maybe two, depending on which stores I visit first.

The first job Asrul and Malik secure, transporting drugs in a car tire without them realizing it, earns them RM8,000. Have them do five jobs, they'll get the same amount of money. So all these murder and mayhem in the name of RM 40,000…. What I'm saying is that the stakes are not high enough. Not nearly enough. Too low, in fact. If it were USD 40,000 (which Google converts to RM 131,340.03), then it would have been something at least. Still not high enough, but much higher than what the author uses.

Also, Malik keeps mentioning he has connections in high places. At first Asrul thinks it's his connections with police officers who believe in Kuasa Melayu (Malay Power) as much as Malik does, but that's not it. When Malik does reveal who he actually is…OH COME ON! THAT'S IT?! Speaking of, I would have appreciated more insight on what makes Malik tick. He's a sociopath, that's clear, but why is he such an angry racist in the first place? With Asrul, it's pretty clear. Take a traumatic experience and a highly impressionable young man in his late teens, you get Asrul. Malik, however…. I think it's a lost opportunity with him. Would have made for a mighty interesting story.

Now. Coming to the ending.

I fell asleep at the supposed climax.

Like I mentioned before, when the ending comes, it's no longer about Asrul and Malik's journey, but about the missing money. It doesn't really matter what becomes of them; the protagonists are relegated into secondary characters. Worse, the greatest sin of all, the author ends the novel with exposition after exposition. It's like reading Naruto, where you're getting to the climatic fight (for that chapter in Naruto's life), and then you see the inevitable black background and you're forced to read ANOTHER back story. For an action thriller novel, writing a climax using exposition is not only anti-climactic, it's buzzkill. It's robbing a reader of a much-needed release. It causes blue balls.

Blue balls are NEVER good.

I don't think the author's entirely at fault here. It was pretty clear that he lost control of the story when Asrul lost control of his life. Mr Ferrarese did not self-publish this book, so an editor is involved. An invested editor takes the rein when the author loses control. Or supposed to, anyway. I wasn't lying when I said the beginning is brilliant and the writing is engaging. They are. Mr Ferrarese has the mark of a good writer. What he needed for Nazi Goreng was a team of good editors, editors who, without compromising his stylistic and artistic integrity, guide the story back to its intended path, to smoothen out kinks like Italian mythology in Malay characters, derogatory descriptions of a Muslim praying (he uses "kisses the floor" throughout the book to describe praying), to correct his consistently wrong usage of colons, all that jazz. And he needed a good proofreader (or two) to spot and correct the horrendous amount of typos, missed spaces, wrong punctuations.

In essence, Mr Ferrarese was sold short with Nazi Goreng, and what could have been a brilliant novel is merely a book of good writing, unrealized potentials, and a non-existent climax. What we have here is a book that causes blue balls.

When I started reading the book, despite what my friend said, I wanted to give it a 4.5 to 5 star rating. When the story went out of control, I wanted to give the book a 3.5 star rating, rounded up. With the ending taken into consideration, I'll only give it 3.5 stars, rounded down.

The author holds so much promise, and the book so much potential. It's unfortunate, really. I hope, if Mr Ferrarese writes another novel, he is fortunate enough to invest in invested editors.