A Clockwork Orange

I have finally finished Blind Willow, Sleeping Woman and started on A Clockwork Orange which really is like taking a jovial jaunt in a meadow and then running into a cliff. Compared to Murakami’s economical, simple use of language, Burgess’s writing sometimes feels obscure and impenetrable. All this is intentional, of course. A Clockwork Orange is written from the point of view of the protagonist/narrator Alex and his unique lexicon or Nadsat, as Burgess calls it, consists of various words derived from Russian. So droog means friend, litso means face, horrorshow means good, viddy means to see, devotchka refers to a woman and so on. A typical sentence would thus read:

“From inside this malenky cottage I could slooshy the clack clack clacky clack clack clackity clackclack of some veck typing away, and then the typing stopped and there was this chelloveck’s goloss calling: ‘What is it, dear?’”

And then there’s the sheer insanity of the violence. Rape and pillage just for the fun of it is quite unbearable and every time Alex’s gang encounters a would-be victim, my stomach tightens ever so slightly. Yet, despite this, and also despite the fact that I know the plot and the ending and the ultimate message, I still can’t stop turning the pages. Alex’s speak may be incomprehensible at first but there comes a point when it abruptly becomes almost second nature and all of a sudden you find yourself in his world, thinking in his terms; in other words, you become a brother, as he likes to call the reader.

Few books have gotten me so involved and this one is really something special. Alex’s indifference to the “ultra-violence” he inflicts on others leaves one both maddened and sympathetic. But beyond the emotional aspect, Burgess leaves little literary jewels scattered here and there. I simply cannot forget this line from Alex as he takes in a violin concerto, of all things, in his room:

“Oh, bliss, bliss and heaven. I lay all nagoy to the ceiling, my gulliver on my rookers on the pillow, glazzies closed, rot open in bliss, slooshying the sluice of lovely sounds. Oh, it was gorgeousness and gorgeosity made flesh.”

Of course, as he gets ever more entranced by the beauty of the music, the images that fill his mind get ever more violent. And therein lies the contradiction.

And that’s where I’ve stopped. More later. Maybe.

When novel writing fails, go buy some new ones

My novel seems to have stalled. I’ve been stuck at the 6,000 word mark for the past two weeks and it doesn’t look like I’m gonna be writing much more. Charles, my professional whistler character, will remain unlaid in Africa. Which really is quite a sucky position to be stuck in but he’ll just have to be patient till the next NaNoWriMo when I get my act together.

Of course, I have my… umm… reasons. Like being caught in the middle of brainstorming for a major new campaign for 2007 for a major client. And the pitch that really wasn’t a pitch except that it was, just not in a creative sort of way. And the fact that I have been feeling somewhat enervated of late which has made me crave sleep more than anything else, including writing on this blog. Note that I am not giving excuses, I’m just saying that it’s not my fault.

On the brighter side, I did manage to make it down to the Penguin warehouse sale today thanks to a tip-off from Yvonne. As a reward, she got dragged down to the Expo with me where our eyeballs promptly fell out. The books were laid out on huge tables like so much fish at a market and everywhere people were picking and flipping and choosing. Beholding such a sight was, quite frankly, magical for people like us and we descended upon the rows of tomes with vigour. Until ten minutes later, that is, when I found my eyes telling me to “Stop soon or we’ll make a run for it” and Yvonne starting doing spontaneous jigs. The thing about two reading aficionados heading down to a book sale is that we both kept picking out books that the other party already had. So there was a lot of “Hey, I have this already” and “Don’t buy that, I’ll lend it to you” and “Oei, I brought this book for you today lar”.

Anyway, here’s my disappointingly short list of scores (all for just the mind-bogglingly miniscule sum of fifty bucks!):

The End of Faith – Sam Harris

Not Quite the Diplomat – Chris Patten

Long Way Round – Ewan McGregor & Charley Boorman

Most of Us Are Here Against Our Will – David Levinson

Making Friends with Hitler – Ian Kershaw

A Clockwork Orange – Anthony Burgess

How to Be Good – Nick HornbyAdd to these Vanessa’s Blind Willow, Sleeping Woman which I have yet to finish and the recently borrowed I Am a Cat plus the recently purchased The God Delusion and I think I’ll have enough reading material to last well into the new year. With any luck, all this literature will give me enough inspiration to write a proper novel, and this time, let’s just hope it isn’t about a professional whistler.

The God Delusion

The latest from Richard Dawkins, this book is a must read.

More information here and here.

In order to counter the atrophying effect Harry Po…

In order to counter the atrophying effect Harry Potter has on my mind, I decided to browse through a few of my old philosophy textbooks and was reminded rather rudely that:

1. my mind may very well be bubbling away in a vat in some evil scientist’s lab.
2. all of you may be mere figments of my imagination.
3. the King of France may or may not be bald.
4. I never really understood ANY of my philosophy texts.

However, I’ve managed to deal with all this in the most sensible manner possible i.e. by not thinking about it. Nonetheless, I’ve endeavoured to re-read Kierkegaard’s Fear and Trembling if only to prove point #4. I suppose that Kierkegaard (with his existentialist tendencies and what not) deals with points #1 and #2 somewhat. I’ve never really known what existentialism means but it surely seems like he’s taking things (and himself) way too seriously.

(It’s been 3 days since I started and I’m at page 32 which makes for an average of slightly more than 10 pages per day. This, needless to say, is comparable to the rate at which a dyslexic gerbil might read Noam Chomsky. And surprise surprise, I’m still at the introduction written by the translator!)

Oh yes, I’ve also been reading the crap listed below and, of course, doing work, which consists mainly of more reading but with the enjoyable addition of making assorted markings in indelible red ink.

Why do women live longer than men?

Philosophy Comics

Young solar systems are like cosmic snooker games, and the universe is flat

Book-A-Minute Classics
English teachers have the inconsiderate habit of assigning mammoth-sized works of literature to read and then actually expecting you to do it. This wouldn’t be so bad except that invariably the requisite reading is as boring as fly fishing in an empty lake. Half of those books don’t even have discernible plots. And let’s face it — the Cliff’s Notes are pretty time-consuming too. Worry no more. Your troubles are over. We here at Book-A-Minute Classics have come up with a solution. We’ve taken all kinds of great works of literature and boiled them down to their essence, extracting all the filler (and believe me, there’s a lot of it sometimes). In just one minute, you can read entire books and learn everything your teachers will expect you to know.

Here’s an example of a one-minute book.

Gandalf
Bilbo Baggins, your Ring is evil. In a couple decades, we’ll try to destroy it. In the meantime, leave it for Frodo to play with.

Bilbo Baggins
It’s not evil. It’s mine. My precious. Mine! MINE, I TELL YOU!! MOOHOOHAHAHAHAHA!!!!!

(Frodo takes it to RIVENDELL. Some FRIENDS come with him. They are attacked by black riders a LOT, and it is SCARY.)

Elrond
Frodo Baggins, if Sauron ever gets this Ring, the world will be destroyed, and evil will reign forever. We must act quickly. Take the Ring to where he lives.

(They do some travelling. Some more FRIENDS come with him. Gandalf DIES in the mines of Moria, but will later be RESURRECTED in GLORIFIED form having triumphed over EVIL, an obvious literary ALLUSION to that movie where the guy comes back as a DOG.)

Boromir
Frodo Baggins, give me the Ring.

Frodo
No.

Boromir
What have I done? (dies)

A bunch of films featuring the BMW Z4. (Yes, I know they’re kinda old.)

I somehow couldn’t stop laughing after reading this definition.
lemming – Any of various small, thickset rodents, especially of the genus Lemmus, inhabiting northern regions and known for periodic mass migrations that sometimes end in drowning.

In my boredom, I have resorted to reading Harry Po…

In my boredom, I have resorted to reading Harry Potter and The Order of the Phoenix. (No, I didn’t buy it. I borrowed it from Anita.) And I’ve found it surprisingly good thus far, which is scary. All those spells and odd creatures (Dementors etc.) and weird names (Dumbledore, Voldemort) are all getting to me. Probably explains why the Bible is such an enduring favourite. Must make mental note NOT to read this in public though.

On a less boring note, met up with the guys for a round of drinks on Friday at Cocco Latte. This was my first time in any place that had a cover charge for 3 years so I felt distinctly odd. It still baffles me why people come to such places to talk. I was screaming half the time and straining my ears the other. Still, at least you could scream the words “sex” and “masturbation” without anyone giving you weird looks.

Stuff I’ve heard/seen/said

[toast #1] To masturbation!

[to me] The only thing Chinese about you is that you play mahjong.

[me on my lack of immunological deficiencies] Once again, I have failed to fall sick on schedule.

[on my new haircut] Wah! Dragonball!

[toast #2] To sex!

[in an MRT station] Mind your steps

[on a lift door] Beware of finger

[from an email] The exact written or printed format/pharse is: (phrase)

[from the same email] The exact pharse must be found just below our signature and title and name… (phrase)

[and again] The above instruction must be adhere strictly as from 1st Oct 2004 and will be consider as an offence if not adhere to.

Ok… SPS… on hole. (on hold)

They still give you the necessity things. (necessary things/necessities)

[toast #3] To sex again!

She doesn’t wanna do it yet so I’ve been celibate since May. Masturbation works just as well.

Why I Don’t Have A Girlfriend

Can Asians Think?

Interestingly, the answer is only a “Maybe”.

Hallelujah or just Haha?

An excerpt from The Sirens of Titan by Kurt Vonnegut

“O Lord Most High, Creator of the Cosmos, Spinner of Galaxies, Soul of Electromagnetic Waves, Inhaler and Exhaler of Inconceivable Volumes of Vacuum, Spitter of Fire and Rock, Trifler with Millennia – what could we do for Thee that Thou couldst not do for Thyself one octillion times better? Nothing. What could we do or say that could possibly interest Thee? Nothing. Oh, Mankind, rejoice in the apathy of our Creator, for it makes us free and truthful and dignified at last. No longer can a fool like Malachi Constant point to a ridiculous accident of good luck and say, ‘Somebody up there likes me.’ And no longer can a tyrant say, ‘God wants this or that to happen, and anybody who doesn’t help this or that to happen is against God.’ O Lord Most High, what a glorious weapon is Thy apathy, for we have unsheathed it, have thrust and slashed mightily with it, and the claptrap that has so often enslaved us or driven us into the madhouse lies slain.

The Reverend C. Horner Redwine

The Barnstable First Church of God the Utterly Indifferent

Even though it’s got quack written all over it, it’s not an untenable position to hold. Ah well, I refuse to think about religion right now.

Before I Forget

1984 now sits proudly by my bed. Many thanks to Gavin who graciously lent me the book.

Gratitude also to those who had the book but misplaced it, had delusions that they owned it or went “whaddat” when I asked to borrow it.

Bookhunt

I watched with glee as The Elephant Vanishes vanished for good down the book return chute. No more shrieking while perched atop toilet bowls, no more head-banging on the MRT handgrips, no more sudden proclamations of death and destruction.

And then I walked into the library looking for more Murakami.

Why I bother with his novels and short stories is still beyond me. (The only difference between a Murakami novel and a Murakami short story is the intensity of pain felt at the end.) Maybe it’s the way the plot draws me in, like an unsuspecting rat, right to the arsenic (after which I often roll over and wish I was dead). Or could it be the way he brings out each excruciating detail in the phenomenon that is puppy love? Or maybe it’s sheer wackiness? Nothing appeals to a reader more than a good reality-bashing. All I’m sure of is that I could do with more.

No luck this time though. I’d read everything they had. Bleah. No Norwegian Wood again.

So I went in search of 1984. Once again, zilch. Is this book banned or something? I did, however, get my hands on his first novel, Burmese Days. Not sure what to expect but I suppose anything by Orwell will be good.

Browsing through a library’s collection, other than the library at Orchard, is often a wonderful experience. Sure, there’re disappointments, but, more often than not, they’re made up for with serendipitous discoveries such as Yann Martel’s The Life of Pi which I chanced upon while unsuccessfully trying to seek out Groucho Marx.

The Life of Pi, by the way, is a novel about a boy who is stranded on a lifeboat in the Pacific with a hyena, a zebra, an orang-utan and a Bengal tiger. Apparently, this book will also “make you believe in God”. Now how can that not be interesting?

Next book to go in my bag – Middlesex by Jeffrey Eugenides. I have no idea what this is about. I just borrowed it because I read The Virgin Suicides also by Eugenides. Anyone who has read this story will know that it is one heck of a painful experience. Not in the same way that Murakami’s novels leave you frustrated and dissatisfied, but in the sense that the inevitable is… well… inevitable. The Lisbon sisters are doomed. One by one they will each find wonderful ways to snuff out their already quivering flames. The synopsis makes that much clear and the first few pages plunge you straightaway into (or at least what looks like) a suicide. I have seen many a fellow commuter clutching this book on the train, lips furled, brows knit, just straining to avoid the next death.

Why didn’t the sisters realise there was a whole world out there, away from that dank home, away from the clutches of their parents’ myopic sentiments? Why didn’t anyone try to save them? Why didn’t anyone notice? It just drives me crazy. Hopefully Middlesex will be on a somewhat more cheerful note. Hopefully.

Any new recommendations would be most welcome. I’m running out of authors to explore.

The Elephant Vanishes

Reading short stories by Haruki Murakami is like getting high. Not that I have ever smoked anything but it feels meaningless in the same way. His stories build up wonderfully. There’s so much potential. You can feel it bubbling in every line. Each twist of events, each character thought, each out-of-this-world analogy promises so much.

The lady who loses the ability to sleep finds a whole new life before her. She drives out in the middle of the night to take in some air. She stops her car by the bay and switches the engine off to relax. A hand gropes her window followed by others. Her car begins to rock. They’re trying to tip her over. She tries to start the engine. It won’t catch. She takes the key out to try again but drops it. She starts to cry. They’re trying to tip her over. She bends down to feel for her keys. It’s nowhere to be found. They’re trying to tip her over. She’s locked in her box. There’s no way out. They’re trying to tip her over.

And so it ends.

Which pisses me off deeply.

It’s the climax, for crying out loud! There’s gotta be some closure to it all. But nooooooooo. It just ends. Flip the page and you’re faced with the title of the next story. Wham! Huh? What happened? Wow! I discovered the ground with my head! Druggies may be able to relate to this.

Nonetheless, I’m still chugging through The Elephant Vanishes. The first time I read this collection was roughly five years ago and I didn’t remember a thing. Which is why I borrowed it again; so I could relive the frustration of discovering the ground with my head.

Good going, Murakami.