On Books (And Their Titles)

I, Ms Super Contrarian, Defier of Well-Known Idioms, totally judge books by their covers.

I don't think of it as being superficial so much as literately snobby: I don't care if a book cover is old and ugly and tattered, and I love used books because there's so much history in them (whether it's true or not - it might just be my imagination running wild and creating an entire backstory for how a used book was bought and read and cherished and fell off a bookshelf and eventually found its lonely way to a used bookstore but that is, unfortunately, the way that my imagination runs), but hell to the yes I DO care if a book looks tacky.

Examples of tacky include:
- Chick Lit: First of all, I despise this genre even if I didn't find the covers tacky, because it is generic, insipid, and quite frankly insulting to my entire gender. So I don't buy chick lit, or, whether it's chick lit or not, books that have any sassy graphics of lipsticks and high heels and diamonds on the cover. Although I am actually quite fond of sassiness, lipstick, high heels and diamonds in real life, I totally resent the fact that some publisher out there is trying to exploit my love of these fabulously girly things to trick me into buying a shit book. 

 

 I say no. Nononononononononono.

- Books with the movie adaptation poster as the cover: The books are always better than the movie, so why reference the lesser? Also, I don't know if there is anyone who actually goes out of their way to actually buy the book WITH the movie cover, but I do know that I specifically go out of my way to AVOID AT ALL COSTS buying the book with the movie cover. If it's between buying the book with the movie cover and not buying the book at all: I won't buy the book at all. So why bother publishing the book with the movie cover, other than as a cheap way to advertise the movie and drum up book sales in anticipation of the movie? (Alright, so that's why. But still! I refuse to play! I may watch the movie and I may read the book, but I reject the industry's trying to mix up the two mediums!)

I also say no. Even though Leonardo DiCaprio is very handsome as Gatsby. I say give me the not-handsome and kinda creepy eyes of the original cover.

- Fifty shades of S&M/Twilight vampire covers: I cannot believe that we live in a world where these are actually things, but things they are. Once at Barnes & Noble I came across an entire table of Fifty Shades of Grey rip-offs. Really? Really?! Are there people who are that addicted to S&M porn lit that they need an entire table of it, all with similar covers, you know, in case they get confused about which books in their libraries are the S&M ones? I refuse to buy. REFUSE! I refuse so much that when I read Fifty Shades of Grey it was an illicit PDF version (hey, I didn't say I refuse to READ it). I couldn't finish it because the writing was so terrible, though, and had to make someone who had already read the book tell me what happened. Same with the Twilight books, though for that, I just watched the movies. You know, to find out what happened. Not just to see Robert Pattinson in the movie version. Robert who? I actually don't even know his full name.

Please tell me I'm not the only who's seeing this. I'm not, right?! Even Interview With the Vampire, the grand-daddy of vampire books, has been given a teen-vampire makeover.

 
But the number one factor that I REALLY judge books by: their titles. I think I've amassed enough books to classify myself a collector of Books with Awesome Titles. Though awesome book titles do not always translate into awesome books, I feel less cheated by a not-awesome book when I know that at least the author had good intentions, and at least put in a lot of effort with their title.

The top 10 best titles so far:

10. The Solitude of Prime Numbers by Paolo Giordano
(But book was meh.)

9. The Elegance of the Hedgehog by Muriel Barbery
(Also meh. Set in Paris, though, if you like books set in Paris.)
  
8. Special Topics in Calamity Physics by Marisha Pessl
(Loved this; totally lived up to its title expectations. Apparently was supposed to be made into a movie. If it is - BUY THE ORIGINAL COVER.) 

7. Super Sad True Love Story by Gary Shteyngart
(Was expecting a dystopian Romeo & Juliet-type affair. Umm. Not what I got. Though it was very dystopic.)

6. The Particular Sadness of Lemon Cake by Aimee Bender
(I remember I bought this book because it had an interesting title, but also because I was hungry and wandered into Kinokuniya during a lunch break in fasting month. The plot has an interesting concept - about a little girl who suddenly develops the ability to taste feelings in food; as in taste what the baker/cook was feeling when they baked/cooked it - but then the author veered into magic realism territory, and failed terribly at it. Terribly.)

5. The History of Love by Nicole Krauss
(One of my favourites; already reviewed here.)

4. The Long Dark Tea-Time of the Soul by Douglas Adams
(It's Douglas Adams! Of course I loved this. I could probably read his grocery lists and howl with laughter (albeit like a lunatic).)

3. How to Live Safely in a Science Fictional Universe by Charles Yu
(Alas, didn't like the book - it was too metaphysical and new age-y.)

2. An Arsonist's Guide to Writers' Homes in New England by Brock Clarke
(Mehhhh.)

1. The Library of Unrequited Love by Sophie Divry 
(A trippy soliloquy of a very lonely librarian, who is ultimately not terribly interesting. But a library! Of unrequited love! Does that not sound like the most magical thing ever?!)

Honourable mentions: The Perks of Being a Wallflower by Stephen Chbosky; The Woman Who Went to Bed for a Year by Sue Townsend; The Notable Brain of Maximilian Ponder by J.W. Ironmonger; The Left Hand of Darkness by Ursula K. Le Guin; The Sweetness at the Bottom of the Pie by Alan Bradley; The Inheritance of Loss by Kiran Desai


Looking at the track record above, judging books based on their book titles actually seems like a wildly inaccurately hit-and-miss way of gauging whether a book is worth reading. If it is any consolation (to myself, I mean; I can’t imagine that anyone else is feeling a little put-out or surprised that superficiality/literate snobbishness doesn’t pay in the end) at least I have a library full of interesting titles and no S&M porn.

On Marriage

Holy shit, people. I cannot believe I’ve now been married for a year.

There's nothing like the half-yearly Updating of the Blog to make you realize how insidiously time hovers around you, slowly depleting your finite supplies of oxygen and energy and cells, until all of a sudden a year has gone by.

(It’s like that verse from the Andrew Marvell poem I will always remember; firstly because it’s beautiful and is one of few verses of poetry I can quote offhand because for a brief, angsty, oh-God-I’m-growing-up period before high school graduation, I was slightly obsessed with it, but also because it is essentially a silver-tongued plea to get a chick into bed, and I appreciate effort when I see it: “But at my back I always hear / time’s winged chariot hurrying near / And yonder all before us lie / Deserts of vast eternity.”)

Either version you want to go with, mine, or Marvell’s (both equally eloquent I think) – it’s been a year, people. A YEAR!

I feel like by now I should have accumulated a wealth of marital information to impart onto newlyweds who are more newlywed than me, since for some reason this past year, other married people have just looooooved giving me advice while simultaneously asking me how married life is and when I’m planning to start a family. Is this a widespread married people phenomenon – the equivalent of initiating the newbie who has just joined the club? I still don’t know whether I have a distinctly innocent and naïve face that begs for relationship advice, or if Alman seems like a particularly difficult husband who would require his wife be given pointers to manage her man. Do all female newlyweds get their stomachs patted in anticipation of the baby that will emerge there (hint: it won’t be anytime soon, and also I am quite uncomfortable with the fact that you are rubbing the lunch in my belly)? 

And am I the only one with the anti-climatic answer that my married life is pretty much the same as my non-married life, but better?

Because if I were to fulfil my Married Club duties and pass on my Married Person wisdom – that’s pretty much it. And if it’s anti-climatic, it’s because it’s pretty logical. From what I’ve seen (albeit from my limited trove of experience), marriage will just amplify the traits in your significant other and relationship. If it was good before marriage, it should be better with marriage. If it wasn’t good before, then dude, do not get married.

And what you expect to get out of marriage depends a lot on what you expect from marriage. People get married for different reasons – none of which are right or wrong; none of which I would judge, as long as both parties understand the full ramifications of what they are doing and understand that the institution, as it’s set up, is supposed to be for life. Are you marrying for financial security? Go on, girl (or less commonly but we live in a decreasingly stereotypical world: boy). Are you marrying for companionship? A baby daddy? Someone to take care of you? Or someone to take care of? Someone who will be your religious guide and guardian? Whatever reason it is that is floating the marriage boat of two sane adults – I sincerely don’t judge, and sincerely wish every relationship happiness.

Personally, I am extremely clear about why I wanted to get married, and why I did eventually get married. And I have been totally set on my reason since I was a child. (Honestly. Even my Barbie dolls used to marry for life, and for the same reason I did – “life”, for my Barbies, being until their plastic necks were accidentally broken, at which point their heartbroken Ken doll widower would weep at his deceased Barbie wife’s funeral while my sisters and I would sing sad songs at the ceremony, because even a toy funeral needs background music.) (On a totally unrelated point to this entire post, Barbies “die” on a frequent basis because their long necks were made of hard, brittle plastic, whereas the Ken dolls had stocky, and thus sturdy, plastic necks. In case you ever find yourself in need of a fact that could prove the toy doll industry is inherently misogynist.)

I have always been clear about marrying for totally soul-sucking, all-consuming love. I believe in grand plans like kismet and fate; I believe in the universe guiding two people who are meant to be together, to finally get their game on and BE together. I am a serial monogamist, and towards the later part of my dating life, really did view most of the guys I dated as potential husbands, not boyfriends (tip: if you, too, do this: don’t advertise it. It tends to freak people out, not least your unwitting boyfriend. Now that I’m married though, I can tell everyone and not care!).

But I am also an unromantic romantic. I don’t define love by grand gestures or orchestrated efforts or bouquets of flowers (though of course I appreciate these when they happen). Those are just incidental one-offs. I find more meaning in the small, everyday things that one person does for another every day; that if you total up, in its entirety, would equal a lifetime of loving gestures and tokens of affection. I find more meaning in mutual respect, and collaboration, and partnership; political, spiritual, moral and social views that fit with your own (but don’t necessarily have to be shared); kindness and open-mindedness and patience and intellectual curiosity (and love of life and exuberance and a sense of adventure are perks); and I know that these things may not sound particularly exciting, but to me, they are such a turn-on. These the markers of someone who I would want for my partner in life, assuming, of course, that they fulfill the first criteria, which is for me to be totally, crazy, head over heels in love with them.

I have been waiting for the better part of 20 years, pretty much since my Barbies started getting married, for someone to fulfill this not unimpressive and (objectively even I have to admit) pretty intimidating list. I married him last year. 

So the simple logic that I am masquerading as my nugget of marital wisdom is (the TL;DR, if you would like to skip to the end of this post and not have to read about Barbies): Find your right person, for your kind of marriage; and don’t marry unless it’s good. Because if it’s already good, it will get better.

Happy anniversary goose.

On Patriotism

 

So, in the run-up to the 56th year of Malaysia's independence from British colonial rule, that will be feted as it is every year with fanfare, flags, and generous displays of patriotism... I feel compelled to admit that I actually don't really feel patriotic. Like, in general. I am apatriotic. Not UN-patriotic (I don't go around tearing down Jalur Gemilangs and would never begrudge anyone wanting to celebrate their country's independence, or feeling great loyalty for their country), but A-patriotic: just lacking completely in whatever box that's in me that's supposed to contain things like love and loyalty for the country that has issued me a passport and calls me a citizen.

I just don't really identify with "my country". Why IS it "my country"? Because my one side of my family's ancestors lived here? Because I hold a Malaysian passport and identification card? And what is a country anyway? A shared culture and belief? Since Malaysia's not exactly homogenous, let's revise that: is it the multicultural experiences of many sets of ethnicities? Is it a unified government with a set of founding ideals that has a control over x amount of land up until this or that invisible border?

I know I could try harder to assimilate, and I always wonder whether, if I identified more with Malaysia, I'd feel something stronger for it. As it is now, I'm comfortably comfortable with my relationship with it. I mean I live here, I'm happy, and it's a place on a map that I have made my home for now. But do I love it? Umm. Not really, sorry. I mean I don't hate it either, but I'm just not able to feel something intensely emotional and intangible for something that, to me, is arbitrary and intangible.

A big part of this comes from not having grown up in Malaysia. I was born and raised in Brunei, which isn't that far (if Sabahans and Sarawakians can feel Malaysian - do they really though? Another topic for another day - you'd think a Malaysian living in Brunei could), but it always felt, mentally, so far away. It was this alien place we went to for Hari Raya every few years (and KL, with its hustle and bustle, is about as alien as you can get from sleepy little Brunei). 

There's language. I went to international schools, and my Malay is rusty (to say the least). I took local language exams and passed them (even the oral; and I had to talk about globalisation! In Malay! I sometimes wonder if it was rigged) in high school, but I find it difficult to speak in the vernacular. I don't think my thoughts in Malay, so I'm constantly translating in my head before I speak sentences that go beyond basic. (My lack of verbal linguistic ability is not specific to Malay but also covers Arabic, which I studied in university, and which I can read and write MILES better than I can speak.)

There's shared history and culture, or learning about it, or in my case, lack thereof. I didn't study Malaysian history or geography in school. It was only when I moved to KL to work that I appreciated that each state is different and had unique cultures and dialects, and that people generally identified themselves by their states (or neighbourhoods... I still don't think I can ever wrap my head around the concept of neighbourhood pride. When you live in Brunei and 90% of the people you meet live within an hour's drive of where you live, your neighbourhood becomes as much a distinguishing factor as the fact that you have two legs).

I don't know all the words to Negaraku, because I never had to learn it. (I only learned how to sing the Bruneian national anthem as a result of an experimental, miserable-at-first 2 years in a non-international school in Brunei that ended when I won a scholarship to another international school.)

And culturally (if I can define culture in hugely broad strokes as activities and behaviours): yes, there are things that I do that overlap with Malaysian culture (which is itself, again, a hugely broad definition). But there are also other things that I do, and believe, and eat, and drink, and say, that aren't really dictated by or even considered appropriate in my culture.

There's appearance. My mother is crazily mixed and has Arab, Chinese, Dutch, English and Malay ancestry, and as a result, has red hair and looks Caucasian (the first time I heard the term Mat Salleh was when someone asked me if my mother was one). And I am constantly mistaken for Persian, Arab, Chinese (this has happened many times though I'm not sure in what universe an Arab person could also look Chinese), and Eurasian. Sometimes I feel irrationally touchy when complete strangers, who otherwise have absolutely no interest in my life, partake in what I've found is a uniquely Malaysian preoccupation with race. (This is different to when friends, or people who are genuinely trying to get to know me, ask.) I try to get around it by saying I'm Malaysian, but very curious askers will not be deterred, and that response usually leads to "no, really, WHAT are you?". It makes me feel self-conscious and weird, because not only do I feel like I don't blend in, but now I'm being asked to explain WHY I look like I don't blend in. Obviously this isn't the intent of the asker, who has no idea that I reject the idea of race and unfortunately am sensitive about being made to feel like an outsider, but irrational as it may be, that's how I feel.

So... that is the long and convoluted explanation of why I don't really feel Malaysian, whatever being Malaysian means. I don't mean to sound ungrateful, and hope I don't - in this world of arbitrary borders and increasingly paranoid immigration laws, anyone who is a citizen of any nation can count themselves fortunate. But where do you find the roots of patriotism, and how do you begin to love a place more than any other specific place? A shared language or culture? Familiarity? Nostalgia? A sense of belonging?

Because generally, I just... am where I am. My home is where I make it, and I feel like I belong with the people I love. When I was growing up, it was where my family lived, and that happened to be Brunei. Now, it's where my husband is, because we're our own little family of two, and that happens to be Malaysia. The geographic location of the place is just an incidental fact. That's not what makes a place home, to me, and believing that a place is your home is, I think, why people would feel patriotic.

Whenever I think about my apatriotism, I always think of my favourite quote from The English Patient (which I'm going to paste here since I can't think of any other way to end what has become a pretty introspective and extremely meandering essay: sorry). The quote (and the book) is about nationality, countries, national identity, and resisting the idea of being owned by anything - a nation, a person:

We die containing the richness of lovers and tribes, tastes we have swallowed, bodies we have plunged into and swum up as if rivers of wisdom, characters we have climbed into as if trees, fears we have hidden in as if caves. I wish for all this to be marked on my body when I am dead. I believe in such cartography – to be marked by nature, not just to label ourselves on a map like the names of rich men and women on buildings. We are communal histories, communal books. We are not owned or monogamous in our taste or experience. All I desired was to walk upon such an earth that had no maps.