When my son was in his pre-reading stage, he'd always see me reading a book or the newspaper. One victim of his infant jealousy: a torn copy of Neverwhere. Those studies of babies displaying complex emotions are sooo late.
I chose a preschool that had a strong program to help kids develop their reading skills. But my son remembers that institution best as the place where he met his best friend. "He looks like me!" were his words, and soon enough they would be chatting over the phone at 10-to-15 minute stretches. What do 5-year olds talk about when they're not in school? Games, tv shows, jokes, but apparently NEVER about school or homework--kind of like Fight Club.
The audio tapes of stories that I had: Charlie and the Chocolate Factory; The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe--these were his alternatives to long boring afternoons when he'd used up his alloted TV time. Yup, and I'd read to him at bedtime (apparently that acting workshop paid off--I was in demand as an after-dinner performer for an audience of one. Unfortunately, I'm not that great as a poker player, I've been told.)
And the books I'd scrounge from garage sales, or the gifts sent by godmothers (the official and unofficial ones, bless them all) were aids in firing up his imagination.
If there's any downside to all this, it's that I find myself buying more books for him than for myself. But I don't mind, and just see it as an opportunity to read the stuff I wasn't able to find in my school library, like Charlotte's Web or Coraline. It's great to tease him about these stories, like: "You're not done with Charlotte's Web? Don't you know Wilbur gets turned into lechon (roast pig), which turns Fern into an animal activist?" He'd shoot back that he's done with the story, thank you very much, and that he knows "THAT'S not how it ends!" Or better yet, he plays on the same riff and expounds on the joke by saying "Yeah, Fern will be handing out stickers that say 'pigs are friends, not food!'"
And of course there are the inevitable discussions: why Hobbes persists in tormenting Calvin, how a certain protagonist manages to break the spell of Mr. Hood's enchanted home, if the Baudelaire children will ever be free of Count Olaf.
It's times like these I feel like Grendel's mom, saying to myself: I think I've created a monster. (cue thunder and lightning)
Thursday, November 8, 2007
Wednesday, November 7, 2007
the book blog
We have alcoholics, sex addicts, caffeine junkies, adrenaline fiends, shopcrazies, druggies--and booklovers are called by this respectable name: bibliophile. Unfortunately it doesn't mean they're any better than the rest of the lot.
Have you seen the manic energy of seasoned bargain book hunters on the first day of a sale? Scary. Most of them already have a list (in their head, or that scrap of paper), while the more spontaneous ones blitz from one pile of books to the next. I'm somewhere in the latter group, since I have absolutely no idea what'll be going for less than Php100 at the warehouse sale of a bookstore chain. Equally unpredictable: the selections at libraries run by The British Council or Thomas Jefferson Cultural Center, when old stocks were sold off to eager readers, many of whom would arrive early to ensure they'd have the pick of the lot. I've yet to witness a nasty scene akin to those catfights in movies where two women fight over the last dress in their size, maybe because booklovers seem to be a polite lot. The unspoken rule: you hold it, it's yours--let go of it and it is fair game for anyone else to pounce on. And if you don't want bad karma to befall you, never prowl around an unattended shopping basket of books.
Over the years, I'd accumulated so many books without thinking of selling them off or giving them away. My book budget has been cut into so many times, economics being the way they are now, if I were a smoker I'd be puffing through twenty packs of locally-made Winston Lights a month. (Nope, I don't smoke, there was enough of it when I was growing up--I tried my first and last stick at age eight. And there's still enough of it everywhere I go, so why buy your own smokes when you get secondhand for free? Kidding.)
But you grow up and things change. Books have to be sold to pay the bills (and here's where it pays to be OC about selecting a book in very good condition and keeping it that way). You find yourself emailing friends and strangers who will be buying these bargains, while you hope that they'll keep your treasures safe, now that it has become their property. The books that were most difficult for me to part with? My carefully collected Angela Carters and a faux-leather-bound edition of Seasons of Mist, the majority of the former purchased by a friend of a friend (who commented "You must really be in dire straits to sell these off." And I was back then) the latter bought by a dear friend who later had it signed by Neil Gaiman.
There are trade-offs. I've met interesting people through the sale of my books, who have widened my vista in a way some authors hope to do for their readers. And as for the books I've held on to, a certain someone has already begun working his way through the stacks and wants more reading material. He'll be learning the fine art of bargain book hunting soon enough.
Have you seen the manic energy of seasoned bargain book hunters on the first day of a sale? Scary. Most of them already have a list (in their head, or that scrap of paper), while the more spontaneous ones blitz from one pile of books to the next. I'm somewhere in the latter group, since I have absolutely no idea what'll be going for less than Php100 at the warehouse sale of a bookstore chain. Equally unpredictable: the selections at libraries run by The British Council or Thomas Jefferson Cultural Center, when old stocks were sold off to eager readers, many of whom would arrive early to ensure they'd have the pick of the lot. I've yet to witness a nasty scene akin to those catfights in movies where two women fight over the last dress in their size, maybe because booklovers seem to be a polite lot. The unspoken rule: you hold it, it's yours--let go of it and it is fair game for anyone else to pounce on. And if you don't want bad karma to befall you, never prowl around an unattended shopping basket of books.
Over the years, I'd accumulated so many books without thinking of selling them off or giving them away. My book budget has been cut into so many times, economics being the way they are now, if I were a smoker I'd be puffing through twenty packs of locally-made Winston Lights a month. (Nope, I don't smoke, there was enough of it when I was growing up--I tried my first and last stick at age eight. And there's still enough of it everywhere I go, so why buy your own smokes when you get secondhand for free? Kidding.)
But you grow up and things change. Books have to be sold to pay the bills (and here's where it pays to be OC about selecting a book in very good condition and keeping it that way). You find yourself emailing friends and strangers who will be buying these bargains, while you hope that they'll keep your treasures safe, now that it has become their property. The books that were most difficult for me to part with? My carefully collected Angela Carters and a faux-leather-bound edition of Seasons of Mist, the majority of the former purchased by a friend of a friend (who commented "You must really be in dire straits to sell these off." And I was back then) the latter bought by a dear friend who later had it signed by Neil Gaiman.
There are trade-offs. I've met interesting people through the sale of my books, who have widened my vista in a way some authors hope to do for their readers. And as for the books I've held on to, a certain someone has already begun working his way through the stacks and wants more reading material. He'll be learning the fine art of bargain book hunting soon enough.
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