For most of the days, when boredom strikes, I do what Virginia Woolf says to pull you out of an idle reverie: read.
Just this week, I read the 150th novel in my life. Others are kept in order behind my head, while some are lagged files below a thick sheaf of forgotten thoughts. Most of these books haven’t really seen the light of day—they stick out for quite sometime, then just go vamoosh. Gone.
Some of these books however, thanks to accolades of all sorts, are worth piling on a comfortable thread in the mind. These novels are penned by writers who got critical and commercial acclaims. Writers who, in the truest sense of art, are people who wish to go beyond what the conventional and the “modern” brings while being behind with their rent.
My 150th is one of the best I ever read, thankfully. I wouldn’t like to waste the figure flat-150 on something not worth it after all. It’s Mrs. Dalloway by Virginia Woolf (Hint is on the first line, dear). It was my report for my English Literature course, and since I haven’t finished the novel came report time, I clicked on SparkNotes for the summary and got the report over with. But last night, after Finals, I pulled the manuscript and read it to the last word. Trivia: Mrs Dalloway and To The Lighthouse by V. Woolf are in the Top 100 Best Books of All Time by TIME. I didn’t fully understand it (Woolf has a way with figurative speech), but I am very happy to have read the 150th. Not definitely my last, but very memorable.
I started my love affair with books after I perused the ones my aunts and parents read at home. My first crushes were John Grisham, Sidney Sheldon, Don DeLillo, and a great deal of biographers (my dad is into non-fic). Sorry, I haven’t read a lot of Danielle Steele nor Nora Roberts, and if you are to condemn me for not being a well-rounded reader, no thanks. I’ve read a lot of loves to let me go a lifetime: Nicholas Sparks, Sophia Kinsella, and (you might gasp and aaaarrrggh and puke) Stephenie Meyer.
Whenever someone spots me or other readers out there (hi, family), they would always say that there are more worthwhile things to do than open a book and decipher the words. If it springs from insecurity or disgust, I don’t know. But living here in the Philippines, to be a reader is usually to be mayabang. Tignan mo siya oh, nagmamakagaling nanaman. Nagbabasa sa jeep, parang naiiintindihan naman daw niya. I heard this already, mind you. And the best thing I always do when I meet people like this is to smile at them while I bring my glasses out. Part Two will erupt. May grado ba ‘yong glasses niya? To which I would tilt my head so they can look past through it, and see a change in the sight. Mighty losers.
Most of the time, reading is also regarded as criteria of intelligence. The plus size? You get to be the leader for group works, for activities, and everyone thinks you can eat anyone who enters the quiz bee alongside you. The negative? We are reading FICTION pipoooool. We can give you a story or an author or a book review, but reading novels doesn’t mean that we know what is the capital of Zimbabwe? (Although for this matter, we thank Sheldon and answer HARARE!)
I know you have your own story but reading is a curse here in the Philippines. Although we thank the Congress for axing the tax on books, we thank other non-readers more for making a big fuzz about the things we open and read. Books can be read in a week—if read bottoms up, a day will suffice—although you can read Ira Levin for 2 hours. Moms can rage over us for wasting our time, but don’t worry. As long as you are reading it for what it’s worth, for reading it for yourself and your world, you’re making the right choice. Just be sure to step out off the pages.
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Thanks to Chloe, Ate Ria, Bobby, Danielle, Carl, Corelle, Ate Rai, Ate MJ, Kuya Bon, and Carlo for the book-trades, book donations, and book list recommendations. I know you guys have gone past 150. :*
