The Historian

I started The Historian by Elizabeth Kostova sometime in October 2005, only to finish it a couple of weeks ago. It is perhaps one of the longest endeavour in book reading for me, although the time is a far cry compared to the 10 years that the author spent in writing the book - not the least bit unenjoyable.

Although there will be readers who will beg to differ, I am sure, I find The Historian a insightful and entertaining story. Certain parts of it can be really slow paced, especially the descriptions of places and people involved as the story unfolds. For me that is one of the magic of this book - it makes me want to know more about places like Romania and Hungary and what not - but not to the torturing effects like that of Tolkien's style.

And I really did not know that Dracula was indeed a real person, though I have had some hints of such a character leaving as a recluse in Transylvania. The real legend is in fact a prince, and bore the infamous name Vlad Tepes, meaning Vlad the Impaler. If you think drinking human blood is gross, wait till you read what the real prince of darkness did during his reign in Wallachia. (Note to PK - you'll love it, you sick bas** ;P)

But what attracted me to Kostova's writing style is that the story is being told consecutively in three different periods of time - the narrator's, her father's, and her father's mentor, spanning a great gap of 4 decades, and how they all seem to converge towards the end. On the other hand, very much like The Shadow of the Wind, what really caught my attention about this book in the very first place is the slight hint of the narrator's relationship with her father, and later with her mother. Unfortunately, I learnt that later that other more engaging events had overshadowed that element, which was under-developed anyway.

In the story, Prof. Rossi said, "Human history is full of evil deeds, and maybe we ought to think of them with tears, not fascination", only to be compounded by Dracula's own words, "History has taught us that the nature of man is evil, sublimely so".

To you, my dear and perceptive reader, perhaps this is worth a ponder.

A Worthy Place to Dream of

As Noodle was having her facial treatment session today, I brought on myself to look for good cafe to spend the next 2 hours or so immersing myself in the book that I am currently reading - The Woman from Rome from the renowned Alberto Moravia. The usual Delifrance was buzzing with people and activity the idea itself was absurb to even think about. Then I found another with the tagline "Passion for Coffee" but the lighting was so bad I could hardly make out the faces among the shadows behind the tables. In the end, I found myself snuggled behind a small table in the hotel's cafe and lounge serving over-priced coffee and cheese cake.

What I would have wanted, ideally, is to walk in a store, whereby the very instant you set foot into the premise, the din from the outside world would vanish suddenly. Then you'll find yourself greeted with the sweet scent of wood, particularly of teak and old pine before being greeted with friendly staff donning dorky caps who can't seem to stop smiling at you while taking down your orders. And while you are waiting for that mug of freshly brewed coffee you just ordered, you turn around to see people comfortably slouching on sofas or on top of bar stools leaning on small round tables, all talking and laughing among themselves.

And before you know it, you catch that familiar whiff of your coffee steaming from your favourite mug being brought up from behind the counter. Beaming, you proceed walk up the stairs directly after the cashier to El Cuarto Silencioso, where you abandon the sounds and excitement of the social lounge and venture past rows and rows of books lazily housed on dark-wood shelves that seem to give off a hint of fresh lavender. And at the very end, you are greeted with book worms like yourself, whose heads are humbly bowed down or hidden behind the books held gently by their hands. With a sigh of relief and sense of familiarity, as if you have found your niche, you let yourself settled beside the huge window overlooking the city skyline still wet with drizzling rain, and help yourself with a very small sip of the coffee you have been keeping from your lips. After all, you won't want to finish it off too soon as there is still plenty of time before you actually finishes the book you brought with you, if that.

But of course, there is no such place in existence yet. Not in the part of my country that I know of. And that, if it ever come to pass at all, shall be one of my dreams to achieve and savour - a place born from my imagination and love for words printed on diffrent kinds and grades of paper, all the same bearing all the wonderful stories that have enriched my life, and that of many, many others. A place to call my own, a secret hide-away, indeed, to break away or to gather, and most importantly to romance with the prose.

Researchers

After finishing The Historian (finally...!), I got down to thinking a bit. So over dinner yesterday, I told Noodle:

There are generally two kinds of researchers - scientists are those who try to take a glimpse at the future, while historians are those who look into the past. Both share the same aim, that is to uncover some truths.

Noodle thought about what I said, and then added:

And artists and philosophers are those who preserve the present, especially when the society is under attack.

How true... God I love this woman. *Muaks