"Blindness" by José Saramago

I like José Saramago.

For a Nobel Prize winner (1998), he kind of fades into the periphery of the literary field of vision. For what he lacks in public image, he surely makes up for in voice and confidence. "Blindness" is the third Saramago book I have read in some six or seven years, and I feel like I gained a lot of perspective on his allure. His style is powerful, he's patient, he's rhythmic, he evokes emotion in a prose devoid of it, and he convinces the reader that, as a writer, he's a nothing short of a pro.

I would have to characterize the literary "ism" José Saramago assumes through his work as "rational-humanistic neo-naturalism". (Ha! I made that up, of course) What I mean by that (if anything) is that a reader of "Blindness" gets the perspective of a sensitive but quotidian person that is faced with a brutal, bitter-sweet existence. The characters feel like real people that face unspeakably tragic circumstances (life). The characters are essentially human in the sense that they persevere and are resilient, but the contemporary world they find themselves in is sick and flat and somewhat pathetic. In this bleak world of of our collective making, individuals inject a trace of beauty and emotion, and that is our worth.

I initially saw the plot of this book as a bit hokey, since it revolves around a single plot device. Essentially, "Blindness" is the story of an unnamed city (or maybe country or even maybe the whole world; we don't know) that is struck by a sudden pandemic of "white blindness". Well, as you may have guessed, this means that the population suddenly loses their vision to a flood of white light. And as you may have also guessed, one character alone retains her vision and is tasked with "leading the blind". That is about as far as the assumptions will take you in this book.

Through a cadenced and flowing prose, Saramago follows a group of everyday people as they are struck by the blindness, as they are taken to an army quarantine and left to fend for themselves in a "Lord of the Flies" type of environment, and as they escape back into a post apocalyptic world of lost, wandering, filthy, and horrified blind people. The modern infrastructure and civilization devolves into a sh*t covered cement landscape of disease and hunger. Destination-less denizens wander in search of food, shelter, and lost pasts. With the lone seer as their guide and protector, a small group of unnamed main characters (they were the first to go blind and the government tried to isolate those infected with the "bacteria") cope with the partial existence they are left with. The story is part horror, part apocalypse, part realisism, and all allegory. I hope this sets the tone for you well enough to have piqued your interest. Trust me, there are some memorable scenes.

I saw so much of so many other literary works in this book, too. Primarily, the book is at once evocative of Hemingway, Kafka, and (Cormac) McCarthy. It is efficient and powerful, conversational (in a literary prose sense), and is such a pleasure to read. Like "The Road" by McCarthy (see below post), the book observes the human spirit in the face of utter destruction. Like Kafka (anything really, but specifically "The Castle"), the sentence and paragraph structures run on and on and on like the momentum of a giant lead ball. Like Hemingway, we feel the passion of existence in hearty verse. And I even felt like "Blindness" in some way mirrored another book of Saramago's, "The Cave". Similarly, a band of individuals is faced with a world of modern dread, and they even both discover the heart of evil in an underground room (neat, huh!). Even with the constant comparisons I was coming up with in my head, the book consistently stands on its own and is a worthy story.

Themes in this book are not limited to the following: parables and maxims ("sententious" is a word I learned in this book), civilization, chaos, communism, the power of language, morality, filth/waste, wandering, the fragility of our world(s), reliance, shame (well, emotion in general), coping, and philosophy. Though this all may sound rather drab, remember: art is sometimes just a really beautiful reflection of our true existence. Actually, that's even more drab...

In any event, this book was a good read, and I look forward to seeing the movie version with Jodie Foster (that's right! from "Contact"!). When I see it I will let you know, but until then:

"Just as the habit does not make the monk, the scepter does not make the king" - pg 209

"Just like everything else in life, let time take its course and it will find a solution." - pg 241

"But none of us, lamps, dogs, or humans, knows at the outset, why we have come into this world." - pg 274

"A glass of water is a marvelous thing." - pg 276

"Keep what is of no use at the moment, and later you will find what you need." - pg 288

"Infinite Jest" by David Foster Wallace

Unfortunately, I have not been able to finish any books recently, because I have been busy with some... stuff. But, fear not! I will pull one out of the "archives" (as they say). I wrote this one on November 5th, 2008. I consider this book one of the most satisfying I have ever read. Bow your heads in reverence:
"Infinite Jest" by David Foster Wallace

Wallace definitely put together something unique here. As a whole, this book pretty much stands alone (at least I have difficulty finding good analogues and comparisons to the entire work). It just has so much in it. The book is HUGE, meandering, funny, complex, entertaining, misleading, explorative, scattered and stunted, self-conscious, fucked-up, and wholly captivating. It's commendable for an author to construct such a voluminous and exhausting book (1,100 pages including 100 pages of notes) that is thoroughly and consistently engaging. I was anticipating a frustrating and tedious amount of work to get through it, but I gotta say I enjoyed it at all times. Finished it in less than 4 weeks, which for me, is incredible.

It's really tough to decide where to start discussing the book. I guess, for me, it's important to begin by saying this is a truly contemporary work that sponged up and excreted our American culture in truly awesome literary fashion. In the way Joyce captured turn-of-the-century Dublin, Wallace is purely turn of the 21st century American. Eschatology, depravity, politics, language, consumerism, entertainment, drug culture, advertising and marketing, gratification, isolation, depression, artificiality, pop culture, disassociation: this book is American.

In a really dark and ironic way, this book is hilarious, too. I think the enduring image I will not be allowed to let go of is when Hal walks into the house where his alcoholic/depressed dad just committed suicide by microwaving his own head until it exploded and he thinks, "Gee! Something really smells good!". I laughed out loud. This book is funny in the way that our people deal with our culture today: in a sort of disassociated, flippant, pragmatic and ridicule-filled reaction to a severely fucked-up world. I guess that's humanity, though. You find a way to cope.

One aspect of the book I found to be of particular interest was the idea of the Entertainment: the video cartridge so terribly entertaining that it incapacitates its viewer until they die. That was an awesome literary creation. Wallace used it really well, too. It was vague and dark and interest piquing, and it was the touchstone for a lot of discrete characters and plot lines. I found myself hoping for this topic to re-arise throughout the book, just waiting for another hint or explanation of what it was, how it worked, etc. (ironic and purposeful, I'm sure).

Here's the thing about this book: I feel that this oh-so-short blog posting is insufficient. It does the work no justice. I would be more than happy to discuss the book with you, as I believe the only way to truly communicate my impression of it is through a long, involved, and sometimes firey conversation. It's that good.

The only thing is, I'm not sure how much I would encourage others to read it (maybe Nate?).

"House of Leaves" by Mark Z. Danielewski

I have to admit that the first time I cracked open House of Leaves, I was sitting on the toilet at a friends house. Honestly, I just can't go #2 without reading something. Well, it only took the requisite 5.5 minutes for me to realize that this book was different than most. I was shocked by the seemingly erratic text, blank pages, footnotes upon footnotes upon footnotes, spiraling patterns, and sporadically colored fonts. “What the eff is this thing?” I scoffed.

Obviously, I didn't figure it out in my 5.5 minutes of peace. The one thing I was absolutely convinced of, though, was that no matter what the book was, none of my friends would ever tackle that chaotic, bizarre, and (no doubt) indecipherable tome. When I exited the bathroom, I immediately walked over to my friend Paco and promptly explained to him that I was completely sure that, in no-matter-how-many years, none of our friends would ever read that book. None of them, ever.

Thank you Chad for revealing both my naïveté and the awesomeness of this book. First off, three of my friends had already read the damn thing (Lacey, Nate, and Chad). Secondly, they all have (now demonstrated) good taste in literature. House of Leaves is an underestimated jewel of a book.

The first thing any reader of House of Leaves would have to notice is the bizarre layout. This book is an example of (what I subsequently learned to be called) ergodic literature. That is, the author experiments with and

utilizes

bizarre and innovative

layouts

and

structures .

House of Leaves exercises the 'fourth dimension' of literature. That is, style, format, color, orientation, shapes, schemas, and the visual composition of the text all contribute to the work in their unusual ways. Though off-putting and seemingly random at first, you quickly come to realize when reading this book that the author not only purposefully sculpted every bizarre turn, but also did so with an unanticipated and fantastic acumen. The layout of the text parallels and enhances the actions, themes, ideas, environments, pathos, and states of mind that are being communicated in House of Leaves. The author masterfully manipulates the text into complex patterns to match his equally complex world. As the author writes on page 71, “Incoherent – yes. Without meaning – I'm afraid not.”

And as the reader discovers, this book has so much more to offer than just a new, kooky way to lay out text. The layout is just the visual manifestation of this book's consciousness. First off, the author employs complex and inventive layered points of view. From first person, to second person, to third person, to editorial, to meta-editorial, to documentarial, and to innumerable other perspectives, this story is told from all angles. It is a cool twist on telling a story. Also, the writing styles in this book are as multifarious as you would find in Ulysses or the Bible. Danielewski samples from and parodies everything: journaling, documentary, horror story, mystery, personal correspondence, academia, psychological studies, movie scripts, endless lists, religious epistles, mystic ramblings, philosophical ponderings, historical snippets, and on and on. Reading this book is refreshingly interactive because you are constantly switching gears, turning the book upside down, skipping sections, and flipping back and forth between appendices and exhibits. To be sure, the text requires a fairly disciplined focused, but rewards you with an engaging, dynamic rhythm.

One thing that needs to be said is that, regardless of how complicated this book seems at times, the whole thing comes together so beautifully and is designed with such attentiveness that the end result is surprisingly digestible for the reader. Where I would be more reticent to suggest, say, Infinite Jest or Gravity's Rainbow to most people, House of Leaves proves itself to have that desirable balance between substance/power and accessibility. Though certainly not for the uncommitted, House of Leaves appears a lot more intimidating than it turns out to be. This is a good thing, I think.

Meanwhile, this book takes the reader on an in-depth and in-yo-face exploration of mental illness, suicide, drug addiction, paranoia, abuse, pain, obsession, love, familial disfunction, cult followings, the inevitable end, and the basic fear that lives deep in all of us. We get to peek into the dark recesses of the mind with a critical (and kind of funny) magnifying glass.

A major concept in House of Leaves is that of the Labyrinth. Both in narrative and layout, the reader follows a maze, complete with dead ends and a sense of disorientation, through the lives of the characters. Searching deeper, exploring further into the labyrinth, the maze, the house, and the characters pushes the searcher deeper into one's self, closer to themselves, finding unexplored parts of their minds and being. The characters themselves react to this introspective journey in a variety of ways (mostly, not so well...). Some characters psychiatrically devolve, some turn to existential crutches, some are scarred, some kill, and some die. In any event, this journey to the center of the Labyrinth is a critical event in life. I suppose the reader is supposed to transpose this explorative/revelatory theme upon themselves, but what will you discover?

I will say just one last thing and then let you be on your way. One method that Danielewski employs really well in House of Leaves is to blur the line between reality and imagination. Throughout the book, it is suggested to the reader that aspects of the story are based on real-world facts. I realize that I haven't at all explained the plot of the book in this review, but trust me, it would be futile at this point. Suffice it to say that Danielewski toys with the concept of fact/fiction, real/unreal. Like the movie Adaptation, the War of the Worlds broadcast, or the Blair Witch Project, the reader walks away from House of Leaves with this eerie sense of possibility. Maybe the House really exists? Maybe Zampano really wrote that manuscript? Maybe this text is a crazy amalgam of fact and fiction, and maybe I am a part of it's evolution? Let's hope note!!!

Quotes:

“ This not only applies to the house but to the film itself. From the outset of The Navidson Record, we are involved in a labyrinth, meandering from one celluloid cell to the next, trying to peek around the next edit in hopes of finding a solution, a centre, a sense of whole, only to discover another sequence, leading in a completely different direction, a continually devolving discourse, promising the possibility of discovery while all along dissolving into chaotic ambiguities too blurry to ever completely comprehend.” - 114

“I have no idea whether it's on purpose or not. Sometimes I'm certain it is. Other times I'm sure it's just one big f*cking train wreck.” - 149

“This is not for you.” - the first page of the introduction

"The Road" by Cormac McCarthy

Aha! Now I understand why everyone makes such a big deal of Cormac McCarthy! Is is because he is, in fact, a big deal. When I read "All the Pretty Horses" last year, I was a bit underwhelmed. Though I enjoyed it, I had my qualms with the book and grew slightly skeptical of Cormac McCarthy's reputation as a badass. It would be an understatement to say that, with "The Road", McCarthy flipped my wig.

From the very first page, "The Road" rendered me helpless and gasping under its surprising power. This book is something special. It's superbly thought out, painfully controlled, emotionally exhausting, it challenges, it stuns with beauty, and you will never have read anything like it. The book has a sense of eternity to it; it makes you feel as if it has always been out there, and you knew it, and by reading it you are just now fully realizing it. Possibly because the story is so fundamental, so archetypal, and simultaneously so shocking and out-there that, though you suspected it, you are still flabbergasted by its absurd voltage.

Okeedoke. That's enough of that. Let's venture some specifics:


"The Road" is the story of a father and son journeying across a desolate, post-apocalyptic landscape with an uncertain destination. Whatever horrific catastrophe that scorched the Earth and all its cities occurred some many years ago, and now, the burnt, sterile land grows cold under the thick layer of ubiquitous smog. The only survivors wander the land starving and scared, save for the roaming gangs of desperate cannibals. We watch as the unnamed father and son live out their hopeless lives and endure twisted incident after twisted incident. In the face of horror, their human spirit pushes them on. This is the story of their wandering.

An analogy -
Cormac McCarthy : authors :: the guy with a natural skill for smartly fitting a huge quantity of luggage into a small trunk : luggage packers
On both the macro and the micro levels, Cormac McCarthy is an author with the oft-underestimated skill of efficiency. He's not like yours truly who fritters away the readers time with obfuscating pleonasm. Oh, no! He's actually good. On the macro scale, the (relatively short) book as a whole works on a number of different levels: we have a travel tale, an apocalypse story, a book of existential philosophy, sci-fi, a grail myth, a warning, a discussion of man's moral foundations, post-modernism, and a unique twist on the meaning of love. On the micro level, I cannot think of another author short of Hemingway that so capably and elegantly wrings so much out of every single sentence. There isn't a wasted word in the book. With a deceptively detached and slow cadence, every phrase is masterfully manipulated for maximum impact. Like a surgeon who uses tiny, specific tools to work miracles.

I think this book would rightfully fall into the "Horror" section of a book store. Above all else that impressed me about this book, never in my life have I ever read a book that gave me the heebiejeebies like "The Road". Terrifying imagery, ungodly incidents, a sense of worldly dread, and the darkest possible perspective on our collective fate (save the ending) all combine in this work of pure horror. I made the mistake of starting this book at 12:30 am, and did not calm myself to sleep until the sun came up... and I'm not easily scared. There are scenes from "The Road" I will never forget.

And, like most of my favorite books, "The Road" is capable of juxtaposing a sense of startling beauty against the darkness. Above all, the relationship between the boy and the father is particularly awesome. Their love is founded on simple interdependence, the fusion of their two worlds into a single shared experience, and absolute trust. The interplay between their characters is truly touching. In the face of total loss and complete devastation, they persist together. Also, through the murk of desolation and wrath, "The Road" shines a beacon. There is something vaguely alluded to about the boy and what he represents that sparks possibility in the mind of the reader. I believe McCarthy purposefully left this aspect of the book open and inconclusive, but there is certainly something with potential in this boy that has yet to manifest. And finally, there exists a nuanced beauty in the simple grace with which the author describes his fallen world. Mesmerizing.

All in all, this was one of the most inventive, impressive, and moving books I have had the pleasure to read in quite some time. From the very beginning, I felt compelled by this book. A twisted, smart ride along the edges of humanity.

Now that I have made you salivate like the dogs you are, I will reward you with the meat: my selection of quotes from Cormac McCarthy's "The Road".

"The ashes of the late world carried on the bleak and temporal winds to and fro in the void." pg 8

"Creedless shells of men tottering down the causeways like migrants in a feverland. The frailty of everything revealed at last. Old and troubling issues resolved into nothingness and night." 28

"Where you've nothing else construct ceremonies out of the air and breathe upon them." 74

"Where men cant live gods fare no better. You'll see. It's better to be alone." 172

"Perhaps in the world's destruction it would be possible at last to see how it was made. Oceans, mountains. The ponderous counterspectacle of things ceasing to be. The sweeping waste, hydroptic and coldly secular. The silence." 274

Scared yet? You should be.

A thousand splendid words on "A Thousand Splendid Suns" by Khaled Hosseini

With the publication of his first and only other novel, "The Kite Runner", Khaled Hosseini penetrated the literary scene only 6 years ago. As it rose to the top of the best seller lists, "The Kite Runner" brought Hosseini fame and recognition to American readers. When his highly anticipated follow up book "A Thousand Splendid Suns" was released in 2007, he was confirmed as a significant and unique voice in contemporary fiction. Though I have seen the film adaptation of "The Kite Runner", I haven't read it. I liked the movie though, and when I found "A Thousand Splendid Suns" on sale for $5 at the splendid St. Louis Book Fair, I said 'what the hey?'. Read on:


I suppose the first thing that must be said is that Khaled Hosseini is Afghani. He hales from Afghanistan (go ahead. don't be embarrassed. go look it up and find out where it is. I'll wait...). You might have heard a little something in the news about a war in some obscure country in the middle of Asia. Ring a bell? Well, that's Afghanistan. Trust me, I am no Afghanologist myself. I think most Americans could give a rat's ass about the poor place, and its just so confusing. Well, it turns out that some interesting, sad, and unbelievable things have happened there over the last 50 years. Both of Hosseini's books are based on Afghani people weathering the strange and dramatic twists of their country's history, and this proves to be fairly educational to the reader.

Afghanistan is one of those pitiable victims of the Age of Superpowers. As it is located at the crux of the world, the place has ebbed and flowed on the whim of conquerors for millennia. It's not really a new thing, but the political unrest that has plagued the nation since the Soviets invaded during the Cold War has proved extraordinarily damaging. Afghanistan's people, economy, agriculture, culture, and history have all suffered tremendously as the country has been abandoned and conquered by horrific forces these past decades. Though I can't say I understood or remembered all of the factoids about the country's history that Hosseini dumps into this novel, I can say that the historical knowledge and context that he gives us enhances the appeal of this book greatly. It was a critical aspect to the book, in my opinion.

"A Thousand Splendid Suns" is the intertwined tales of two Afghani women that follow different paths in life, both equally brutal. As the Communists leave the country and the power vacuum is filled with increasingly archaic and draconian rulers, their lives and their country spiral down in a double helix of horror. Oppressive phallocentrism, fascist dogma, misogyny, injustice, and a sense of international invisibility plague the lives of these people. Through the characters' sad lives and their crystal clear understanding of their world, this book criticizes all the tragedy that results from their history. The book is a clear statement on women's rights, fanatical religion, the farce of politics, poverty, the significance of history/art, and love.

The story line in this book is riveting, fast moving, and is ready made for a movie. Much like "The Kite Runner," there is a clear intention from the beginning that this is movie material. And I guess that is where my first criticism will take root. As much as I enjoyed it and found insight and beauty in this book, it is clearly a bestselling, page-turning, Hollywood wet dream. At times, I felt like I was reading "The DaVinci Code" or something (sorry Hosseini, I know that was harsh). It doesn't necessarily discredit the book, but it does make the story line more predictable and lessens the literary seriousness of work. Ah, well.

All in all, the book was a gripping, fast, emotional, and compelling read, and I would certainly suggest it to a select portion of my friends and family. If anything, take the 3 hours needed to read it just to find out a little more about the tortured but dignified people of Afghanistan. The book really did help me understand and empathize with their history, and I figure, if my country is bombing a place, I should at least try to learn something about it. Right?

Quote time!!
"Learn this now and learn it well, my daughter: Like a compass needle that points north, a man's accusing finger always finds a woman. Always."

"One could not count the moons that shimmer on her roofs, or the thousand splendid suns that hide behind her walls." -from an ancient poem about Kabul

"The only enemy an Afghan cannot defeat is himself."

"An American Dream" by Norman Mailer

I had bought this book sometime ago, put it on my shelf, and forget about it immediately. I had never read a Norman Mailer book before, and though the name was well known to me, I was completely unfamiliar with both his life and his works. As an introduction to the legendary career of one of American history's truly epic characters, "An American Dream" was a real kick in the pants. Having possessed no context for the tone of the book, I was a little shocked. This book is offensive! And, if you are familiar at all with my tastes in art, you would know I appreciate offensive.

If you didn't know, now you know: Norman Mailer is one of the bad dudes of the 20th century. After finishing his book, I had to go Wikipedia him. The dude lived one helluva life. Raised in Brooklyn, Mailer attended Harvard University, fought in WWII in the Philippines, co-founded the Village Voice, won the Pulitzer Prize twice and the National Book Award, stabbed one of his 6 wives with a penknife in the middle of a party, and helped parole a convicted killer who, 6 weeks later, killed another victim. He fought many demons in his day, and it is often said that the main character in "An American Dream", Stephen Rojack, is somewhat autobiographical. That is not a good thing for Norman Mailer, I must say.

"An American Dream" is all about one guy: Stephen Rojack. A denizen of dismal New York City, Rojack is a decorated WWII vet, an ex-congressman, a university professor, a TV personality, and an all around successful society type. When he married the wicked, influential, and matronly Deborah, he married the only daughter of the billionaire boss-man Oswald Barney Kelly. When he killed Deborah by strangling her and then dumping her body out of a highrise, he married the filthy, haunted fate of a sick man.

The story opens with the story of how Rojack, during a German battle in WWII, maniacally and robotically stormed a defended hill and blew up 4 enemy gunmen, thereby defending his troop and conquering the day. The significance of that experience resonates throughout the rest of the story. We find connected thoughts and emotions, and small rememberences of the day he first killed. It may even be suggested that this experience dramatically effects Rojack's morality and sense of superstition. I say this because everything that happens subsequently is a delerious nightmare.

This book is dark. Really dark for its publication in 1965. This book is dedicated to chronicling about 2 days in the recent life of Stephen Rojack, and the man is truly a monster. A raging alcoholic, a liar, a killer, a psychotic, and a nymphomaniac, the man is governed by forces he cannot come to grips with. He is a puppet, and a wacked-out puppet at that. He is extraordinarily superstitous and places his fate in ritual, he lives out the moral battle between God and Satan, he is capricious and controlled by his vascillating moods, and he always makes the wrong choice. The man's breath reeks of cigarettes, gin, and hate. I was often reminded of pulp fiction writing in this book. Rojack and the other characters have this sharp, disturbed, obscuring animation to them, and the rainy, grimy city sets the perfect stage for a noir ambience. The zietgiests of the time manifest in a reversed ethos of greed, perversity, disease, and evil. And it's clear in this book that the richer and more powerful man, the more violent the fight for their morality.

Several works came to mind while reading "An American Dream". First of all, I can't help but think Bret Easton Ellis had this book in mind when he wrote "American Psycho". Beyond the title, Ellis's book mimicks many similar themes: violence, death, compulsion, indulgence, grim powers operating under the surface, the state of our culture, and pandemic phsychosis. The level of sickness and the personal narrative perspective also connect the two works. Also, I thought of Jack Kerouac and Cormac MacCarthy towards the end.

The title of this book suggests a couple of things. First off, the whole book has a very palpable dream-like quality. It's hazy, amnesiac, evocative, and lethargic. Nightmarish. Also, it suggests that, if the "successful" characters in the book have acheived the "American Dream", then how effed up is that? And, just as a juxtaposition to the entire work, "An American Dream" just drips with satire. A good working title, in my opinion.

One thing is for sure: Norman Mailer is a writer of immense talent. At 265 pages, this book just zooms along with a virtuoso's elegance. There are passages in this book that just sweep you up and zone you out. With thriftiness and savagery, Mailer delivers a brutal round-house punch to the cranium with a velvet gloved fist. Enchanting and haunting simultaneously.

I have to be honest, though. As I closed the book upon finishing it and set it on the table, I realized I was missing something. This happens to every reader out there from time to time, I think. Your conception of the book just feels unfinished, even though the book itself is through. Well, sure, I thought this book was satisfying in many ways, but due to the stratospheric heights on which this book operates, it's tough to keep your feet on the ground towards the end. (Take this as a challenge, and not a negative review).

Read it, but use discretion.

Quote: "Then I was caught. For I wanted to escape from that intelligence which let me know of murders in one direction and conceive of visits to Cherry from the other, I wanted to be free of magic, the tongue of the Devil, the dread of the Lord, I wanted to be some sort of rational man again, nailed tight to details, promiscuous, reasonable, blind to the reach of the seas. But I could not move." pg 255

"Dune" by Frank Herbert

Let's start it off hot today: The cover of this book reads, "Science Fiction's Supreme Masterpiece". Supreme Masterpiece?!! That's a fairly lofty qualification for a book I purchased for $1 at a garage sale. I had heard about this book many times before, and in reference, it always piqued my curiosity. Originally published in 1965, Dune begins an epic and quite famous series of books entitled (of course) The Dune Chronicles. As the cover of the book states, the original is often considered one of the finest examples of science fiction ever written. In fact, Arthur C. Clarke himself can only find one other comparable work in the genre, and that is The Lord of the Rings. That's a lot of baggage, no? Well, I finished the book last night at about midnight, and with 535 pages, 2 Appendices, 1 glossary, and a map, the book has a great deal of fictitious information in it. Chew on this:


In a phrase, stunning and way, way ahead of its time. It took me a while to get into (largely due to the tremendous amount of esoteric terminology), and I wasn't initially too impressed, but when when it took hold, it latched on. Much like all good science fiction (for which, I am admittedly a novice), this book sucks in every drop of humanity out there, and spits it out in a new, outlandish, imaginative, thoughtful, and beautiful form. This book has powerful imagery, unique characters, highfalutin philosophy, an immense and bizarre fictional world, and everything else a good book should have.

The events in this book take place in a universe that is (presumably) very distant in our future. Many thousands of years from now (if their scale matches to ours, around 10,000 AD), human beings have evolved into an intergalactic species that inhabits many, many planets throughout the universe. There are many references to a distant past similar to ours, on a home planet stricken with a great deal of problems (religious wars, artificial intelligence, and atomic weapons), and some of these issues persist in a slightly altered fashion. Now, this universe is ruled by the omnipotent Emperor and the many Ducal Houses ("ducal" is the adjective form of "duke", FYI). These forces compete for power, with a handful of other powerful agencies at play as well; The Guild (who monopolizes the space travel industry and is therefore extremely powerful and fickle), several ancient religious and spiritual societies, and a large corporation that refines and distributes a bizarre drug known as "spice". In many ways, the story centers around this "spice" and the forces that get caught up in it's wake. Spice is an addictive mind expander that allows the user to see across time and space. The spice is a byproduct of a large worm creature indigenous to the planet Dune (ha! title!).

At the beginning of the book, we find that one of the Ducal Houses has been reassigned from their home planet to the arid, desert planet of Dune to take control of the production company. Well, that's all fine and dandy, but guess what! The old ruler (who happens to be the arch enemy of the new Duke) is reluctant to give up such a ridiculously powerful resource, and there are many ulterior motivations going on, from the Emperor all the way down. When the noble Duke Atriedes moves onto the planet, he envisions change that would benefit the local desert inhabitants (known as Fremen) and a new life for his son Paul and concubine Jessica (a member of the ancient witch-like Bene Gesserit order). As you can imagine, not all goes as planned, and Paul is forced to live out a fate thousands of generations in the making. That's the boiled down goop of the story.

What I love about this book is the unique interpretation Herbert has on what will rule the future: essentially, same old crap!! The forces that work in this book are essentially the same forces that have ruled humans forever: political power, religion, business and profits, drugs, and fate. Of course, in this book, they all operate on a scale like nothing we have seen, but its all there. These people look into their distant pasts, and lessons learned about culture (the problems of artificial intelligence, atomic weaponry, ecology, etc.) morph over time into religious or spiritual dogma. Power is consolitdated amongst the regal few, is fought over viciously, and the vast portion of humanity suffers from it. And, most central to this book, politics is a game only few can win at, and it is played ever so serriptitiously.

Really, Herbert put a huge amount of thought into every aspect of this universe and its history. It so detailed, so well planned out, and just pulls in everything we got. Themes include politics, the nature and manipulation of time/space, spiritualism, tradition, adventure, environmentalism and ecology, art, relationships, power, technology, slavery, history, philosophy,and a whole lot more.

Anyhow. I almost find it exhausting to discuss/write about this book because it is so... exhaustive. For anybody interested in reading one of the best books the scifi genre has to offer, start with this. Pretty amazing.

Two quotes for ya:

"The concept of progress acts as a protective mechanism to shield us from the terrors of the future." (321)

"Deep in the human unconscious is a pervasive need for a logical universe that makes sense. But the real universe is always one step beyond logic." (373)

Be safe out there!!

PS There was a movie made of this book, too. Supposedly a classic.

"Perdido Street Station" by China Mieville

Starting to write a review of this book is like deciding to fix the health-care system in this country: where the eff do I start? This book just has so much going on in it.



For starters, "Perdido Street Station" is the first installment of China Mieville's sci-fi/fantasy/steam-punk trilogy set in the world of Bas-Lag. Got that? No? Let's back up a hair and define steam-punk. From what I gather, steam-punk is an artistic motif (not really limited to the literary world) characterized by anachronistic Victorian style, the incongruous and inexplicable dominance of analogue mechanics and steam power, and the existence of fantastic, quasi-magical technologies that tend to empower rebellion. To this already effervescent mix, Mieville adds traditional fantasy elements, an inventive array of sentient beings, compelling story-telling, cultural critique, wacky imagery, dystopian aesthetics, and a powerful depiction of the horrific and imaginative setting: the city of New Crobuzon in the world of Bas-Lag.

What I like about this book is what, I think, a lot of people don't understand about the fantasy/sci-fi genre. This other-world of literature has so much to offer. It (and by the vague pronoun "it" I mean both this particular book and the genre "it" represents) is refreshingly unique, it incorporates so much from the gamut of human experience, it can be extremely compelling reading (like when you start to not do other things in your life so you have more time to read your book), and it is a literary art-form with loving, dedicated artists working in virtual obscurity for a small but equally loving audience. Done right, sci-fi/fantasy can be really high value literature. "Perdido Street Station", though bizarre and off-center, offers the reader a feast of humanity. And though, put that way, it sounds really disgusting, that's what literature should do. It should communicate humanity. What's doubly incredible and why I find it so inventive is that the story, characters, and setting are so distant from all reality while still pertaining to our real world!!

I don't think it would be too valuable to try to synopsize the plot for you here, but let's just say it involves an outcast flightless bird-man creature attempting to recapture flight after having his winds sawed off, a pseudo-scientist with a taboo inter-species sexual orientation working on a "crisis energy engine", a group of unimaginably horrific, dream-sucking, mesmerizing moths terrorizing the city, a mob boss/drug kingpin constructed from multifarious animal grafts, and an inter-dimensional spider-being who maintains the World Web. The plot is complicated and meandering enough that to get it, you would just have to read it. Read it.

I think my favorite part of this book, though, is the rendering of the setting: New Crobuzon. Like a dark, futuristic, bastard version of New York, this sprawling, dirty, dark, towering, convoluted, corrupt, and diverse world capitol just comes alive under Mieville's direction. It was so well constructed in the book, I felt like I lived in this other-worldly locale. Really cool.

If I had to have one complaint about the book, it would be that the story kind of floundered for a bit there in the middle section, and that the book was a bit longer than it needed to be (at 622 pages). I was happy to deal with these minor issues, though.

As I said earlier, this book is simply the first novel in a trilogy. The ending of this book threw me for a twist, and it left the story really well poised to continue. Pretty much all of the main characters survive and move on in unexpected directions.

In conclusion, I look forward to reading the next two books, "Iron Council" and "The Scar". China Mieville also has a new book out, "The City and The City", which I will also read. So much to do...

And, as I like to do at this point, I will offer you one excerpt from the book. A quote, if you will. This particular one does not represent the story, nor does it have any universal appeal. I just like the way it sounds, and I believe it offers a feel for the book as a whole. From page 199:

"A slow kaleidoscope of mutation and violence, petty wars fought between unfathomable monstrosities over no-man's-lands of shifting slag and nightmare architecture."

PS Allow me to thank my friend Owen from Ireland for the rad suggestion.

A Phoenix Rises

This is the first posting in the rebirth of my blog. For the tiny percentage of my already minuscule group of readers who have, much beyond my comprehension, decided to return to share in this particular manifestation, thank you, and may God have mercy on your souls. Fair warning: if before you were disgusted with my self-indulgence, ill humor, narcissism, ad nauseam descriptions, and obfuscating circumlocution (now that's meta-irony!), then just walk away. Like now. And do not turn back. This is much worse than any pillar of salt.

Now, I would have posted here much earlier, but as I have been very busy with the rigamarole in my little corner of our little universe and the fact that the last two books I have read were unworthy, this is it. Just so you are up-to-date: returned from South America, new computer, an ailing grandparent who passed away (may she rest in peace), a eulogy, sister's graduation, sold my car, got a new car, packed up all my worldly belongings, moving to Colorado, and don't bother with Juan Carlos Onetti's "A Brief Life" or Joseph Conrad's "Lord Jim". That's about the skinny of it. Let's move on.

So, for the first installment in my electronic literary sounding-board: Junot Diaz's "The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao" (2007).
As the winner of the 2007 Pulitzer Prize and the National Book Critics Circle Award, Junot Diaz's debut novel arrived with much sound and fury. For months, it seemed like, the book took over the arts section of the NY Times and was the talking point for every freakin' show on NPR (gotta give a shout-out to my girl Terry Gross: holla!). This was a big deal in the book world (which means nothing in the real world, but still). The book came with alot of luggage, and I have been wanting to read it for some time now. In my mind, books very rarely actually pass the litmus test for media accolades, and that generally stigmatizes the book for me before I ever even crack it open. But this really was a good one.

Usually I like to start on a positive note and break down the book from there, but I am going to do the opposite here. I feel compelled to start a discussion about the book with the language/style that Diaz employs. Using a myriad of street slang, ghetto speak, Dominican and Spanish words, and pop-culture references, Diaz attempts to write the book in a colloquial, informal style that harkens to the street. Well, admittadly, I am from the suburbs. I did not grow up in New Jersey and my parents are certainly not black Dominicans. But, I did know all the turns-of-phrase that he used, was familiar with most of the slang, and even understand some Spanish. In the end, it didn't work for me, though. The cadence and rhythm of the writing seemd clunky and unbalanced most of the time, and unnatural pretty much all of the time. I wasn't really into it. Though very different in its respective style, I felt the same way about alot of "Middlesex" by Jeffery Eugenides (another Pulitzer Prize winner). Good writing should wipe clean the opaque lens separating the reader and the writer. This doesn't imply simplicity, necessarily; but rather, good writing should enhance the reader's understanding of the writer's thoughts, emotions, etc. Diaz tried to do this. He used his vernacular and his wording to attempt to draw the reader into his world. I just think he didn't do a great job of it.

Now, on a more positive note, this book had alot of great redeaming aspects: vibrant and refreshingly unique characters, a good story, interesting changes of point of view, a lot of cultural information about a country I knew nothing of (namely, the Domican Republic), accessibility, meta-fiction, storytelling, and brief, wondrous sections of prose (I am so funny). The title character is way into comics, fantasy, graphic novels, and science fiction. I liked that, because I think that all of these genres are greatly underappreciated for their humanity, beauty, and artistry. I like learning more about them, and I think they should be more popular. The ending, though vaguely foreshadowed throughout the book, offered a nice twist. And like all good literature, the book incorporates a vast array of human experience: sex, savagery, dominance, mysticism, violence, family, love, the immigrant experience, etc. This book really has a lot to offer, and I think, in the end, presents an all-around great piece.

I gues it's just that I don't really expect "The Brief, Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao" to be an important member of our canon of American Literature. Of course I wouldn't even bother to say that if the book hadn't won the Pulitzer Prize. It's fun, moving, good storytelling, and dynamic, and I would suggest it to friends. It's all of the above. Unfortunately it won that stupid prize and now I have this little droplet of discontent because it feel short of my expectations.

In closing, there was only one quotable that I found in the book, so here it is:
(note: quote comes as an elder's traditional saying, found in a footnote)
"Anything uttered for the first time summons a demon."

I am now reading China Mieville's "Perdido Street Station", which came highyl recommended from an Irish couple I met. It is classified as "steam punk" literature. Sounds like fun, and I am looking forward to writing about it soon!

Until then: don't take no wooden nickels!!

The wrap up

Me in front of the Casa Rosada. Sorry the pic is so dark here.
For some reason pics are darker here than they really are.

Plaza de Mayo, with its distinctly European flair

Buenos Aires is a magnificent city. Tonight is my 5th and final night (tear drop) here, and I have been absolutely enchanted by it´s dynamism and vibrance. I was a little nervous about returning to the city because my last experience here was so absolutely terrifying and overwhelming, but armed with my newly acquired language skills, cultural understanding, and backpacker´s grit, I have managed to immerse myself in the spectacular carnival of experience that is Buenos Aires.

First of all, this city is absolutely immense. With 13 million people in the metropolitan area, the city has the population of New York, the architecture of Europe, and the lust-for-life of a Latin American capital. The city center, with its marble canyons and packed walkways, stretches for miles in every direction. The city is bursting with innumerable plazas, gigantic parks, thousands of cafes and bars, museums, history, and a palpable buzz of humanity. The first three nights I stayed in San Telmo barrio (neighborhood), which is famous for its tradition, tango, and its cobbled streets. It was a very pleasant and active place to stay, and I met a group of friends there that invited me out on the town with them. (sidenote: this city doesn´t sleep. When you go out, it is for the entire night. We left for the disco at 3 am and danced til the sun came up. It was exhausting!!) They were really fun and we had a great time. Plus, it was a wildly diverse group, with a lot of Colombians, Chileans, Argentines, Israelis, British, Surinamese, Hollanders, a guy from Istanbul, and myself. It was cool to get so many different people together. During the day I did an immense walking tour of the city and saw the Casa Rosada (their White House), the capital building, the theater district, an artisan fair where I bought some gifts, their national cemetary (which was actually awesome, with Evita´s mosaleum), 2 museums, parks, and miles of city boulevards. There is so much to see here, it is astonishing. Buenos Aires has enough for a lifetime.

It was this guy´s birthday. Party!!

Two chicas from Colombia. (Isabel, if you are reading this, the
girl on the left looks just like you!!)

Last night and tonight I am in the Palermo district of the city, which is posh, elegant, and quite beautiful. The hostel I am staying out right now is probably the best of my entire trip, with its quite courtyard, excellent facilities, nice people, and chill dog. I happened to meet two super cool Irish people there last night, and we have made plans to go out tonight for a real Argentine steak and good wine. Yum! And, of course, tomorrow is my last day of vacation. I have been looking forward to returning home to friends and family, but my last couple of days in Buenos Aires are making it tough. I am truly in love with this awesome city, and will be a bit sad to leave it. I think this is my favorite city I have ever been to. No joke.

So, since this is my last post of my South American adventure, I would like to thank you for following along and enduring my bad jokes and rambling. This has been a great experience for me, and like everything else in life, sharing it makes it better. Writing like this has been very enjoyable for me, and I get quite a bit of satisfaction from having a forum to put out there for people to read. So, because I enjoy it so much, I have decided that I will archive my vacation blog here and slightly retool to continue on into the future. As you know, I very much enjoy to read and to share my thoughts on literature with folks, and the new incarnation of my blog will be devoted to what I am reading. Not quite as exciting as travel, but just as valuable I think. Thanks again for taking in interest in my folly and, if it interests you, please visit this blog in the future to share in my passion for literature.

I´ll bid you farewell here with a germane quote from Joseph Conrad´s "Lord Jim", which I am finishing right now.
" Felicity, felicity - how shall I say it? - is quaffed out of a golden cup in every latitude; the flavour is with you - with you alone, and you can make it as intoxicating as you please."

In the city of Ché

This bar drew me to it like a moth to a street lamp. The Simpsons
are enormously popular all over Argentina and Chile. As big as they are in the US, which
I find inexplicable due to the show´s Ameri-culturalcentrism.

Once again, it´s been too long, and I send my heartfelt apologies for the harrowing, nail-biting wait. Here I am, smack dab in the middle of my 2 week Tour de Ciudades. First Salta, then Córdoba, now Rosario, and next (the big one!) Buenos Aires. Cities here are really a different animal than in the US, at least in my limited experience. Brimming with people, noise, activity, and living on a 24 hour schedule, Argentine cities are like the cracked out cousin to the suburban attitude of our metropolises (gotta be honest, I had to look up the pluralization of metropolis). They are all nice cities in their own right and offer a great variety of amusements, but I guess I am just a bit nostalgic for the wide open spaces and mountainous horizons of the South. It´s funny, the first thing I do when I get to a city is seek out the largest, shadiest, grassiest park around and set up for a good long chill. However, I am very much looking forward to the world-class cultural landmarks of Buenos Aires, and plan on spending several education-filled days exploring the governmental buildings, the zoo, and the various museums. Also, I´m going to buy a big, fat steak. Yup.

One of the many universities.

Meanwhile, I got a couple more days in Rosario. Only about 4 hours northwest of Buenos Aires, Rosario harbours over a million souls on the banks of the Rio Paraná. The city has a great deal of history and culture, several pedestrian malls, beaches, and (as I found out yesterday for 2 hours) a very confusing bus system. For the majority of gringos, the city is most famous as the birthplace and hometown of Ernesto ¨Ché¨ Guevara. If you´ve lived in a cave underneath the North Pole for the last 50 years, go ahead and Wikipedia his name to get some info on him. Quite a life he had.

Yet another dirt jump bike park. These are in lots of cities, and
I love it. Would like to write article for IMBA when I return. Got some thoughts.

Note: I noticed the blog-censor (I had no idea there was one) will not allow me to publish the last word in the title of the following book, and replaces it with ¨######¨. Facists. The word begins with a ¨W¨and ends with ¨hores¨. FYI.

And lastly, I recently finished Gabriel Garcia Marquez´s ¨Memories of My Melancholy ######¨. I have had some difficulty acquiring books by Latin American authors over the last couple weeks (had to read 2 interim books), but was glad to find this novella by the Colombian master. For a long time I was trying to avoid his books because I have read several of them before and would like to diversify myself as much as possible. This was all I could find after scouring over a dozen book stores in Córdoba, so here is what I thought:

Garcia Marquez erupted on the scene in the 1960s and 70s as the leading figure in the boom era of Latin American literature. Publishing several world-reknown novels and eventually earning the Nobel Prize in 1982, you can understand why this was one of the very few books I could find in English here. At the still vibrant age of 82, Garcia Marquez is still alive and kickin´, and published his most recent book in 2004, ¨Memories of My Melancholy ######¨. In alot of ways, this novella is classic Gabriel Garcia Marquez: romantic, dreamy, slow paced, and gorgeously written in a simplistic, trim, almost Hemingway-esque style with themes of love, history, family, and art. Without exception (at least in my readings of 4 of his books), the author distinguishes himself as the quintessential Latin American voice and can conjure the essence of his culture with ease and unique beauty.
In ¨Memories of My Melancholy ######¨, Garcia Marquez reveals himself to be something of a dirty old man, though with a wink of an eye and an endearing smile, of course. The story centers around a 90 year old bachelor who, on his birthday, finds himself contemplating life, love, sex, and death. A life-long devotee of the ¨world´s oldest profession¨, the man decides to give himself the birthday present of a night with a teenage virgin. You may remember this book for making news because it was banned in Iran (for obvious reasons). After this single night, the man awakens to a love he never felt in his life, and it changes him indefinitely. From here, the book follows the man as he starts to see his life, his experience, and everything around him in a new way. What I like about this book is it gives the reader an elegant insight into aging and death, and what it must be like for Garcia Marquez to look into his past.
When reading Garcia Marquez, I almost feel like he offers a distinct and intangible sensory experience, like he added a extra sense to his quiver. You get the words, their associated images, their sound, and a very peculiar extra sense that I would place somewhere between olfactory and ¨memory¨. How he accomplishes this is the mystery of his art.
Elegant, sexy, powerful, profound, and economical (with its 117 pages), ¨Memories of My Melancholy ######¨ makes for a really pleasant afternoon in the park.

Gotta go. My hammock is-a-callin´. I am finishing Mario Vargas Llosa´s ¨In Praise of the Stepmother¨, so look forward to hearing about that. Next report is likely to come from Buenos Aires. Wish me luck!!

A Sensory A-Salta

I hate to burst any bubbles, but I feel it is my duty to inform you that, when travelling abroad, you cannot expect all to be rainbows and bell-bottoms. In the interest of keeping you abreast of my good times, I have purposefully ommitted a great deal of cultural observations over the past 2 months. My perspective on humanity has, understandably, vascillated between the heroic and the evil, and, because I find Salta, Argentina to be a particularly robust example of all things Human, allow me to draw the following illustrations for your benefit:

1) I have only experienced a miniscule percentage of the People of Earth on my trip, and 78% have been brought to me by the Coca-Cola Company.

2) Capitalism is not an ethos; it is the principal upon which People operate, and the 2nd world has embraced it with open arms and a closed wallet.

3) Feral dogs and horny pidgeons will inherit the earth.

4) The parental instinct to improve the offspring´s existence is both holy and disasterous.

5) Technology and Coolness (both exports of my very own country) are conquering the Life Force.

6) The end of the world will not be an explosion: we will simply suffocate in a mountain of our own plastic bottles.

7) And, regardless of my hypocritical pessimism, I am constantly blown away by beautiful examples humanity.

Sorry about the sidways image. Salta has numerous cake-like churches, and

I guess I was laying down on my side when I took the picture of the second one.

Salta has not really been the highlight of my trip. In short, it is a really crowded, busy, humid city stuck in the clouds at the base of the Andes. With nice shady parks, multiple plazas, and an awesome market (in which I accidently ordered a bowl of tripe soup...), the city is nice, but not really that impressive. It´s been a really cheap but somewhat boring 3 days here. I happened to be the first guest at the brand new hostel that I am staying at, but because I hate being doted upon, it has been a little uncomfortable.

I am taking another overnight bus to Córdoba in about 2 hours, so I best be moving. My intention with this post was not to be a downer, but rather give you a little better perspective on the very diverse experience I am having. All in all, it is very educational, and I value education above all.

Is that a desert mirage, or is that my trip´s end in the distance?

Inside the Valley of the Moon, with snow covered 20,000 ft peaks
in the distant background.

Wow. Talk about your dramatic change of scenery! San Pedro de Atacama stands alone on my trip. The dream-like otherworldlyness seems inconguent with the rest of my journey. I´ve visited alpine mountains, rainforest, big city, and vast pampas, but nothing like San Pedro. Sitting at 8,000 ft above sea level on a parched plane with dusty, obscured horizons, San Pedro is a tiny pueblo of adobe buildings and one tiny main street (more accurately qualified as an alley, really). The Andean Cordillera runs along the eastern edge of the valley, and this area is the driest place on Earth. Honestly, I wasn´t terribly jazzed about coming here due to its remoteness and touristy reputation, but the place has really charmed me with its lazy attitude, surprisingly cool and breezy courtyards, and some crazy landscapes.


The town itself really isn´t terribly impressive, but rather quaint. Every structure in the town is crafted from adobe, even the central church (pictured above). Outside of the town (which is something of an oasis, because they have gushing aquaducts inside the city), nothing grows. Only vast stretches of baked sand and stone, with occasional mirage-like salt deposits. Very, I want to say, creepy...


The one thing I was really excited to do here was rent a bike. It has been 2 months since I have ridden a bike, and I had almost forgotten how liberating it can be to have two wheels to push around. Yesterday, I gathered my supplies and rode out to the very near regional park, Valley of the Moon. It was strikingly beautiful and it was refreshing to get there on my own time and accord. I can´t wait to have bikes again!

I´m going to keep this post quick because everything here (including the internet) is outrageously expensive. For instance, due to a complete lack of options, I am paying 8,000 pesos a night to camp (around $12). That is just silly. It is a really nice campground, but still!

Tomorrow I am catching a bus to climb the pass (over 12,000 feet, I believe) back over to Argentina. Salta, to be exact. A couple of days there, then will push on. I was going to try to get to Bolivia from here, as it is only about 40 km away, but I am (sadly) running short on time and have a handful of places in Argentina to visit still. Hard to believe I only have 17 days until I´m outta here! Time flies, am I right? Ah, such is life. Those of you back in the good ol´US of A, run a bath and put some beer on ice for me, will ya?

Chilean hospitality

Allow me to apologize for the delay in posting, as I realize that a day without an update on your friend Stefan is a day for naught, but since my arrival in Santiago only 4 days ago, I have been very busy.

Let me start by saying that I was very lucky to have met a really, really cool Chileno several weeks back when I was down south in Chile Chico. At the time, he offered me his phone number and a place to sleep when I came to Santiago, and I really lucked out. Derek has rolled out the red carpet for me, and I have felt incredibly welcome in his city. As a whole, Chilenos are very kind and eager to be friends, but Derek and his mom Amelia have literally dropped everything for the last couple of days to introduce me to family and friends, take me out to parties, give me the city tour, visit the surrounding country side, and in general treat me as a welcome guest. I have been blown away by their hospitality, and cannot thank them enough.

Derek and his mom, Amelia

After arriving to the bustling metropolis of Santiago last Thursday morning, I met up with Derek at the subway station after he had been waiting for me for over 2 hours (I misinterpreted my arrival time). He then took me out to his girlfriend´s mom´s restaurant where they provided me with a delicious lunch. After some beers and some laughs, we headed down to the Nacional Football Stadium for the (awed pause) Radiohead concert. As this was my 4th time seeing Radiohead, I was aware of their awesomeness. But, as I suspected, this show was unbelievable. Imagine 25,000 absolutely fanatic Chilenos screaming their heads off for a spectacular marathon 2 1/2 hour concert. I was blown away, and cannot describe it any further. Be jealous.

Radiohead, blowing it up in Santiago

Derek, girlfriend Valentina, her sisters and mom

The following day, Derek took me on a tour of the city of Santiago. A huge city of over 6 million people, Santiago is everything you would expect from a very lively South American capital, and a little you wouldn´t expect. Efficient transporation system, a skyline that spreads across the horizon, crazy people all over the place, tremendous skyscrapers and elegant mansions next door to dilapidated tenements, delicious food, music in the street... thank god I had a friend here! We checked out the national history and art museums, the city center, some parks, and, my favorite, the incredible central market. You can buy anything and everything there. It is essentially a city block sized warehouse with hundreds of vendors selling every type of fresh food you can imagine for absolutely the cheapest prices I have ever seen. This region of Chile is capable of growing an incredible array of food, and the market reflects the region. The best market I have ever been to, and a really cool experience. Later that night, there was a fiesta at a friend´s house, and we partied until 5 in the morning. ¡Yeah!

National Cathedral

Yesterday, we all went out to a couple of smaller towns around the city for a craft market, a wine festival, and a little bit of a traditional Chilean Rodeo. It was a very fun filled day, and I got to see quite alot. It was tremendous. Tonight, there is an a soccer game in between the national teams of Chile and Peru, so Derek is taking me to an asado (bbq) to watch the game. And I think tomorrow, I will head out of Santiago to visit Valpariaso (a nice little sea side village known for it´s prevalent counter culture) for a couple of days. In a nutshell, that is the low down.

Derek, Valentina, me, Bernardo, and sister Oriana at wine festival

Again, I have to use this opportunity to thank my host, Derek, for his above and beyond hospitality. It has been an absolutely unforgettable experience here in Santiago, all thanks to him. I have learned so much about the people of this country and the lifestyle in this city because Derek has offered his tremendous services, and it has meant alot to me. In all of my trip so far, I have not met anyone so nice and outgoing, and for somebody travelling in another country, it can really mean the world. I am now trying to get him to come visit my country so I can return the favor. Isn´t travel a grand idea?

An eruption of good times

... and I´m back!

This morning, myself and Mike (friend that I went backpacking with, pictured below) finished the 4 day/3 night Traverse of Parque Nacional Villarrica. What an incredible place! Of the three areasI have been trekking so far, I think this was my favorite. A glorious trail that crosses the spine of a range of volcanoes, the views are jaw dropping, the volcanoes are behemouths, and the landscape is from another world. I wasn´t really aware of how geologically active this area actually is until hiking across the crater of Volcan Quatrepillue. Ancient lava flows, symmetrical rings of lava rock that made up the heart of an ancient exploding volcano, smoke huffing from atop Volcan Villarrica, and, viewable from the top ridge, a total of 7 major volcanoes that bulge from the horizon. I´ve never been to a place like this, and it was a spectacular hike. A unique opportunity and a really good choice!

Me and Mike (a botanist/hippie dude from Florida), in front of Volcan Lanin.

Look closely and you´ll see the center of an old crater in the above pic,
with two volcanoes in background.

Volcan Villarrica, with the bizarre arucaria trees in the front. They
are a pineapple looking tree that grows for over 500 years.

The park kind of sits off by itself along the border of Argentina, and is kind of difficult to get to. It required a lot of investigation to figure out the system of buses/taxis that we needed to get to and from the trail. I was a little worried about getting back today, because I have quite a few things to get done. Besides some errands in town, Mike and I made friends the other night with the owner of the campgound we are staying at and he has graciously decided to throw an asado for us tonight (a BBQ). Very nice family. Also, I have a bus ticket that leaves town for Santiago this evening, and arrives tomorrow at 6 am. Since a friend of mine that lives in Santiago has offered me a place to sleep for a couple of nights, I should have a pretty good time there. And, of course, the Radiohead concert is tomorrow night. That´s right. Radical!

If you can´t tell from this email, I am very happy. My vacation seems to just get better and better everyday. My language skills are improving, I have gotten really good at figuring out each place I arrive in, I am feeling really healthy (probably because I have spent about 15 days trekking, or a full 25% of my trip so far), and things are just working out for me. Stars are aligning. This, right now (well, not right now, while I´m typing, but these general days), is exactly what I was looking for out of my vacation. Adventure, beautiful landscapes, nice people, and fun things to do. Vacation is just good for people, and I think everyone needs to travel... this means you!!

¡Update!

Sandwiched between a towering, snow capped volcano and a shimmering green lake, the town of Pucón, Chile is famous in these parts for it´s landscape, it´s hustle-and-bustle, and it´s wealth of outdoor activities. Rafting, zip lines, summiting the volcanic peak, trekking, cycling... todo es possible aquí. Since my arrival the other night, I have been checking out the town and making a couple of friends at the campground. In fact, I am going to head up to the National Park Villarrica tomorrow morning with a botanist friend I met from Florida to go backpacking for a couple of days, with a hot springs as the destination. Not too bad, eh? Promptly following the excursion, I will be catching an overnight bus from Pucón to Santiago to go see Radiohead on Thursday. It´s a busy schedule, but that´s how I likes it! Besides that, there´s not too much to report.

As promised, though, I would like to give you my feedback on my most recent conquest on my Tur de Libros, Mario Vargas Llosa´s ¨Aunt Julia and the Scripwriter¨. Enjoy!

From the beginning, this book took off like a Saturn 5. I was turning pages like a madman, laughing out loud regularly, and loving every bit of it. The characters leaped from the pages, the action moved in unanticipated ways, the plot abounded with insights into Peruvian culture, and Vargas Llosa developed a (I think unique) way of interjecting wildly entertaining non-sequitor story lines into the book by devoting chapters to exhibiting the title ¨scriptwriter´s¨ work. By incorporating these short stories into the book, the author accomplished two things, I think: providing fitting examples of a germane plot component (i .e. the character´s dramatic work), and creating an outlet for the author´s ridiculous and hilarious dramatic energy. It worked on a couple of levels.

Also, oddly enough, Vargas Llosa chose the ¨writer´s experience¨ as a theme. This is strange only because this (not terribly common) topic has been a crucial device in the other 3 books I have read by South American authors on my trip. Weird. It´s possible that writing about writing is a common concept in literature from this continent, but that will take further investigation to confirm.

Lastly, I have to say the ending to this book was a major let down. Nothing happened. The story just went limp. I´ve been struggling to unearth a literary reason why Vargas Llosa chose this particular ending, but nothing I come up with really strikes me. I think he just lost it in the end, unfortunately. In any event, the book as a whole was witty, colorful, fun, and worthwhile. With a more clever ending, it could have been great.

You stay classy, San Diego.

I don´t like feeling forced to come up with titles to these things!

All is well in the shady, sleepy little mountain town of San Martín de los Andes. The local gente strictly observe the siesta hours, the cool breeze ruffles the leaves and keeps the insects at bay, there are numerous trees from which to hang my hammock, and the hours melt away with the sweetness of sun-softened honey. Since my Monday arrival, I´ve discovered that the thing ¨to do¨ in this town is, in reality, nothing. I have been having an excellent time adhering to the local mandate.

In the winter SM de los Andes is a trendy little ski town frequented by the Argentine elite, and in the summer, a stop-off on the heavily trafficked gringo road. Right now, I find myself in the off season, so the town is particularly quiet. Kids back in school, a near empty campground, and a generally slow pace of life make this lakeside pueblo surrounded by verdant mountains a rather nice place to kick back. My time here is dominated by:
1. sleeping until at least 11
2. then quickly moving to my hammock to catch the midday sun
3. walking around the upscale ginger-bread-esque town
4. reading an engrossing book my Mario Vargas Llosa
5. making delicious stews from scratch using my camp mess kit and a fire pit.

Tomorrow at the heinous hour of 6 AM, I catch a bus to El Pucón, Chile. Usually a 3-4 hour ride, currently there is a wildfire that is blocking the pass, so it will most likely be a 12 hour detour. Rats. No big deal, though. Also, it turns out that a friend of mine from college that lives in El Pucón will not be in town when I arrive because she is in Buenos Aires seeing surgeons about a broken collar bone that never healed correctly. Double rats! It would have been nice to hang out and meet her new daughter (which I found out, today, she named Nieve, Spanish for ¨snow¨), but I no longer worry about spoiled plans. ¨Come what come may, the hour and the time run through the roughest day.¨ Macbeth. I will have a good time anyhow. They have a volcano there that you can climb, and I´m going to climb it!

Typing this is making me tired and in want of my hammock, so I hope that this little update has temporarily quenched your ravinous thirst for all things Stefan.

Nahuel Huapi-fied

Monte Tronador, from about 40 miles

Well, Nahuel Huapi was the cat´s pajamas. A tremendous hit. Jagged peaks, extremely rugged landscape, crystal clear rivers, and the glacier studded Monte Tronador that absolutely dominates the ultrablue horizon. Only a $1 bus ride from Bariloche, too. It was awesome! The one caveat, I have to add, is that their trails are absolutely horrific. I pray that nobody from IMBA ever comes down here, because the evident lack of basic trailbuilding knowledge would be enough to kill a real traibuilder. When I looked at the trails, I was like the Indian from that old littering commercial with the tear rolling down his face...


(Family disclaimer - before you read the next section, be aware that I took all the necessary safety precautions: I had a detailed map, I alerted the National Park office of my route and time of return, and I stayed on well marked trails. I was very safe about this.)

I was really excited about this trip, also, because I did something I never thought I would have the guts to do: that is, complete a several day trek completely on my own. I thought about it beforehand, and I really wanted to do this. I am a pretty confident, self assured, and confident person, but for some reason, doing a multinight backpacking trip has been something on my short list of ¨Things I am Afraid to Do¨. And not even for realistic fears, or a feeling of personal inability. I really thought I wouldn´t do it be able to do it out of good, ole fashion, childish somethingisundermybed! fear. Well, I did it. 4 days, 3 nights of complete solitude. And with the exception of some errant cows and some noisy birds in the middle of the night, it turns out there really is nothing to be afraid of. This may not sound like a huge achievement, or may seem kind of corny, but I think those of you out there who have gone on a significant backpacking trip will appreciate my feeling of accomplishment right now, and I am really glad I did it. I am glad to be back now, though! Running water is a freakin´ miracle!

(way off in the distance in the top middle of this pic is the peak they call ¨Cerro Cathedral¨.
It´s hard to tell here, but it is ridiculously high and very impressive)

Tomorrow, 9 am, I am off to San Martín de los Andes. Since I don´t have an alarm clock, I am going to have to drink a liter of water around midnight. Actually, make that beer.

Let´s quote it up here:

¨I want to stay as close to the edge as I can without going over. Out on the edge you see all kinds of things you can´t see from the center. Big undreamed of things - the people on the edge see them first.¨ Kurt Vonnegut, ¨Player Piano¨