..each the other's world entire

I've been meaning to write a review of Cormac McCarthy's The Road but I couldn't, primarily because so many things have been said about this Pulitzer Prize winning novel already. Ironically, I first heard about it on Oprah. She chose the novel for her Book Club (a red flag for me and my wife, telling us to get away from it immediately). Oprah also was able to convince the reclusive McCarthy to indulge her in an interview.

The premise is simple: a father and his son wander off in a post-nuclear holocaust America with "...each the other's world entire." Primarily, the novel concerns itself with the issue of keeping one's humanity intact in a world ceaselessly plummeting into anarchy and despair. If you want to read about the book, go here, here, or here. You can also go to your nearest library or well, get yourself a copy.

In the latest issue of Esquire Magazine (August 2008), a short article discusses the link between McCarthy's presentation of violence in his novels and American society's thirst for it whether physically, emotionally, personally or vicariously.

This particular curiosity about violence is deeply entrenched in The Road. Even in the rare tranquil moments of novel, the possibility of violence is just so overpowering that at some point, I found it hard to breathe.

The Road, like McCarthy's previous novel No Country for Old Men, has been adapted into a movie and is currently shooting. Before it comes out on the silver screen, here are some memorable quotes I copied from the novel in place of a review:

People sitting on the sidewalk in the dawn half immolate and smoking in their clothes. Like failed sectarian suicides.

***

The names of things slowly following those things into oblivion. Colors. The names of birds. Things to eat. Finally the names of things one believed to be true. More fragile than he would have thought. How much was gone already? The sacred idiom shorn of its referents and so of its reality.

***

Can you do it? When the time comes? When the time comes there will be no time. Now is the time. Curse God and die. What if it doesnt fire? It has to fire. What if it doesnt fire? Could you crush that beloved skull with a rock?

***

There were times when he sat watching the boy sleep that he would begin to sob uncontrollably but it wasnt about death. He wasnt sure what it was about but it was about beauty or about goodness. Things that he'd no longer any way to think about at all.

***

He thought each memory recalled must do some violence to its origins. As in a party game. Say the word and pass it on. So be sparing. What you alter in the remembering has yet a reality, known or not.

***

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

***

What's the bravest thing you ever did?
He spat into the road a bloody phlegm. Getting up this morning, he said.

Marley completists, make room

From the Trojan Video Archive comes Bob Marley: The Legend Live (TLL) for the first time in DVD. Filmed in 1979, this video captures the irrepressible reggae god spread third world music of peace, love and jamming in California's center of affluence - the Santa Barbara Country Bowl.

Touted as one of his last recorded performances, TLL captures a Marley consumed with passion in a gig that otherwise oozes with bright vibes and good cheer. It starts slow but steady with Positive Vibration. The concert purposefully picks up energy as Marley and the Wailers try out a slightly different rendition of I Shot the Sheriff, the song that put Jamaica and the reggae music movement on the international music map.

After the hippie crowd settles inside the Bowl, the momentum picks up further as Marley and the Wailers play popular hits like Africa Unite, Exodus, Jamming. There are quite a few surges in the concert that spice up the groove of the show especially in the trilogy of politically-charged songs, Crazy Baldhead, Them Belly Full, and Heathen.

The show ends with arena faves Stir it Up and Get Up Stand Up -- songs that not only excite everyone to sway and move to contrapunctal beats but most especially, incite the the world to action - to not just watch but participate in politics, in music, in the goal towards peace.

The excitement, however, doesn't explode to a climax as most performances. Good thing with reggae, this tantric quality is a good thing. The thrill lifts us securely to an ethereal plane - to a most welcome state of constant buzz that enthralls even long after the last note has been played.

This aural treat was made possible because of the crisp audio transfer from the masters. There may be some parts of the video that have become pixelated but editor Don Letts (a renowned film director of musical performances by the Clash and Elvis Costello, to name a few) made sure the unmistakable skank and surges of Marley and the Wailers' rasta beats are brought into one's living room.

Another reason why reggaeheads should grab this DVD is the extras. TLL comes with gems like Prophecies and Messages, a documentary brimming with insight about Marley, reggae music and Rastafarianism. Included in this feature is a rare interview with Marley and Wailers' keyboard player Tyrone Downie about the tenets of Rastafarianism. Also included are a bonus track from the performance (War/No More Trouble) and an ambush interview of Marley fans queuing up for a performance at the Roxy Theater in LA.

Arguably, there are more celebrated DVD releases of Bob Marley's colorful live performances. However, Bob Marley: The Legend Live is just one of the those gigs that's just too memorable to pass up on.

Somewhere, somehow throughout the 92 minutes of this Santa Barbara concert, one hears a pained Marley, one who was bravely weathering the devastation that was cancer. A soul that refuses to be silenced.

If one keeps a closer listen, one may even hear a voice, transcending the third world woes and political instability of the 70s and 80s, singing about a better place, much like our own, where peace, love and perhaps, kinky reggae reign.

This book gave me the courage to publish mine. At first pass, the stories seem just a random collection of loose narratives. There's even no promise of an underlying theme that connects each story to the next. It's only later that it becomes apparent that the narratives actually present the infinite strata of the human psyche.

Notable are stories that deal with bestiality, rape, murder. Somehow, in the protagonist's downward spiral into the depraved and the repugnant, these topics become somewhat bearable. Neither arousing nor condoning, these cultural taboos are presented plainly - next step after naturalism.

One Undeniably, Kosinski's voice is very distinct. It has a wry sense to it. Seemingly amoral but actually oozing with empathy.

Anecdote: A writer in the 80s once typed the entire text of this prize-winning book and submitted the "manuscript" with his byline to publishers. He wanted to prove how difficult it was to get published when you're unknown. True enough, almost all of the publishers rejected the re-typed "Steps." This includes the original publisher.

This book is so short and has a very sweet title you'd think it's a children's novel. But don't be deceived. It deals more with death than la dolce vita. iDEATH, to be exact.

Here's the opening sequence:

IN WATERMELON SUGAR the deeds were done and done again as my life is done in watermelon sugar. I'll tell you about it because I am here and you are distant.

Wherever you are, we must do the best we can. It is so far to travel, and we have nothing here to travel, except watermelon sugar. I hope this works out.

I live in a shack near iDEATH. I can see iDEATH out the window. It is beautiful. I can also see it with my eyes closed and touch it. Right now it is cold and turns like something in the hand of a child. I do not know what that thing could be.

I discovered Richard Brautigan from a poet friend (Neal Imperial a.k.a. Israel Makaraig) who translated/adapted his poems in Filipino. Part of the Beat Generation, Brautigan wrote short, succint and sometimes strange poems. Most are funny you'd think they're wisecracks but everything is honest.

He wrote poems, he said in an interview, so that he could master writing sentences. To which his ultimate goal was to write paragraphs for stories. After finding this book in a bargain bin (again), I began to be more alert in looking for his books. I didn't get disappointed when I read his other strange, funny but always thought-provoking books like Willard and his Bowling Trophies, The Abortion: An Historical Romance, and his short story collection, Revenge of the Lawn.

He was found decomposing in his ranch in Montana with a gun in his hand. Why'd he do that? Critics point to his last book, An Unfortunate Woman. It is one profound Brautigan book, and it's one of my favorites. I guess, Richard Brautigan was simply bizarre. Like the trite goes, Hindi n'yo ako maiintindihan. Artist ako!

I photocopied this book in college after discovering the book near the reserved section. I was just then beginning to appreciate literature (and existentialist philosophy). However, I never got to finish reading the xeroxed sheets. Probably got thrown away together with my MA 18 blue books. So I just read whatever Sartre I could get my hands on like No Exit and other Plays ("Hell is other people!" and the less popular yet explosive Electra myth adaptation --The Flies), The Wall (his superb short story collection) and part of The Reprieve (2nd book in the Road to Freedom Trilogy). A few years back, I saw a reprint in FullyBooked and bought myself a copy.

After finally reading this very depressing novel, I'm much relieved I read it now when I am mature enough. Otherwise, Nausea would have been the first and last book I would have read before I killed myself.

It chronicles the life of Antoine Roquentin, a writer who's gets this utter feeling of disgust about his existence that the nausea he feels is not just psychological but actually physical. In Filipino we say "sukang-suka na ako" as an expression of disgust and defeat. Roquentin perpetually feels that way physically.

Regarded as Sartre's first and finest novel, Nausea is a must-read for those fascinated with existentialism. If you have one or two Sartre works that you want to read before you die pick this one after No Exit.

I didn't know who Frederick Barthelme was when i picked up a copy of this book in the old National Bookstore in Edsa Central (before the MRT was built). I just bought it because 1) P30+ lang siya and 2) it's from Grover Press, the same press which published Jean-Paul Sartre's books. I even thought this was Donald Barthelme, the post-modern master of American fiction. (Rick Barthelme turns out to be the younger brother.) I didn't even know who Raymond Carver (the blurbist on the cover) was then. Years later, Rick Barthelme has become my idol. Just for being a practitioner of minimalism, he's already on the top of my list.

One critic described his work as not really concerned with plots. He just tells a story. Whatever you get out of it, is, yours. There's no pressure whatsoever. Plus it also helps that he writes the way people actually speak. There's always an urgent sense of verisimilitude in his stories, particularly in the way it is presented. Like in real slices of lives, there's actually no beginning nor end, there are just scenes. As for his stories being "bitin", they're not. It's either you have missed something in the narrative or you're still taking too seriously what you learned in school about what fiction is about.

I found this book hidden in the shelves in Booksale. I've already read All of Us, Raymond Carver's collected poems. I loved his poetry (napaka-Zen) and to think the reviews were all gushing about his being a master of the short story. So I grabbed this one (not because of the cover; what's up with that anyway?) and read every word. His voice is soothing but there's always a feeling of tension and bitterness. Ang layo sa kanyang pagiging perennial recovering alcoholic.

The tension in "Tell The Women We're Going" is so subdued that you would never have thought that it would end that way it did. I particularly liked "Why Don't You Dance," "The Bath" (because I have kids already) and of course "What We Talk About When We Talk About Love."

In all these stories, being superb minimalist pieces, the things left unsaid always provide the coup de grace. You're always left longing for the things just hinted. You sometimes get the point but every time you conjure something that resembles anything close to meaning, it just disappears if it doesn't immediately shift shape altogether.

This is the first book I bought after arriving in LA. I started reading in February during the period Sunshine and I call "the winter of our discontent." The simultaneous coldness depicted in the novel and our first taste of LA winter was simply overwhelming. (It doesn't snow in LA but I didn't have any idea how cold winter is). After six months, I finished the book. Yeah, it is a difficult read but I think what really slowed me down was feeling of uncertainty about our future here during that period. We're still trying to make LA our home. I just have to finish reading this book so I can write a review for the community newspaper I'm editing.


The Kars of Discontent

Though widely regarded as 2006 Nobel Laureate Orhan Pamuk’s only political novel, Snow tackles a theme much more lofty but unmistakably universal – happiness. This theme is buried deep into the narrative, heaped upon by discourses in politics, religion and ideology. After all these immediate issues have been plowed aside, happiness and its dialectic deliquesce and gleam.

Published after the September 11 attacks, Snow depicts a desolate part of Turkey that’s coming to terms with its history marked by religious upheavals and ideological discontent. Kars (Turkish for snow) is a place very much like the setting of Kafka’s The Castle. In his New York Times review, perennial Nobel nominee John Updike noted the similarity between Ka, the novel’s main protagonist and well, The Castle’s K. Both characters, apart from their similar names, begin their story arriving at a place that inhabits the claustrophobic imagination. Snow, however, leaves The Castle’s country of absurdity early on and immediately delves into the hyper-real themes of suicide, terrorism, and nation.

In the dead of winter, minor poet and political exile returns to his hometown primarily to write an investigative piece on the alarming incidence of suicides by teenaged girls – a protest against the prohibition of wearing head scarves. At once, Ka finds himself in the thick of State-sponsored repression again.

Despite the constant image of snow, the seeping coldness and the abject poverty that dictate the lives of Kars inhabitants, Ka notices some changes. For one, the suicides underscore the emergence of feminist assertion in a Muslim setting however ironic; wearing headscarves is a Muslim practice and not necessarily feminism as the West sees it. Political activities are thriving and have been heavily influencing the stability.

To Ka’s delight, the one change that favors him is the recent divorce of Ipek, his classmate in his days at the university. Immediately, Ka is drawn to her. As this new pursuit manifests, Ka’s research to uncover the mystery of the suicides becomes convenient.

As it turns out, Ipek’s sister Kadife is the nominal leader of the teen suicides. Their father, a former political activist, runs the famous Snow Palace hotel where he billets. To get the view of the opposition, Ka turns to Ipek’s ex-husband Muhtar who is running for mayor.

Eventually, Ka meets a slew of characters that transform the novel into a dream-like tale. He meets thespians Sunay Zaim and his wife Funda Eser whose failed careers in acting find a refuge in political histrionics. There’s also the former communist and political opportunist Z Demirkol who takes advantage of the bad weather and the theater to lead an uprising. Ka also meets Necip and Fazil, two devout and idealistic young men from he religious high school who find solace in writing science fiction and their love of Kadife. Ka also meets Blue, the figurehead of the anti-government activities whose legendary past precedes his true nature.

Pamuk masterfully weaves these characters into a carefully crafted tapestry of modern Turkey. The intersection of their lives is uncanny and makes the narrative rich in suspense and drama. Orhan, the novelist narrator and friend of Ka’s, utilizes the flurry of events as manifestations of happiness or lack thereof. Ka’s search for truth transforms into a quest for happiness in every scene whether it’s Ka being followed by a dog as he walks on sloshy streets, a massacre and eventual military crackdown at the National Theater, Ipek and Kadife talking in private, or the countless communion of various characters over tea (and sometimes raki) watching State-run TV shows.

The narrator also utilizes Ka’s final poetry collection to further illuminate this search. Although the poems are not reproduced in their entirety, a snowflake diagram is included. More than an illustration, it serves as a map of Ka’s (and, if you may, Kar’s) psyche. Of course, like all maps, it gives readers bearing to comprehend the story.

Although some episodes seem to long drawn and at times belabored, Pamuk never veers away from the immediate issues. In one of the high points of the novel, Kadife argues the cause of the teen suicides by differentiating self-deliverance between the sexes. She opines that “Women kill themselves because they hope to gain something. Men kill themselves because they’ve lost hope of gaining anything.” Ironically, she announces this right after betraying the girls by uncovering her head on national TV.

Lest he be accused of exoticising his own culture, Pamuk presents a disclaimer through Fazil about the portrayal of an impoverished Turkey. Fazil says, “I can tell from your face that you want to tell the people who read your novels how poor we are and how different we are from them.” He quickly adds, “Your western readers would be so caught up in pitying me for being so poor that they wouldn’t have a chance to see my life.”

On happiness, Pamuk devises interplay between his narrator namesake and Ka. Half-way through the novel, Ka arrives at an epiphany after making love to Ipek. “…It would occur to Ka that he had cut short the happiest moment of his life because he couldn’t bear to be so happy.”

The narrator has different take, though. “People don’t know when they’re happy, at least not at the moment.” Ultimately, it is Blue who leaves the readers with the most realistic take. Incidentally, it is his last words in the novel. “People who seek only happiness never find it.”

Illusory Lives


It helps a lot that eminent Nepali writer Samrat Upadhyay writes like Chekhov, or Raymond Carver for that matter. The minimalist prose and understatements in The Royal Ghosts propel the underlying dialectic that dwells in the blurring of that delicate boundary between self and society. Once stylistics issues are out of the way, readers are transported to a landscape that's at once exotic yet vaguely familiar.

For instance, those familiar with Nepal's mystical past may find the mention of a computer or an Internet café in some stories a bit distracting. In the title story, the remote mountain country learns of the tragedy in the royal palace by watching CNN. In another tale, some characters are introduced as having traveled to or studied in America. Upadhyay may well be writing about his own experience brought about by his years of teaching at the University of Indiana. Notwithstanding, these details not only bridge the cultural gap between writer and western readers but also skillfully sketch a country in transformation.

From the first to the concluding story, Upadhyay's characters long for certain transcendence in an attempt to assert their individuality. These protagonists however, find neither refuge nor respite from the cultural and political turmoil that encompasses everyday Nepali society. As a result, characters are led to a conclusion that's not necessarily triumphant but altered.

In A Refugee, Pitamber takes in a widow and her child as a reaction to violence brought about by the long-running Maoist insurgency. His disgust of violence however, percolates and arouses his own pent-up anger, inadvertently causing him to hurt his own son.

In Supreme Pronouncements, a political columnist tries to marry his convictions and his personal love life to miserable and laughable results. A commentary on contemporary Nepali cinema, The Third Stage tells the story of Ranjit, a retired legendary actor. It waxes nostalgic about the glory days of the entertainment industry and how it can never be the same again.

The cultural taboo that is inter-caste mixing is put into focus in a handful of stories. Shivaram and Shova, the protagonists in Father, Daughter clash in an emotional joust about marrying someone from a lower caste. After Shova's series of what elders might call cultural denigration (ending up in jail for "indecent exposure" and later on leaving her husband of convenience after a month of marriage), Shivaram eventually learns to accept his daughter. The theme is further explored in peculiar relationship that progresses into an affair between a servant and his mistress in A Servant in the City.

Again, violence is underscored in probably the most powerful story in the lot - The Weight of a Gun. After losing her son (to insanity) and her husband (to another woman), Janiki is left caring for her ex-husband's pregnant wife. After all the melodramatic sequences that ensue, Janiki exemplifies maternal love at its purest by caring, ultimately, for the baby that symbolizes what made her miserable in the first place.

In the story The Royal Ghosts, set in one of the most violent chapter in Nepal's history -- the massacre of the royal family by Nepali Crown Prince Dipendra in 2001 -- a dejected taxi driver roams the streets of Kathmandu after discovering his brother's sexual preference. The juxtaposition of Ganga's struggle to understand his brother's being a chhakka (homosexual in Nepali) and a whole nation trying to fathom a momentous and senseless event shatters many beliefs and traditions once held infallible. What makes this story more remarkable is that the coup de grace doesn't explode and brings forth a blinding epiphany. Unexpectedly, after contemplating about the unbearable weight of his situation, Ganga thinks about food.

The final story summons the literal royal ghosts (the dead monarchs) that mutate into something figurative. For in all the stories in the collection, the metaphoric ghost is portrayed as a society that's frighteningly becoming passé, illusory. It haunts every character. It rules their lives, dictates their fate.

Fortunately, the very essence of this fundamental conflict thrives in its own volatility, a natural leaning towards change. Clearly, Upadhyay's modern day Nepal in The Royal Ghosts is not at all hopeless. His stories brim with optimism, a universal craving that leaves one asking for more.

The Joys of Being Kati


There’s never a shortage of happiness in this 2006 S.E.A. Write Award winning young adult novel. Ngarmpun Vejjajiva, or simply Jane for the phonetically-challenged, masterfully weaves the coruscating hues and zesty flavors of Thailand as she unfolds a heartwarming tale of a child's search for her parents.

Vejjajiva admitted in an interview that the genesis of the story came from a universal notion about children --“how come kids are happy with small things?” As she illustrates in the novel, unravelling the reasons why simple things elicit joy in children is not difficult when one is in Thailand.

From start to finish, the sun-shiny story barrages the senses with optimism. Every morning, 9-year-old Kati (or coconut milk in Thai) wakes up to an upbeat clanging of pan and spatula. Her days unfold as bright as they begin. Even at the novel’s saddest moment, the sorrow doesn't linger but simmers until it becomes poignant and a certain profoundness takes shape.

In the course of her day, readers are introduced to Thailand's brilliantly colored (the school, temples) and distinctly-flavored (her everyday meals, her classmates' lunch) culture. There's a generous splashing of colors even in the most unexpected places like washtubs and clothes pins. The description of the food is so succinct that readers can almost smell and actually taste them. These vivid details are strewn skillfully as Kati patiently waits to meet her mother and understand the reasons why she left.

Vejjajiva, however, balances the seemingly saccharine story by opening each chapter with a wistful epigraph that hints on an impending heartbreak. In the first part, the epigraphs reveal Kati's unspoken longing. Words of wisdom introduce the second part's chapters. The last part, however, shifts to Kati's mother's point of view. These help in the development of the story and in preparing readers on what will happen next without necessarily watering down the default cheeriness of the novel. In all three parts, the exquisite mixture of the sweet and the bitter coalesce perfectly.

This fine balance makes The Happiness of Kati stand out. The author's handling of heartache is concise but powerful. After finally meeting her mother and learning about her debilitating disease (ALS, a progressive and fatal disease characterized by a failure of the nervous system to control muscles), Kati can only embrace her mother thinking more about how her mother has lost the ability to hug her back.
Only in the succeeding chapter do we see her cry. After running on the sand thinking her mother cannot feel each grain beneath her feet anymore, Kati is seen wiping tears from her face. The emotion is underscored when she realizes that her mother cannot perform even such a simple gesture.

Indeed, it is helplessness that provides the counterpoint to the story. However bright her days are, being a child hinders Kati from seeing her mother. As she recalls in part two, Kati's mother can't fish her out of the flood when she loses control of her arms. Ultimately, neither Kati nor her mother (even Science, for that matter) can stop and cure ALS.

In part three, this sense of vulnerability is further elucidated. After the death of her mother, Kati embarks on a search for her father. With her mother's keepsakes as clues, including a letter that she wrote before she died, Kati tries to make contact. Again, she hopes and waits (as we are led to believe). Eventually, the story ends in a twist that leaves more questions than answers.

After everything Kati has undergone, one is led to question the believability of her character. Of course, this is fiction but somehow Kati's reaction to even the most pivotal part of her story gives one the feeling that she is rather quite mature for a regular 9-year-old.

There is nothing wrong with that though. Kati's mother has explained the main character's positive disposition half way through the novel. In this sequence, she tells Kati, "You were hurt because of me so many times - you got lumps on your head,a split lip. You used to cry so loudly when you were hurt too. But the next minute you would be playing happily as if nothing had ever happened."

In that sense, the novel achieves the author's intent that is earlier mentioned - to explore the oversupply of happiness in children. If only for that, the young adult novel already triumphs hands down.

A Sanguinary Saga

Many reviews, including the inner sleeve notes of the book refer to this novel as an "unflinching portrait of China under Chairman Mao." It does, in fact, depict that rather unsettling era in Chinese history though it only becomes apparent halfway through the book. It will be an outright injustice if one would label this novel as such. If you want to read a broader fictionalized account of the Cultural Revolution, read To Live, Yu Hua’s other book instead.

Released from the marketing pigeonhole, Chronicle of a Blood Merchant tells the story of Xu Sanguan (a word play on sanguine or sanguinary, perhaps) and how he sold his blood to overcome crises in his life.

Xu Sanguan is an optimistic silk factory worker who learns, early in the novel, that he can earn so much (35 Yuan) selling his own blood. He decides to marry after his first transaction, thinking that since blood is such an invaluable commodity, it deserves to be spent on something really valuable. He raises a family believing he can always turn to his own (physical) blood when the need arises.

At first, Chronicle of a Blood Merchant reads like a folk tale. Every detail is introduced sparingly, just enough to move the narrative forward. When the communist Chinese society gets into the picture, it feels like a new omniscient character is added. Again, Yu Hua employs this "character" sparsely to let readers focus more on the story of Xu Sanguan. Perhaps it is also a way for Yu Hua to escape scrutiny from the strict government censors.

Every so often in the narrative, one gets a feeling of reading a direct mail letter where some important points are repeated to drive the message. This style, as one reviewer reveals, echoes the Chinese opera format replete with soliloquies and asides. A reader not familiar with the genre may find this device annoying at times but then again, it has its charms.

One particular scene that stuck is what translator Andrew F. Jones (in his Afterword) called 'verbal cookery.' In this episode, set in the Great Leap Forward phase of Chinese history (late 50s), the entire nation is plagued with famine. To celebrate his birthday, Xu Sanguan gathers his family for an imaginary feast. He asks each of his three sons what they want to eat and orders them to close their eyes. He then describes in detail the preparation, cooking and presentation of each dish. He relishes the description with not just the tangibles but also paying careful attention at how each pork slice smells, how each slice simmers or crackles while it is submerged in the wok. Each son then swallows his saliva louder than normal to show his appreciation. How's that for literally feeding a family by telling stories?

Another poignant episode is when Xu Sanguan's wife (Xu Yulan) is paraded as a prostitute during the Cultural Revolution (60s-70s). After being labeled by an anonymous accuser, she is punished to stand on a stool in the middle of the town, a prostitute sign hanging on her neck. It isn't clear why the Xus dutifully accept her fate but Xu Yulan obliges willingly. The humiliation begins with the people shaving half of her head. Everyday, she sits the entire day for people to denounce her "counter-revolutionary" past as she waits for her husband to bring her food. Xu Sanguan patiently brings her a canister of steamed rice everyday, scooping slowly as the townspeople look. When they're left alone, he digs deeper into the can so Xu Yulan can eat the pork slice he concealed underneath with her steamed rice.

Perhaps the last story arc in the novel fleshes out the main theme – the seamless consistency in the coagulation of the literal and the figurative blood. When he turns 60, Xu Sanguan his first son, Yile, contracts a rare form of hepatitis and is sent to Shanghai for treatment. To pay for the astronomical medical expenses on his way to Shanghai, he sells his blood more than what his state of health will allow. Earlier in the story, Xu has already learned that he was cuckolded -- that his Yile is not his. Yet he transcends all that. He sells his blood, endangering himself in the process, even though the beneficiary of his act is someone who is not really Xu Sanguan’s own flesh and blood.

For those who have read Yu Hua, there's more of his sense of humor that often tends to make one uneasy. Xu Sanguan's character makes analogies that verge on the toilet side of humor. "This makes about as much sense as taking off your pants to fart."

The novel even ends with a ribald rumination. “That’s why people say pubic hair doesn’t come out till after your eyebrows do, but gets even longer in the end.”

The events of Xu Sanguan's life attest to this uneasiness. At one point, he tells his son to rape the half-sisters of Yile to avenge his being cuckolded. In another, he seduces an injured fat woman. In the latter part of novel, he hitches with two brothers who are paddling their way to Shanghai on a boat. At night, and since it is the nadir of winter, Xu Sanguan sleeps with each men on his side. They cuddle close to him and even put their legs over his body.

Chronicle of a Blood Merchant is indeed a quirky read. However, once one gets past the uncomfortable themes and subplots, the labels, even the well-concealed political statements, a powerful story of love and the undying quest for happiness is illuminated. Xu Sanguan's saguinary saga throbs until the last page - yet another achievement for Yu Hua, a writer whom many compatriots tout as the person who shattered the paradox in the term modern Chinese.