A series, a brother, an unfortunate event

That’s one thing about reading a series of books: what it means to you changes as time and the series progress, and you cope with the revelations and tragedies happening both in the books and in your own life. Who would’ve thought that Professor Dumbledore would die or that Gandalf, for that matter, would be resurrected much in the same way that Aslan was? You pick up a book and you’re off to a different world, a life you could only imagine, and yet upon reaching the end you know that it has changed you, it has become a part of you, embedded as it was, in an inexplicable yet primal way.

A friend of mine told me about Lemony Snicket’s A Series of Unfortunate Events as a series of books that could tide me over until the next installment of Harry Potter came out. I was in college then, and there had been five books of A Series out already when I bought them. This grim series begins with a warning from the author to go read something else. It would be the same warning that would ignite my brother’s curiosity over the book. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

Forewarned, Lemony Snicket begins his account of the lives of the Baudelaire children – Violet, Klaus, and Sunny – with the tragic death of their parents, burnt crisp inside their house. But the Baudelaires are no ordinary orphans – they are rich orphans! Their parents have left them an enormous fortune, which their first guardian, Count Olaf, wants so badly and thus a series of deaths, tragedies, imprisonments and lucky escapes ensue as the books advance to their penultimate peril. I devoured each new book that came out, reading it in one day or one sleepless night. At first, the series was nothing more than a dark, sarcastic book littered with deaths and tragedies.

It’s fun reading how the Baudelaires would escape Count Olaf; how bookworm Klaus would come up with an idea which the inventive and resourceful Violet would use, with a lot of biting help from the innocent-looking baby Sunny. The series is an adventure – a children’s adventure – where in the end, after a series of unfortunate events, they would escape the clutches of the evil Count Olaf. It poses no existential questions to ponder on, no subtleties to think about, and no connection to my life then as a college student.

A Brother
The greatest lesson, perhaps, that can be derived from the series would be what my brother Bryan told me: unfortunate events are blessings in disguise. I have always known that there is an upside to everything, a silver lining behind a dark cloud. What I didn’t know was how hard it would be to see the upside of certain things. Especially when it suddenly happens. By the time book 11 came out, I was on my way to graduating from college, and my brother from high school. By then, he had eclipsed me by thousands of light years as the greatest Lemony Snicket fan. Our room in Bicol was filled with all kinds of Lemony Snicket stuff, info, pictures, and of course, the books. I even gave him a whole set of pictures of the Jim Carrey-movie for Christmas along with some puzzles, notations, trivia games and a DVD copy of A Series of Unfortunate Events.

To say that he was obsessed is an understatement. The upside of it was it got Bryan to reading books. Without Lemony Snicket, he wouldn’t be interested in Harry Potter, Eragon, The Spiderwick Chronicles or even Mitch Albom’s The Five People You Meet in Heaven. Between book 11 and book 12, Bryan decided to study in Manila. We became book buddies, spending hours in bookstores and going around the whole Greater Manila Area hunting for books.

When book 12 came out, I was reviewing for the board exam and Bryan was in Bicol for the sem break. Naturally, I had been made to promise that I would send him a copy the moment it came out, which I did. Book 12, The Penultimate Peril, proved to be an intriguing plot. There had been suspicions even in the previous books that the Baudelaires’ parents were alive, which excited me and my brother no end.

Of course, Bryan, being a more rabid fan than I was, had already scoured the Internet for any information or clues about the last and 13th installment, which would come out this year on the 13th of October, a Friday. The significance of the date was not lost on Bryan. He e-mailed Lemony Snicket (or Daniel Handler) for further information. Bryan wanted to know several things. Could the Baudelaire parents really be alive? How could they have survived the fire? How would book 13 end? What would its title be? What would happen to Count Olaf that would mark the end of the book? These things he wanted to find out.

Alas, he never did.

An Unfortunate Event
Last March, my brother Bryan died from a hit-and-run accident. He was 17. And my own version of unfortunate events began to unfold. The world, for me, came to a screeching halt. I resigned from work; got excluded from my parents’ US immigration because I was, of all things, overage; and finally, my parents migrated to the US leaving one dead son behind, and another barely living.

That’s a lot to take in a span of two months. But I had to. The world didn’t end when my brother died, only his life did. Suddenly, it’s hard to see the upside of a tragic death. No positive thinking could counter the fact that my brother is dead. One minute he was alive, then bam! Dead.

Rereading the series didn’t offer me new insights into life and death, but it did offer me an avenue to relive the memories when my brother would excitedly turn the pages rabidly. It offered me a connection to my past, now suddenly rendered unreal and dreamlike and lost.

The series is a testament to my brother’s passion about books and the connection that binds us even now when he’s gone and I am still painstakingly turning the pages of my own life. They’re no longer just books to tide me over the next Harry Potter, the series has become more than that. I pick up a book from the series, and I’m off into a different world, a life I can now only imagine. And when I will finally read the last installment, the series will have become a part of me, embedded in an inexplicable yet primal way. It harkens back to the time of growing up with my brother, of books bought and read, and of a memory of him telling me, "Kuya, unfortunate events are blessings in disguise."

Published June 18, 2006. Philippine Star, Sunday Lifestyle section

Lent

I SAW my younger -- and only -- brother die twice.

The first time was when he was four, and I was 10. After convulsing madly, with black ants coming out of his nails, he went into a coma. He was given 24 hours to get out of it or he never would. After all my hysterics inside the hospital room -- jumping, wailing, puking -- I was sent out. He was left alone inside to recover or die. That was on March 5, 1993.

Our years together had been typical of brothers, punctuated by fighting, punching and kicking each other. I had asked for him, wished for him, prayed to the Almighty that I would have a sibling. But I never was appreciative of him during our early years together. I cared for him, but I did not know how to show it. So he was being taken away from me. That quickly, that suddenly.

Out of the hospital room, with a glass window between us, I promised God that if He would let Bryan Nathaniel live, I would care for him the best way I could -- perhaps even more than I could. I'd do anything and everything just so he'd live. It was a prayer, a bargain. And God heard and granted it.

Twelve years later, last year, Bryan was a freshman in college and I was fresh out of college. I decided not to work immediately so I could have the time to ease Bryan into the fast-paced life in Metro Manila. He seemed so precocious but at the same time so innocent, even child-like, although he was turning 17 that September. We bonded really well. We shared the same passion for books and movies. We went on book-shopping sprees, watched movies and DVDs, ate pizzas and pastas and bought Christmas gifts together for our family and relatives in the Bicol region.
That was what I wanted: to be with my brother and see him grow.

Last Feb. 28, we were together -- me, him and Mom -- for an event at which I was being awarded a prize. I treated them to coffee and pasta and shared part of my prize with them.
Mom went back to Bicol that same night. The next morning, Bryan left early to hear Ash Wednesday Mass.

He never reached the church. He was hit by a passenger jeepney while he was on the way there. And the driver and his passengers didn't care at all. People who witnessed the accident simply stood there and looked, and then just walked away, as if it were a cat that had been hit. It took some time before someone picked him up from the street, bloodied and hardly breathing, and took him to the nearest hospital.

I got the call while I was on my way to work. I saw Bryan in the emergency room with doctors and nurses around him. Just two nights earlier, we were making plans for the weekend. Just that morning, we said goodbye to each other. Now he was there, in the emergency room, unconscious. And I was trying to control my shaking.

I had to call mother who had just arrived in Bicol. I had to inform a father in Saudi Arabia who was still asleep, perhaps dreaming that one week later he'd be home for good and we'd all be together, finally.

My eyes were focused on my brother. The doctors' words and everyone else's faded into the background. I was alone. The only familiar face in that room, in that hospital, was dying. I held his feet. I looked at the monitor, which was showing his heartbeat growing weaker. At 7:50 a.m., Bryan was pronounced dead.

There seemed to be a rift, a rupture in time, between Feb. 28 and March 1. It seemed that the only continuity was time itself and that the events were disparate and disjointed. How does one go from being alive one second and dead the next?

I remembered March 1993, the pleas, the prayers that he would live and that I would have another chance to take care of him.

I had that chance. In my imperfect and flawed way, I had loved and cared for Bryan. And God saw that I had fulfilled my promise. He took Bryan at a most difficult time, when he was battling the demons of youth. But He took him also at an opportune moment, when he had made the decision, an affirmation of faith, to hear early Mass on Ash Wednesday. He was taken in the most painful way, and yet God, in doing so, preserved Bryan's child-like and happy nature.

It was physically painful for Bryan and it was emotionally gut-wrenching and shocking for us whom he left behind. But there is that hope, that faith that Bryan is in better hands now. In the loving arms of Mama Mary, as my Mom keeps telling me.

It has been a long and surreal Lent for us and a different and melancholic future lies ahead. There are the happy memories to summon and then there are the images at the hospital, at the morgue, at the funeral house. There are those he left behind: the children to whom he was teaching Catechism in Bicol, his family, his relatives and his friends. His death has to mean something, although what it is isn't clear to me yet. Eyes blurred by tears and hearts filled by sorrow cannot have a clear vision of what lies ahead. We just limp forward to some unknown future. We look back and we look forward. We look outward and we look inward.
Where do we find the strength to move on? In God. In Mary.

I look forward to Black Saturday and to Easter Sunday, when this Lenten season will end. I look forward to the new light after this utter darkness because I believe not only in the Suffering Christ, but more so in the Resurrected Christ.

Published April 13, 2006. Philippine Daily Inquirer, Youngblood.

Snatched!

IT WAS funny -- in a way. It reminded me of those slapstick comedies where the bad guy gets whacked in the end.

It happened a few afternoons ago. I was killing time in a shop of one of the coffee chains, reading a good book. At the table in front of me were two women who came with a foreigner. They had placed their valuables on the vacant chairs. Two unremarkable guys entered and stood between my table and their table, acting as if they were waiting for one to be vacated. Then one of the guys let slip a P20 bill, and when the women stooped down to pick it up, in a split-second, the guys snatched their bags.

The women sprang to their feet, shouting: "Hoy, mama! Bag namin!" ["Hey! Our bag!"] One of the women grabbed one of the snatchers as the foreigner struggled to his feet to go after them. Fortunately, the women's voices were so loud that everyone, including the guard, heard them, and so one of the snatchers was caught with a bag, now placed inside an even bigger bag, in
his hands.

What followed next was like a typical scene in sitcoms where the bad guys apologize profusely and the hero whacks them. One of the women said, "Lahat ng tao dito nagpapakahirap maghanapbuhay tapos ikaw nanakawin mo lang." ["Everyone here is having a hard time trying to earn a living, and you rob us just like that."] She followed this up with a whack on the snatcher's shoulder.

When the guard asked the women if they would be pressing charges, the woman said, "Of course! He should be jailed, otherwise what's going to stop him from doing it again?"
Seeing that he was in deep trouble, the snatcher began to apologize again. "Ma'am, sorry na po," he pleaded. "Sorry, talaga po. Nagkamali lang ako ng kuha. Hindi ko po sinasadya." ["I'm truly sorry. I grabbed the wrong item. I didn't mean to do it."]

A lapse in judgment? Haven't I heard that before? Haven't I seen somebody with a forlorn face apologizing for a lapse in judgment on national TV lately? But up to now, she has gotten away with her "mistake."

The sad truth is, Filipinos can be forgiving and we forgive the wrong people. Sometimes we quickly forgive so we can get on with our lives. We forgive and we justify our action by saying it is only natural for human beings to commit sin. And we forgive most easily the rich and the influential. We especially let people with money and power get away with their sins and accept their simple, insincere apologies, believing their crimes to be a lapse in judgment, as if all their lives they've lived immaculately and this lapse in judgment is an isolated aberration in their very moral lives.

But the words of the woman on national TV betrayed her. It wasn't something like an accidental, stupid mistake that she did. Judgment presupposes thinking, and shows she intended to rob the Filipino people of their real choice. Perhaps if she said, "Oops! I did it again!" and went to Mars, instead of saying that she had committed a lapse in judgment, she could have been forgiven her stupid mistake, even if that would make her -- a US-educated economist -- look dumb. But in an attempt to demonstrate that she was in control of the situation, she owned up to her mistake and thus, admitted that she wanted to make sure she would keep her lead of one million votes over her nearest rival.

No one will know for sure how many politicians said "Hello, Garci" on the phone. And even if Virgilio Garcillano had given all the names of the politicians who called him, we can't expect everyone to apologize unless each of them had been wiretapped talking to the election official. Indeed, no one will apologize for a lapse in judgment that no one knows about unless he is dying and has nothing more to lose (except, perhaps, a crack at eternal happiness) or he is writing a tell-all, you're-all-going-down-with-me memoir.

It seems we need more people, and not just those whose personal interests were directly affected, to say: "Lahat ng tao dito nagpapakahirap maghanapbuhay tapos kayo nanakawin niyo lang!" These cheaters, these snatchers got away because we have become complacent. Maybe if some physical evidence would turn up to prove that we have been robbed, like a bag or an unopened envelope, we could get our act together. Or maybe if we get whacked in the head, we'd wake up and do something to fix this country.

Published March 4, 2006. Philippine Daily Inquirer, Youngblood.

Exodus

IT WAS just a simple night out. Dinner at Bellini's, Starbucks after that. No alcohol, although passionately singing "I Don't Wanna Miss a Thing" while walking from the Marikina Shoe Expo commercial complex to the Araneta Coliseum, in the Cubao area of Quezon City, might have given others the impression that we were under the influence. Over pasta, pizza and, later, tea and frappuccino, conversation flowed easily, accompanied by occasional laughter. There were no dramas, no startling revelations, no deciphering of life, love or the lack thereof. There were just stories, both funny and mundane, and simple, unbelievable declarations, like "I lost three pounds" or "My family's visa has been approved."

Bernz, Mich and I have been friends long before cell phones became common and when video iPods were still the stuff of sci-fi. Even if we went to different universities, we somehow managed to stay in touch. Back then, a P10 bill (it was not a coin then; see how ancient we are?) from Katipunan Avenue to the University of the Philippines campus would cover the fare of three students and still yield some change. And the telecom companies were still giving a lot of free text messaging. Throughout college and thereafter, through countless "inuman" [drinking bouts], curfew-busting movie marathons, bowling and book-swapping, we always found time to update each other on our separate lives. In between were a few dramas, some falling out with other friends and crazy birthday gifts, like red thongs and funny caricatures.

We were held together by our shared dream of becoming a gangster in our native Bicol region, with Bernz, with her kingpin-like physique, as our leader, and Mich and me as her minions. Equipped with guns and wearing cool shades, we would dispense justice wherever it was denied. (Of course, we were kidding.)

At first, it was just what movies to watch, where to go bowling or the latest John Grisham or Sidney Sheldon books. Then it was whether we should have beer or gin, clean or on the rocks. And then book conversations ranging from Terry Pratchett to Neil Gaiman to J.K. Rowling to Michael Cunningham to Jhumpa Lahiri or to whoever won the Pulitzer or Booker recently, or even the Nobel for Literature.

Then, our conversations revolved around whether to resign from work or not, about electric and phone bills, and the tragicomic absurdity of the country's political landscape. Buying books became rare. Bowling was dropped. And we were making do with "bilog" [round-bottle gin].

Clean.

We would wake up with a hangover and suddenly there were huge bills to pay and we cursed the government for raising taxes when the streets we walked on our way home remained unlit, unpaved and unsafe. Time hurled us forward and we were no longer the future. We are part of the disgruntled present, still being chided by our elders for having wasted our youth even as we can see clearly from the way the country is being run how wisdom is wasted on the old.

But we go on with our lives. There are deadlines to meet and board exams to pass. There's pressure to succeed. To prove our own worth. To build and make something of ourselves.

Dreams have become concrete and unreachable. I want my own pad. I want my own house. My own car. These are wishes that will soon turn to necessity when age and our entire clan pressure me to start breeding mini versions of myself. There's just no sweet transition from worrying about your academics to fretting about where to get money for bills to pay. It just happens. You search for answers. And then you realize that it is there for you to see. So you go pack your bags and leave, seeking a more decent income.

But before you go, you look back and you see many reasons to stay. And they're not the politicians who trumpet a 28-percent increase in overseas Filipino workers' money remittances or the political has-beens who are pushing for Charter change. No, not the politicians who are more than happy to see you leave so that they will have more money to pocket. Not them. Just thinking of them makes you think of razing this country to the ground so that you can rebuild it from its ashes. When you look at the country you'd be leaving, you see the journey you've made. And because of that, you are willing to stick it out in this place of high crime rates and astronomical taxes.

Those memories littered with laughter, cigarette butts, and alcohol? You know when you reminisce that it's not about being sentimental. It's wondering how you got here. You see how national issues can affect you. And sometimes you wonder whether making a stand during the Edsa People Power II revolt was a good idea, considering the replacement, who is demanding that you get off the streets when it was the streets that put her in power. Ironic, isn't it?

You look back at the decisions you've made. And then you steel yourself, zip your bags and book a flight. You say your goodbyes, slowly and tenderly. You have dinner with your friends. You talk about books, film festivals and those DVDs in Manila's Quiapo area that you'll miss, and you plan the next "inuman." You relive all the good things that made this country bearable for you.

It was like that for us. We left Starbucks at around 10 p.m. Mich took the Metro Rail Transit, Bernz took a bus, and I a jeepney. We live in different zip codes. And soon, we'll have different country codes.


Published November 26, 2005. Philippine Daily Inquirer, Youngblood.

Escaping with Neil Gaiman

Books, especially fantasy literature, can take me to places so far removed from mine. Though similar emotions or struggles may imitate life, the realm of fantasy remains escapist fare. When I was young, I was amazed by fairy tales and mythologies. Heck, I even found Bible stories quite fascinating because of all the magic and show of might involved! Throughout high school I was obsessed with only one series of books – The Chronicles of Narnia. Add to that a few helpings of Marvel comics, some fantasy short stories, a few more fairy tales and the dreaded required readings in school and that summed up my reading list in high school.

All that changed when I went to college and I was surrounded with a lot of bookstores. With my very limited allowance, I would sacrifice a day’s meal (or two or three) to buy a good book. As my reading interest soared, my weight plummeted. I was suspiciously branded an addict, anorexic, bulimic, or just plain sick at one point or another. But I’m digressing. Part of my exponentially increasing interest in the written word, I would read books recommended to me by friends or even those whose covers I just happened to like! With the burning passion to read, it was inevitable that my reading list would still include fantasy literature. Aside from the different editions of The Chronicles of Narnia, I read the Wheel of Time (until it got ho-hum), The Sword of Truth, and The Lord of the Rings, among others. Nothing really deep or profound as they were all bestsellers and epic by nature.

So when a great friend thrust upon me the novel American Gods, she thought that there would be an instant recognition. Instead I looked at her quizzically and said, "Who’s he?" upon seeing the author. Defying the forces of gravity, I saw blood surge to her face at such an alarming rate as to approach the speed of light. Then she boomed, in a voice that was trying to control an impending burst of anger, "THE AUTHOR OF THE SANDMAN?"

Blank stares.
Blink, blink.
More blank stares.

With great restraint, she hit my head with the book. I lost my balance and crashed to the floor. She was simply incapable of being gentle. After some kind strangers brought me to my feet, she blared at me again, "Don’t tell me you don’t know who Neil Gaiman is, you, Mr. Book Person!" At the time, a good five years ago, I simply had no idea who Neil Gaiman was. "The Sandman? Graphic novels?" she said while knocking at my head. This must be how trees feel when pecked by woodpeckers, I thought to myself. I tried to hide the terror in my voice and told her in the calmest way that I didn’t know who Neil Gaiman was. I asked her in a soft, fading, quivering voice what American Gods was about and silently implored the high heavens that my precious life be spared. She was (and is) the BIGGEST Neil Gaiman fan, after all. "American Gods is about this guy named Shadow and also Wednesday…" Since then Neil Gaiman has become one of my staple authors.

American Gods
Some would argue that American Gods is not a good starting point to develop an interest in Gaiman’s works. Rabid, salivating, die-hard fans (read: my great friend) would, more often than not, usually recommend the usual suspects: The Sandman or Smoke and Mirrors, or even Neverwhere. But I got hooked on Gaiman because of American Gods.

For me, American Gods is a biting social commentary on the fickleness and ungratefulness of America towards its cultural heritage. Borrowing characters from different mythologies, Gaiman was able to craft a dark, shadowy story on the battle for beliefs between the traditional gods and the more recent ones people are prostrating themselves before, namely the Internet, credit cards, technology. It also expresses how much of America is derived or borrowed. The immigrants who moved to America brought, along with their hopes for a better life, their cultures and beliefs, thus the title. But with the advent of technology, these gods are being driven to extinction. They have now become obsolete, old, and impractical.

This more universal theme of displacement of religion and tradition rings true for all nations. In the face of technology, everything is analyzed and deconstructed. Science seeks a rational explanation for all things and with it goes the demystification of life. In the quest for truth, old notions are displaced and forgotten. Life becomes mechanical, practical… mundane. There’s no more mystery, no more magic. That makes life oh-so-tragic. And people who believe that oh-so pathetic. And I’m ranting coz I’m rhyming. Oh stop me, somebody… please.

Good Omens
If one finds American Gods dark and heavy, Good Omens is anything but. As light as a South Beach Diet, it details, in the funniest way, how Gaiman and Pratchett hope to bring down Armageddon. With funny characters (and even funnier names) racing against time to put a screech, delay, and halt the end of the world, the authors have created a book that pokes fun and marvels at the fallibility of human beings.

In one of the more classic scenes, one of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, Famine, has invented a classic dish (calorie-counting people! Get your books now and write this down!): a string bean, a pea, and a sliver of chicken breast aesthetically arranged on a china plate. Of course, with such scrumptious, mouth-watering, low-calorie cuisine it’s only available in the most exclusive of restaurants. And it’s expensive. Surely, the study of aesthetically arranging the cuisine involves higher education and PhDs. God knows how difficult it is to prepare that food. That alone is worth a dissertation! And with just a small china plate? Gosh! The possibilities of arranging those ingredients are infinite! Quite unsurprisingly, the moneyed are worshipping it. As Famine said, "I’ve never seen so many rich people so hungry." While more than half of Africa and Asia are starving, the more affluent ones are also starving. Such a delightfully twisted world!

One might wonder, then, why an angel and a demon would join forces to delay Armageddon considering the dreariness and despondency of the world. Why, despite the malevolent behavior and unscrupulousness of some people, ethereal beings on both ends of the moral spectrum would set aside their obvious differences to salvage humanity. What makes humans so unique, so special that they could bring the most bitter of enemies together? Well, immortals as they are, spending their whole ethereal existence in this world since creation, they’ve grown to love people.

And indeed, modesty aside, we are amazing creatures! There’s no one but us who can inflict such amazing things on ourselves like the Inquisition, genocide, terrorism, value-added tax, the Congress, the Senate! Ain’t life just grand? Crowley, the demon, even thought of sending a nice e-mail (they’re up to the times, you know!) to Hell to just pack up and come here to Earth because there’s nothing they can do that we haven’t done yet to ourselves and there are things that we’ve done that are beyond the wildest imaginations of Hell’s think tank. I mean, c’mon, the House of Representatives? Government officials? Hell wouldn’t think that we would be that dumb as to yield ourselves to such arrogance and incompetence. We are built into a world that’s against us in a hundred little ways (think of floods, tsunamis, earthquakes, volcanic eruptions) and yet we spend most of our energies making it worse (think of the people we elect in the government and value-added taxes). Hasn’t it been written that hell is empty and all the devils are here?

But, and here’s the big BUT (no, not J. Lo’s behind), just as we can be more malignant than Hell could ever be, we could occasionally show more grace than Heaven ever dreamed of. And I’m not talking about politicians giving election money or their pork barrel. No, they don’t have grace or finesse. They’re as crude as unrefined oil. I’m talking about the few bright spots in the world — those who would donate their time and money without the press releases and publicity shots; those who would fight poverty and corruption; and those who live their lives, no matter how ordinary, as noble and as dignified as possible.

Can’t you see now how eclectic the mix of human beings is? Just as we have PGMA and Bush, we’ve also had Mother Teresa and Pope John Paul II and countless other unsung heroes who try to make life just a (teeny-weeny) bit better. We are a puzzlement, a question needing to be answered, a source of amusement to otherworldly beings (that is, if they do exist). From an objective point of view, literally lift yourself up (go to a very tall building or wherever) and (don’t jump!) see the world below. Life is so much more than what we see or what we go through. There’s more to life than our own misery. It is a fascinating, involving and evolving mystery. No matter how much you deconstruct life, tear it to pieces, analyze it, you’ll never get closer to the core of it unless you’ve lived it fully.

But lest you think that Good Omens is just an irreverent take on life, it’s not. It is, first and foremost, an encyclopedia of lost and trivial information. Did you know that the Earth’s a Libra? Or that the Devil has the best tunes but Heaven has the best choreographers? Or that some of the little pigs in that nursery rhyme went to Hades and feasted on human flesh? Bet you didn’t know those life-changing, more-controversial-than-Kris-Aquino’s-national-TV confessions until now!

Well, there’s more in the book. After all, the complete title of the book is Good Omens: The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter, Witch. Again, I’m digressing. This is the closest I can get to telling you to read this book. And upon reading this book, perhaps you’ll realize that, despite the spectacular ordinariness of life, it is still beyond our grasp, our understanding, and our imagination.

The Drive To Escape
It has often been said that life is stranger than fiction. No matter how strange or fantastical fiction can get, life is still stranger. Just read the memoirs of ordinary mortals like The Kiss, The Glass House, My Life in Orange, and Running with Scissors, among others and you’ll see how strange life is. Despite the enormous efforts to rob life of its mystery, it is still sublimely fascinating as it is deliriously heartbreaking.

So when life overwhelms me, I pick up Good Omens (again) or any fantasy literature and immerse myself in those strange places inhabited by Four Horsemen, wizards, dragons, and witches, among other creatures. As I’ve said earlier, reading a fantasy book, whether as dark as American Gods, as funny as Good Omens, or as epic as Lord of the Rings, remains an escapist fare.

If books can send you far from your miserable life and into another one that, perhaps, you can relate to; fantasy can blast you out of life’s orbit. They may not be that deep or that serious, and what you will get may not be an in-your-face lecture of human struggle. But to a thinking reader, fantasy may as well be the best representative of literature. Why? I’ll let Neil Gaiman answer that. In his short story (with a very loooong title) "Forbidden Brides of the Faceless Slaves in the Nameless House of the Night of Dread Desire" (Whew!), Gaiman wrote: "Fantasy is escapism, true. But is not the highest impulse in mankind the urge towards freedom, the drive to escape?"

Published May 29, 2005. Philippine Star, Sunday Lifestyle section.