Book feast

Cord was still speaking to no one in particular, with some vehemence, of the world backdrop situation. "Once Brazil has cut down a critical percentage of her rain forest," he said, "she ceases to deserve a place at the world brunch table, agreed? Likewise any taggable thrust of experts from Southeast Asia has to inmeld within the Sino-Japanese corral, agreed? And in an exactly identical mode, we have the Egypto-Libyan community hugged into Europe, you see where I'm at? You see the patternification in and on all theaters of movement? A kind of glaciatizing effect, where..."

Strangely, it was only in the middle of reading Tik-Tok (1983) by John Sladek that I realized: my favourite kind of literature is satire. Last year, which was my gap year, or the start of my gap year-and-a-half, I read a fair number of books—compared with my previous yearly average of about zero, anyway. Before, the only book I would cite as a favourite was The Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy, Gentleman by Laurence Sterne—a novel roughly as long and as funny as its title. Out of the bundle I read last year, the two books I loved the most were Gulliver's Travels (1726) by Jonathan Swift—famous more for its first half on Lilliput and Brobdingnag, though its second half has sharper wit and a bigger heart—and Slaughterhouse-Five (1969) by Kurt Vonnegut—this one made me resent war even more, made me feel better about feeling like a loser. And now, only in the middle of writing the previous sentence do I realize that my favourite favourite kind of writing is probably a combination of heart and humour—with a sobering dash of pessimism.

I've been having some sort of a little book festival this past week involving solely myself. Last weekend, I picked up Tik-Tok from Jurong Regional Library, a trip inspired by the recommended reading lists I had researched on robots and unicorns. I also brought home The Iron Man (1968) by Ted Hughes, and The Last Unicorn (1968) by Peter S. Beagle. On Thursday I purchased, from the Times Book Fair in the basement of Paragon, Pickles to Pittsburgh (2000) by Judi Barrett, a sequel to the classic children's book Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs (1978). Chris said its plot is rather empty compared with its predecessor, and I could imagine so, but I absolutely loved the line art by Ron Barrett.

Lastly, there was yesterday. I had heard earlier about the shutting down of Borders and its 70% off clearance sale at Parkway Parade, but thought it too out-of-the-way. I read about it again in the papers Saturday morning and decided on an impulse to go check it out before heading for Allegra's classes. I arrived, and found more than half the shelves emptied. A quick browse discovered unsurprisingly that the remainder had few of the classics that I usually buy (indeed, the only one I recognized was Evelina; oh, I wondered who would bring her home!). I was ready to leave empty-handed, then somehow had the mind to tour the Fiction section a second time and pick out a copy of every Penguin Mini Modern Classic I could find (only $2.68 apiece!). I left with 21 of them (plus a green Daisy Miller by Henry James).

You think my little book festival had come to an end. So did I. But I was wrong, and so are you. It was still early when I reached town, and so I went to Orchard Central to pass the hour. I stepped in to find another book sale on the ground floor. Buyer's guilt could not stop me from rampaging through the trolleys. In the end, my bag was heavier by three children's books: The Real Mother Goose (1916), The Great Recycling Adventure: A Lift-a-Flap Look at Old Things Made New (1994), and Book 12c: The open door to reading (1967), the last of the Ladybird Key Words Reading Scheme (aka Peter and Jane) series.

Phew.

I love the YouTube series on the making of the Penguin Mini Modern Classics. I don't know if there will be more, but here are the five parts currently available:

Termites

Today was the last day of the MBS flash mob. Relief. Gin and KH apparently arrived seconds after our last pose.

I had (have) work to complete and so plonked myself at the Marina Bay Link Mall Starbucks--which I had visited with Chris and Jeremy a couple weeks ago. The place is pleasurably cold and happily secluded (and I liked my hidden corner table).

Hours later, I followed the signs to the MRT station, and was led through empty tunnel after spacious tunnel. Only a handful of us crawling to and fro. Felt like we were tiny burrowing creatures, maybe like termites. I imagine the sensation is even more intense during rush hours.

Another discovery: Raffles Place escalators are fast! No geriatrics allowed.