Too Much Information

Now that this review is out, here's a bit more information.

The Democratic Republic of the Congo in Central Africa was formerly known as the Congo Free State, Belgian Congo, Congo-Léopoldville, Congo-Kinshasa and Zaire (1971-1997).

It's not to be confused with the Republic of the Congo aka the Congo Republic, Congo-Brazzaville, Little Congo or simply the Congo, another state in Central Africa.

So, there is no "Zaire and the Democratic Republic of Congo". At present, there is, however, a "Republic of the Congo" and "Democratic Republic of the Congo".

I got confused. My bad.

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Too much info

first published in The Star, 26 August 2011


What an iPad of a book, I thought, as I ran my hands over the cover that was tastefully done in white, black and red. And just like a real iPad, you will either get sick of it after a short while or be lost in it for hours, maybe days.

The Information is James Gleick's attempt to enlighten the masses about the subject of "information": its history, theories, and how technology that bloomed in the last 50 years has redefined our relationship with information.

Gleick kicks things off with the story of early forms of texting, which includes fire signals and African talking drums. While highlighting the latter we are introduced to Kele, a Bantu language spoken in parts of Zaire and the Democratic Republic of Congo. Inflections in speech can give the same Kele word or phrase different meanings, resulting in comical and potentially tragic consequences. For instance, one can end up saying "he boiled his mother-in-law" instead of "he watched the riverbank". Several revelations arise from this: language is complex; such complexities can form a basis for some kind of encryption; and it seems that mothers-in-law are hated everywhere.

The book explores other aspects of information, such as communication (telegraph and telecommunications), processing (19th century English mathematician and mechanical engineer Charles Babbage's difference engine, transistors and logic circuits), encryption (WWII's famed Enigma machine), and finally, "the flood" (social networks and Wikipedia).

The book gets harder to read as one goes along, however. Some parts are like a textbook or encyclopaedia, with diagrams, math equations, foreign words and special symbols. All that, plus the dry tone and inaccessible language clutter up and bog down what would have been an interesting book that might explain and contextualise, among other things, phenomena such as Fox "News", LOLcats, and Charlie Sheen. Digging up such gems, however, is like going through a mile of Google search results. One wonders if this is actually the sequel to Gleick's previous book, Chaos.

Those with the determination, patience and stamina to wade through the entire book will likely be rewarded with a clearer understanding of what we read, why we seek it, why we read some things more than others, and why we have that urge to "spread the word".

Some points to ponder: Our hunger for information can lead to an information hangover and apathy, so how do we sate the hunger while avoiding the side-effects? If DNA code is "information", does that make us "living machines", and gene-based treatments a form of programming?

For me, "information" connotes something that's shiny, intriguing and that invites exploration, but the task of unravelling the complex relationships between us and the information we produce and consume is much, much harder.

Though I feel Gleick has done his utmost to do this, I also fear he has been too successful. The Information may help us understand the origins of information and our ties to it, but it may also end up a victim of its author's apparent success – a book that's too smart for the casual reader, afflicted by some of the problems it highlights and tries to explain.

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The Information

James Gleick
Fourth Estate
526 pages
Non-fiction
ISBN: 978-0-00-742311-8

Price Of Courage

Though The Absolutist was a simple book to review, I'm rather embarrassed by the results, which was published today. Not because it was tucked into a corner of a page of cinema screening schedules.

But, oddly enough, because it's so short.

I couldn't see much to write about. To say too much would give away parts of the novel I'd rather let people read about. And people should give this novel a go. Then, they should probably watch Captain America: The First Avenger.

A novel about World War I soldiers (left) and a movie about
World War II soldiers. Coincidence?

Sure looks like they did a little homework before laying it out. Kind of clever.

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Price of courage

first published in The Star, 29 July 2011


Renowned octogenarian author Tristan Sadler is at a prize-giving ceremony that also celebrates his long illustrious literary career.

The evening doesn't go so well, however. An exchange with a rude, callous, young and upcoming writer sours his mood, and he takes it out on a newbie reporter who didn't do his homework before interviewing him. Though the prize is prestigious and rarely given out, he thinks the thing is ugly.

After the ceremony, Tristan returns to his hotel where he finds an elderly woman waiting for him at the lounge. They know each other. She's Marian Bancroft and it appears she has unfinished business with him. This encounter is 60 years in the making and the story leading up to it is in the unpublished manuscript in Tristan's hotel room. Which you would be reading as John Boyne's novel, The Absolutist, if you picked it up.

It's 1919. A much younger Tristan Sadler is on the train from London to Norwich. He makes small talk with an aged female novelist of some renown. He himself is employed by a publisher, a possible foreshadowing of his future in publishing. But his business in Norwich is not with books but letters.

World War I has ended, and he brings letters from the front, presumably unsent, written by his friend Will Bancroft. The letters are addressed to his sister Marian, and there may be a reason why he's delivering the letters himself.

Tristan and Will met at the military town of Aldershot three years earlier, where they trained with other young men – boys, some of them – and formed a bond that strengthened as they faced death and desolation in the trenches during the war.

As the days on the battlefield wear on, they keep a depressing count of their comrades-at-arms who died, deserted or went mad. One day, Will lays down his arms and declares himself an "absolutist" – someone who refuses to contribute even an iota of effort to the war. To the rest of his comrades, he is just another coward. Will is executed as a traitor for his decision, shaming his family's name.

But of course, this isn't the whole story. Besides the letters, Tristan tells Marian why Will objected to the war, but not the circumstances surrounding his death. The letters say nothing; only Tristan knows. But will he find the courage Will had to reveal them?

The Absolutist is short, focused as it is on Tristan, Marian and his friendship with Will. The novel is also a sad, poignant tale of war, of what young men had to endure in the trenches and the shattered lives left in the wake of their deaths. It also sheds some light on Tristan's own sad story, how he came to know Will, and the burden of truth he has borne through the years.

Tightly-woven, straightforward and unpretentious, the writing is an example of fine storytelling and the plot is easy to follow. A nice read overall, even if the story sort of plods along in parts (such as Tristan's vignettes in sleepy Norwich as he struggles with whether to spill the whole bag of beans to Marian). You can imagine this as a full-length feature film as you read, but try not to press the imaginary fast-forward button – that will spoil the whole experience.

I'd say more but because of the brevity of this novel, I'm already treading the thin red line between review and spoiler. Suffice it to say this is definitely worth picking up.

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The Absolutist

John Boyne
Doubleday (2011)
309 pages
Fiction
ISBN: 978-0-385-61605-8

Winds Of Change

I'd forgotten about submitting this review. Nor did I expect it to be out today.

It's been a while since I wrote this and things in Burma don't appear to be improving as fast as hoped. So Aung San Suu Kyi is allowed to tour the country - but no politics, please, says its "civilian" government.

Big deal. They kicked out Michelle Yeoh, allegedly, for her role in the Suu Kyi biopic. Might it have been something she said about the film?

Change. It's in my pocket but not, it seems, in Burma. Not yet.

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Winds of change

For years one of the world's last remaining military dictatorships, Burma is now under a civilian government. But it remains to be seen whether the country can move on from the bleak days chronicled in this book

first published in The Star, 22 July 2011


After ruling the country for over 30 years, the Burmese junta was dissolved and replaced by an elected civilian government early this year. Naysayers can perhaps be forgiven for their scepticism, though: the junta has historically been seen as a fickle, paranoid entity that relies on spin and brute force to cling to power.

The elections that paved the way for the junta's dissolution is widely believed to have been a sham, an attempt to rebrand old lamps as new.

The collapse of the ancient Danok pagoda in 2009 could have been an influencing factor in the rebranding exercise. In Everything Is Broken, American journalist and author Emma Larkin describes the event as a possible ill omen for the junta, a divine rejection of its legitimacy.

The pagoda's collapse was particularly significant in the light of the fact that the wife of a junta official, Senior General Than Shwe (now retired), had performed a religious ceremony there mere weeks before the collapse.

Wishful thinkers would probably have seen this incident as one in a series of heavenly wake-up calls for the junta, a follow-up to the last one in May 2008. That year, cyclone Nargis wreaked havoc and destruction in Burma's Irrawady Delta. In their attempts to control and, as usual, spin the situation, the junta placed numerous stumbling blocks in front of mostly foreign aid agencies trying to enter the country to help.

The state-run media was virtually blowing sunshine and scattering flower petals everywhere to mask the scale of the destruction, decrying foreign press coverage of the disaster as a "skyful of lies".

Larkin was one of the few foreign journalists who managed to sneak in as part of an aid group's entourage.

"Emma Larkin" is a nom de plume, and there's a good reason why. This bleak, cheerless chronicle of the cyclone's aftermath has little good to say about the Burmese junta and their handling of what is said to be the worst natural disaster in the country's recorded history.

Broken families, broken bodies, broken bridges, broken chains of command, broken everything. The title comes from an oft-heard phrase during Larkin's interviews with affected locals.

It is hard to read this painfully one-sided, unflattering, monochromatic portrait of the junta and its key figures. It is, after all, The Untold Story Of Disaster Under Burma's Military Regime.

Burma's military rulers, Than Shwe in particular, are cast as a hermitic, paranoid, superstitious and xenophobic lot who are scared stiff of the big wide world and rely on astrology and religious and magical rituals to bring good luck, accrue merit and ward off enemies.

The reader feels despair, pity and rage at the victims' plight, at the scenes of horror in the disaster zones, and at the darkly comic cruelty of the regime's clumsy efforts to maintain control of the situation. The collapse of the Danok pagoda is perhaps the only bright spot among the pages.

Larkin says her pseudonym protects the locals who spoke to her; talking to the foreign press is dicey business for the Burmese.

"The worst thing that would happen to me is that I would get deported," she said in an online interview.

She also implies that it is the regime's control of the country and all public discourse within that drives writers like herself to dig deep and chronicle events in countries such as Burma.

"As a result of the regime's actions, stories are vanishing, history is being rewritten, memories are being eroded and stories lost."

However, her efforts to hide her identity and assure her return to Burma later works against her in that this work can be seen as an attack on the Burmese junta by someone hiding behind a false name, rather than a true-to-life account of events after Nargis.

Larkin's storytelling, however, makes her sound more credible than Burma's state media. Or is it because she paints the kind of picture some of us want to see?

Maybe it all depends on what happens in Burma in the coming months. Any change for the better in the country is good news for everyone. After decades of rule by a schizophrenic military regime, however, one can only hope that not everything there is broken, and that there will be fewer pieces to pick up when the real healing begins.

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Everything is Broken

The Untold Story of Disaster Under Burma's Military Regime

Emma Larkin
Granta Publications (2010)
265 pages
Non-fiction
ISBN: 978-1-84708-180-3

Portuguese Pleasures

Written weeks ago, this review of popular, well-reviewed Cristang Restaurant is finally out in the papers. On the day of the Big Yellow Rally. What timing.

However, I feel I have to clarify and point out a few things which were in the original copy: The chef's name is Gerald G (as in Gordon) Oei, not C; the "devils on horseback" dish is described twice; a "noodle incident" about "crossed wires" should've been removed, but wasn't; and technically, the Cristang aren't exactly Portuguese but I was groping for words for a little article alliteration.

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Portuguese pleasures

It’s a different kind of foreign occupation when memories of the food at Cristang Restaurant can’t get out of these diners’ heads

first published in The Star, 09 July 2011


We arrived at the restaurant at 8 Avenue around dusk. As Alex whipped out her camera to photograph the exterior, she pointed at something. "Look," she exclaimed, "there are pigs above the doorway!"

As I examined the pigs, a Cristang-looking fellow appeared at the door. "It’s the first time anybody noticed the ‘guardians’ since I opened," he observed. Alex can be sharp-eyed when she wants to be.

We take in the décor: chairs with chequered cushions, wood panelling around the front doorway, and glass panels with the current specials written in dry-erase ink. Sitting in front of each fake brocade cushion was a half-filled pig head-shaped bean bag. The atmosphere was quite subdued, with Portuguese/Latin American guitar playing over the sound system. At the time we were there, we were the only patrons.

Chef-owner Gerald C. Oei told us that Cristang has been open for two years.

"Our opening hours are on Facebook, and behind the counter. I don’t open on Mondays," he said, adding that there were exceptions. "If Tuesday is a public holiday, I will open on Monday."

Though named for the descendants of the Portuguese who dropped by in the 16th century, Cristang’s restaurant’s menu also has Italian, Spanish and other influences from continental Europe: pastas and protein-starch-veggie dishes. It seems as though the restaurant is still trying to figure out what it wants to be. Or perhaps it’s a reflection of the owner’s eclectic tastes and repertoire.

In a radio interview, Gerald seemed to suggest that Cristang was the lab/playground to test and try out his culinary experiments, his own takes on his grandma’s recipes. He was almost vibrating with glee as he told a customer about a dessert he was trying out.

"I love what I do," he beamed.

Alex avoided the carbonara despite the promise of crispy, smoky porcine pleasure in the ingredients list. She settled on a "basic" pork burger, a Cristang signature that had a number of different "grades" from P1 to P10. I picked a tapas dubbed "devils on horseback" - bacon-wrapped sticks of asparagus, baked in a sauce of garlic, onions and red wine. The menu whimsically noted that for this item, "Sorry, angels are not available."

Similar displays of humour were in the menu, lost in the anticipation of a splendid meal.

Alex didn’t like the "devils on horseback" much, mainly because the bacon wasn’t crispy. The dish - three asparagus spears wrapped in bacon and swimming in a garlic and red wine sauce, was likely baked. It was delicious, a great appetiser.

Alex found Cristang’s pork burger much finer than another establishment’s. It was nice and juicy, and the tiny potato wedges were roasted with rosemary. Definitely a higher class pork burger. The full-on version, which had petai (stinkbean) mixed into the patties only got better with the addition of cheese, chilli con carne, and other add-ons, all of which made for a pretty dish one would feel reluctant to cut into.

My Avenue Fried Rice was a decidedly upmarket, larger and tastier version of a mamak stall nasi goreng kambing. A lamb curry fried rice with crunchy fried anchovies and slivers of cucumber, it was, to my dismay, mild – but tasty.

I was surprised, however, by how bitter my D’Tox Red fruit juice combo was. Wasn’t a mix of watermelon, orange and carrot supposed to be kind of sweet? I also wondered why they served water in a tequila glass until I took a sip and got a mouthful of sucrose syrup instead.

Oh yes... didn’t the waiter say, "Sugar is separate"?

Almost full, we toyed with the idea of dessert. The Apple Strudel looked nice, but Alex was worried about the sugar content. Nor did she find the fried banana dessert appealing. We eventually settled for something different, a Butter Cake Anglaise: five pieces of fried butter cake with cream Anglaise, strawberry purée, arranged around a scoop of vanilla ice-cream garnished with a mint on top.

The notion of a fried butter cake drove Alex into mental overdrive, even before she’d had a taste. Oh, it was so good. Sinful decadence on a plate. It helped that the butter cake was already good, but when you pan-sear the outside to crisp it, then drizzle strawberry purée over it and eat it with a bit of good cold vanilla ice-cream...

Alex’s mind was, to my imagination, afire with visions of animated slices of butter cake, falling into and leaping from their frying pans, complete with yelps of pain.

Despite being stuffed, we kept stealing morsel after morsel, and in no time the plate was clean, we were happy, and the tension caused by our crossed wires vanished. It was money well spent.

I popped RM1 plus change into a tip jar that rather brazenly suggested, "Afraid of change? Leave it here!"

Memories of the food, particularly dessert, continued to haunt us as we drove home.

"Oh God, the cake was so sinful," Alex groaned. I couldn’t tell whether she was grumbling or gushing. Our minds would be aflame with visions of butter cake, petai-infused pork burgers and rosemary-tinged potato wedges for the next couple of weeks.

Talk about a different kind of Portuguese invasion.

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Cristang Restaurant

Unit B-G-19, 8 Avenue
Jalan Sungai Jernih (8/1)
46050 Petaling Jaya
Selangor

CLOSED FOR GOOD

Secret Service

I had originally intended to blog the review of this book I got from Monsoon. Then, when visiting the editorial staff at the paper, I opened my big mouth.

But perhaps it's better I did. As an account of the days before and after the Japanese occupation of Malaya, this book is a slice of history. While I don't know how much of a difference the review will make, I felt the paper was a better platform to tell people about this book.

My standfirst in the original copy was not used, so I've included it here; it does sound quite cliché in hindsight. But why does the print and online version have different titles?

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Secret service

The memoirs of a British intelligence officer in Malaya surfaces to entertain, enlighten and enthral

first published in The Star, 08 July 2011


Malayan Spymaster: Memoirs Of A Rubber Planter, Bandit Fighter and Spy is the abridged version of the memoirs of the late Boris Hembry (1910-1990) who, according to the back cover blurb, "... spent a month in the jungle behind enemy lines ... recruited into the Secret Intelligence Service ... returned to Sumatra and Malaya several times by submarine ... liaised with Force 136 ..."

Who would not want to know more?

Born in South Africa, Boris Messina Hembry was barely 20 when he arrived on these shores in 1930. He bounced around several rubber estates in Malaya and Sumatra, and also joined the local volunteer corps. He brought his wife over from Britain and started a family.

When the Japanese invaded during World War II, Hembry joined one of the volunteer corps' many stay-behind parties – his first and failed foray into espionage – before eventually escaping to India. He soon demonstrated a knack for getting into trouble when he signed up for intelligence work in Burma, forsaking the relative safety and calm of a training battalion.

He would later join spying operations in Japanese-occupied Malaya, a job that had him travelling by submarine and taking a short course at Britain's famous Government Code and Cypher School in Bletchley Park, where the Nazis' Enigma code was cracked.

Hours after the murder of estate manager Arthur Walker (that eventually triggered the declaration of the Malayan Emergency and the fight against communist insurgents), Hembry organised his "own bloody army" of volunteers to repel the Reds – the beginnings of the anti-Communist home guard.

His contribution to the fight against the insurgents included input that would later be incorporated into the Briggs Plan that resettled rural folk into New Villages to cut off support for the communists. Social highlights included interactions with Sir Henry Gurney, Sir Gerald Templer and Anthony Eden, who would become British prime minister. Hembry left Malaya in 1955 with his wife, partly due to poor health.

With a title like Malayan Spymaster one expects a cool book. The writing, however, is quite matter-of-fact, devoid of the usual fluff and literary devices. His life as a planter, soldier and estate manager is more detailed than chapters that concern his time as an intelligence officer.

Even if this isn't quite the knuckle-whitening, real-life spy thriller the title suggests, Hembry's simple storytelling, charming in its own unadorned way, is compensated by a wealth of information and experiences gleaned the hard way. The reader is immersed in life in the clubs and estates of the British colonial era, as well as the dangers of the jungles and swamps during war-time.

'Tis heady stuff, this record of the days in pre-war and post-war Malaya by this Mat Salleh, one of many who spent much of their life's efforts on their adopted country and who may never be acknowledged in the history books.

Hembry never intended to publish his memoirs. His kin, however, felt that it deserved a much wider readership.

"We dedicate it to those expatriates of many generations whose devotion to that beautiful country and its peoples helped to lay the foundations of present-day peaceful and prosperous Malaysia," says Hembry's son, John, in the preface.

I'm certain readers of Malayan Spymaster will be grateful for the Hembrys' generosity.

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Malayan Spymaster

Memoirs of a Rubber Planter, Bandit Fighter and Spy

Boris Hembry
Monsoon Books (2011)
424 pages
Non-Fiction/History/Malayan Emergency
ISBN: 978-981-08-5442-3

France Made Fun

I had expected this to be out on in the Sunday Star's ReadsMonthly, not today. I wonder what will that section feature?

Not much else I have to say about this review, other than it took me 2½ days to finish. With this, Stephen Clarke and Dan Simmons are now the authors whose works I've reviewed the most. Not sure if that's a good thing... .

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France made fun

Sample these sharp and humorous takes on all things French sparingly

first published in The Star, 24 June 2011


Stephen Clarke is funny, which is to be expected of a writer who cut his teeth writing comedy sketches for the BBC. After moving to France, he turned his incisive wit on his adopted homeland, resulting in a series of novels and several non-fiction books that are mostly about the pleasures and perils of living in that country.

Talk to the Snail was how I got to know Clarke ("French comprehension", Reads, StarMag, Dec 30, 2007). His handy, hilarious survival guide to France was chock-full of myth-busting anecdotes. "... if you want to know France, don't ask a Frenchman. He'll only give you the version he wants you to hear," says Clarke. "He won't mention that French women have just about the highest Prozac consumption in the world.... Or that the French are mad about hamburgers...."

Stephen Clarke's 1000 Years of Annoying the French (left) and
Paris Revealed - more of the French than you can handle

That book didn't shock, but it left me quite breathless by making me laugh my lungs flat. It's just that all these hidden, surreal sides of France are so over the top, they look more natural and less funny in fiction – I decided that I find Clarke funnier when he's not writing fiction. So when I came across a 2010 non-fiction release I hadn't seen, as well as a title released earlier this year, I couldn't resist asking to review both.

1000 Years Of Annoying The French, which sounds like Clarke's job description, is a brick-like tome that tries to "set the record straight" about the long tragicomedy that is the French-English relationship. A healthy portion of it, however, appears dedicated to what Clarke does best, which he suggests is nothing new. From William the Conqueror to the diplomatic gaffes suffered by current French president Nicolas Sarkozy, all forms of insults have been flying between Britain and France for centuries. Kind of like Malaysia-Singapore, only much longer.

From 1000 Years, it seems the French may have exaggerated notions of their place in history. In his own inimitable way, Clarke mercilessly tears down each "historical fact" and uncovers some surprising things:

• Clarke says that William the Conqueror was not a French king because he was of Viking descent, drank little wine, and was faithful to his wife.
• Mary, Queen of Scots, had French blood and upbringing. As Clarke states, "She was as Scottish as foie gras-flavoured haggis."
• The fearsome guillotine used to dispatch various French royals and nobles during the French Revolution was a British invention.
• France's exorbitant demands for war-time reparations from Germany after World War I might have bred the resentment that would later fuel Hitler's rise and start World War II.

Here, Clarke shows his work as an acerbic, wittier, and less genteel David Attenborough of the history of Anglo-French relations. Each sequence of events is threaded together well, with references to previous chapters and modern events, plus accompanying footnotes to make the history more interesting, entertaining even.

Case in point: The English may have killed Joan of Arc (see chapter four), but it seems that France allowed them to. Centuries later, after World War I, France had her made a saint (see chapter 24). Clarke notes the irony. "Yes, just eighteen months after Britain had sacrificed a whole generation of its young men to defend Joan of Arc's homeland against invasion, the French adopted an anti-English patron saint." Merci beaucoup, les amis (thanks a lot, buddy), indeed.

This history book with a difference was every bit the enjoyable read it promised to be. I can't say quite as much about the other book. Returning to the present day and familiar territory, Clarke zooms in on his home city. Paris Revealed: The Secret Life Of A City is essentially Talk to the Snail Lite, focusing specifically on the "secrets" of the city. Clarke lays bare the mysteries behind the some Parisian eccentricities: the signage, the people, the architecture ... the works.

Treasures in this box includes a map and brief descriptions of Paris's 20 arrondissements (administrative districts); survival tips, such as how to become a Parisian and how not to annoy other Parisians; and addresses of cafés, restaurants, museums and other places of interest. Choice bits and helpful information about the "city of lovers" are divided into helpful sections: Parisians, Pavements, Water, History, Romance, Fashion, and so on.

Though it veers towards TMI territory, it isn't Clarke's intention to scare people away from Paris. He hopes the book will complete the "glitzy, romanticised" image of the city that often graces travel brochures, making her personality more real and fully rounded. "After all, you don't truly fall in love with someone until you know what makes them tick." Well put.

Even so, Paris Revealed is pretty lightweight reading, compared to 1000 Years. Though a good mix of fact and fun, it has little of the zing that Talk to the Snail has. By the time I was halfway through, Clarke-fatigue had set in. The writing started appearing dry and a little self-indulgent. The jokes get old rather quickly, and the use of French phrases in punch lines soon becomes a bad idea, especially if the reader doesn't know the language. Do I smell an author's impending burnout?

I hope not. Few can write like Clarke, and it would be a pity were he to keel over after flogging the old French nag for so long. Every book in his repertoire so far revolves around taking the mickey out of France – which the French themselves have begun doing, as recent headlines suggest. Perhaps a new source of inspiration is in order. Italy, maybe?

In spite of it all, Clarke remains a must-read on my shelf, and I'd recommend (some of) his books to anyone who's interested. It's just that his stuff is like foie gras: rich, and should only be consumed on occasion – preferably in small, manageable portions.

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1000 Years of Annoying the French

Stephen Clarke
Black Swan (2010)
686 pages
Non-fiction
ISBN: 978-0-552-77575-5

Paris Revealed

The Secret Life of a City

Stephen Clarke
Bantam Press (2011)
306 pages
Non-fiction
ISBN: 978-0-593-06711-6

Jolly Good Jaunt

I had fun with these books, I really did.

However, several minor details: The first paragraph was supposed to be the standfirst, and the first letters of "South Extension Amateur Theatrical Society" and "Delhi Institute for Rationalism and Education" were meant to be in bold, in case nobody gets the joke; the initials for both "organisations" spell "SEATS" (as in theatre seats) and "DIRE" (presumably the state of superstition vs rationality in India).

India's CSICOP, meanwhile, is known for its mouthful of a full name: Indian Committee for Scientific Investigation of Claims of the Paranormal (CSICOP), which is an affiliate of the US-based Committee for Skeptical Inquiry (CSI).

Hence, the "fixed" version of the published review below.

Maybe I should have left more clues or something for the editing team.

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Jolly good jaunt

Reading about the exploits of a Punjabi private detective and his assistants is like taking a fun and fast-paced Indian autorickshaw ride

first published in The Star, 12 June 2011


It's been a while since I've read a good detective story, especially one that's not only action-packed but also has witty writing, fast pacing, and quirky dialogue.

And a memorable lead character like Vishwas Puri. The portly, pompous Punjabi private eye and proprietor of Most Private Investigators Ltd is the protagonist of British journalist-turned-author Tarquin Hall's series of detective novels set in India.

For Puri, danger is his ally (he dices with death with each chilli pakora he eats) and confidentiality is his agency's watchword (never mind his Bollywood dreams for his case files).

Tarquin Hall's Vishwas Puri novels

Being mentioned in the same breath as Johnnies-come-lately Poirot, Holmes, et al (who, like himself, don't really exist) offends him. Puri insists that his profession, his methods, go way back to the time of Indian sage and diplomat Chanakya, who wrote a treatise on spying and investigation over 2,000 years ago. He scoffs at younger competitors who appear to watch too much CSI, dress like Horatio Caine and think the handheld UV light is the ultimate crime-solving tool. Portly he may be, but he's also tough in his own way: Have you ever eaten a naga morich, one of the world's hottest chillies, without flinching?

Good detectives in India don't work alone, so Puri has a team of experts, most of whom are code named. There's Tubelight, a former professional thief; Handbrake, Puri's chauffeur and once-cab driver; Nepali femme fatale Facecream; tech wizard Flush; Ms Chadda, telephone operator of many voices; and Elizabeth Rani, Puri's secretary. At home there's his loyal wife Rumpi and his mum. Puri's mum, known only as Mummy, is a bit of a sleuth herself and is, apparently, something of a clairvoyant.

But this is India, and his talents don't appear to receive great acclaim. Puri languishes in semi-obscurity, largely scorned by the police. His daily bread involves sussing out prospective grooms and numerous petty crimes, when he's not solving major cases such as the Case Of The Laughing Peacock, the Case Of The Pundit With Twelve Toes, and one about a missing polo elephant.

We are thrust into the Case Of The Missing Servant, Hall's first book in the series, in the middle of one such groom-sussing stakeout. Not long after Puri wraps that up, a clean lawyer – a rarity in modern India, it seems – comes a-calling. The lawyer's maidservant is missing and awful rumours of her disappearance are swirling around him. It's not long before the lawyer is jailed for a crime he says he didn't commit – and then someone tries to shoot Puri.

The bigger hazard for our sleuth, however, is his girth, which marks him as a candidate for obesity-related ills, but that has not diminished his love of fiery chillies, pakoras, and other spicy, buttery Indian fare. The Missing Servant also introduces us to India's marriage customs, class divisions and its supposedly shady real estate scene.

We know that Puri survives the assassination attempt, the chillies and cholesterol, because The Case Of The Man Who Died Laughing came out about a year later. The second book highlights the struggle between superstition and science in India, with a bit of sci-fi thrown in. Guru-buster Dr Suresh Jha is killed, seemingly by the four-armed goddess Kali. The murder victim and his association appears to be based on real-life Indian guru-buster, the late Basava Premanand and his rationalist group, the Indian CSICOP (Committee for Scientific Investigation of Claims of the Paranormal).

While Puri and gang are off chasing goddesses, magicians and a fake guru, wife Rumpi and Mummy amuse themselves investigating a robbery at a kitty party (typical ones usually involve middle-aged women gossiping and drinking tea, so fish your minds out of the gutter now, please).

Hall's writing and language grow on you, like an overly chummy Punjabi with a booming voice who wraps a thick hairy arm around your shoulder, hustles you to the nearest bar and plies you with drinks. I found myself wanting to speak in tongues by the time I finished the two books, rolling my tongue outrageously as I aped the characters. Plus, you get more than one case and more than one detective. Mummy holds her own as she pokes her nose into danger – and grows on you as Delhi's answer to Miss Marple or Jessica Fletcher of Murder, She Wrote.

Word play abounds. In The Missing Servant, one chuckles at the shallow pun in the desperate lawyer's plea to "find this bloody Mary!"; Puri's multi-talented telephonist belongs to the South Extension Amateur Theatrical Society. In The Man Who Died Laughing, the late Dr Jha is founder and head of the Delhi Institute for Rationalism and Education. And then there's the running gag that involves Puri getting a knock in the head, either by accident or by an unknown assailant.

Hall's India is one big caricature where circumstances serve the cartoonish narrative and plot. The unsavoury socioeconomical and political climate and unflattering stereotypes help make Puri and gang, victims and the supporting good guys stand out – perhaps a bit too much. Though Puri is not above it all. Problems at home include water and power cuts ("load shedding") and a brother-in-law who fancies himself Punjab's Donald Trump. And our old-fashioned gumshoe bemoans creeping Western influences and declining morals, and believes that mums – and women in general – don't make good detectives.

But you won't care, because you'll have too much fun with these novels. I sure did.

However, there have been no new Vish Puri novels out since The Man Who Died Laughing. It would be a shame for the series to end after such a spectacular take-off. And I really want to know about that missing polo elephant.

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The Case of the Missing Servant

Tarquin Hall
Arrow Books (2009)
312 pages
Fiction
ISBN: 978-0-09-952523-3

The Case of the Man Who Died Laughing

Tarquin Hall
Hutchinson (2010)
334 pages
Fiction
ISBN: 978-0-09-192567-3

Times Of Turmoil

Some may complain about books that's clean, not exciting and all that. In short, boring. That was my very first impression of this collection. But I returned to it weeks later and was amazed at the shift in my perception.

How many weeks later? I'm not sharing.

As a result, I may have been... effusive in my praise of the book. But after rolling around in what passes for journalism these days, what a gust of fresh air!

Something to keep firmly in mind.

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Times of turmoil

A deft touch conveys stories of upheaval without resorting to unrealistic extremes

first published in The Star, 03 June 2011


Isn't today's media action-packed? Blood and guts, bullets and bombs, skin and sex, and reality TV shows where f-bombs drop like names at a socialites' ball. And it seems as though whole sections in bookstores both real and virtual have been taken over by genres that combines elements of all the above and then some.

I wonder if it is perhaps in reaction to this trend that publishers Marshall Cavendish have re-released something cleaner and calmer.

Born in 1951 in Rangoon, Burma (now Yangon, Myanmar), to parents of Chinese descent, Minfong Ho was raised in Thailand and graduated from America's prestigious Cornell University with a bachelor's degree in economics. She became a journalist, and then taught English at Thailand's Chiang Mai University. She currently resides in New York with her family.

During her first years at Cornell, she turned to writing to fight her homesickness. Her short story, Sing To The Dawn, won a prize and was later expanded into a novel published in 1975. She would go on to write more novels and story collections. Rice Without Rain (1986) was based on her experiences with Thailand's turbulent politics in the 1970s, and her times as an aid volunteer helping Cambodian refugees during the Vietnamese invasion of Cambodia inspired The Clay Marble (1991).

Marshall Cavendish has compiled these three works into a single volume, The Minfong Ho Collection. All three novels feature young Thai or Cambodian village lasses whose daily struggles are compounded by bigger forces intruding upon their little worlds.

In Sing To The Dawn, we are introduced to Dawan, a brilliant, headstrong student who wins a scholarship and a chance to study in a big-city school.

However, she faces objections from her parents and the apathy and fatalism of her fellow villagers, all of whom seem to view the idea of a girl getting educated as something radical. Her so-called blessing also drives a wedge between her and her brother.

Seventeen-year-old Jinda gets caught up in Thailand's student-led democracy movement in the 1970s in Rice Without Rain.

A group of university students arrive at her village, bringing with them the promise of change. Brought to the city, ostensibly to speak out against greedy landlords, Jinda soon learns that she is but a pawn in a bigger struggle, and that the price of change may be too high to pay.

The Clay Marble's 12-year-old Dara has lived through two "liberation" campaigns: one led by the Khmer Rouge against the Cambodian royals, and the other by Vietnamese forces fighting the previous regime. When the Khmer Rouge's reign crumbles, she and her family join the refugees fleeing towards the Thai-Cambodia border. Along the way, Dara meets a fellow refugee with a knack for making toys out of clay. But the peace she finds in a refugee camp along the border is eventually shattered when the war finally catches up.

What's refreshing about these three works is how unremarkable they look at first glance. Ho doesn't dramatise the human tragedies with graphic depictions of wartime atrocities – something that seems to be de rigueur nowadays in print, on TV and online.

Unlike the reports filed by some of those "celebrity" journalists on 24-hour "news channels", the subjects take centre stage, not the writer. Ho's use of simple, unadorned language does not detract from the respect and sensitivity she shows her characters and their world, and the gravity of the issues the young heroines face.

Gender and class discrimination, corruption, superstition versus modernity, and the callousness of the powers-that-be in their bid to maintain the status quo become all the more poignant when one sees that little has changed in these countries since these works were first published in the 1970s and 1980s.

In this collection, Ho does not shed excessive blood, rip bodices or curse like a flotilla of pirates to tell her tales. She doesn't have to. The deft touch of her pen, tempered by first-hand experience, brings to life the voices and the pain of these three village girls, and that alone is enough. Though meant for children and young adults, readers of all ages will find this honest, easy read almost like journalism at its finest.

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The Minfong Ho Collection

Minfong Ho
Marshall Cavendish Editions
399 pages
Fiction
ISBN: 978-981-4302-45-6

Everyone Loves You When You're Dead

It's been a long while since one of these showed up in the papers, but better late than never, I suppose. No surprise, given that the paper in question was undergoing a revamp at the time.

When you've just submitted a book review, it's very hard to resist the temptation of reading what other reviewers at international papers think about the book. Look how John Crace's "Digested Reads" at The Guardian sums up Everyone Loves You. The impression I got is that nobody likes the book at all.

I abhor the media circus around celebrities, even if it is part of the game. Fame is a fickle thing, and it can all go away in an instant. If you take away the bling, the wealth, the on-screen persona - the celebrity - would that person still be attractive?

So Strauss's bibliography includes a pornstar's memoirs and accounts of his experiences with a bunch of pick-up artists. And maybe Everyone Loves You does look like it's slapped together from bits scavenged from the cutting room floor. That doesn't mean everything he writes should be dismissed. The paparazzi have been telling us for years what Strauss seems to be getting at with this book: celebrities are human. They have bad days, they make mistakes, and they can buckle under pressure. And they should (probably) be allowed to do that without being so harshly judged.

The part about Paul Nelson is particularly poignant, even with the seemingly put-on Hemingway-esque reference to the baby shoes. Also notable are the eleven points of his "instructions for living", based on the interviews in the book. The strange title is explained in Point #11. Buy it to find out. Get the discount coupon.

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Reminder to be happy

first published in The Star, 29 May 2011


"In memory of Johnny Cash, Curtis Mayfield, and Bo Diddley, all of whom died between the time of being interviewed and the publication of this book. And for all those who are going to die afterward." With a dedication like that, you know the book is going to be good.

As a pop culture journalist, author and ghostwriter, Neil Strauss had, among other things, fired off guns with rapper Ludacris, been kidnapped by Courtney Love, made Lady Gaga cry, received Scientology lessons from Tom Cruise, tucked Christina Aguilera into bed, and more.

And now, he feels it's time to do justice to his subjects, using over 200 handpicked minutes out of his trove of unused interview material. "Instead of looking for the pieces that broke news or sold the most magazines or received the best feedback, I searched for the truth or essence behind each person, story, or experience." Strauss writes, and insists that one minute is enough. "You can tell a lot about somebody in a minute. If you choose the right minute."

Though one isn't sure about the veracity of the one-right-minute theory, Everyone Loves You When You're Dead is one very not-safe-for-work display of dark humour, a mishmash of often funny and revealing anecdotes, Q&As, and narratives. Equally funny conversations with music lawyers and copy editors add to the experience, which is balanced by the sombre extracts from obituaries Strauss has written.

While the caricatures and the old-style newspaper look gels with the eclectic, eccentric content, the unlabelled "selected visual index" is useless to those who can't match the faces to the names; the real index, meanwhile, is a litany of horrors. Reading is rough sailing, with many interviews broken up into parts "to be continued" in later pages.

It's hard to guess whether this is one of those name-dropping memoirs, or a genuine attempt to hold a mirror up in front of his subjects, his peers, himself, and the entire American entertainment industry. I think Everyone Loves You is meant to be more serious than satire, but it has moments of hilarity. Look out for Twilight heartthrob Taylor Lautner's one-line replies when drilled about his "squeaky-clean reputation", and how singer-songwriter Ryan Adams ends his answers with an F-bomb. A running joke involves Pharrell Williams of the hip-hop outfit The Neptunes constantly rescheduling his interview; also, learn how Justin Timberlake saved the day.

Two celebrity illustrations from Everyone Loves You When
You're Dead; know who they are?

Whatever doubts one has in the author's motives for the book is dispelled by his piece on a predecessor: former Rolling Stone record reviews editor Paul Nelson (1936–2006). Strauss admits that it was hard to pen, and not just because of his respect for the late Nelson and the people who would read it. "Every word brought me closer to my own cautionary tale – or that of any writer, creative person, or dedicated follower of art, entertainment, or culture. Because it makes you ask: In the end, is it worth it?"

Probably not for Nelson. The man who'd done so much for the likes of Bob Dylan and Rod Stewart died alone and broke. A pair of baby shoes that belonged to Nelson's son, found hanging near his bed, still haunts Strauss: "... because as someone who's sacrificed personal relationships for the pursuit of culture and career, I know what (those shoes) symbolize: the regret of someone who has spent his entire life with his priorities wrong." I could say the same about many of today's pop culture vultures.

Just as we're overdosing on "tiger blood", "winning" and whatnot, here comes this timely reminder of the humanity behind the hype. Among the most poignant are the interviews with those that have since made it big or got bigger, bounced back from whatever hole they dug for themselves, or passed on. Almost every obituary made me think of our own late great P. Ramlee.

The book ends with a toast to "the artists, celebrities, and crazy people of the world" who, often inadvertently, screwed themselves up for our benefit. "Thank you not just for keeping us entertained with your mistakes, but for reminding us to be happy with who we are."

Amen.

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Everyone Loves You When You’re Dead

Journeys into Fame and Madness

Neil Strauss
It Books (2011)
544 pages
Non-Fiction
ISBN: 978-0-06-154367-8

A Posh Kopitiam - Really?

I'd like to point out that this was an unsolicited review, and I have not received any form of compensation for it. That disclaimer was part of the original copy, but for some reason it never made it to print.

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A posh kopitiam

The usual local fare presented with flair and at a premium price? The Cookbook isn’t as bad as it sounds, really.

first published in The Star on 09 April 2011

An opportunity to touch base with a mutual acquaintance that Alex and I haven’t seen for months became a great excuse for us to dine at an upmarket café I’d previously checked out with a colleague for an interior decor magazine.

Though born into a family business that sells mainly high-end furniture and tableware, John Teo had a personal interest in food. He leapt into the food business with My Cookbook, which features five dining areas over three floors, uniquely furnished and fitted with wares from the family business.

At first glance, one would not see much that distinguishes the place from the other kitschy, upmarket kopitiam outlets in the vicinity, other than the pedigree of the furniture, perhaps. Teo deals in names such as Slide and Pedrali from Italy, and XO by Philippe Starck.

Even the food — artfully sculpted and plated interpretations of familiar Malaysian favourites like chicken rice, char koay teow, fried rice, prawn noodles and so on — spell words that the budget-conscious Malaysian diner has come to dread, such as “expensive” and “pretentious”.

Putting such familiar fare on the menu had other problems too.

“People ask me, ‘What do you serve in your restaurant?’,” Teo says. “When they hear ‘chicken rice’, they’re like . . .” He rolls his eyes at the scepticism.

That this dish is on the current edition of his business card doesn’t help. “I do serve chicken rice, but that’s not even half the story. I can keep talking and talking, but there’s no point. My Cookbook has to be experienced.”

So that’s what we do. Alex and I meet up with a friend at John Teo’s place on a Saturday afternoon. Alex is almost enchanted on sighting the place. A clock with utensils for hands; an art installation made of more kitchen utensils, presumably the ones Teo sells; and chairs of transparent polycarbonate material with bright fuchsia cushions. And of course, the menu.

The layout is what one would find in swanky culinary cookbooks such as, say, Tetsuya Wakuda’s Tetsuya, or Thomas Keller’s French Laundry Cookbook. The tantalising close-ups of food on dark backgrounds whet appetites, though drinks are not similarly profiled.

Despite the posh food styling, most of the items are familiar. My Cookbook’s “signature” chicken rice (RM15.90) is a log of rice cooked in chicken stock and fat, underlined by a row of boneless chicken slices and cucumber slices. The chicken is made from a single roasted, deboned, tightly rolled-up thigh that’s sliced into thick, mouth-watering medallions.

Several things set this chicken rice apart from the others. First, the skin on the chicken is crispy. Second, they only use the thighs or drumsticks.

“Ask the usual hawkers for a deboned drumstick and they’ll probably stare holes into your skull,” goes John. Third, the block of chicken puree in the bowl of accompanying soup is made of double-boiled chicken stock.

I rarely get to serenade Alex with descriptions of good food; it’s often the other way around, given how frequently she finds the good stuff. Curious about the chicken rice, she decides to order one. We continue poring over the menus when Irene walks in. She finds the dining concept interesting as well.

We settle for a numerically mismatched set of orders. Appetisers are a poached egg on a toast lined with shaved dried scallop (RM8.90), and prawn bisque with prawn dumplings (also RM8.90). Joining Alex’s chicken rice on the table are a char siew salmon with cheese balls (RM26.90) on a plate lined with what looks like cooked egg white, and my curry chicken with barley/pandan rice and a fried prawn dumpling (RM15.90). Dessert is a scoop of homemade durian ice-cream topped with red beans, sitting in a bowl of pumpkin broth (RM9.90).

The 45-minute poached egg on toast is an upmarket version of an Ipoh kopitiam favourite, said to be cooked down to the molecular level. When broken, the yolk does not run. The dried scallop shavings give the toast more flavour. A great way to start a meal.

Each spoonful of rich, thick prawn bisque delivers a deluge of flavour and fragrance. Irene mistakes the intense red of the prawn for the colour of spicy chilli. The dumplings in the bisque are stuffed with a firm chunk of juicy, larger-than-usual prawn. And fresh, too. Not a hint of the smell that says this crustacean is halfway towards the belacan heap.

Everyone knows that potatoes and curry go well with each other, so it’s no surprise to find the curry chicken drumstick resting on a small bed of mash. The curry chicken is well cooked. The addition of cooked barley to the pandan-tinged rice gives it a chewier texture and an appealing colour contrast.

The chicken rice?

Now, rice that’s rolled into a log-like shape is unlikely to be light and fluffy. But flavoured with chicken fat and minus the oily feel, the rice is good enough to eat on its own. The skin of the chicken is crispy and lends a firm texture to the moist, juicy meat.

The double-boiled chicken stock is pungent and redolent with essence of chook, but the meat-puree block isn’t Alex’s “kind of thing”. Once in the mouth, it breaks up into what tastes and feels like masticated chicken breast.

The durian ice-cream would have tasted even better without the chunks of ice in it, but that is a minor complaint. The flavour is fine, delicate and not overpowering. It goes quite well with the bright amber pumpkin broth, creating a durian-based dessert that wouldn’t instil fears of body heat afterwards. Irene orders a second bowl.

The total price for a My Cookbook experience can be high (main dishes are priced between RM15.90 and RM26.90) and the distance to travel long, but the experience might well be worth it. If the boss and founder of the place can’t talk you here, this review is unlikely to, either.

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My Cookbook

A-12, Sunway Giza,
2, Jalan PJU 5/14,
Kota Damansara,
Petaling Jaya

CLOSED FOR GOOD

The King Of Terrors

I had a little taste of terror when I opened the paper and saw the number of pages there. I was sure the book I reviewed was not "400 pages long".

Then I remembered a colleague had e-mailed The Star, to publish the details for Fourth Estate's edition of the book. The original review was based on a 571-page edition from Scribner (Simon & Schuster).

And I was so relieved to complete the review in the midst of a hectic week, I forgot to nominate a title and standfirst for The Star's overworked editors. Nor did I confirm whether Dr Mukherjee still holds all the posts listed in the profile. My bad.

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The king of terrors

The Emperor of All Maladies is written by a cancer specialist. It might be 400 pages long but it makes for very effective encouragement to live healthier.

first published in The Star, 27 February 2011


Sales of cigarettes in Malaysia still appear to be brisk, despite the redesigned packaging with the awful images of diseased lungs. As a better deterrent to smokers, may I recommend The Emperor of All Maladies? This book written by a cancer specialist might be 400 pages long but it makes for very effective encouragement to live healthier. I don’t smoke, so I’m changing my eating habits instead.

Why, of all the books written about the disease, read this one? Well, not only is it among the latest, it’s also written in an accessible way. Yes, it’s dry in places, with loads of medical jargon, history, and references to genetics, virology and such, but it is also, as the author notes, “a personal journey of my coming-of-age as an oncologist (a specialist on tumours and by extension, cancer).” This is what makes the book different.

For oncologist Dr Siddharta Mukherjee, associate professor of medicine at New York’s Columbia University and staff physician at the university’s medical centre, this book had modest beginnings. What started as just a journal grew into a more in-depth journey into the realm of cancer, and an attempt to answer some questions about it. When did it first appear, and when did the fight against cancer start? Is there an end? Can we win?

The story begins in 2004 when, behind the doors of a Massachusetts General Hospital ward, a leukaemia patient waits for the author – one of the patients we will read about that helps to give the disease a face. The disease is also profiled through a historical examination of some major cancers, including leukaemia (cancer of the blood), lymphoma, and cancers of the breast and lungs.

Among the many characters that appear, two are prominently featured: Sidney Farber, considered to be the father of modern chemotherapy, and Mary Lasker, a Manhattan socialite widowed by the illness she would spend her life fighting.

Ancient Egyptian wise man Imhotep (2667BCE-2648BCE) was the first to diagnose breast cancer, according to this book. The treatment? “There is none,” wrote the physician and part-time architect.

Since then, there have been numerous causes proposed as the cause of cancer, almost as many as the epithets it has been given, some of which demonstrate the hidden literary talents within the medical and scientific professions. An unnamed 19th century surgeon called it, rather poetically, “the emperor of all maladies, the king of terrors”.

Inspired by a revelation about how cancer starts in our bodies, one researcher compares it to Grendel in the 8th century Old English epic Beowulf – “a distorted version of our normal selves”. Why? “Cancer was intrinsically ‘loaded’ in our genome, awaiting activation,” the author laments. “We were destined to carry this fatal burden in our genes.”

It was also compared to a crab during the time of the “father of modern medicine”, Hippocrates (c 460BCE-c 370BCE): thick, with something that seems almost carapace-like, burrowing deep into the afflicted. That explains the seemingly unrelated crustacean on the cover of some editions of The Emperor of All Maladies.

After the discoveries, came the fight. But what and how much can one do against one’s own rebel genes?

Man’s hubris in this area is well-documented in the book, from Mary Lasker’s apparently quixotic anti-cancer campaign, to the tobacco lobby’s efforts in denying links between tobacco use and lung cancer.

The accounts about the latter will shock, given what we know today and how most people feel about corporate whitewashing. Within and without, it seems the human race is its own worst enemy.

The glimpses into the lives of cancer patients add some humanity into an otherwise weighty read.

Like the biography of someone still alive, there is no clear ending. Nor is there always a happy ending for patients. The last one profiled in this book dies, driving home the point about the terror of cancer.

Overall, the book is a good balance of the clinical and human. There aren’t enough books like this written about cancer, its myriad forms, the pain it inflicts, and the urgent need to end its scourge.

After the table of contents in The Emperor is this chilling note:

“In 2010, about six hundred thousand Americans, and more than 7 million humans around the world, will die of cancer. In the United States, one in three women and one in two men will develop cancer during their lifetime.

“A quarter of all American deaths, and about 15 percent of all deaths worldwide, will be attributed to cancer. In some nations, cancer will surpass heart disease to become the most common cause of death.”

Whoever it was that crowned cancer “the emperor of all maladies” had genius and foresight. No epithet is more suitable for this disease that marks our times.

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The Emperor of All Maladies

A Biography of Cancer

Siddhartha Mukherjee
Fourth Estate (2011)
400 pages
Non-fiction
ISBN: 978-0007367481

Not Bed-Time Tales

Unlike most of my reviews, this took two days from the moment I put the book down. Anxiety about the status of this review turned to embarrassment when I realised that I italicised story titles (a big boo-boo) and used the word "genius" twice. And a misspelling of "United States", which might or might not have been my fault. Yeah. Me, editor.

Time to bury myself deeper into the grammar and style guides on my desk.

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Not bed-time tales

Sedaris's twisted genius will leave readers seeking a solution after each story

first published in The Star, 30 January 2011


"For my sister Gretchen", reads the dedication to David Sedaris's latest book, Squirrel Seeks Chipmunk. Again, I looked at the little hardcover tome with the nice picture and wondered why Sedaris is moving to the under-12 market.

Then I consulted Google. While Gretchen Sedaris is younger than David, she should be at least 50 by now. And there was something he was supposed to have said in an interview, holding a knife with a hoof for a handle: "I love things made out of animals. It's just so funny to think of someone saying, 'I need a letter opener. I guess I'll have to kill a deer.'"

That'll teach me to judge a book by its cover. Still, it's pretty hard not to, even though Sedaris's writing isn't the kind one associates with bed-time stories.

Squirrel Seeks Chipmunk: A Modest Bestiary (the subtitle is missing from the jacket flap) isn't really about a dating service for woodland rodents. It's one of 16 very short stories based on typical human dramas, except the parts are played by animals. Think Aesop's very short fables for cynical grown-ups.

You've probably queued up with the "Toad, the Turtle and the Duck" at a busy counter; endured the "Migrating Warblers"' travel tales; and the dialogue between the "Cat and the Baboon" sounds like something you'd hear at a beauty salon.

Some of these are sad, particularly the one about the orphaned bear, and the mouse with a pet snake, but it's because they were asking for it. The latter reminded me of a documentary in which someone was crushed to death by his pet python. It's kind of familiar but funny – Sedaris's dark kind of funny.

Reinforcing the book's dark adult theme and the mental near-immortality of the stories are the doodles of Ian Falconer, well-known for his kids' books about a pig and covers for The New Yorker. Quite a few images could fuel nightmares, even when you're awake.

The gloomy theme of the book is upset a bit by the title story, "The Squirrel and the Chipmunk". This short and bittersweet (more bitter than sweet) tale of a doomed, star-crossed love affair is perhaps the best example of Sedaris's genius. After its conclusion, you look at the cover again and, if you have a heart or "been there, done it", it's hard not to tear up.

Of course, chances are you won't recognise some of the situations being written about here. The tale of two lab mice sounds like a jab (pun intended) at die-hard adherents of New Age hocus-pocus, but I don't quite know what to make of "The Faithful Setter" and "The Cow and Turkey".

Is "The Parenting Storks" a parable on the perils of a lack of sex education? Is "The Mouse and the Snake" really about snakes, or an allegory for some governments' (read: the United States) habit of coddling two-bit dictators out of political expediency?

When countless Internet searches yield few clues and no cheat sheets, you curse and swear at and stew over Sedaris's twisted genius. You cannot solve it, but you know there's a solution.

Like Fermat's Last Theorem (proposed in the 17th century and proved only in the 20th), the fables you can't figure out will likely torment you long after you put the book down – an amazing feat for something that's just 160 pages long. Just hope you don't have to spend over three centuries figuring out what "The Grieving Owl" is really about.

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Squirrel Seeks Chipmunk

David Sedaris, Illustrations by Ian Falconer
Little, Brown and Co.
159 pages
Fiction
ISBN: 978-0316038393

Tough Times

What a way to start the new year: my first published book review for 2011. Writing it was like walking a tightrope. Who am I, a weekend book person, to call this novel "wordy"?

The online version is, oddly, titled "Recollections of an amnesiac".

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Tough times

This tale of an amnesiac paints Malaysia's own story with almost lyrical prose

first published in The Star, 07 January 2011


I decided to read this book after a Malaysia Day panel discussion at which local author Chuah Guat Eng noted the average Malaysian's apparent inability to distinguish between fiction and non-fiction. For instance, in her latest novel, Days of Change, her realistic portrayal of a middle-aged Malay man led to speculation that she must have known such a character intimately.

I became curious.

By now, I'm almost afraid of books advertised as "Malaysian novels". A lot of books out there attempt to narrate our country's past; some resort to romanticism, presumably to better shift copies.

It was with a different kind of fear when I opened Chuah's Malaysian novel. "Days of Change is a sequel to Echoes Of Silence," began the author's note, and my heart sank. Will I be able to get the story without referring to the previous volume?

I needn't have worried. The events in Echoes Of Silence took place decades before Days of Change. The narrator in the former, one Lim Ai Lian, returns as one of the main characters in the new book. Though written as a sequel, Days of Change is good enough to be read on its own.

The chaotic, rambling recollections of one Abdul Hafiz bin Dato' Yusuf is the record of the "days of change" the man experiences after tumbling down a ravine and waking up in hospital with amnesia. After an unsuccessful attempt to consult a psychiatrist, he consults the I Ching, the famous Chinese "book of changes", to make sense of his jumbled memories.

What follows are pages and pages of a recovering amnesiac's recollections and ruminations.

Lush, descriptive writing lends poignancy to his recovered memories, some of which, perhaps, he would rather forget.

Though a wealthy property developer, Hafiz is unlucky in love and marriage. His life is also marred by a couple of tragedies at home: two mysterious murders, details of which he attempts to uncover. And why is he so repulsed by his lovely young wife? To top it off, another property developer has plans for a Disneyland-style theme park in Hafiz' (fictional) hometown of Ulu Banir, which also involves the bungalow at Jock's Hill, where he spent his childhood.

The way I see it, Chuah tells Malaysia's story through the goings-on at Ulu Banir, where much of Days of Change takes place, and through Hafiz's inner struggles and mission to fend off the land barons. We all know the ingredients: religion, politics, socio-economic policies, independence, communists, and race riots on May 13, 1969.

But Chuah's almost lyrical prose and deft juxtaposition of people, places and history make this book about more than just a bunch of "Malaysian" characters parroting the usual socio-political tirades you would find in, say, the local blogosphere.

However, it's the kind of writing that made me wish the story would move faster. One word: "wordy". Case in point would be the author's note: "... In both novels the Banir River, the district of Ulu Banir, the ancient fortress town of Kota Banir, the Malay village of Kampung Banir Hilir and the Chinese fishing village of Bagan China exist only in my imagination, as do all the characters. References to actual people, institutions, and events serve purely to create the illusion of reality from which this type of fiction draws its vitality."

Then again, perhaps the wordiness is in keeping with Hafiz's character as he struggles to make sense of the gaps in his memories and deal with his current problems. The stress and emotional turmoil is evident in his recollections. This is not light, easy material for impatient readers.

Impatience aside, I guess I do kind of get what Chuah is trying to do with Days of Change. The Malaysian story, it seems, is akin to Hafiz's journey of recovery after his near-fatal fall – often turbulent, sometimes tranquil, with dark mysterious gaps awaiting illumination, and some hope for a better future. Kind of like our current days of change.

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Days of Change

Chuah Guat Eng
Holograms/Chuah Guat Eng
277 pages
Fiction
ISBN: 978-983-43778-1-6

(Not Quite) A Tribute to Dr Mahathir

When I first got word about this assignment, I was quite... nervous. At first I thought they were sending Andrew Sia for this one. At the time, I felt I didn't command the vocabulary or the experience to do it justice.

Now that it's out, I'm so relieved, and I don't want to continue with this preamble.

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A tribute to Dr Mahathir
Muzikal Tun Mahathir marks the milestones in the former premier's life.

first published in The Star, 29 September 2010

Tun Dr Mahathir Mohamad was the only Prime Minister my generation knew when we were growing up. We don't really need reminders of just how important he is. The tributes to him, since he left office in 2003, have been almost ceaseless. So we should have seen this coming.

The staging of Muzikal Tun Mahathir was said to coincide with the Merdeka month and Malaysia Day celebrations. The story starts from Tun's birth and highlights include life during the Japanese Occupation, his medical school days, meeting and marrying Tun Dr Siti Hasmah Mohd Ali, running Klinik Maha, writing The Malay Dilemma, his time as Prime Minister, and his "departure" from politics. The production ends with an ageing Tun lamenting the Malays' need for crutches, and his vow to continue the struggle.

The production is, if I read correctly, a tribute to the man; the producers wanted to stage a theatre piece about a national figure who's still alive. Tun's letter is reproduced in the programme as a stamp of approval. "I have no objections to plans for a musical about me," said Tun in the letter. "My only hope is that it's based on fact."

And they just had to have a Mahathir family member in the cast: Tun's youngest son, Mazhar, who plays two minor roles.

Let me clarify: I'm no fan of Tun's, but that's not why I didn't like the musical very much. It looked like Istana Budaya had huge aspirations for the play, judging from the casting, the grand set pieces, and flashy computer graphics projected against a big white backdrop. To the average Joe, it's just another lavish, star-studded piece of populist theatre.

Many of the 27 chapters (says the programme) of the over-two-hour musical representing the milestones in Tun's eventful life were so short, they could have probably done without them. For instance, did they need to have the actor playing Tun Razak giving a speech on why the New Economic Policy was needed back then? All that's probably in our bones.

Then we have scenes like the one that featured megaprojects such as the Sepang F1 Circuit, KLCC and Putrajaya, and Tun's devastated supporters at a nasi kandar restaurant who tuned in to his teary 2002 announcement.

Got a copy of the programme? Just look at the lyrics to some of the songs. Imagine "The Tun is great!" being tattooed onto each little grey cell in one's brain.

The main cast members didn't look like they were being challenged by their stage roles. Erra Fazira played Dr Siti Hasmah quite well, never mind my suspicions she was also a popular choice.

I felt a bit sorry for Datuk Jalaluddin Hassan; the man has a huge presence, but was cast as Tun's father, who didn't get a lot of lines or stage time.

The actors playing Tun from childhood to adulthood seemed quite convincing. Esma Daniel in particular was very much the Dr M I grew up watching on TV – right down to the drawl and mannerisms – during a "live telecast interview" with Misha Omar as a journalist.

The dialogue and jokes, with a mix of rather contemporary English and Bahasa Malaysia, certainly made the production more enjoyable. Tapi, pada tahun 60an dan 70an ada orang pakai ke, "U" and "I" (But in the 70s and 60s, do people say "U" and "I")? Ada Poslaju ke (have Pos Laju) in the late 1960s? Thanks to the strong background music and the speakers' powerful reverbs, it was hard to make out the dialogue, lyrics or punchlines, which was a real shame.

The programme book does highlight the featured parts of Tun's life but does not describe the lesser-known characters. Mohd Qhauhd Abd Rashid, for instance, plays this "Aziz" character, but there is no further mention of who "Aziz" is.

Not all the chapters were properly explained, either. The only clues to what Chapter 26: "Peak Dance Drama" supposedly depicts, with its arm band-tearing and keris-waving, came later from Wikipedia. The on-screen dates seemed to coincide with the terms of Tun's three deputies: Musa Hitam, Ghafar Baba and Anwar Ibrahim.

Nor was the night trouble-free. In a chapter about a covert, late-night anti-Malayan Union poster plastering, a piece of one of the fake columns broke off and fell onto the stage as it was being lowered. Nobody was injured, but I was sure plenty of nervous glances were directed at the ceiling thereafter.

When Misha took the stage to deliver one last song, the amplified vocals spluttered, and died about halfway through. But Misha didn't quit. She rose to the occasion by singing anyway, her unamplified voice barely audible from my seat. The audience applauded.

Misha boleh!

Finally, one of the stagehands gallantly offered her a microphone so she could finish the song.

When the cast took their bow, the applause for Misha was among the loudest.

I guess, in the end, the musical is not really about Tun Mahathir, but about a bunch of artistes and stars, and Istana Budaya giving their all for a good night's entertainment.

There were technical errors and onstage glitches, but everyone did their best to keep the show going until the curtains fell. That spirit, at least, is worthy of support, regardless of how one feels about the man.

Old-School Writing

This review, my suggestion for a pre-Merdeka thing, was a bit hard to write because I had quite a bit to say about each book, and I was mentally doing the trimming, before getting it on paper. It was also the first time I've done anything like this. I'm glad it all worked out.

I bought a copy for archiving, of course. So, who wants a cut-out coupon?

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Old-school writing

These three books set before Merdeka are still relevant to today's Malaysia

first published in The Star, 29 August 2010


AS the 53rd anniversary of our independence approaches, I wonder, given how technological advances have forced drastic changes in our reading and writing habits, if Malaysia will see the death of books by Aug 31, 2020.

What brought this question to mind was the rather serendipitous discovery of several books written by foreigners, set in the Malay Peninsula before Merdeka, all re-issued or published by Singapore's Monsoon Books.

Monsoon's Merdeka reads:The Golden Chersonese, And The Rain
My Drink and The Malayan Life of Ferdach O'Haney

The first one to catch my eye was The Golden Chersonese: A 19th-Century Englishwoman's Travels in Singapore and The Malay Peninsula by Isabella Bird, the renowned British travel writer.

The name "Golden Chersonese", or Aurea Chersonesus, was bequeathed by Roman-Egyptian mathematician and scientist Ptolemy and alluded to the wealth in gold thought to be found on the Malay Peninsula in ancient times. (Either Ptolemy was just being dramatic or some rapacious pirate back then took all that gold away, leaving us to depend on Petronas' dwindling annual profits.)

The book records Bird's travels in Hong Kong, Singapore and Tanah Melayu (an early version of 1Malaysia) in 1879, and like most of her works, was written as a bunch of letters to her sister back in Britain.

Unusually for a woman of her time and place, her case of wanderlust was said to be so severe that she would get sick if she stayed home. Her travel writing made her famous, and in 1892, she became the first female member of Britain's venerable Royal Geographical Society.

Her very scholarly, emotionally distant writing is accompanied by her own finely-detailed sketches. Of course, she's not without her conceits. She abhors, for instance the use of "pidjun English" by the Chinese she encounters in Hong Kong. Most of the time, though, she tells it like it is, as she attests in the preface.

One can feel the cockles of one's heart warm with familiarity at her mention of local delicacies, landmarks and people, even though she describes the Peninsula as "very hot, and much infested by things that bite and sting".

Eighty years after Ms Bird's departure from the Not-So-Golden-Anymore Chersonese – now called Malaya – the Emergency (the Communist insurgency that lasted from 1948 to 1960) descends on a more developed and cosmopolitan Peninsula.

Author Han Suyin was a Chinese doctor from Henan who practised in Malaya during the Emergency. The title of her book, And the Rain My Drink, comes from an old Chinese ballad and refers to what the Communists were willing to endure do create their idea of a just country.

This book features a large cast (all conveniently listed at the beginning of the book). Among the Malays, Indians and gwailos are many Chinese: tycoons and their scions, Communist insurgents and sympathisers, and innocent bystanders who get caught up in the mess.

The focus of the story shifts among the various dramas being played out among these people, though one common thread is a girl, a Communist-turned-informer, who survives through betrayal.

The prose is vivid, almost poetic, and meanders like the long strokes by a Chinese calligrapher's brush, but that feeling tapers off towards the end of the tale. Except for one chapter, taken out of a hardened, jungle-dwelling insurgent's diary, the whole thing has the feel of a classic Chinese painting, which takes time and a poetic soul to appreciate. Tweeting, iPad-carrying Gen-Y-ers might not get this one.

One character who could very well have appeared in Han's timeline would be Frederick Lees' protagonist in The Malayan Life of Ferdach O'Haney. Known as Ferdie to his friends, the protagonist is a young Anglo-Irish fellow who, like the author, left Britain to serve in the British Colonial Service in Malaya in 1950.

Even before the boat leaves Britain, we get the idea that O'Haney is a flawed character. Opinionated, self-righteous, over-analytical though honest to a fault, he nevertheless tries his best at whatever he's given – when he's not, among other things, banging other people's wives and sisters-in-law, rolling in the hay with young local men (yes, you read right), getting mixed up with Communists and spies, and telling us how well-read he is. He also becomes the "postman" for peace talks between Communist insurgents and British High Commissioner Sir Henry Gurney, with terrible results.

After Bird's genteel jottings and Han's lyrical pen-strokes, Lees' journalistic, in-your-face style jars the senses like an air-raid alarm. Though realistic and colourful, the narrative is a little long in some places.

The author's attempt, I think, to blend autobiography with fiction has resulted in a collision: the soliloquies tend to get in the way of an entertaining story. But fans of cranky, opinionated, grizzled veterans of their profession will find reason to like it, quite apart from the juicy bits and conspiracy theories.

These books are clearly products of their authors' lives and times, to be read and enjoyed the way books were back then. Though I must say that the social commentary in the two Emergency-era novels, parroted by the authors' alter-egos, is still relevant today, and still being echoed by ... virtually everyone.

Narratives that don't walk on eggshells make refreshing reads, but I also worry: For instance, will Bird's use of the word "kling" (in reference to Indians, now considered derogatory), and the stereotypes in these books, kick these books off the shelves? Will people talk about them instead of sitting down to enjoy three good stories?

Ah, well, I'll leave the debates to others. Myself, I'm curling up with this lovely set of reads for a long Merdeka weekend. Better hurry before paper books and old-school writing go out of fashion.

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The Golden Chersonese

A 19th-century Englishwoman's Travels in Singapore and the Malay Peninsula

Isabella Bird
Monsoon Books Pte Ltd
Non-fiction
352 pages
ISBN: 978-981-08-4484-4

And The Rain My Drink

Han Suyin
Monsoon Books Pte Ltd
Fiction
260 pages
ISBN: 978-981-08-4485-1

The Malayan Life of Ferdach O'Haney

Frederick Lees
Monsoon Books Pte Ltd
Fiction
572 pages
ISBN: 978-981-08-2382-5