f sionil

i have just finished f sionil jose's rosales saga and even before i turned to the very last page, i knew that i would read it again and again... but probably i wont be able to read all of it over any time soon because of a restless habit of almost pushing off to friends books that wow-ed me. that would probably explain why more than half of my personal library are lost and forgotten to nameless silhouttes that, i could only hope, appreciated those books.

oh well...

i can not even begin to try reviewing or criticizing it as i had originally planned on. honestly, i have never tried reviewing anything in my entire life aside form those that were written for school and even then it was mainly just my perceptions and understanding of the subject and how it affected me.

i knew it would be good when i bought it. but i guess i never thought i'd be affected as much by it. affected in a sense of somehow reconciling me to my dejected sense of nationalism. i never really realized how jaded and indifferent i have become, not only that but also hopeless and cynical. and though the saga touched upon different generations, i couldn't help regretting that there was none dedicated to this generation, our generation. well, of course we can't have it that easily.

it amazes me how f sionil understands this society and how he explaind it so candidly and easily. i learned more from his fiction than from all history books i have supposedly pored over to pass school. he makes me want to know more, feel more about society. the first book i read from him was viajero and i came out of that wanting suddenly to study history, my weakest subject of all time. after reading the saga, i feel so overwhelmed, not to mention stupid. in a way, i was also humbled. i had not gone through enough pain and poverty to make me angry. at the same time, i had not studied/learned well enough to rely on my puny conclusions about life and nationalism.
reading sionil makes me want to be more 'out there', involved in life, not just my own but of all those around me. perhaps the only answer to the eternal boredom i cannot shake off is to actually go out there and live!: see the rot and decay, hear the noise and the silent anguish, smell the stink of dying dreams and feel the pain, that helpless and hopeless longing to rise above the slums i have long since drowned out by deluding myself to just focus on my own interests. i want to do something and not just waste my days in listless surrender to forces, i would claim, beyond reckoning. i'm tired of that. i seem to be doing it all my life.

sheesh... i'm making a speech. a very hypocritical one at that for i am sure to forget this almost immediately... but i've never been more serious.

well, anyway, jd salinger wrote that a great writer is someone whom you would want to speak with and hang around with after reading his work. (or something like that...) i think it goes beyond that. a great writer would be someone who could propel you to action or no matter how insignificantly would change your life, your views... you!

and even now (that i've raved on and everything), i still could not temper the sudden hopes and dreams, doubts and questions, awe and blinding hope that maybe we could change this, build our future.

heck, it's funny. i don't know what changed, but i guess i'll never be the same anymore.