Thanks For Keeping Blogs Relevant

Alternatively titled, Blogging Like It’s Ten Years Ago.

Sherlock is back, and Sherlock is great again! After a largely fan-servicing third season, Sherlock season four is nothing short of amazing.

Um, okay, I’m speaking too soon. At this point I’ve only watched up to episode two.

Before I continue writing what I find so great about season four (or what I’ve watched of it so far), let me note something that breaks the show’s immersion for me. It’s there in episode two, repeated with irritating frequency for a span of…umm…ten minutes I guess? I think it was repeated thrice, the first two just within a few lines of dialogue of each other. And then again, just when the suspense was building up and the immersion is kicking back in for me.

People read (and like!) Sherlock’s blog. Blog, seriously, in this day and age of social media. For crying out loud, Sherlock’s got a Twitter feed!

Okay, I’m guessing there’s an out-of-universe explanation why that is so. Like, maybe, they didn’t get longform-compatible social networks to agree to a sponsorship deal to get mentioned. The product placements in the show aren’t lost to me, you know. But do you really need product placement deals to mention a website? Granted, websites/domains are brands now. I don’t know. Whatever.

In the spirit of open-source software, let me rewrite one of those irritating scenes.

Faith Smith: Oh my God, Sherlock Holmes! I loove your blog.

stillreadblogs

Or, more in-character, “Hah! I haven’t updated my blog in ages. That makes all other possibilities impossible, convincing me, beyond any shadow of doubt, improbable as it may be, that you, Faith Smith—and not your father—are the serial killer.”

Quit cooking meth, Sherlock.

Though, it is around this time when the story really gets going. That scene where Sherlock’s case built on a “foundation of miscalculation” comes crashing down on him heavily is one hell of a visual ride. Interspersed with John’s interview with Lestrade, and flash backs from the time when Sherlock started his “miscalculations”, it is the perfect visual realization of the unreliable narrator. Mind. Blown. Add Toby Jones’ acting where, one moment you want to punch his horrible teeth in if only you weren’t afraid those saws for teeth would deal your fist permanent damage. Next moment he is a startled goodie two-shoes schoolboy, a dog surprised at his owner’s sudden madness. Masterful.

I also like the development of the characters. I don’t get people who are disappointed because Sherlock is not about solving crimes anymore—a fair criticism, but if they had their way, Sherlock would’ve been stagnant. Other than the contemporary setting and the medium, this rendition will have nothing to set it apart from Doyle’s canon. Owing to its serial nature (and maybe even of Doyle’s disdain on the whole thing), the self-contained stories and novels have no sense of continuity; in one instance, it even contradicts itself on a matter regarding Moriarty.

If there’s anything the third season gave us, other than Amanda Abbington’s portrayal of Mary Watson, it’s that it provided a period of transition for Sherlock. It started showing his humanity, started showing him failing, miscalculating, fatally imperfect as the people he deems lesser.

And now we get him talking to John Watson about grief. Goodness, your fangirls are right. Just kiss already.

And when that happens, I have no doubt Mary’s projection would be in the scene, watching, a surrogate for the whole interwebs.

While the ladies are busy fainting from delight— “Johnlock! I knew it! Johnlock. John. Lock.” —allow me a moment of nostalgia for an age of the interwebs long past. Back then, blogs were personal, a sort of diary except you obviously hid just enough to keep your crush intrigued, in the slight chance they followed your online thoughts. The designs ranged from garish, like Molly Hooper’s, or very simple to the point of sterility, like John Watson’s.

But that was because blogs then were a form of self-expression. And if self-expression means #FF0000 Monotype Corsiva font on a black background complete with animated 256-pallet GIFs, then so be it. Back then, blogs weren’t a corporate thing—heck corporations did not do something as low as a “blog”—written to advertise


Looking for a job? Visit Kalibrr, where jobs find you!

You can also follow our jobseeker blog for the latest advice in career and job-hunting advice!


(This is the part where I apologize that all those words I wrote is just one hell of a build-up for that shameless plug. I assure you my manager did not put me up for this.)

But really, thanks Sherlock for keeping blogs relevant, in a good way, if only for ten minutes in one episode.

And now for something considerably different…

Ever since I trained in Taekwondo in high school, I’ve been interested in how fights are portrayed in mainstream media. I’ve gone all the way from wondering why I don’t spar as beautifully as Jet Li fights to concluding that it is the movies (and anime!) who don’t spar as realistically as real life.

Nowadays, it is easier to find material on the subject. YouTube is full of videos detailing why Game of Thrones have such great battle scenes despite the fact that Jon Snow is a pretty shitty swordsman. That said, I don’t really watch Game of Thrones so my gold standard for swordplay eye-candy remains to be Peter Jackson’s work, for all its narrative faults.

So it is interesting to find an analysis of The Battle of Pelennor Fields from a real-life military perspective. Go give it a read—you don’t need to be acquainted with military literature to get the gist of it. If anything, it will give you an insight on modern military tactics.

Rationality in the Time of Gunfire

He is a ghost. He is from some other world. He is Papa, Madame Manec, Etienne; he is everyone who has left her finally coming back. Through the panel he calls, “I am not killing you. I am hearing you. On radio. Is why I come.” He pauses, fumbling to translate. “The song, light of the moon?” She almost smiles.

“Are You There?” All the Light We Cannot See, Anthony Doerr (emphasis added)

And then I found water in my eyes. How similar is it to the rain that falls outside, I do not know. Where rain is tasteless it is often salty. But it does not matter. They may be fiction, figments of fickle dreams but they found each other. A meeting that is a thing of beauty in the midst of a wretched war.

In a time saturated with generic posters from Nicholas Sparks movies, I worry that there is a strong tendency to overly romanticize the passage I quoted above. The thing with quotes is that you shower a particular part of the text with emphasis—put it on a pedestal, so to speak—and inevitably you lose at least some of its context. And at this point so early in this post, I would like to come out clean and admit that, contrary to common protocol, I started writing this review with a fraction of the book still unread. I found that quote that beautiful that I just felt like I have to write what I feel about it. Right. Now.

For every bit of Doerr’s skill, all the words in that quote could not begin to convey what or why I found it beautiful. I do not feel any guilt opening this post with a passage from the final stretches of the book. Can you really read the early stages of the book without thinking that they will meet? This piece of text does not matter. What matters (and what makes it beautiful) is how they got here.

And, just in case you need it spelled out loud, this passage is not beautiful because it speaks of romance in any way. Heck I don’t even know if this will blossom into one before the story breathes its last. He is German, part of the army invading Saint-Malo, while she is a blind French girl forced by circumstance to be in Saint-Malo at the time of invasion.

At this point, I think it is proper to admit that my interest (and horror) at the two world wars is more than casual. However, this book has dragged into my consciousness that my knowledge about them is horribly tainted by movies and pop culture. Just considering the second, it is so easy to divide the participants in black and white. Like highlighting certain parts of a text, this strips history of its nuances, the undiscussed footnotes and marginalia.

Take, for instance, the “heroes” of WWII, the Allied Forces. Slapping the label “hero” on them masks the fact that Winston Churchill let India starve to support the forces. How different is that, in principle, from the deaths the Nuremberg Trials accounted against the Germans? And speaking of Nuremberg, it is highly compelling to question the justice meted out in that court. Was it true justice or victors’ justice? Did that court evaluate the war or just one side of it? The atrocities the Nazi committed is beyond doubt but, had they evaluated the war itself, isn’t it suspect that the Allies come out more or less completely clean after all those proceedings? (Were they even held under scrutiny?)

How about labeling all Germans as the villains in this war? After all, they, as a nation, decided to put the Nazi party in power. Not to mention the state surveillance that marked the Nazi years, citizen against citizen. But, again, such sweeping labels seem an insult to the memory of brave efforts like The White Rose Movement. Beautiful, if maybe foolish, but futile (or was it?).

Footnotes to the greater narrative. Lights invisible inside the tide that brought us to present times. They are parts of the picture we should never neglect as we judge history.

Which brings us back to the text of Doerr’s Pulitzer-winning novel. Our ghost is Werner, a pale German orphan with an aptitude for electronics who finds himself in a time when getting education means assisting, if not outright swearing allegiance to, the Nazi cause. His talents take him to Schulpforta where he develops means to triangulate radio signals—a valuable skill if they are to crush underground resistance movements against the German forces.

It is the cast of Schulpforta which begs readers to challenge any stereotype they may have held regarding Germans in the time of the Third Reich. Sure, the common German portrayal is there: Werner feels stigmatized as most of his fellow students are just so willing to blindly follow the cruelty of their superiors. But during this time Werner encounters two contrasting characters: his friend Frederick and the revered giant Volkheimer.

Where Frederick is described as spindly, much is made of Volkheimer’s physical stature. Where people would not think twice before picking on Frederick, epic tales of superhuman feat are woven around Volkheimer. Where Frederick enthusiastically shares his interest in nature, Volkheimer’s demeanor is a caricature of German soldiers during WWII: aloof, calculating, and efficient.

What Frederick lacks in physicality he more than makes up for in moral courage. He has no remarkable qualities save this moral fiber and despite that I find Frederick the more-admirable individual in his friendship with Werner. Such is his conviction that, in one poignant scene, he proved better than even me, the reader, after I tried putting myself in his shoes. I can only hope that when the time comes that I am offered a cold bucket of water to douse a helpless prisoner with, I can make the right decision and choose what is right over what is easy.

(Werner, on the other hand, for all the stigma he feels, often takes the easy way out when confronted with moral decisions, even if hesitantly.)

As for the giant, there is so much more in him than initially presented. I will not specify instances as that I would consider spoilers but he stays silent for most of the text and yet he is never outright cruel. He defies tropes but manages to somehow remain familiar. Maybe, I find him so because he is me, trying to survive and do what is right, at least most of the time.

There are stretches of the German side of this story that felt particularly difficult for me to read not because of the prose but because the characters are made to face decisions whose horror managed to transcend the printed word and gripped me as I read it. Maybe it is just the zeitgeist I am currently witnessing. Or maybe, Doerr just writes that damn well.

As Werner is no prince I am pleased to inform you that her female counterpart, the blind Marie-Laure, is no princess nor damsel in distress either. In fact, it is actively due to her agency that Werner locates her. Unlike Werner she is seldom hesitant in her decisions, a trait that puts her in harm’s way more than once.

Marie-Laure, an avid reader despite her condition, spends most of the story under the care of her war-traumatized uncle Etienne. His father, a locksmith from the National Museum of Natural History in Paris, was taken prisoner during a trip from Saint-Malo back to the capital. Displaced when Paris was taken, her father’s arrest does nothing to help her adjust to the circumstances of a war that is only getting worse.

Marie-Laure’s longing for familiarity and normalcy is understandable but her courage and willingness to fight for that sense of normalcy is astounding and praiseworthy. Instilled with a belief in reason early on by her father, she shows courage like Frederick as well as resourcefulness and resolve in no small amounts.

In the midst of our protagonists’ affinity with rationality, they are bound, if loosely, by a mythical piece of jewelry. And here, again, I praise Doerr for his skill. After everything that is said and done, the reader is left puzzling as to how much did that piece of jewelry really affect the story. Was it a passive object, a McGuffin, whose purpose was only so that the writer can make his characters want something, anything? Or did it play a more active role in the salvation or damnation of the characters who had the (mis)fortune to cross paths with it?

All of which comfortably puts All the Light We Cannot See into the shelf of magical realism. I have not read much from this shelf, I’m afraid, but, so far this is the one I like best. Unlike the superstitious nature of Gabriel García-Marquez’s characters. the rationality professed by our protagonists provides a nice counterpoint to the possibility of supernatural interference. Unlike the zeitgeist of Salman Rushdie’s The Temptress of Florence, these characters find themselves in a war, with no sorcerer nor god to save their skins. Will that stone have saved them? Did losing it made them perish? Go read the book, find out what happens, and decide for yourself.

I can only heap so much praise on Doerr’s work before it becomes redundant can only write so much about the book before I actually tell it word-for-word. This book is many things; it will make you ask questions and ponder on your moral values, all in the guise of a warm tale of an orphan boy and a blind girl.

Sometimes, dogs do eat homeworks

Due to a long series of probably mishandled transactions, my XPeria Z ended up between the jaws of Embrr, a Labrador Retriever who part times as one of my roomies as well as Foot/Mouth-ball rival1, around two months ago. Does not help my feelings that in more than a year of our acquaintance, this is just my first (and hopefully last) possession which Embrr has sent the way of dinosaurs whereas my fellow humans who also share the same living quarters with the Lab has sacrificed so much more.

The World's Most Disciplined DogPictured above is the World’s Most Disciplined Dog.

Also, the last line I wrote is the World’s Most Blatant Lie.

Now, after three years, I decided to go to the Manila International Book Fair again. Acknowledging that my efforts to turn this blog into one centered on Literature (note the capital ‘L’) isn’t really panning out, I guess it’d help people contextualize by admitting that, people, BOOKS ARE MY VICE. Back when I first got my camera and decided that a few thousand pesos-worth of filter glass is disposable (compared to a PhP 20K upwards worth lens), people told me that this photography hobby is turning to a vice. But I disagree. Every photography gear I have has been used, and used with good reason. And, to date, not one of my filters has ever been disposed. But just one glance at my reading queue would be enough to convince any sane-minded individual that BOOKS ARE MY VICE.

Books are my vice. Now that’s out of the way, it should not surprise you to hear that it is more than challenging to bring home all of my MIBF purchases. From MOA all the way to the suburbs of Caloocan. While I’ve learned a few lifehacks to make carrying heavy stuff easier and have put in way more push-ups than during my whole time formally training in Taekwondo since my last MIBF, my spendable cash has also grown. Yay Chad’s Capitalist Paradox.

It’s a good thing then that I have some living quarters at Makati, incidentally the same living quarters I share with the Lab pictured above. So I thought it’d be nice to house my new friends there for the meantime while, batch by batch, I transport them to stand with their kind. Perfect plan.

Except for the Lab.

Of course, I made sure before I left for the weekend (along with my first batch of new suburb roomies) that the books are in a secure cabinet which can’t be opened without opposable thumbs. The problem is that:

  1. Just before I left, I found the upper part of the cabinet door not latching properly. I gave it a light kick so that it latches properly and left it at that. I should have looked for another cabinet, one that really latches properly.
  2. The cabinet is in a low enough position that should the Lab develop opposable thumbs, he can open it. I’ve seen him steal socks from improperly-closed cabinets of the same ilk. I should have put the books on my bed—the upper bunk of a double deck, the only part of our room I’m sure he can’t reach. I should note that this is the only type of cabinet we have which can house the bulk of books.
    1. But then we have a cat and the cat can reach my bed. Where the Lab bites, the cat bites, pisses, and scratches. It is for that reason that the cat is not allowed inside our room but her fondness for, and excursions to, human bed cushions is not unheard of.

I left having secured my new friends considerably well. But if there’s one thing I learned, “considerably well” is not good enough for dogs, moreso a Labrador of Embrr’s calibrr. This hit me midway through my grueling commute from Makati to suburbia and it kinda triggered that part of my brain that always wants 101% assurance on things.

Which leads us to this post. I’d have wanted to wax philosophical on faith, assurance, fight, dream, hope, love, etc. but then this post won’t see the light of day until it has been peer-reviewed and defended before an independent interdisciplinary panel of judges. So instead of doing that, I guess I’ll just ask the question…

Will my new friends survive the weekend, until I can get back to them?

They Only Grew In Numbers

We are waiting.

Edit (9/20/2016): Aaaannnddd they’ve survived! That’s all for now ladies and gentlemen, thank you very much.

  1. I use my feet, he uses his mouth. Never the other way around and I’ve never used my mouth. []

OH. MY. LORD.

They are doing it! A movie adaptation of one of my favorite novels is in the works!

I have been meaning to write a review of this novel for a long time now but, well, life, y’know, yada yada yada…

Also in the pipeline (for almost a year now), is a review of Neil Gaiman’s Sandman Overture. But I never got to post it yet, because I’ve been wanting to take a picture of my copies of Overture but because I was a librarian in one of my former incarnations, I have not been able to make a good enough set-up for taking a photo.

Don't expect leniency on late fees though.