Joyeux Noël

Every year, I write up and publish a Christmas blog post. So, although I didn't do many Christmassy things today, I - knowing that this is the last December 25th I will spend in Hong Kong as a high schooler - nonetheless want to wish whoever is reading this a convivial christmas!

 

One year later, Petit Papa Noël is still my favourite French Christmas carol and I still insist on wearing my "Joyeux Noël et Bonne Année" sweater around the house. Yet much has changed. The festive weight of Christmas day is much lighter this year. Wheeling a shopping trolley around a packed supermarket this afternoon, my eyes glued to the feet of distracted shoppers, I couldn't help but wonder - what makes this day ostensibly "Christmas" apart from the obligatory (and flat) carols one hears beneath the din of creaky carts and cashier register beeps? Now, at ~11:58pm, I think that I could have carved out a larger portion of today to reading/writing Christmas poems (or perhaps going all out and baking gingerbread men). I've decided that society does need Christmas - in December, economy soars, depression rates drop (I believe) and the new year is ushered in while the glittery debris of tinsel still sparkle around the house.

Merry Christmas, everyone!

The Geography of Thought

The Geography of Thought: How Asians and Westerners Think Differently... and Why by Richard E. Nisbett


Richard E. Nisbett's The Geography of Thought examines the age-old question that has intrigued  psychologists (and anyone, really) for centuries: how do Eastern and Western modes of thought differ, and why?

In the book, Nisbett begins by explaining the core foundations of thought on either side. In the East, Confucianism states that the world is a complex place that "consists of continuous substances." In the West, Aristotelianism asserts that "the world is composed of discrete objects or separate atoms."

So, it is natural that the people who suscribe to the first system of thought value harmony; to them, a world of "continuity" can only exist and function if its units interlink and cooperate. As Nesbitt puts it, a "sense of self was linked in a network of relationships." He discusses the ecology of China to support this thesis, pointing out how the flat plains of the mainland demanded farmers to work together in ancient times (even the irrigation system remained fixed under centralized control). If we consider China's political present and history - communism, communes, cooperatives - it is easy to see that collectivism has taken precedence. Anyone who has grown up in a Chinese family will also understand the importance of family dinners, long meals that take place around a round table with not only one's immediate family, but also one's cousins, grandparents, aunts and uncles. The Chinese developed a strong concept of social obligation that stressed relationships.

On the other hand, Westerners - whose world is composed of discrete objects - place more emphasis on individualism. Indeed, looking to ecological roots once more, Nisbett explains that the sloping mountains of Greece allowed for occupations such as hunting that were more or less independent - and commercial. In the West, we see a culture that is famous for vineyards, not paddy fields. Moreover, debate was common in the political assembly of ancient Greece, whereas arguments were considered threats to the harmony of the East. Here, we already see a Western inclination towards expressing personal viewpoints instead of relapsing into the collective. While Western societies encourage one to "stand out," Eastern societies strive to maintain equilibrium. Thus, it is no surprise that America is capitalist and perhaps the world's staunchest advocator of independence and human rights.

Of course, pros and cons accompany such differences. For example, Eastern societies' reluctance to reduce information into simple models due to their belief in the world's complexity might be justifiable; however, the West does classify its objects into categories and use such groupings to develop simple models, rules and theorems that forward opportunities for scientific and technological breakthroughs. Unsurprisingly, the West has the upper hand in the field of scientific development.

(To explore the Western tendency to categorize and the Eastern preference to focus on relationships, Nesbitt asked students of different backgrounds to group two of the following three organisms together: a chicken, a cow and some grass. Westerners tended to group the chicken and cow - the animals - together. Asians, noting the relationships of cow eats grass, left out the chicken.)

Where the East succeeds, argues Nesbitt, is their readier acceptance of change. After all, they believe that different elements must adapt in order to coexist in a world of continuous substances. Relationships cannot work without compromise. The reason why Asians are thus better at math, Nesbitt proposes, can be attributed to their drive to "work harder" - to change - as opposed to the Western belief that one may simply lack the "innate skills" to be good at math. (To be honest, I found Malcolm Gladwell's argument much more convincing.)

Interestingly, Nesbitt also discusses how the difference in modes of thought affect language. One of the most memorable examples in the book is about how the Chinese will say, "drink more," whereas Westerns inquire, "more tea?" during social gatherings. The former, whose culture revolves around relationships, use a verb; the latter, who focus on the object, use a noun.

The Geography of Thought is a lucid exploration of the differences between Eastern and Western modes of thinking. Yet at the end of the book, I couldn't help but wonder - is that it? Surely, there must be more? How would one categorize Russia, for instance, a country that could be considered Eastern and Western? What about further studies conducted in places like Hong Kong, which Nesbitt himself even acknowledges as a great laboratory for cross-cultural study? What happens to the development of thinking in places that have been much influenced by the West?

Certainly read this book if you are interested in the ways the East and West think differently. I find The Geography of Thought to be is a springboard, a well-researched platform that will push you to read more widely on the subject it investigates.




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I turn to paths that lead home

That feeling you get when you walk into the cinema to watch the last cinematographic stretch of Middle-earth greatness is a nostalgic one.
The Hobbit: The Battle of the Five Armies is a looong film, much dominated by the battle waged between elves, men, dwarves, goblins and wargs. Trust Peter Jackson to transform a couple of chapters into ~2.5 hours!

Cinematically speaking, the graphics were stunning. 3D HFR is still tough to adjust to, but Smaug swooping into Lake-town was quite the visual experience. Not to mention the choreography for all the battles. Could a chunk of the fighting have been cut out? Certainly, although I must say that Legolas's showdown with the goblin nearly tops his slaying of the Oliphaunt.

In many ways, The Hobbit movies have been much swayed by their marriage and persistent homage to the LoTR trilogy. After all, there are irresistible scenes in this film that only seem to serve the purpose of channeling LoTR:
1) The part where Legolas goes off to seek "Strider" (hence LoTR!!)
2) The final scene that takes us right back to the start of The Fellowship
3) Bilbo with Thorin in his final moments, a scene that poignantly recalls Aragorn and Boromir's mybrothermycaptainmyking scene
4) Galadriel unleashing her full power
5) Alfred is basically Wormtongue

Yet I think this is Jackson's way of ensuring that the film remains quintessentially 'LoTR' to Tolkienites. Most LoTR perceptions have been indelibly defined by the film trilogy.

Hobbit-LoTR comparisons aside, however, The Battle of the Five Armies does further engage its audience with deeper elements of Middle-earth that LoTR hadn't exposed as thoroughly (and no, I am not just referring to how Legolas is finally thrust into an arrow-less situation).


What love means to elves, notably, is explored throughout the movie. Early on, Tauriel struggles with her feelings for Kili because acknowledging them would be a betrayal to her kin. Legolas supposedly loves Tauriel, but speaks to her like a soldier; why is he so icy? Perhaps, as is hinted towards the end of the film, it is because of his mother's death. Thranduil, whom Tauriel accuses of having no heart, seems to be the epitome of the heartless, cold-blooded, unfeeling, immortal elf. Yet he later tells Tauriel that she feels heartbreak after Kili's death because her love for him "was real" just as he himself still mourns his wife.

In this movie (and relevant chapters of the book), we also see in Thorin a King Lear-esque character, someone who admits that he was "too blind to see" under the shadow of 'Dragon sickness' - the autocracy and unreasonableness that overcomes one who lusts after gold and prestige. Indeed, the Arkenstone is Thorin's ring; it seduces and manipulates him.

The one most immune to dragon sickness, and bravest to try and put a cork on the battle, is naturally Bilbo. Thorin's last words to him are,

"If more people valued home above gold, this world would be a merrier place."

The hobbit mentality encapsulated in Thorin's words is what has captured LoTR fans for centuries - the homeliness and warmth of the Shire and indeed of home. Bilbo doesn't say much in the movie (mostly just wrinkles his nose endearingly) but whenever he pipes up, we love it. Just as Galadriel is the Lady of Light, Bilbo is the pure token of home in The Hobbit. No matter how far one will bash these three Hobbit movies, there is no doubt that they all share that familiar, quintessentially Tolkien echo of home.

As Billy Boyd sings the end credits of the film, we know that it is not only Bilbo who is bidding "a very fond farewell" to the company, but also the LoTR crew who is bidding adieu to their Middle-earth cinematic journey. Yet I don't think anybody will be saying farewell to the LoTR legacy anytime soon. The mark it has left on literature and film will and should inspire generations of readers, writers and dreamers to come.

It is the things we love most that destroy us

If I had to use a single word to describe Mockingjay: Part One, it would be tense.

The opening of the film takes us to the aftermath of District 13's destruction. Katniss has been directly shipped from the games to the underground base where President Coin (Julianne Moore) and Head Gamemaker/rebel commander Plutarch Heavensbee (Philip Seymour Hoffman; R.I.P) recruit her to be the face of the new rebellion. She agrees - on the condition that Coin will pull Peeta and the other tributes out of the Capitol at the earliest opportunity. The remainder of the film revolves around Katniss's role as "The Mockingjay," tracing the impact she spurs in the other districts and in the Capitol.

So, why tense? Humour is offered to us in sparse doses throughout the film. (The Hunger Games movies are not, after all, comedies.) We laugh when Katniss requests that Prim can keep her cat, chortle when the ever-fashionable Effie Trinket complains about having to wear a bland, grey jumpsuit, and smile as we watch Katniss tease her cat with a flashlight.

So, the film does not thrust us into complete darkness. Yet most of Mockingjay: Part One is destruction and dread. Death swamps Katniss as she witnesses the wreckage of District 13 with her own eyes, seeing her home reduced to rubble. We watch her go through anguish as the threat of losing "them both" - Gale and Peeta - becomes increasingly likely towards the end of the film. It's a tense and heavy first half of a movie to watch.

While Mockingjay: Part One concludes with Coin keeping her word, Peeta's return is not quite what Katniss had imagined. We barely get a look at his gaunt, bruised face before he lunges for Katniss's throat and begins what becomes the most chilling scene of the entire film. What more proof is needed of the Capitol's torture tactics once you see how it turns the antithesis of monstrosity - Peeta Mellark - into a monster?



While that remains the most terrifying part of the film, its best scene is, without a doubt, the singing scene. "You want me to sing?" Katniss asks - and off she goes, delivering a rendition of The Hanging Tree that soon morphs into a full-blown choir of rebels who storm the Capitol's dams in a suicide mission to wipe out its electricity; this is how a revolution kicks off! The political roots of the film run deep. Troops keep to their formations in the navy-blue rain, echoing Nazi rigidity and channeling dictatorship vibes. They remind us that the Capitol is unrelenting and headed by the cold and merciless President Snow.

So, the film owes its appeal to its daring themes - but also its characters. Again, Gale emerges as the loyal and stubborn best friend (emphasis on stubborn and friend), Haymitch makes welcome cameos (the sober life does not suit him), doe-eyed Sam Claflin sheds light on the exploits of the Capitol, but of course it is Katniss - or should I say Jennifer Lawrence - who completely robs the spotlight. Katniss is the face of the rebellion just as JLaw is the face of the movie. And, why not? She and Katniss are both bold and unafraid to speak up. (I just wish Katniss wouldn't be so self-effacing.)

Mockingjay: Part One was tense - but it has set the stage for its next half, which I wait for with anticipation.

“Happiness, when it comes, is stronger than all the jerk girls in Santo Domingo combined.”

The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao by Junot Díaz
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

When life gives you lemons, read anything written by Junot Díaz. I thought This is How you Lose Her was good, but The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao hits it out of the ballpark with infectious wit and 335 pages worth of what Michiko Kakutani from The New York Times aptly called, “adrenaline-powered prose.”

In The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao, Díaz traces the family history and life story of Oscar de Léon, an overweight "ghetto nerd at the end of the world" who is fluent in Elvish, spews out words like "copacetic" in everyday conversation and is obsessed with, but sadly hopeless at wooing, women. Oscar is later nicknamed "Wao" because of his apparent resemblance to Oscar Wilde. I'll never know how Yunior, Oscar's roommate/best friend and the boyfriend of his sister (Lola) ever drew that comparison. While the novel is mostly set in modern-day New Jersey, its characters' stories often take us back to the time of Rafael Trujillo: the ruthless dictator who ruled the Dominican Republic from 1930 to 1961.

Before we even meet Oscar, our narrator announces that his whole family is victim to fúku - "a curse or a doom of some kind" - that was cast on Oscar's grandfather, Abelard, after he upset the Trujillo. We are offered compelling evidence, such as the cruel deaths of Abelard’s wife and his daughters, that suggests fúku has indeed plagued the de Léon family for centuries and continues to work its voodoo on poor Oscar.

The main reason why Oscar is so unpopular with the ladies is that he defies the traditional qualities of masculinity. As our narrator informs us, “he wasn't no home-run hitter or a fly bachatero, not a playboy with a million hots on his jock.” Unlike Yunior, whose muscle mass and success with women make him an alpha male of sorts, Oscar is an absolute nerd whose “commitment to the Genres had become absolute” by high school. Such nerdery is exemplified by the countless allusions to nerdfare throughout the novel: Yunior and Oscar’s exchange of “Mellon” (I was over the moon when I read this), the fact that the Gangster  "wasn’t no ringwraith but wasn't no orc, either," the X-wings and TIE-fighters hanging from Oscar’s ceiling… Oscar and Yunior would have nothing to do with each other if it weren’t for Lola and their mutual, Santo Dominican-love for women.

Yet it is fitting that Oscar is obsessed with the fantastical, for he himself is often submerged in his own fantasies. For example, he believes that “La Jablesse” is “the one” although, ironically enough, La Jablesse (which means “Devil Woman” in French) is infamous in Caribbean folklore for seducing men and luring them astray. Similarly, Oscar wholeheartedly believes that Ybón will leave the police for him, although his relentless attempts to win her over eventually lead to his death. Fúku at work?

The very existence of fúku reflects the deep-rooted historical context and tradition in the novel. On the one hand, Díaz reveals the Trujillo’s tyranny through the extensive footnotes that recur every few pages. (The size 8 pt font was unbearable at first, but grew on me.) More effectively, Díaz sheds light on the dictator’s omnipresence through the characters’ stories. For example, there is a comic juxtaposition between the casual and fatal in Beli and the Gangster’s affair: she is naïve and infatuated while he is part of the Trujillo’s ruthless and dictatorial family circle.

Furthermore, a strong sense of cultural identity penetrates the novel. There is frequent mention of diaspora and the idea of running away from home; Lola, of course, tries to do this many times. Yet the motherland will always call you back. The pungent and familiar smell of home hits Oscar hard when he returns to the DR to find:

 "... the surreal whirligig that was life in La Capital - the guaguas, the cops, the mind-boggling poverty, the Dunkin' Donuts, the beggars, the Haitians selling roasted peanuts at the intersections, the mind-boggling poverty, the asshole tourists hogging up all the beaches, [...] the mind-boggling poverty, the snarl of streets and rusting zinc shacks that were the barrios populares, the masses of niggers he waded through every day who ran him over if he stood still, the skinny watchmen standing in front of stores with their brokedown shotguns, the music, [...] the mind-boggling poverty ..."

That’s the most fabulous run-on sentence I’ve read in a while.

Of course, Díaz’s style contributes most to the indelible mark of culture in the novel. Our narrator is well versed in Dominican lingo, hitting us with “homeboys” from the very beginning. Thanks to Junot Díaz, I’ve learned my fair share of Spanish swear words. On a more serious note, however, such coarse language also mirrors the undercurrent of violence in the novel.

The brutality that increasingly emerges towards the end can be so shocking that you almost don’t believe it. We move from reading about LoTR in one page to Oscar’s beatings in another. Yet Díaz has a way of effortlessly planting dark humour in the midst of the horrific: “We’ll let you go if you tell us what fuego means in English. Fire, he blurted out, unable to help himself.” The storytelling way in which the novel unravels itself and the everyday naturalness of the surreal events that occur (e.g. the appearance of the mongoose) reminded me of the magic realism in Gabriel García Márquez’s The 100 Years of Solitude. What you read seems impossible, but – on mere pages – becomes utterly believable.  

Although the narrator of the novel is almost invisible, a seamless and flawless transition reveals Yunior to be our the storyteller. Perhaps this is why the title is not The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar de Léon, but rather The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao – after all, Yunior came up with that nickname.

Just as when I read This is How You Lose Her, I'm struck by how effortlessly I support the protagonists. I mean, if I met anyone as stalker-ish and gaming-obsessed as Oscar in real life, I'd most likely make a run for it. Yet I wait impatiently for him to reappear in the novel as I read on, my fingers crossed that he will lose his virginity before his brief, wondrous life is over. I suppose this is the power of literature: it connects readers and characters, relays the impossible and elicits sympathy for the hopeless. Although Hong Kong and Santo Domingo are 22+ hours apart by plane, I was actually able to see a sliver of myself in Oscar:

“He read The Lord of the Rings for what I’m estimating the millionth time, one of his greatest loves and comforts since he’d first discovered it, back when he was nine and lost and lonely and his favourite librarian had said, Here try this, and with one suggestion changed his life. Got through almost the whole trilogy, but then the line “and out of Far Harad black men like half-trolls” and he had to stop, his head and his heart hurting too much.”

There is much respect for the written word in The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao. Early on, Yunior tells us that writing the book is his zafa, the counterspell to fúku. Indeed, when Oscar writers 15 pages in one sitting, is he not also writing to save himself? Yet regardless of whether or not fúku truly exists, “that’s life for you. All the happiness you gather to yourself, it will sweep away like it’s nothing. If you ask me I don’t think there are any such things as curses. I think there is only life. That’s enough.”

So, The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao is an extraordinarily funny and moving tribute to nerds, the culture of the DR and – of course – “the beauty!” of life.

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