The Waste Lands, Stephen King

            Fantasy horror: ugly and beautiful at the same time.  That’s the best way to describe this thriller that shoved me into the wilderness of Stephen King’s untamed imagination, single-handedly elevating my passion-for-reading status from “casual leisure” to “obsession” as a 14-year-old boy.  This is far and away the best installment of The Dark Tower series.  Roland’s gang of vagabonds are now at full strength and ready to take on all sorts of bizarre creatures, like a giant bear with a satellite implant; a hungry door between worlds, that chews the ground with wood for teeth; and a crazy train howling insanity above thousands of mutated serpents in an endless desert.  They're all obstacles on Roland’s journey to the Dark Tower, a focal point of his strange world, that for some mysterious reason is the only place where he can finally end his search. 

Jurassic Park, Michael Crichton

Ian Malcolm, that quirky mathematician, probably had the greatest influence on me than any other character in books and movies.  Because of him I have officially subscribed to chaos, make snide sarcastic remarks, flirt with paleobotanists, and flash around my leather jacket while fidgeting my spectacles, stuttering to communicate the profound observations that fly over the heads of my listeners.  Ok not really, I’m just a wannabee, but the rockstar-genius was an aspiration of mine for a time. 

Jurassic Park, for anyone living on Mars who hasn’t seen or read it, is an action-packed thriller that pits human inspectors and specialists against genetically engineered dinosaurs.  The park is designed to contain these ghosts of Earthly past, but things get out of hand quickly when a tropical storm makes Malcolm’s prediction come true. Crichton’s style is meant to be suspenseful, so don’t expect any groundbreaking literature here, just a whole lot of blood and guts, fun sci-fi, nerds turned action-heroes, and things with sharp teeth. 

Stargirl, Jerry Spinelli

    Stargirl is one of those characters that transcends literature and makes her presence known in the course of everyday life.  After reading this I'd wish that there was someone like her in my life.  I'd shamelessly imagine Stargirl with me, dancing around on the desert floor, doing cartwheels, meditating behind a sunset, putting a flower in my hair, whispering silly things in my ear while strumming her ukulele.  She is the epitome of a free-spirited, selfless, naive fledgling on the verge of facing how hard it is to fit in at a school where cliques are so impenetrable that anything out of the ordinary is deemed unacceptable.  As a home-schooled newcomer, Stargirl does all kinds of eccentric things because she didn't grow up with the poison of peer pressure and was free to do whatever she wanted.  She gets into trouble by being so selfless that she starts cheering for the other team during a basketball game.  Due to peer pressure, the phony narrator, who has a crush on her, faces the daunting task of trying to choose between her and his social dignity. The book is at once a powerful social commentary on the nature of adolescent interaction, and an inspiration for an entire class of outcasts that don't really give a damn what people think and just want to be themselves.  Spinelli wrote it for young adults, but I think anyone who went to a school like Stargirl's and didn't fit in will find it amusing and relatable.  I know I did. 

Midnights’ Children, Salman Rushdie

Midnight's Children tells a series of tragedies that befall a boy who was born with magical powers at the stroke of midnight on the day of India's independence.  It was an incredible read, but there were a few things I didn't like about it.  It was sad, pessimistic, and very crammed, but the concept was exceptional and so was the witty humor.  Though it seemed like all the side stories were trivial, their intention was to add to the cumulative tumult of the narrator's life.  These short stories were interesting enough to keep me reading, but several parts really stand out, cementing this novel as one of the best of its time (apparently it won the prestigious Best of the Bookers award, and I can see why).  The chapter titled Tick Tock is incredibly executed, counting down his special birth.  That passage should be famous!  (Maybe it already it is in India).  Prior to reading that I was considering abandoning the book, but it’s a good thing I didn't, because there was another unforgettable chapter called In the Sandarbans.  It's a downright disturbing, yet breathtaking adventure on the fringe of reality.  Also, his dream of the widow is just plain mental- because of that I find myself thinking in greens and blacks now and then.  

Salman is now one of my favorite writers. Midnight's Children was great, but I've also read The Satanic Verses and The Enchantress of Florence and thought they were both better.  His books can really make you shake your head at humanity.

The Hunger Games, Suzanne Collins

            I didn't like The Hunger Games for a number of reasons.  Most importantly, I couldn't relate with the main character.  Katniss is strong and courageous, but not enough to outshine her bratty, stubborn and irritable demeanor.  Also, it's poorly written and the concept doesn't really make sense to me.  Would they really force children to kill each other because of a revolution by adults? Would children killing children really be glorified?  And would children actually kill each other for 74 years until finally one stands up and selflessly says, "I'd rather commit suicide"?  It just defies logic to me.  Even considering that this was a book for young adults, I read it because so many people enjoyed it, including Stephen King.  But it's got to be one of the most overrated books in history. 

In the Shadow of Young Girls in Flower, Marcel Proust

After reading In the Shadow of Young Girls in Flower I think it's safe to say that Proust was the best writer ever, even better than Shakespeare.  His style has a poignant poetic rhythm, yet there's a methodical calculation to it as well.  This unique balance of polar opposites puts him at the top, in my opinion.  Shakespeare may have the most memorable lines, but Prost has an equal ability to move the soul, doing so with better trains of thought that lead to long strings of words that vibrate on the highest level.  

Volume 2 of In Search of Lost Time was more enjoyable than the first for me, mainly because of volume one's tedious "Swann in Love" chapter (everything before that is diamond, though).  The first half of volume 2 was solid, but ultimately my favorite parts came in the second half, during his vacation at Balbec.  The sunrise, the entrance into Balbec, and his description of the beaches were just as breathtaking as the flowers and Gilberte during his stroll in volume 1.  Near the end we finally get to the young girls in flower, and it is the purest, most refreshing passage on adolescent love that I can recall.  Even the nostalgia of Mme. Swann's ethereal aura in her vivacious drawing rooms can't quite eclipse the young girls in flower.  The whole thing is beautiful, brilliant, and inspiring.  Thank you, Proust! 

The Enchantress of Florence, Salman Rushdie

I will start by saying The Enchantress of Florence isn't for everyone.  It's meant to be an allegory of The Arabian Nights, thus there are many jaded personalities, while character development and dialogue are extremely limited.  Also, the story line is fast-paced, and there are stories within stories.  And if that's not enough, it's rich in the type of history only well-educated people might know about.  And yet it's an adult fable, so if neither of those suit your taste you probably won't like it.  This is a book for the most advanced minds, with a complex plot and a multitude of characters and subplots.  Another thing a lot of people aren't liking is that in the first half there's a lot of sex and foul language, but to me it's written in a way that's so intoxicating I didn't care.  The second half is better anyway, and the ending is a total mindfuck.  So, if you're up for the challenge, go for it!   

All that aside, this novel was as magical in prose, enriching in intellect, intriguing in relationships, and downright disturbing as any I've ever read.  I have a solid background in the 16th century and high renaissance Florence, so I once I read the teaser, I knew there'd be a strong chance that I'd love it.  Machiavelli, Akbar the Great, Queen Elizabeth, Amerigo Vespucci, Vlad the Impaler, Lorenzo Medici, Genghis Kahn, Magellan... All are linked together in this work of sheer brilliance (some are even main characters).  Themes of lust, separation, and loyalty abound, as settings range from all ends of the Earth; from India to the Middle East, the Middle East to Italy, and Italy to the Ancient Americas.  It's probably one of the top two or three historical fictions I've read. 

The Grapes of Wrath, John Steinbeck

In my unprofessional opinion, The Grapes of Wrath shouldn't be assigned to high school students.  I can’t imagine trying to relate to homeless farmers in the 1930s as a suburban teenager, without any experience as a working man.  The essence of this book is economic corruption and the strength needed to survive during times of misfortune, something that anyone without ever having a job and paying bills would not likely find important.  Even if they did, it’s written by such high standards that a teenager probably wouldn’t understand the real message behind it.  If you are a teenager and who happens to enjoy this for everything it stands for, then kudos to you, young scholar!  

The Joads are a highly symbolic American family, forced off their land and motivated to start new lives in the promising haven of California.  After the Dust Bowl, many mid-western families like the Joads were evicted because they could no longer farm and the land was owned by banks.   The Joads headed west on Route 66, finding typical family hardships more difficult due to the fact they have very little money.  The American banner of a better tomorrow gives them hope, but Steinbeck does an excellent job showing how that banner can be as much an illusion as a blessing.   

I liked Tom Joad a lot.  He reminds me of myself in some ways- angry when treated unfairly, looks out for his friends and family, isn’t afraid to get down and dirty, rebellious against the establishment, newfound spiritualism catalyzed by the ex-priest.  When I look back on this book, I can still imagine good ole’ Tom roaming the empty flatlands of America, boundless and free yet trapped and hungry, an emblem for all the generations of laborers and unionizers that have stood up to all the exploitative bankers, pinhead politicians, and brutal police forces throughout American (and world) history.  Tom doesn’t know exactly how things got to be the way they are, but he doesn’t like it, and he’ll do anything he can to get even.  His spirit lives on in the hearts of each and every one of us, even those in the upper echelons of society.  For if they were walking in his shoes, you know they’d do the same. 

Angels on the Mountain Pass

We met in a class called Geology of the Pacific Northwest.  It was a specialized summer class where we got to take a field trip to the mountains every weekend.  Veronica and I would walk the trails together, pretending to observe the details of nature when our minds were really on each other.  I’d look at her and catch her looking at me.  She’d do the same, catching me whenever my eyes wandered from the countryside to something even more beautiful, her loving face.  

Soon we were planning excursions of our own.  The first place we went together was the Canadian Rockies.  A wilderness of the purest scent of pine exfoliates there, inside the greenest landscape man has ever known.  Adjectives used to describe the area are many and tired.  The glaciated ridges and aquamarine lakes nestled between them are as crisply strewn as the terraces of Dravidian architecture.  I can’t help stealing a page from Keats when I am reminded of it, thinking, “A thing of beauty is a joy forever”.  Like the magnificent use of flowery language in his epic poem Endymion, the Canadian Rockies are the pinnacle of natural expression, carved from the same language that the bards of Elysium created worlds with.  

The highlight of the trip was driving on Highway 93 and going over Sunwapta Pass, into Jasper National Park.  I don’t think any pass is quite as beautiful, with the exception of Logan in Montana.  There was an enormous glacier that looked like a slide in the playground of a giant.  After that, we drove along a valley that was strewn with all kinds of wildflowers.  The Continental Divide was on our left, while another gorgeous range was to our right.  It went on like that for miles, until we reached the northern apex of our trip, looping back around.  

British Colombia is a geological anomaly.  Miles and miles of endless mountains make up the entire province.  Usually, mountains are only created in single ranges due to the subduction of tectonic plates.  But in British Colombia they are scattered everywhere, in bunches.  What accounts for all those mountains being jumbled together escapes me, but it probably has to do with ages of subduction occurring where the Pacific plate meets the North American one.  The Burgess Shale is located in these mountains, home to some of the oldest fossils on the planet, dating all the way back to the Cambrian Age 500 million years ago.  As the boundary of the plates retreated westward, more mountains must have been created in its path.  They’re the ones that continually get younger the closer you get to the coast.  

The following summer, in a place not far from home, we drove along a river on a gravelly road that was messy with potholes and dirt.  The car careened dust that sputtered out from under it in the stale summer air.  The road wound, dipped, and rose to the sky along the shimmering flow of the river.  Thick evergreens stood all around us, the length of their branches blotting out our view of the majestic crags before us.  It was the mountains, yes, again were going to the mountains, in what was to become our annual summer escapade.  

        The sight of the peaks brought renewed energy to us: a thirst for adventure and spirit.  The mountains sang to us a graceful hymn of solitude and beauty.  Under their shadows the world hears their calling, a song of experience.  Here the ranges stood like a parade of soldiers, rooted to the Earth in their slow march through time, all-the-while singing to the ones who listened, the ones who lent an ear to nature; a simple, eloquent message they sang; a chorus in unison, “Climb me”.  And climb the mountains we would, yes, we were going to the mountains.  

We listened, withdrew, and listened again as we got closer to their calling.  We followed them deep into the foothills, children of the mountains.  Through them we elevated into a bay of towering adults, big and proud, all melting in the summer heat, melting away the armor of winter.  The mountains flooded the valley below with waterfalls created by glaciers that nestled between the boulders of their faces; faces that sang in tandem with the waters that undulated down clefts on their ridges, showering the soil with their verdant supply of fertility, energy, and growth.  The greenery below the snow-line seemed to envelope the melting ice from above.  It was as if the song of the mountains had forever been recorded into the history of the land below, in geologic preservation.  This scene, this rapture we felt, it took our breath away.  

After parking the car, I eagerly got my pack and rushed to the trailhead.  The smell of fresh soil and tender sap filled my senses with the life of the forest.  As we began the ascent, birds welcomed us by singing near the entrance.  They chirped across the trees to the boulders on the other side of the valley, so that they echoed off all the corners of the land to inform other wildlife that more humans had come to try and conquer the peaks of their home.  

We took deep breaths as we climbed steadily along the switchbacks.  The initial incline was steep, challenging our drive to attain the summit. Sweat gleaned from Veronica's forehead, so she took some swigs from the canteen she brought. Rocks and streams impeded our progress, and the fear of bears stymied our peace, but we kept on. Up the steep slope we panted, praising the intermittent shade and abhorring the long stretches of sun.  At five hundred feet, having already exhausted our initial energy from adrenaline alone, we resupplied our canteens naturally, from a stream that intercepted the path every time we switched back.  Every time we needed water the stream was there in our way- an eternal obstacle, but a lifesaver, nonetheless.  Without it we would have exhausted our water supply far too quickly than we'd planned.  We weren't worried about catching any diseases because it was pure glacier water.  

My back ached from carrying the pack, and my feet whined at me for stepping on oddly shaped rocks, but we kept on. We were determined to reach the top.  It felt like I was made of iron, a source material for the pillars of society, which had now become our cornerstone of perseverance.  We had to get to the top, yes, to the pass above, the pass with the panorama beyond.  What mysteries lie there?  What scenic fulfillment embodied the land beyond the pass at the top of the ridge?  We yearned to see it, to photograph it as if it had never been seen in the history of the human race.  I'd read that the Native Americans had used this trail for trade, but it seemed like the scenery here had been left unappreciated for centuries. I wanted to document this as evidence of nature at her finest, and to show the pictures we were taking to everyone we knew, so they'd marvel at what we'd experienced together.  Isn't that what everyone wants when they take a picture?  

Off in the distance, on the other side of the valley, we thought we heard the sound of gunfire echoing across through the bay of mountains.  But the sound came from no shotgun, for it was the hottest day of the year, and the warmth of the ground had spread so quickly that large areas of snow were melting, and they gathered so much momentum that they went tumbling down the mountains in a cacophony of disruption.  It interrupted the orchestra of the waterfalls that had been playing serenely for us all morning long.  Veronica became startled by the noise, so I told her that this side of the range was lower, less packed with snow, and therefore less inclined to suffer an avalanche.  

Another noise startled us- that of a twig breaking nearby.  I spun around, in fear of there being an enormous bear, only to find that it had just been a chipmunk scurrying about on the forest floor.  After cursing the chipmunk, I glanced ahead and saw a dark cave that was under the roots of a fallen tree.  The sight was ghastly; could a bear be watching us from there?  Veronica wiped the sweat from her forehead and suggested we move on.  

        Though I was relieved to know that nothing was following us, I was momentarily bewildered by the approach of other hikers ahead.  They warned us of large ice fields on the pass, and that we'd better be careful.  I told Veronica not to worry, even after she rolled her eyes at me for choosing not to wear hiking boots or bring trekking poles.  I believed these were accessories that got in the way of the enjoyment, only slowing people down.  At the time I was young and had a reckless, arrogant philosophy about the way things should be enjoyed.  Whenever Veronica made suggestions that might keep me safe, I shrugged them off and left the fate of my journeys to angels and other such harmonizers of chance.  I was so confident in my abilities that I never thought I'd need accessories to help me, for I thought I'd been blessed by some divine presence that always got me through the remarkable experiences I'd endured.  

Moments later we came upon the first snow-line that blocked the trail.  To get across, we carefully stepped into the deep footprints that had been left by others before us.  But the trail was still elevating, and I saw up ahead the promise of more ice fields, just as the hikers had warned.  No problem, I would just walk in the footsteps of the other hikers like I'd always done.  But in the next ice field the snow got deeper, the mountain got steeper, and the trail got wetter.  My shins became black with mud as I slid into each of the footprint holes.  Even Veronica was struggling to get out of them.  I slipped once or twice, but nothing had put a scare into me yet.  At least it was a distraction from the threat of bears.   

        Finally, we came to the hem of the ridge.  The trees dissipated and there stretched a sloping meadow of wildflowers leading up to the rocky summit.  I looked out into the valley, shaken by the beauty of it all.  We were now level with a sloping wilderness that gleamed high on the peaks.  All the glaciers secreted lovely cascades that tumbled down the mountains, as if they were curtains of water.  The smell of alpine tundra and moss filled our nostrils, while a steady wind coming from the southwest vibrated up our bodies and into the cradle of the ridge.   

Veronica looked at it all, her jaw dropping.  The trail went beyond the meadow, through a long snowfield that hung at the mercy of a cliff.  We came closer to it, praying for more footprints in the snow that would help our traction.  Indeed, there were more, so some brave souls had ventured across it, but what kind of gear had they had?  Though my sneakers were soaked all the way through, I still thought I might be able to make it across.  Further up the ridge was yet another snowfield on the path- an even larger one- and beyond that one was the ridge itself; a promised land that would reveal what we came for; the high pass that had been calling for us to us all the way up the mountain.  

Veronica nearly begged me to turn back, but I sucked in my gut and gave it a try.  At first it was easy.  The footprints were deep and strong; the snow was crisp and inviting.  But soon I found that I had to lean on the snow with my left hand, which put a lot of pressure on my left leg to keep me balanced.  Without doing that I would have slid down the ice, off a cliff that lay at the bottom of the slope.  Slowly I crept along.  The breeze was holding steady, my muscles were tiring quickly.  I wasn’t making good progress, so I started to get nervous.  I couldn’t turn around because doing so would mean sliding on my heels and potentially falling into the chasm.  I stopped to take a deep breath.  My hand was freezing from trying to stay balanced on the snow.  I looked down into the womb of the mountain- an abyss that may have been the graveyard of others who'd braved the trail before me.  All the sudden, a gust of wind blew me sideways, knocking me slightly off balance.  Veronica screamed and my heart went racing and my head swelled up with delirium.  When I regained my focus, I thought I could hear faint voices calling me forward.  It must have been angels offering me their protection again, which brought my courage back to life.  I rose from my crouched position and moved on, ignoring the angry yelling of my fiancé.  

I was almost through the snow, but my leg was burning with fatigue and my hand was numb from the coldness.  On the last few steps, I got over anxious and missed my timing, which resulted in a slip that luckily sent me forward onto the dry trail ahead.  I fell in exasperation as shards of snow flew off the cliff from where I'd lost my footing.  At that moment the delirium engulfed me and all sense of security vanished.  The snowfield ahead looked even worse; the dawn of hopeless abandon evaporating any determination I had left, like water putting out a fire.  The angels still called to me and the mountains still sang, but the fear of death was too powerful for me to go on.  It wasn’t worth risking my life for a view.  But the yearning to win the pass was still there.  Regret slowly came upon me.  I had come so far, only to throw it away because I hadn’t been prepared.  I took one last look at the pass beyond the snow, and with earplugs of surrender I muted the angels in my head.  With them vanished the drive to find what magnificent panoramas lay over the ridge.   

        On the way back down the mountain we ran into a long-haired man with eyes full of optimism.  He asked us how rough it was ahead.  I told him the hike was easy, but be wary of the snow.  No problem, said the man with a grin, showing us all his hiking accessories.  He had his sturdy hiking boots and trekking poles- essential things to bring on any alpine hike.  He looked at my feet curiously, then looked back into my eyes and smiled before continuing up the path.  Veronica wished him good luck as he whistled a melody, walking away from us for the rest of our lives.  How I envied this man; how that smile of his would haunt my dreams; how astounding that even in such brief moments people can make the largest impression on someone’s life.  

We watched him go, a specimen of nature, the same force that had brought us here to defeat the climb and boast about the glory.   Then we turned back the other way, stomping our feet back down the mountain trail, kicking pinecones in frustration, ripping off the bark from trees, cursing ourselves for our incompetence.  Yet in serene moments going back down the switchback trail, and even far into the future when reminiscing about the past, I would often wonder if the mysterious hiker ever made it over the ridge to see the vast, glaciated peaks beyond, with the sight of his own eyes.