false66463463true5630664read0true1520784currently-reading0true1520783to-read323false1523364romance209false3134071series152false3134066contemporary94false1523365paranormal60false1521333favorites46false3134067urban-fantasy40false1935901fantasy-adventure36false1798092historical-fiction36false1935904classics32false2474575mystery-thriller22false4682765fiction-for-youngsters19false3654612nonfiction17false1957532fiction-for-women16false1831720lisa-kleypas15false1524029judith-mcnaught12false1524030julie-garwood12false1524031julia-quinn12false1831715sherrilyn-kenyon11false2229709teresa-medeiros10false1524026terry-brooks7false7215909the-beatles7false4682793lynn-kurland5false3883670reference
<![CDATA[maricar added 'In the Realm of the Diamond Queen']]>
http://www.goodreads.com/review/show/78847844
to: In the Realm of the Diamond Queen (Paperback)byAnna Lowenhaupt Tsing bookshelves: contemporary,
nonfiction
…By highlighting the contradictions in the notions of citizenship, ‘locality,’ marginality, and self-representation, Tsing challenges the wider conceptions of the ‘Other.’…
(excerpt from a paper critique:)
In the Realm of the Diamond Queen is a difficult one for me to get through. To the extent that a re-reading is an absolute requirement.
In doing so, I was again struck by the elegant complexity and depth of exposition Tsing has laid out in her study of ‘marginalization.’ So much so, in fact, that I had difficulty anchoring on one topic which I could just about attempt to expound on. To understate it, I felt quite…piddling…even from the first few pages of this book. And that did not improve much 100 pages later. I have to confess that I have had to go over a number of segments repeatedly in the hopes of making her argument sink in. In a sense, Diamond Queen is something I feel I could only be relatively equipped to handle after I have had at least 2 years’ worth of being entrenched in ethnographic literature.
…The degree of impression Diamond Queen left on me is particularly suggestive: ‘marginality,’ at first glance, is a ‘feature’ I have taken to be simply straightforward. I considered it as a well-demarcated and -defined product of the intersection of history and the ecology, with the subsequent emergence of a ‘core’ ideology later impacting more distinctively on the existence of this ‘space at the margins.’ In addition, I have understood those at the margins to be in a perpetual conflict or resistance with the center; at most, with a prevailing active animosity over the status quo.
Tsing unflinchingly disabused me of that notion.
As she has shown in the study of the Meratus, marginality is more than an awareness of a territory (with or without physical boundaries) characterized as ‘removed from’ the political, cultural, and economic core. What I used to apprehend as a dialectical relationship actually finds complexity among the Meratus and their association with the state.
By showing how certain Meratus place themselves within and beyond the state’s peripheral and dismissive gaze, Tsing reveals the nuances that underlie Meratus personhood.
Among others is an ostensibly circuitous provenance that bring to mind a sort of Catch-22: the Meratus leaders are clamoring for state recognition and citizenship. The state then informs them to advocate certain ‘civilized’ comportment (like literacy), while retaining formulations of ethnic identity (249) under the auspices of ‘ethnic pluralism.’ But since national ideology compartmentalizes the Meratus as an ‘out-of-the-way’ people, whose (inaccurately) ‘nomadic’ nature (to name a few) suspend them in the static hold of pre-history, they are, as a result, consigned to their current circumstance. They are physically ‘out-of-the-way’ (and figuratively stay that way) because their settlement areas are so far removed from the tolerable reaches of state intervention that hardly any official bothers to look their way long enough to understand their culture or way of thinking. Hence, Meratus claims for consideration of acknowledged citizenship remain overlooked.
Tsing goes on to provide tangible evidence of this ambivalence. And this is where, in my opinion, Diamond Queen subtly but strongly latches onto my rather mystified engagement. Despite the pitiful frequency with which I become entangled in the author’s juxtaposition of Meratus ethnicity and state ideology, I cannot help but appreciate Tsing’s interpretation of Meratus social and political actions as negotiated maneuvers that are invoked to appease national policies of assimilation while simultaneously embedded in traditional or localized ideals of Meratus personhood.
Such performative actions, then, reflect contingent, contradictory, and shifting self-identities which are still strangely effective in maintaining, if not in justifying, ethnic beliefs and traditions. It is in these practices that the Meratus obviates stereotypes of a passive, impotent minority.
...For what it is worth, I have a high regard for the Diamond Queen; but there have also been segments in her narrative that come across as incongruous (like the bulk of her discussion on ‘Conditions of Living’), if not quite superfluous. The interesting thing is that she shows the marginality of the Meratus through largely episodic snapshots experienced by only a handful of people, most of which ‘stand out’ (even if Tsing assiduously claims otherwise) from the ‘average’ Meratus. If this is just another way for her to underscore the highly polemical and irresolute nature of marginality and Meratus identity, then she has succeeded in this regard...
]]>
<![CDATA[maricar added 'Global Divas: Filipino Gay Men in the Diaspora']]>
http://www.goodreads.com/review/show/78843356
to: Global Divas: Filipino Gay Men in the Diaspora (Perverse Modernities)byMartin F. Manalansan IV bookshelves: contemporary,
nonfiction
(excerpt from a paper critique:)
…In recalling my reading of the author’s vignettes, it appears that he has dearth of representative informants—the bulk of his life histories were culled from bakla who have come from urbanized centers of the Philippines, living relatively well-to-do lives. As such, motivations among them for going abroad may be attributed to a longing for a change in lifestyle or social scene, or to assuage an emotional/romantic void. I suppose what I am trying to put across is not hard to guess—is the primary motivation of wanting to a earn higher salary for one’s self and one’s family, which is the driving force among other diasporic Filipinos, not a priority for some of the Filipino bakla? I am aware that my query is very leading, but it is difficult for me not to think about that, since more and more Filipinos nowadays do indeed prefer to go abroad in order to find better jobs (read as higher paying jobs). The possibility of living a chic lifestyle seems to be a reality attainable only after one has had months of earning that high salary (the primary goal).
But, really, among the Filipino bakla, what are the immediate as well as deep-seated motivations? Is it just to escape the chokehold of family? Is it to forge a blazing path of biyuti abroad? Or is it a growing disillusionment of what their Inang Bayan is turning out to be?
Or perhaps I am simply going too far, and there is really just that one obvious motivation that is universal to all Filipino immigrants: money.
If this is so, then there is a marked disjointedness in the author’s narrative; his Global Divas came to New York and, except for a chosen few singled out as the breadwinners of the family back home, these Filipino bakla were portrayed as sometimes single-minded in the pursuit of that white, masculine male lover in the midst of contesting identities with other foreign gays.
Furthermore, the heavy focus on the middle-class bakla, signifying a neglect of the ‘inner screaming queens’ from other sectors of Philippine society, makes for a narrative with a somewhat hollow ring to it, as if a vital part has gone missing from deep within the recesses. Understandable, of course, as ethnographies are always value-laden and biased for a certain ‘gaze,’ no matter what the well-meaning agenda might be. But an explicit statement beforehand concerning the demography of one’s unit of analysis could certainly help matters.
Just as interesting of note is how Manalansan somehow depreciates notions of race as an issue in the Philippines (56). Though not as prevalent nowadays, other nationalities (and even other ‘native’ ethnolinguistic groups) in the country used to be sources of amusement, if not outright ridicule, among Filipinos: from Indians, Chinese, to Koreans.
My point is that racism is not a discourse benignly brushed aside in the Philippines, and saying otherwise precludes providing an adequate explanation for the predilection of Filipino bakla in NY to cater to only certain foreign ‘masculine males.’ Manalansan’s book is rich in giving snippets of racism not just from the white gays but also from among the Filipino bakla. However, the reason for this behavior takes on an ‘out-of-thin-air’ aspect coming from the author’s threadbare mention of any sort of racism rising from the homeland.
]]>
<![CDATA[maricar added 'Body of Power, Spirit of Resistance: The Culture and History of a South African People']]>
http://www.goodreads.com/review/show/78845322
to: Body of Power, Spirit of Resistance: The Culture and History of a South African People (Paperback)byJean Comaroff bookshelves: nonfiction,
reference
(excerpt from a paper critique:)
Comaroff’s Body of Power stands for me as a highly commendable work on the study of a particular people’s way of life. In a way I feel as if this could fit quite snugly amidst the pantheon of classical works. I need not belabor on what has been discussed on the class regarding its glaring failure, though, of it being entirely too focused or dependent on archival material. In my re-reading of it, Comaroff could do no other but plunk the reader back in the middle of the historical vicissitudes that led to the context and nuances of what she aims to investigate: the way an oppressed people sought to locate themselves in the course of resisting, even while submitting to, the hegemony of a global industrial capitalism.
The title of the work itself provokes a symbolic discourse by projecting a vivid imagery of the body as an objectified fount of force used to silently contest ideals of a larger power.
In shedding light on the communicative capacity of social action, Comaroff grounded such meaningful elements of the Tswana culture into symbolic interpretations. Other rich descriptions of symbolic entities located either within the indigenous culture or the reactionary rituals of the Zionist movement underlie the dialectical role history has with culture. I particularly appreciate what Comaroff stressed as the rhetorical and practical power of rites to transform the meanings in the world of a culture, instead of merely just a reflection of those meanings (125).
Comaroff was also able to elucidate on what she calls the syncretistic bricolage of the symbolic orders. To refer to it simply as syncretism is wholly insufficient as it denotes a fluid reconciliation of differing ways of being or doing. The modification of meanings to suit the present (as was shown by the Tswana) has clear bearings on the agency of the marginalized.
By attending as well to the role of the bourgeoisie in the colonial and neocolonial period, the author emphasized that the complex intersection of domination and dependence is not only found on one side of the equation. As the Tshidi and other South African peoples became entangled in the capitalist regime, the ‘higher’ orders, particularly among the orthodoxy, also have had to account for the contradictions inherent in their dogma, with the subsequent rise of Independent Churches a glaring symptom of this ambivalence. Others would probably call it their ‘hypocrisy.’
Body of Power, for all its diachronic gaze, also has some stumbles along the way. Comaroff starts off by laying down a picture of pre-colonial southern Africa as seen through the state of the Sotho-Tswana chiefdoms, sprinkled with foreshadows of the far-flung implications of the not-as-yet-present missionary endeavor. The next episode, however, is bracketed as two chapters familiarize the reader on the pre-colonial Tshidi culture. Events then start to sputter on forward as Comaroff pans out and fast-forwards to the missionary arrival and eventual clash of ideologies with the indigenous ethos. The following segment is spearheaded by an advisory from the author of again suspending the flow of the narrative by presenting a picture of the modern Tshidi world as she encountered it. Succeeding segments concentrate on the rise of Zionism in South Africa (particularly within the apartheid) and later a comparison of this movement in other parts of the world.
The work, then, reveals its open-endedness as Comaroff trails off and leaves the reader with unsettling questions about the unavoidable (and probably inescapable) contradictions that the Zionist movement carries with it—on the one hand, it is possibly instrumental in paving the way for reshaping the consciousness of its followers amidst the harrowing circumstances of segregation and oppression; and on the other, it is caught in a stark tendency of being dependent to the neocolonial order, to say nothing of the inevitability of it perpetuating the very ideologies it claims to resist.
As was discussed in class, Body of Power may just have given off a more personal or reflexive bend to it had Comaroff lent snatches of opportunity for her voice as an ethnographer to be heard; that is, an ethnographer ‘seeing’ and ‘experiencing’ at least the contemporaneity of the South Africa she has encountered. Though her rich text on describing pre- and neocolonial Tswana rituals deserves praise, the overall approach still comes off as clinical.
I’m sure other readers would have more flattering things to say about this new paranormal series (well, new for me anyway); but coming on the heels of The Black Dagger Brotherhood, The Dark-Hunters, and even the Dark Carpathians series, not to mention a few more other vampire-romance titles dizzyingly vying for space on bookshelves by up-and-coming authors and even from established ones who have succumbed to the popularity of the genre (like Medeiros, Dodd, and Sands), Lara Adrian’s The Midnight Breed, in my opinion (for what it’s worth), faces a veritable burden. And that is of needing to have something spectacularly jolting and provoking for it to steal the attention of an ever-widening audience who may already be over-saturated with this popular culture of vampire-slash-paranormal romance.
Frustratingly enough, even though the last BDB I have read was over a year ago (hence, should have dulled my memories of it), Adrian’s Midnight Breed felt so much like it. And sad to say, not *really* in a good way.
Frankly, it felt a little bit like a pale version of Ward’s.
From the tech-gizmo Gideon (who acts a bit like Vishous), the brooding Tegan (who, surprise-surprise, felt and sounded a bit like Zsadist), to even the warrior-leader Lucan (who felt like…guess-who), the Breed Warriors might as well have been the next-door neighbors of the Black Dagger Brothers, regularly coming over to swap secrets of the trade…except that they (the former) come off less like a close-knit family and more like a small corporation with members just conscripted for the job. At its extreme…they sound a bit…uhm…well…boring. Just a tad, mind.
When I read over what I have been saying so far, it sounds so harsh and wholly unfair, I know. But I think that is precisely the pernicious nature of a reading audience—especially romance readers. We are a sensitive, even fickle, lot. And for authors to earn (and keep) our adulation, they have to continually, aggressively feed our need for fascination and novelty.
Adrian’s series somewhat fails me on that score. The plot of a band of vampires rounding off their kind who have become renegade, as well as humans who have been brain-washed by the latter is not terribly original. Dress it up in as many other nouns as you could—“rogue,” “fallen,” “daimons,” “lessers,” etc.—unless the storyline jumps out at you in a fresh way, these characters would ultimately run the risk of sounding just like any other personas from other books.
Certainly, however, this series does not deserve to be unconditionally written-off. I can personally vouch it to be better than other vampire novels which have lame plotlines and ridiculously over-the-top premises (you can understand if I’d rather not name them—I’m doing enough damage to this one author, I think). In fact, what could be a different ingredient in this series, and may even be lauded by those who wish to have the “formula” twisted, is that the male protagonists are not “heroes” or “protectors” of the human race.
There. Stew on that =)
Anyway, if you are really seeking a large dose of knee-weakening, envy-inducing romantic shenanigans, this book could probably be relegated to the lower rungs of one’s “to-buy/read” books.
Read it for entertainment but not much more. It’s not a regrettable I-wish-to-god-I-never-picked-this-book-up kind of story, but neither does it make you overly drool, pant, hanker, and itch to grab the next installment…which I’ve experienced before.
Barrow’s account does not presume to tell the whole story. Implicit from the first page is an understanding that the reader has read at least one ‘comprehensive’ biography so that one could keep up with what part of the Beatles’ professional history as a band is being tackled (and yes, Barrow does shift timelines from time to time). Of course, whether or not the events he deigns to talk about are factual is going to be always a matter of debate in these kinds of things.
Still, I did enjoy his story as the PR of the band. It would always be refreshing to have another point of view from someone who dealt differently with the Beatles—even if only for a brief period of time. Without going into too meticulous a detail so as to not reveal the tricks of the trade, Barrow depicts how promoting an act in the 60s was often led by sheer luck, risky yet imaginative efforts, a flair for flamboyance and exaggeration, and a truly intimate rapport with the wider world of the press.
The way Barrow bridged the gap between the Fab Four and the often initially-skeptical (and, in my opinion, seemingly gullible and hugely repetitive, yet still quite honorable) media people of London and of America is a revelation in and of itself. Though may be considered trivial or incredulous as compared to the way PR is being done nowadays, Barrow’s simple but practical ideas of facilitating one-on-one telephone/radio/face-to-face interviews, press conferences, and photo shoots are especially noteworthy, particularly in light of the fact that the Beatles had an unprecedented shot to fame that made the press ravenous and willing to have whatever little piece of each Fab Four they could get (never mind if the ‘boys’ inevitably got disdainful of the shallow and oft-repeated inane questions posed on them).
What is commendable, if his word is to be taken, is that Barrow was careful to respect both sides, knowing how important it was to keep the press (and, of course, the fan base) inundated with little tidbits about the band without compromising the image of the latter.
It was also interesting to finally have someone place names to obscure people who have formed part of the band’s periphery at the height of Beatlemania, like other promoters, press agents, photographers, and magazine editors. It is here, too (at least in my experience), that Barrow lays out what really went on in the tumultuous events of the 1966 world tour. The depth of dangers encountered in both Tokyo and Manila were given more detail than in the past accounts I have read. And, lest I forget, there was also the historic-yet-hazy Elvis-Beatles meet-up. Now that was a mindbender.
For those alone, I really am glad to have found this book.
Don’t be too harsh to disparage this book, just because it may feel (or, in fact is) incomplete. Barrow’s work with the band was not like Neil Aspinall’s in that it was almost literally from beginning to end. Indeed, it is with Barrow’s distinct footing with, and entry to, the Beatles’ entourage that his accounts are a little more straightforward than most, expressing candidness that often pierced thru the ‘public’ persona each Beatle projected to the world. As one of the people that had to work closely with the press, Barrow was afforded a different lens with which to apprehend events, cutting through all the shenanigans of kowtowing, the indulgences and excesses of suddenly-rich pop acts, and the politics that wound from Epstein to the other people at NEMS, among others.
For myself, I consider this account as a supplement, something that gives another dimension to the already-rich (and convoluted) Beatles story.
Basically what I am saying is, yes, this is worth the read.
]]>