Requiem for a Life in Books
I shouldn't be complaining for in the Ketsana survival scale, I am not at the lowest rung. Yet I cannot let it all go without writing about the loss of my most prized possession - my library.
My books were my first true inheritance from my parents, both of whom were book lovers. My dad bought me a complete set of reference books (26 volumes plus 4 medical volumes and 6 science volumes) on my first day of nursery school. I recall learning alphabetization skills and honing my use of synonyms (my six-year-old brother wanted to read about cars and could not find it under C; my nine-year-old self told him to look under A for automobiles - he found what he was looking for). Scanning through the medical volume and reading the photo caption: "Cancer can strike at any age, above, a five-year-old boy undergoes chemotherapy", my seven-year-old self spent sleepless nights fearing cancer. I saw pictures of a heart clogged with fat and shocked my mom when I turned down a hefty serving of sinigang na baboy.
My dad bought my first fairy tale books (which eventually influenced the party dresses I wore thereafter). I read about Snow White, Puss in Boots, Lady Flowerville, The Little Match Girl, etc. On certain afternoons, I recall reading to my little brother; we laughed at the Big Wolf blowing down the Little Pigs' houses and at the name of Ararat (where Noah's Ark landed after the flood). I had a volume devoted entirely to Hans Christian Andersen (which Mom bought for me) and I loved reading about the Little Mermaid and the Princess and the Pea. Dad then supplemented my readings on fairy tale princesses with picture books of the real McCoy - the kings and queens of Europe. He quickly added books on Greece and Crete for a taste of ancient civilizations.
By the time I was nine, I had gotten into the act of collecting and reading books. Alongside Archie and Betty and Veronica comics, I had Sweet Valley Kids, Twins and High; above them were my Alison Weir and Antonia Fraser biographies on Renaissance Europe as well as my Russian history books. My brother was into Goosebumps, space exploration and Titanic then so he had his share of books. Later, he shifted to biographies on Ford and Alexander the Great and Tom Clancy novels.
Most of the books had an even more significant meaning to me since I collected them alongside my family as we tore through second-hand bookstores for limited edition and out-of-print volumes. I found a battered Reader's Digest compilation of Mysteries and a compilation of Tales of Terror (I still recall curling under the covers on rainy evenings, reading my favorite real-life ghost stories). Mom found a two-volume biography of Winston Churchill's illustrious American mother as well as 1932 editions of Agatha Christie mysteries. Dad uncovered rare books on the Civil War and Lincoln, the 20th century, and a compilation of a century's worth of New York Times front pages.
Throughout high school and college and the start of my professional life, my library continued to grow - Jane Austen, Agatha Christie, Kerima Polotan, more Alison Weir and Antonia Fraser, Margaret Atwood, Gunther Grass, Nabokov, Ralph G. Martin, D.H. Lawrence, Anne Edwards, German language books, Spanish and French dictionaries etc., etc., etc., etc.. Turabian. XEBS. Coffee table books on Faberge Easter eggs and Venetian palaces. Great Russian short stories. Gone with the Wind by Margaret Mitchell. The Iliad by Homer. The Shopaholic Series by Sophie Kinsella. Yearbooks. Commemorative issues of Life and National Geographic magazines. Five years' worth of A-Day letters. Palancas from five retreats (Grade 7 to 4th year). Paper plates from four years' worth of retreats with my seniors.
That morning, as Ketsana bore down on Manila, I was moving books up from the first to the second floor but I was nothing compared to the cold, murky waters that rose steadily and relentlessly. Bookshelves eventually collapsed and books faltered into the water. I had saved library books from Xavier (some IB books - for the future, my gut instinct must have told me), Puzo's the Godfather, diplomas, passports and jewelry. For a few seconds, with water on tummy-level, I stared at the floating debris and thought, my God, so this is what it's like to have your life vanish before your eyes. I stared, tearless and defiant, in silent mourning. Then, when those books and shelves threatened to trap me, I shoved them aside and moved on.
Lying down on the roof that night, staring up at the immense flatness of the skies while shivering in bone-chilling cold, I felt that everything I had seen, heard, read and believed in were condensed at that moment. The books have served their purpose, I told myself, silently (with teeth chattering and chest heaving). I had identified with fictional and historical heroines, I sought comfort in well-loved old favorite tales. Now I needed to recall all the lives and stories I had read to consciously draw up inner strength somewhere deep in the gut for what was to come.
Ten days after the storm, I bought my first book - Axel Madsen's biography on Coco Chanel - which focuses more on the lady's struggles than quilted bags and twinsets. I long to collect the works of Kerima Polotan (her Emma Gorrez showed remarkable spunk) and Margaret Mitchell's Gone with the Wind (featuring the fiery Scarlett O'Hara). Is there any coincidence as to why I feel the need to recover these particular books? I realize that where reality and sanity collapsed into surreal madness, I sought strength from my library's heroines - and that's a great deal of strength.
My books were my first true inheritance from my parents, both of whom were book lovers. My dad bought me a complete set of reference books (26 volumes plus 4 medical volumes and 6 science volumes) on my first day of nursery school. I recall learning alphabetization skills and honing my use of synonyms (my six-year-old brother wanted to read about cars and could not find it under C; my nine-year-old self told him to look under A for automobiles - he found what he was looking for). Scanning through the medical volume and reading the photo caption: "Cancer can strike at any age, above, a five-year-old boy undergoes chemotherapy", my seven-year-old self spent sleepless nights fearing cancer. I saw pictures of a heart clogged with fat and shocked my mom when I turned down a hefty serving of sinigang na baboy.
My dad bought my first fairy tale books (which eventually influenced the party dresses I wore thereafter). I read about Snow White, Puss in Boots, Lady Flowerville, The Little Match Girl, etc. On certain afternoons, I recall reading to my little brother; we laughed at the Big Wolf blowing down the Little Pigs' houses and at the name of Ararat (where Noah's Ark landed after the flood). I had a volume devoted entirely to Hans Christian Andersen (which Mom bought for me) and I loved reading about the Little Mermaid and the Princess and the Pea. Dad then supplemented my readings on fairy tale princesses with picture books of the real McCoy - the kings and queens of Europe. He quickly added books on Greece and Crete for a taste of ancient civilizations.
By the time I was nine, I had gotten into the act of collecting and reading books. Alongside Archie and Betty and Veronica comics, I had Sweet Valley Kids, Twins and High; above them were my Alison Weir and Antonia Fraser biographies on Renaissance Europe as well as my Russian history books. My brother was into Goosebumps, space exploration and Titanic then so he had his share of books. Later, he shifted to biographies on Ford and Alexander the Great and Tom Clancy novels.
Most of the books had an even more significant meaning to me since I collected them alongside my family as we tore through second-hand bookstores for limited edition and out-of-print volumes. I found a battered Reader's Digest compilation of Mysteries and a compilation of Tales of Terror (I still recall curling under the covers on rainy evenings, reading my favorite real-life ghost stories). Mom found a two-volume biography of Winston Churchill's illustrious American mother as well as 1932 editions of Agatha Christie mysteries. Dad uncovered rare books on the Civil War and Lincoln, the 20th century, and a compilation of a century's worth of New York Times front pages.
Throughout high school and college and the start of my professional life, my library continued to grow - Jane Austen, Agatha Christie, Kerima Polotan, more Alison Weir and Antonia Fraser, Margaret Atwood, Gunther Grass, Nabokov, Ralph G. Martin, D.H. Lawrence, Anne Edwards, German language books, Spanish and French dictionaries etc., etc., etc., etc.. Turabian. XEBS. Coffee table books on Faberge Easter eggs and Venetian palaces. Great Russian short stories. Gone with the Wind by Margaret Mitchell. The Iliad by Homer. The Shopaholic Series by Sophie Kinsella. Yearbooks. Commemorative issues of Life and National Geographic magazines. Five years' worth of A-Day letters. Palancas from five retreats (Grade 7 to 4th year). Paper plates from four years' worth of retreats with my seniors.
That morning, as Ketsana bore down on Manila, I was moving books up from the first to the second floor but I was nothing compared to the cold, murky waters that rose steadily and relentlessly. Bookshelves eventually collapsed and books faltered into the water. I had saved library books from Xavier (some IB books - for the future, my gut instinct must have told me), Puzo's the Godfather, diplomas, passports and jewelry. For a few seconds, with water on tummy-level, I stared at the floating debris and thought, my God, so this is what it's like to have your life vanish before your eyes. I stared, tearless and defiant, in silent mourning. Then, when those books and shelves threatened to trap me, I shoved them aside and moved on.
Lying down on the roof that night, staring up at the immense flatness of the skies while shivering in bone-chilling cold, I felt that everything I had seen, heard, read and believed in were condensed at that moment. The books have served their purpose, I told myself, silently (with teeth chattering and chest heaving). I had identified with fictional and historical heroines, I sought comfort in well-loved old favorite tales. Now I needed to recall all the lives and stories I had read to consciously draw up inner strength somewhere deep in the gut for what was to come.
Ten days after the storm, I bought my first book - Axel Madsen's biography on Coco Chanel - which focuses more on the lady's struggles than quilted bags and twinsets. I long to collect the works of Kerima Polotan (her Emma Gorrez showed remarkable spunk) and Margaret Mitchell's Gone with the Wind (featuring the fiery Scarlett O'Hara). Is there any coincidence as to why I feel the need to recover these particular books? I realize that where reality and sanity collapsed into surreal madness, I sought strength from my library's heroines - and that's a great deal of strength.