The 100 Books

Have you read more than 6 of these books? The BBC believes most people will have read only 6 of the 100 books listed here. Instructions: Copy this into your NOTES. Bold those books you've read in their entirety, italicize the ones you started but didn't finish or read an excerpt. Tag other book nerds. Tag me as well so I can see your responses!

 

 

1 Pride and Prejudice - Jane Austen

2 The Lord of the Rings - JRR Tolkien

3 Jane Eyre - Charlotte Bronte

4 Harry Potter series - JK Rowling

5 To Kill a Mockingbird - Harper Lee

6 The Bible

7 Wuthering Heights

8 Nineteen Eighty Four - George Orwell

9 His Dark Materials - Philip Pullman

10 Great Expectations - Charles Dickens

11 Little Women - Louisa M Alcott

12 Tess of the D’Urbervilles - Thomas Hardy

13 Catch 22 - Joseph Heller

14 Complete Works of Shakespeare

15 Rebecca - Daphne Du Maurier

16 The Hobbit - JRR Tolkien

17 Birdsong - Sebastian Faulk

18 Catcher in the Rye - JD Salinger

19 The Time Traveler’s Wife - Audrey Niffenegger

20 Middlemarch - George Eliot

21 Gone With The Wind - Margaret Mitchell

22 The Great Gatsby - F Scott Fitzgerald

24 War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy

25 The Hitch Hiker’s Guide to the Galaxy - Douglas Adams

27 Crime and Punishment - Fyodor Dostoyevsky

28 Grapes of Wrath - John Steinbeck

29 Alice in Wonderland - Lewis Carroll

30 The Wind in the Willows - Kenneth Grahame

31 Anna Karenina - Leo Tolstoy

32 David Copperfield - Charles Dickens

33 Chronicles of Narnia - CS Lewis

34 Emma -Jane Austen

35 Persuasion - Jane Austen

36 The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe - CS Lewis

37 The Kite Runner - Khaled Hosseini

38 Captain Corelli’s Mandolin - Louis De Bernieres

39 Memoirs of a Geisha - Arthur Golden

40 Winnie the Pooh - A.A. Milne

41 Animal Farm - George Orwell

42 The Da Vinci Code - Dan Brown

43 One Hundred Years of Solitude - Gabriel Garcia Marquez

44 A Prayer for Owen Meaney - John Irving

45 The Woman in White - Wilkie Collins

46 Anne of Green Gables - LM Montgomery

47 Far From The Madding Crowd - Thomas Hardy

48 The Handmaid’s Tale - Margaret Atwood

49 Lord of the Flies - William Golding

50 Atonement - Ian McEwan

51 Life of Pi - Yann Martel 

52 Dune - Frank Herbert

53 Cold Comfort Farm - Stella Gibbons

54 Sense and Sensibility - Jane Austen

55 A Suitable Boy - Vikram Seth

56 The Shadow of the Wind - Carlos Ruiz Zafon

57 A Tale Of Two Cities - Charles Dickens

58 Brave New World - Aldous Huxley

59 The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time - Mark Haddon

60 Love In The Time Of Cholera - Gabriel Garcia Marquez

61 Of Mice and Men - John Steinbeck

62 Lolita - Vladimir Nabokov

63 The Secret History - Donna Tartt

64 The Lovely Bones - Alice Sebold

65 Count of Monte Cristo - Alexandre Dumas

66 On The Road - Jack Kerouac

67 Jude the Obscure - Thomas Hardy

68 Bridget Jones’s Diary - Helen Fielding

69 Midnight’s Children - Salman Rushdie

70 Moby Dick - Herman Melville

71 Oliver Twist - Charles Dickens

72 Dracula - Bram Stoker

73 The Secret Garden - Frances Hodgson Burnett

74 Notes From A Small Island - Bill Bryson

75 Ulysses - James Joyce

76 The Inferno - Dante

77 Swallows and Amazons - Arthur Ransome

78 Germinal - Emile Zola

79 Vanity Fair - William Makepeace Thackeray

80 Possession - AS Byatt

81 A Christmas Carol - Charles Dickens

82 Cloud Atlas - David Mitchell

83 The Color Purple - Alice Walker

84 The Remains of the Day - Kazuo Ishiguro

85 Madame Bovary - Gustave Flaubert

86 A Fine Balance - Rohinton Mistry

87 Charlotte’s Web - E.B. White

88 The Five People You Meet In Heaven - Mitch Albom

89 Adventures of Sherlock Holmes - Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

90 The Faraway Tree Collection - Enid Blyton

91 Heart of Darkness - Joseph Conrad

92 The Little Prince - Antoine De Saint-Exupery

93 The Wasp Factory - Iain Banks

94 Watership Down - Richard Adams

95 A Confederacy of Dunces - John Kennedy Toole

96 A Town Like Alice - Nevil Shute

97 The Three Musketeers - Alexandre Dumas

98 Hamlet - William Shakespeare

99 Charlie and the Chocolate Factory - Roald Dahl

100 Les Miserables - Victor Hugo

 

--

I've only finished a handful from this list, but at least more than BBC's expectation? :)

 

Broken Into

I suppose getting burgled is not very interesting in the whole scheme of things. If anything, I am just another part of the statistic, some obscure news that, while unfortunate, isn't particulary surprising. People get robbed everyday on the streets and inside their homes.

But, man. Being part of the statistic doesn't make it easier. One would think the whole misery-loves-company thing would be in play somewhere, but no. I would never wish this on anyone for sheer number. Nor would I dismiss any burglary as offhandedly as I have done before.

It was a violation, not only of physical property, but of my whole concept of believing in the goodness of others. And, needless to say, it has infected the way I feel about people because it's harder to trust. There was at least one person who observed our routine, went to our door, forced it open, took our valuables. He rummaged through our closet, touched our things, even zipped open our Bible cases, and looked for anything with worth. He was there - where we slept, where we ate, where we LIVED.

For now, paranoia reigns supreme. But I do hope it wears off because it's too effing exhausting to be distrustful.

Once in a while, I catch myself wincing lately, but not out of pain. At least, not physically. More often, it's because I have let my thoughts wander back through the losses and some random memory of my mother wearing her diamond ring, some random file I can never access anymore from my stolen hard drives goes through my head.

The heaviest loss would understandably be my parents' valuables. So I'm going to steer clear of that for now because I don't want to have a breakdown.

Losing my laptop and external hard disk drive took some time to sink in. Both were very important to me but they were initially eclipsed by the enormity of losing the mementos of my parents. Days later after the robbery, it began to dawn on me that there were hundreds of drafts of writing that I will not be able to recover. Years worth of stories, journal entries - materials that I have been working on. I actually have been finishing a one-act play and was excited to send it to friends for review. I wish I already have sent it or uploaded it somewhere. Some lessons are so painful to learn. A thing about inspiration - it doesn't hang around waiting for you to create it (and back it up).

And all my pictures. Sigh. All the files from my old point-and-shoot until my DSLR. I don't often buy souvenirs when I travel because I always think that I take enough pictures to remember the places. And while I won't ever see my image library again, the only consolation I have is that I upload a few selection to Facebook or Multiply to share.

After it happened, I space out more often trying to find the reason why it had happened. Weeks before, I have contemplated on giving away my laptop to someone who needed it more. I was being nagged by the idea that if it didn't hurt when I give, then I was not giving at all. And it would be a hard sacrifice to give up my laptop because I was so attached and reliant to it. Now, I unbelievably regret that I did not heed that urge. And I resolve never to ignore it when it comes to me again.

While it is not likely that the robber held any Robinhood-like beliefs and it's not far-fetched that all the spoils went to drugs or booze, I hope that whatever amount he gained from the burglary, even a small part of it, was used to help someone in one way or another.

I'd like to take the rest of this space to thank all my family and friends who expressed their concern when they found out about what happened. Those text messages, emails, calls at 2 am, and offers of help in various forms are ALL very much appreciated beyond articulation. It is very assuring that your care is burglary-proof. Maraming salamat!

My dear nephew Adi,

I bought you two new books today. After hearing mass, I passed by a bookstore and saw two books that were very familiar to me. They are from the series: "Bright and early books for beginning beginners".

You see, when we were growing up -- your Papa, your Tita Mae and I had the whole set of these books. Your Lola read to us all the time, especially before our afternoon naps. I remember disliking that we were forced to sleep, but I did like the stories. From the books, we met The Cat in the Hat, The Berenstain Bears, and Hooper Humperdinck.

The ones I got you are: "The Big Honey Hunt" and ""The Berenstains' B Book". Those were two of my favorite. In fact, when you get older, I'll let you listen to our voice tape made by your Lola when I was three, Tita Mae was four, and your Papa was eight. Your Lola recorded us reciting the whole B Book from memory. You'll also find out that I was a very irritable kid. Not unlike you, as I hear. Your Mama and your Papa say that you are well-behaved, except when you demand to eat what everyone else is eating.

I saw pictures of your first birthday. You had two parties! And three birthday cakes! You've grown so big. I like the picture where you were poking the nose of the mascot Hamburglar. At least now I am assured that my nephew is not one of those wimpy kids who run away from mascots or big scary burglars.

When I saw you last Christmas break, your could barely crawl. Your Papa would dump you on my bed in the mornings to wake me up and you would pull my hair until I got up. That was also the time I learned that you had the propensity of biting/chewing everything that had batteries. Interestingly enough, you knew which ones had batteries. You insisted on drooling all over mobile phones, music players, remote controls, and digital cameras. They say you are still that way at one year old and you like eating your Papa's new phone. Unfortunately, that is not the edible kind of blackberry.

I enjoy it whenever your Papa calls me and then passes the telephone to you and I can hear you mumble incoherent words on the other line. Of course in between those mumbles, I can also hear beeping sounds as you press the keypad of the phone. I look crazy saying "Hello, Adi!" in varying tones forty times, but I do not mind.

It was supposed to be your Lola's birthday yesterday. She's not with us anymore, but I hope you'll still get to know her somehow through our stories. I'm sure she's happy to be your guardian angel.

Today is Fathers' Day, too, Adi. Did you greet your Papa? You probably just slobbered more all over his phone, but you'll get the chance when you grow up. Both of your Lolos are also part of your guardian angel security group. So we'll thank them in our hearts.

I will see you again soon, Adi. Be obedient to your Mama and Papa. And try to lay off on the electronics devices.

Hugs,
Your loving Tita

Some thoughts from Precinct 0440A

I consider myself fortunate that my polling place at UA&P is just a five-minute walk away. My friend Crystal and I decided to go early together to vote.

By 630am, we were out of the building. The area designated for the polls was the covered basketball court. Four clustered precincts in makeshift classrooms. It was not difficult to find our names. Just a few "nagpakaduling saglit" moments.

There were around 15 monobloc seats allotted for each cluster where voters can sit and wait. When those are already occupied, people have to stand and wait in queue. By the time I fell in line, I was one of those right behind the monobloc chairs, part of the next group to have seats after the next move.

Presidential candidate Nicolas Perlas walked in with his son, presumably. Not a lot of fanfare. A few TV crew crowded to get a shot of him while he checked for his name in the board. Perlas seemed like a decent, dignified-looking man. What was impressive is that he fell in line, along with the others. In fact, he was right behind Crystal and he tried to help keep the line orderly.

Another sidenote, TV personality Drew Arellano loitered around the court. He was interviewed nearby and joked around with the crowd.

The overall atmosphere of the precinct was friendly. There was a sense of community as most of the poll-watchers knew the voters. It was easy for them to appeal for organized queues and for patience. A fellow voter on my side struck a conversation with me. She thought I was an online reporter because I kept glued to my Twitter account on my phone while waiting for the queue to progress. I was intently checking for news and updates.

When it was our batch's turn to go inside the precinct, it was efficient. I gave my name, my precinct number, my voter number. The officer found my name, I showed my ID, I made the thumbmark and I was given a ballot. I was careful to wipe off any residual ink on my thumb with wet tissues before taking the ballot.

I was then asked to take a table which was also partly used by the BEIs. There was a bottle of ink on the table and I took measured movements to keep everything clean. I took out a face-towel and dried my hands and arms before I started to shade. I was concerned about the marker's ink absorbing through the other side of the paper. Anyway, having a codigo is very useful. I was done in four minutes.

And now, the close encounter with the infamous PCOS machine. It was an unassuming piece of machinery. Looked like a photocopier. I wanted to make a joke and ask it, "How's the family? CF card configured ok?" Anyway, I inserted my ballot, a few seconds later the little digital screen indicated that all was ok. Hallelujah.

Some guy dropped a generous amount of indelible ink on my forefinger. Another thumbmark and signature. I asked if there was anything else, the BEI smiled at me and said that was it. I thanked them and left the precinct.

The BEIs at our polling place were polite, competent, helpful, and very patient. I know the COMELEC has gotten a lot of bad rep for the number of fumbling incidents involving the automation. Sure, I continue to have my hesitations if they can pull it off, but I prefer to give them the benefit of the doubt. I choose look at them as growing pains. It's a tough job. They have to take pressures from the electorate, the candidates, the media. For whatever it's worth, I think Comm. Gregorio Larrazabal and Dir. James Jimenez are sincerely doing their best.

When we left UA&P, the queues were almost at the gate exit already. But it seemed tolerable to everyone. It was around half past 8 when we finished. Which was not terribly bad, I think, for exercising a right as important as voting.

Just a final piece of my mind on this election. I found myself saddened at some display of intolerance of opinion, especially online. I like it when voters are passionate about their candidates and try to convince the others of their choice's qualifications and share their achievements. I like it because it helps me decide. It's the mudslinging I can't stand. The condescension towards other people who do not share your opinion. It's a democracy. We have our own set of values. What is most important to you may not be most important to me. And that doesn't make any of us less. We're just different and that's ok.

We have to understand that we have to eventually heal the divisiveness that the campaign period has wreaked. We still have to all work together whoever wins and I don't think it's very productive to start off with antagonism. Enough of the mudslinging, please. I would have thought everyone else was fed up with it by now.

On that note, I don't care much who you vote for. Just please, please go out and vote.

Mothers' Day

When I was in preschool, my mother used to hold teaching sessions for me and my sister in the afternoons. Actually, it was more of a monitored playtime where we would answer puzzles from activity books - spot the difference, connect the dots, mazes. Sometimes, she would ask us to learn nursery rhymes or short poems. And then, she would read us stories before nap time.

My favorite was the stories with dogs. It had stories about anthropomorphized puppies with titles like "Bernie, the Chilly St. Bernard" or "The Puppy with the Mischievous Wink". There was also the book about fairies. I still remember the one about the pixie who always made the boy late for school everyday. Or the one of the "tiniest of the tiny fairies" - I was so distressed when she left home in fairyland to go to the beach. My mother would read the dialogues with character voices and dramatic facial expressions.

Of course, I had to interrupt often to ask the meaning of some of the words. Mama answered each question. Eventually, she taught me to take out the big red dictionary off the shelf and use it to check each word myself. When I was nine, she bought me a pocket dictionary which she told me to keep near when I read.

I must have been annoying child, I realize now. I interrupted story time. I ran around when she asked us to read out loud. I did not want to take my naps. Just to name a few.

But thank God for mothers and their patience. I was never reprimanded for asking questions. And I will always be grateful that she equipped me for finding the answers myself. I may not have her with me anymore, but I have a lot of other things to keep.

This will be a yearly favor that I will ask from you all. Please give your mothers a hug for me. Thanks.

Stay Down or Stand Up

Fire is fire.

Everyone goes through fire. Whenever we go through personal trials, we go through fire. And it is how we react to fire that reveals what we are made of. And as the metaphor goes - some get softened and turn to mush, like carrots. Some are hardened, like eggs. Some reveal their best essence, like coffee beans.

In a remote barangay in Zamboanga, an eleven-year old girl went with her uncle to fetch water. A group of men, out of nowhere, came out brandishing long knives and began hacking on the uncle until he lay dead on the ground. The girl ran for her life, but the men chased after her. They hacked their knives on her back, on her neck, on her wrists. The girl laid very still until the men went away, convinced that she was dead. When they left, she saw herself lying in a pool of her own blood.

With great pain, she stood up and tried to drag herself home. Every now and then, she would stagger and fall on the ground. She would momentarily lose consciousness. But when she regained it, she would stand up again and keep on heading home.

When she finally saw her house, she screamed for help with the little energy she was left with. Her mother, horrified at the sight of her bloody daughter, wrapped her in a blanket, cradled her into her arms. The nearest hospital was twelve kilometers away and there was no public transport. The mother carried her daughter and walked four hours to reach the hospital.

The girl underwent surgery for five hours. She had 25 stitches on her back, but the doctors could not save her arms. The very next day of tragedy was the girl's birthday. They incurred heavy hospital debts. When they came home, they found their house burned down.

Talk about fire.

That was eleven years ago. The girl is Maricel Apatan. She has recently graduated with the degree of Hotel and Restaurant Management as a scholar. She is on her way to being a full-fledged chef. A chef with no hands.

Along the way to her recovery, angels in the form of the church people, volunteer groups, and charitable organizations, helped the girl and her family. But it started with Maricel's willpower to stand up. And her refusal to stay down.

Imagine every excruciating step she had to endure. The trauma of going through that as an eleven-year old. She had every excuse to hate the world and complain for the rest of her life. But today, she is a cheerful and productive person. She uses her wrists with utmost dexterity. I saw her peel, chop, slice vegetables. No hands.

I watch her with amazement and I am humbled. It puts a lot of things in perspective. All those whining, petty complaints of everyday life. Just a quick scan of social networking updates just lets you know how many people let themselves get stuck, myself included.

Remember the three men in the book of Daniel? Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego refused to pay homage to a golden idol. They were ordered to be securely bound by ropes and thrown into a furnace. They came out of the furnace unharmed, their clothes were not burnt, only their ropes.

Fire is fire. It is how we react to it that matters. We always have the option of letting fire set us free.

Learn to Soar

Today's Sunday service prayer meeting was about eagles. Those majestic birds and the very interesting manner they learn to fly.

Eagles are spectacular parents. They build their nests high up on the cliffs. The males gather together twigs and branches to make the nest's base and include thorns as protection from other animals. Afterwards, they cover it with soft grass. The mother eagles pluck feathers from their own breasts and lay them on nest to make the eaglets comfortable.

Everyday, the parents would hunt for food and feed their young. They would shelter them from strong winds by spreading their wings over them. They kept their children safe, warm, and comfortable to nurture their health and their strength.

But after ten weeks or so, the eaglets are left on their own in the nest. The parents hover and watch over them but they rarely give in to their cries of hunger. They stop the constant feeding. They also deprive them comfort by flapping their great wings to rid of the nest's soft grass and feathers. The thorns and twigs are exposed and the eaglets are forced out of their nest. Finally, in what appears to be the cruelest thing a mother can do to her child, the eaglet is pushed out of nest, and off the cliff.

Imagine the tiny eaglet shrieking in fear as it drops from that height. Mid-air the father eagle catches him and brings him back to the cliff only to be dropped again and again until finally, out of necessity, he learns to flap his wings. And the realization settles in: he knows how to fly.

At one point or another, we have all felt like being abandoned, being deprived, being wounded, being pushed out, being dropped down. It's easy to complain and to cry out injustice without realizing that we were nurtured to be strong enough to withstand everything that comes our way. And neglecting to recognize that we are capable of flight all the while. The pain was just an instrument to open our eyes.

I was once part of the warm, loving comfort of a home. It was taken from me. I have lost a lot, but I gained the willingness to learn. Every time I hear mass - may it be Sundays or during work lunch hours, I come to be taught.

Another fact about eagles. They can sense when storms are coming, but unlike other animals, they do not cower from it. They fly somewhere high up and wait in excitement for the winds to come. When the storm hits, they just let the wind pick up their wings until they soar way up above.

Let's not stay in our nests. We were meant to conquer the skies.

Kesz

I shook the hand of a great person today.

After this afternoon's casual keynote talk, he was just sitting quietly in a corner. My friend and I asked if we could have our pictures taken with him. He willingly obliged and was so polite about it. Afterwhich, I reached out to shake his hand.

I feel compelled to mention here that I don't usually do the whole "celebrity" thing. In fact, it borders on uncharacteristic. I am unlikely to ask for pictures or autographs from anyone. (Ok, my thing for basketball players in high school, notwithstanding) . But after hearing his story, I was filled with much admiration. Here was a person worth looking up to.

He grew up at a dumpsite. He slept on the streets. At five, he would race with other kids whenever the truck would unload garbage. It was in one of these mad dashes that he was pushed into a burning tire where he badly burned his arm. He was taken in by a volunteer group until he recuperated. And when he got well, he wanted to repay his benefactors' kindness by helping in the group's Kariton Classroom project.

Since he was only six at this time, he could not help out with teaching other kids how to read or write. When asked what he was good at, he said he was good at brushing his teeth and washing his hands. And that's what they let him teach to the other children - how to properly brush their teeth and wash their hands. He attended public school on weekdays and volunteered on the weekends.

All this time, everyone called him Kesz. Eventually, they got hold of his birth certificate, found out his real full name and birthday. And for the first time in his life, they celebrated his birthday when he turned eight. When asked what his birthday wish was, he got confused. He didn't know what it meant. And when explained that a birthday wish was something you wanted to happen, he answered that he wanted the other kids from his old dumpsite to feel the same happiness that he felt at the moment. He was aware that he couldn't hold parties for them. Kesz wanted simply for them to have toys and slippers.

For his next two birthdays, he tried to raise money to buy dozens of slippers by selling candies at his school. One of the teachers helped him. He kept all he earned in a coin bank and spent it on his birthday for other kids still living in the dumpsite.

When Kesz heard that his teacher's mother was hospitalized, he asked if he could have his coin bank opened to donate his savings to her. He said his teacher would be happy if her mother got well and he wanted her to be happy because he loved his teacher.

And so he gave his birthday fund away. It was only around three hundred pesos but it was everything he had. And it was at this point of listening to Kesz's story that the waterworks started. Right there on the second floor hallway of the public school elementary school. Seated on one of the monobloc chairs.

Kesz is eleven years old now. He collects books from people and donates them to schools for students to read and enjoy. He still raises charity for children scavengers. He goes to school. He speaks to schoolchildren and fellow volunteers. He inspires.

After speaking to the students, Kesz sat back quietly on his chair. He is respectful and well-behaved. He has bright eyes and a cheerful smile. He even sang a bit at the prodding of the emcee.

I shook the hand of a great person today. And the scars on his arm are barely visible.

--

Chris "Kesz" Valdez and Vonn Manalaysay, Efren Peñaflorida's mentor were guest speakers at the opening of the book club of the public elementary school where I volunteer.

Toby and Tyra

I just found out that my mother's pet dogs already passed away. Our neighbors in the old house who were taking care of them for us texted me the sad news that Tyra and Toby passed away recently and only three days apart from each other. Mama loved those askals. Especially Toby whom she got thirteen years ago. She named the puppy Toby because she got her on an October. The dogs kept her company when we were at work. And also Papa after he retired. My mother fed them, bathed them, took care of them when they were sick. She talked to them as she would talk to children. When disciplining them, she used her stern voice which was very familiar to me and my siblings.

When Toby was still little, I distinctly remember the incident when we woke up one morning and found shreds of paper strewn about on the kitchen floor. Toby had bitten off and chewed on the cover and first few pages of my sister's copy of Salinger's Nine Stories. My sister is very particular with her things and it was a big deal. I tried to salvage what was left of the book and taped torn pages, teeth marks and all. When my sister found out, she whined to our mother. And Mama told us in all seriousness that we should not worry about it; she has already reprimanded Toby and told her that what she did was a wrong thing and she won't do it again.

I remember how my sister and I were so incredulous at the resolution that my mother offered. Toby was a dog, after all, and what good did it do that the pet was told off? BUt that's how Mama was. She believed that the pets understood. She told me that Toby was aware whenever she was planning to give the dogs a bath. Just planning, no water hose involved yet. She came to this conclusion because Toby would hide under beds every single time. Tyra was a little slower and would be the first to be subjected to the unwelcome baths. But Tyra had always been the amiable one. We joked how lousy she was as a guard dog because she was friendly to all strangers. Both dogs would always rush out of the house whenever the gate was opened. But they always, always found their way back home.

When my parents passed away, Toby and Tyra were both inconsolable. Since we did not stay at our parents' house anymore, we had to leave them in the custody of our neighbors. They told us of how the dogs whimpered at night. And how the both of them waited around at our locked house, seemingly waiting for any member of the family to come home. They shared our grief.

I texted my siblings about Toby and Tyra and got separate phone calls from them. Both are working overseas, living separately in the same city. We couldn't hide the sadness we felt and my sister unsuccessfully tried to hold back tears at work. We all just hope that the dogs were reunited with our parents and maybe Toby can even nag Salinger himself.