(edge)wise

Unless you have been lost at sea or tunneling underground with a teaspoon to India, you know that the Winter Olympic Games are taking place in Vancouver B.C.—a hop, skip and day’s drive away from my hometown. (The ‘other’ Vancouver.) I must admit that I do not like the Olympics. I believe them to be over-hyped and over-exaggerated, complete with inane announcers and not-so-subtle marketing ploys for NBC.

Despite this, I have been tuning in every so often for the pure sake of the sports. It was the snowboard cross that captured my attention. I mean, did you catch that madness? Or the half-pipe? Forget curling and ice dancing, I want to know when the next X Games take place. Yesterday I watched an hour of women’s aerials. These athletes skied up a sloped tower of ice that launched them into the air—four stories high—where they proceed to spin, twist, and flip in the 3.5 seconds before landing on the snowy hill below. Insane. I have to admire those athletes. They possess sheer skill that I cannot begin to imagine, not to mention the fervid dedication and discipline they need to reach that level of skill.

So in the spirit of the Olympic season, I have compiled an entirely unscientific list of my likes, dislikes, and ruminations.

1. My favorite sports to watch: snowboarding, hockey, aerials, ski cross, and anything else that sends your adrenaline rushing. I could never bring myself to strap on a snowboard and fly down a curvy, mountain track with jumps. At the risk of sounding like a fourteen-year old, it is just so cool.

2. As I watched the gold-medal performance of Evan Lysacek online, I realized something: figure skating is rather asinine. To me. In my opinion. I know there are folks out there who defend and love figure skating with a passion worthy of Braveheart. You know what? Good for you. Continue on with your ice skating love. I cannot watch it anymore, which is saying something. I used to be obsessed. (Seriously, I happen to own a Campbell’s “Souper Stars on Ice” bowl from 1998 with the autographs of that year’s U.S. Olympic women skaters: Nicole Bobek, Michelle Kwan and Tara Lipinski. Remember them?) And when I say obsessed, I mean that I watched every figure skating competition or special that occurred on television. I knew all the top names and the scoring system. I wanted to be Yuko Sato’s best friend.

But now I watch the event with impatience and bemusement. First of all, I do not understand the new scoring system. From what I have read, it seems that the skaters earn points by successfully completing a list of elements. To my untrained eye, this causes nearly all the routines to look the same. The costumes are either grossly ostentatious or so standard I find myself wishing that someone would skate onto the ice wearing a skin-tight lizard sheath. Something weird. Something to rock the boat. The same goes for the music. I can only listen to so many violin-heavy classical pieces before I start feeling drowsy. I was excited to see one of the male skaters wearing a black t-shirt, embellished with colored jewels in the shape of an electric guitar. Rock on. Too bad he fell at the beginning of his routine.

And lastly, while I do admire the balance, strength and grace needed to skate and jump across the ice, I find it boring. I remember skating when each performance told a story. Now I watch the skaters contort their faces into overly exaggerated, emotional expressions and wave their arms in the same fashion as the Sugar Plum Fairy in The Nutcracker. Fans can keep their ice version of dance. I’ll take my tickets to the ballet.

3. Jacket envy—I’m harboring a severe bout of envy for those navy-blue, puffy snow jackets that the NBC announcers wear. I am perpetually cold, and I have a feeling that jacket would solve all my cold weather woes. And they are super cute. Chic color, snazzy Vancouver 2010 patch. *Sigh*

4. I am not, however, jealous of the U.S. line of athletic apparel. Some—like the alpine skiers—are okay. But I cringed when I saw the snow pants and jacket for aerials. The jacket and pants match so it looks like a snowsuit onesie. The suit is dark blue with light blue stars scattered all over the fabric. It looks like Betty Ross threw up and forgot the red and white stripes.

5. Stephen Colbert needs to grace the Olympics with his presence more. He brings a much-needed sense of humor to the games. If you have not seen the interview with Bob Costas yet, check it out: http://www.nbcolympics.com/video/assetid=9d9ff0ef-ee6e-47f4-a6a8-0ce20fb539cb.html#stephen+colbert+with+bob+costas.

6. Hail to the Nordics. You do not see the utter predominance of orange from the Netherlands during the Summer Olympics. And neon tangerine at that. Makes sense since the Nordic-trifecta (Sweden, Norway and Finland) can experience snow-covered ground for six months out of the year.

7. How does the Olympic theme music still cause my heart to swell and make me feel like I can accomplish anything? I gave up sports back in high school but, damn, that anthem makes me want to pull out my soccer cleats and join the local women’s team.

8. I love love love the dude who starts all the speed skating events. You never see him; you only hear his voice: “Rhea-dee.” (As in, “Ready.”) He sounds so disinterested with the entire affair. And his accent is a delightful mix of French and Canadian. French-Canadian, perhaps? Whatever his nationality, he feels me with glee.

9. I am always amused at the fierce attempts by NBC to create “Olympic stories” in between the actual events. You cannot just introduce Bode Miller.  No, no. You play a specially-created, four-minute video set to inspirational music that paints a portrait of a true Olympian. A fighter. A man who has experienced setbacks and now returned to achieve his goal of GOLD. NBC should partner with Hallmark—they would make amazing movies. Like a sports version of the Lifetime Movie Network.

10. For a global event that is supposed to “bring the world together,” I have been increasingly annoyed with NBC’s coverage. They focus overwhelmingly on the American athletes. I can understand that American viewers want to see American athletes. But this is such an opportunity to showcase the world. In a time torn by conflict, war, and suspicion, it would be nice to hear of the stories from Armenia or Uzbekistan. Did you know that Pakistan is participating in these Olympics? So are Colombia, Ghana and Montenegro. Does the American majority even know where Montenegro is? The Olympics could provide an incredible education in geography and world culture. But it is the Americans in the coverage spotlight, even when other nations place higher in the qualification rounds and event rankings. (Unless, of course, it is the finals round. Those athletes will be covered, as will the stray American trailing behind in 19th place.)

11. While I am criticizing NBC, allow me one more frustration. The Games are covered in such a way that places tremendous pressure on the athletes. The word “redemption” is used to an absurd extreme. If an athlete wiped out four years ago, they have their chance at redemption in Vancouver. And if that athlete happens to wipe out this time around, they have LOST IT ALL. Maybe they are not destined for Olympic Gold. Really? These athletes train every day for years, but I would think that the athletes would say it is for the sake of their sport. And their love of that sport. As Aussie Torah Bright (half-pipe gold medalist) said, performing well is about bettering the sport. The Olympic podium is a goal, amongst many. So stop elevating the Olympic Games to the most important event in which these athletes will ever compete.

12. Does Bob Costas do anything apart from serving as the NBC frontman of the Olympic Games? He has been the main sportscaster for the Olympics since 1992 in Barcelona. That’s eighteen years. No wonder that cup of cocoa in the manufactured, fireside-studio lodge goes untouched. (The answer, if you were wondering, is yes. You can find Costas on the MLB network. Baby-faced Costas and baseball, the all-American pastime? Yeah, I can see that.)

My twelve-cents on the Olympics, for what it’s worth.

p.s. okay, I will not skewer NBC with more criticism on their pitiful coverage here. That would require an analytic essay on media, marketing, and the responsibilities of any network when given the monopoly on an event such as the Olympics. I might write such an essay at a future time. For now, here is an article on the vicious backlash from the network’s decision to cover ice dancing over the U.S.—Canada hockey game on Sunday:  http://www.thewrap.com/ind-column/usa-hockey-beats-canada-nbc-takes-bigger-hit-14466. The “border war” was discussed during the evening news, but not shown…Brilliant move, NBC.)

Every now and again you encounter a book that refuses to release you once the story ends. Some are captivating. Others are cruelly disturbing, leaving you to ponder the ramifications of what transpired through the book’s pages. These books become living entities—a web-system of capillaries that graft into the reader’s own membrane and soul. Love them or hate them, you do not forget these stories. They have become a part of you.

I most recently experienced this phenomenon after completing The Angel’s Game by Carlos Ruiz Zafón. Set during the blood-soaked 1920’s Barcelona, we follow the story of David Martín, a struggling writer with a turbulent past. Having lost the woman he loves and nearing an impending death, he enters a pact with a mysterious publisher, Andreas Corelli. The deal? David is to create a religion by crafting a novel in exchange for his restored health and enormous fortune. David sets out to write his book in the house he has always dreamed of living. Yet it does not take him long to discover that the prior owner was also commissioned to write a book by the strange Corelli—and he went insane before dying in a ‘mysterious accident.’ David attempts to unravel the secrets surrounding the unexplained death and finds himself falling deeper into the shadows of the past, as his present reality slowly starts to burn.

Seventy-two hours have passed since I finished the last sentence of The Angel’s Game. I have not been able to stop thinking about it. Zafón’s second novel deeply unsettled me. The book left me confused and challenged my perceptions of reality and literature. I could not determine whether I admired the brilliance and ambiguity within AG or hated the book with sickened fervor. I felt mesmerized and repulsed at the same time. 

Now I have had more time to reflect, and I can say that AG is a fascinating work of literature. The book is not for everyone—just as sci fi is not every reader’s cuppa tea. AG is dark, enigmatic and uncomfortable. The following is more of a reflection and analysis than a review. My reflection is hardly comprehensive, and I have attempted to not give any spoilers.

I first encountered Zafón with The Shadow of the Wind, a book that enraptured my senses from its first sentence. The Angel’s Game followed suit. Zafón has the breathtaking ability to craft exquisite sentences. You can tell he loves words. He savors them—a true wordsmith. (Which is all the more impressive as Zafón’s work is translated from Spanish.) I want to drink Zafón’s writing. 

In AG, Zafón blends beautiful language with philosophic posits without succumbing to elitism or heavy-handed pedantry. He creates characters that rely upon their historical context for existence, yet still embody the various flaws and facets of the human condition.

AG is obviously influenced by gothic literature, which is an interesting (and risky) choice. Gothic literature emerged in the late 1700’s and early 1800’s and produces an atmosphere of deterioration and horror. The decay usually suggests that the world is a mere shadow of what it once was.  The genre—characterized by its inclusion of the supernatural and heightened emotion—is often criticized for being melodramatic and highly sensational. (Just check out Jane Austen’s Northanger Abbey for gothic parody.) So it is a literary treat to experience Zafón’s creepy, ghostly gothic universe and still receive an honest and sophisticated narrative.

The Angel’s Game also reminded me of another genre—one I had not read since Gabriel Garcia Marquez’s 100 Years of Solitude during my undergrad studies. Magical realism.  I am hesitant to use that term as it has been bandied about so much, losing much of its original meaning. For the sake of comparison, I turn to Cuban writer, Alejo Carpentier, for the description he provides in the prologue to his novel The Kingdom of this World: “lo real maravilloso” employs the use of heightened reality whereby supernatural or miraculous elements seem natural and unforced. In other words, magical realism describes events or people that are sublime or irrational. They are not “realistic” yet they are presented in such a way that we readers accept them as reality.

Perhaps this was one of the elements that caused me such anxiety at the end of AG. Both gothic and magical realism use the supernatural, the weird, the unexplainable. That which we cannot explain gives us apprehension. Moreover, AG consistently returns to the theme of madness, which further builds upon the motif of nonreality masked as truth. Characters wrestle with the state of their own minds. As events grow increasingly more bizarre, the question of insanity seeps into the pages. What is real?

The characters are not the only ones affected. Zafón embodies the mind and voice of David Martín so well that you question your sanity and reality with him. His reality becomes yours, since you are reading the tale from within his perspective. When his reality is challenged, your trust in his narrative falters. The story is one tumultuous book of mirrors.  An overlapping maze, a labyrinth. (Consequently, Zafón’s labyrinth of Forgotten Books gives a nod to Jorge Luis Borges, who experimented with time and the fantastic in his writing.)

Yet the ambiguity and unexplainable are the aspects of The Angel’s Game I have come to admire. The reader is left with questions. The layers keep peeling off, and the story—in one sense—refuses to be resolved. The Angel’s Game is not satisfying, but it is that dissatisfaction with unanswered questions that paradoxically creates such an intense, rewarding experience. I keep turning the story over in my brain, examining the plots, themes, influences and characters from new angles. A great piece of art is never finished in the conventional sense; I am of the opinion that the impact of a great work extends far beyond the initial encounter.

The Angel’s Game is the book that does not end. It is the book that burns from the fire it set itself. In some ways, I feel like AG is the novel Martín wrote, and I am the reader whose reality is burning in flames. The plot does not follow the typical Western trajectory. Redemption holds no place in AG (save for those who have read The Shadow of the Wind and know of the connection to Daniel Sempere’s tale).  Even then it is threadbare, and Corelli’s offering at the end of AG is more troubling than hopeful. Perhaps that is the truth Zafón wanted to present on 1920’s Barcelona.* Sometimes the world burns and takes the world with it, leaving the page blank and anticipatory of a better time and future.

*check it out: http://www.lonelyplanet.com/spain/barcelona/history