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thewilyfilipino's review against another edition
4.0
There’s no reason why R. Zamora Linmark shouldn’t shoot for the Great Philippine Novel in his ambitious and wide-ranging new book, Leche, even if it’s told from the perspective of a balikbayan, returning to the Philippines after 13 years. The fact that there may be anywhere from 8.2 to 11 million Filipinos overseas – about 10 percent of the Filipino population – surely makes it an “authentic” Filipino stance from which to write. Two of the greatest chroniclers of the Filipino experience, N.V.M. Gonzalez and Bienvenido Santos, wrote from this same vantage point of in-betweenness, after all. Part linear journey of discovery, part fractured travelogue and history lesson, Leche brilliantly milks (ahem) those forms. (Yes, I can get away with that pun because I'm Filipino -- see more below.)
I do drop the A-word ("authentic") above, and put it in quotation marks, not to stir up old and rather exhausted debates about representation, but because it’s the primary concern of Leche’s main character, Vince de los Reyes. (Previous readers of Linmark will recognize Vince as the shy, newly-arrived immigrant in Rolling the R's, from 1997.) Our returnee Vince – or Vincent, or Vicente, or Vincente, depending on who’s mispronouncing it – plunges into the chaotic swirl of Metro Manila and discovers, to his shock, that he no longer feels at home in the heat and humidity. It doesn’t matter that he lives in Hawai’i and checks the "Filipino" box when filling up -- sorry, I meant "filling out" -- census forms.
Throughout the novel are sections called “Tourist Tips,” enumerating bits of advice that vary between the commonplace (“The best way to get around Manila is by taxi”) to the oddly gnomic (“It’s not unusual for a salesperson to ask you about your marital status”) to the wry (“Manila is very rich in air pollution”) -- but it's the word "tourist" that's most telling. How can one, after all, be a tourist in one's own homeland? Vince is stung by his tour guide’s casual reference, in conversation, to “you Americans” and “we Filipinos;” how is it that he can be alienated from his own people, when the only identity he knows is of being Filipino?
And this leads Linmark onto some perilously well-trodden paths; this is, after all, the stuff of freshman-level essays on Filipino identity and Pilipino Cultural Nights. But it should be said that these are also some of the concerns of the Great American Novel, of immigrant American writers similarly searching for a place called home. In Leche, the magic is all in the execution: a jauntily digressive omniscient narrator whispering in the wings (and sometimes, disconcertingly possessing minor characters), postcards and ironic commentary, ecstatic leaps into poetic diction.
From the start, Linmark situates the reader squarely in this process of homecoming, much like Miguel Syjuco's protagonist near the beginning of Ilustrado: the balikbayan boxes at the departure area, the applause upon landing, the insanity at the Ninoy Aquino International Airport. The act of homecoming is fraught with both logistical and symbolic anxiety: will Customs ask to open my boxes? Will I recognize my family from the throngs of well-wishers? Is this really home?
His precise observations about departure and homecoming at the beginning of the novel set the tone for the rest of the novel. Linmark's descriptions of the maelstrom that is Manila rings wonderfully true throughout. There's a fantastic section, for instance, about the Philippine jeepney, which is depicted on the book's cover, and its driver who has "[transformed] himself into a Hindu god with three eyes and eight hands."
One of Leche's set pieces, for instance, is an imagined talk show interview between Vince and the former Presidential daughter and actress (do I put that in quotation marks as well?), Kris Aquino. (This Kris, bless her, never leaves the house without Solzhenitsyn in her gym bag, to read while stuck in traffic.) My first reaction upon reading it was that it must be a real transcript; Linmark just nails the dialogue, full of hilarious malapropisms and English that's very slightly "off," at first glance. (Such linguistic wit is also one of the hallmarks of the book, for the humor, one might say, is genuinely Filipino: full of awkward puns, and sometimes breathtakingly inappropriate.) But one can also read the interview transcript, in conjunction with Linmark's poetry, for instance, as a reclaiming of the colonizer’s language. It's not English as American newscasters know it.
And it's this same off-kilter relationship to the "real," whatever "real English" may be, that characterizes Leche. Real-life presidents and minor celebrities appear, sometimes as "the real thing," sometimes as barely-disguised versions of themselves. (Ninotchka Rosca, I'm sure, recognized herself in a cameo.) For instance, the Leche of the title – “milk,” literally, but also an imprecation, and a different kind of bodily fluid altogether – is an underground cabaret and sex club that's also orphanage, museum, and Presidential whorehouse rolled into one, and Linmark uses this as an effective metaphor to explore the uneasy (or, to be more precise, easy) relationship between the sacred and the lurid, the political and the religious, the indigenous and the colonial, that exists in the Philippines. But is this place based on reality? In the Philippines, it may very well be. To the reader, it all seems so surreal, but as one character scolds Vince: "There's nothing surreal about Manila. It's only surreal because Manila's no longer part of your world." Sur-real, then, in the strict etymology of the word, as Linmark's fragmented narrative mirrors the country as refracted through colonialism and Hollywood.
Leche is not quite the playful, riotous explosion that was Linmark's debut novel, Rolling the R's; in that work, you could feel this sense of a joyful and barely controlled rebelling against the constraints of the narrative form and perhaps even the English language itself. (Although I must remind myself, and should be chastened, by the fact that my praise above also has to do with my unfamiliarity with Pidgin. I'm very guilty of exoticizing here.)
Leche is, in a sense, somewhat more restrained and sober (especially in combination with its emotionally shattering ending), but no less adventurous or ambitious. It's a novel mostly set in Manila, and perhaps one instantly recognizable to the Filipino reader -- but, as the omniscient travel guide tells us, "Your Manila is only one of the hundreds of millions of versions." Linmark's version is well worth visiting.
I do drop the A-word ("authentic") above, and put it in quotation marks, not to stir up old and rather exhausted debates about representation, but because it’s the primary concern of Leche’s main character, Vince de los Reyes. (Previous readers of Linmark will recognize Vince as the shy, newly-arrived immigrant in Rolling the R's, from 1997.) Our returnee Vince – or Vincent, or Vicente, or Vincente, depending on who’s mispronouncing it – plunges into the chaotic swirl of Metro Manila and discovers, to his shock, that he no longer feels at home in the heat and humidity. It doesn’t matter that he lives in Hawai’i and checks the "Filipino" box when filling up -- sorry, I meant "filling out" -- census forms.
Throughout the novel are sections called “Tourist Tips,” enumerating bits of advice that vary between the commonplace (“The best way to get around Manila is by taxi”) to the oddly gnomic (“It’s not unusual for a salesperson to ask you about your marital status”) to the wry (“Manila is very rich in air pollution”) -- but it's the word "tourist" that's most telling. How can one, after all, be a tourist in one's own homeland? Vince is stung by his tour guide’s casual reference, in conversation, to “you Americans” and “we Filipinos;” how is it that he can be alienated from his own people, when the only identity he knows is of being Filipino?
And this leads Linmark onto some perilously well-trodden paths; this is, after all, the stuff of freshman-level essays on Filipino identity and Pilipino Cultural Nights. But it should be said that these are also some of the concerns of the Great American Novel, of immigrant American writers similarly searching for a place called home. In Leche, the magic is all in the execution: a jauntily digressive omniscient narrator whispering in the wings (and sometimes, disconcertingly possessing minor characters), postcards and ironic commentary, ecstatic leaps into poetic diction.
From the start, Linmark situates the reader squarely in this process of homecoming, much like Miguel Syjuco's protagonist near the beginning of Ilustrado: the balikbayan boxes at the departure area, the applause upon landing, the insanity at the Ninoy Aquino International Airport. The act of homecoming is fraught with both logistical and symbolic anxiety: will Customs ask to open my boxes? Will I recognize my family from the throngs of well-wishers? Is this really home?
His precise observations about departure and homecoming at the beginning of the novel set the tone for the rest of the novel. Linmark's descriptions of the maelstrom that is Manila rings wonderfully true throughout. There's a fantastic section, for instance, about the Philippine jeepney, which is depicted on the book's cover, and its driver who has "[transformed] himself into a Hindu god with three eyes and eight hands."
One of Leche's set pieces, for instance, is an imagined talk show interview between Vince and the former Presidential daughter and actress (do I put that in quotation marks as well?), Kris Aquino. (This Kris, bless her, never leaves the house without Solzhenitsyn in her gym bag, to read while stuck in traffic.) My first reaction upon reading it was that it must be a real transcript; Linmark just nails the dialogue, full of hilarious malapropisms and English that's very slightly "off," at first glance. (Such linguistic wit is also one of the hallmarks of the book, for the humor, one might say, is genuinely Filipino: full of awkward puns, and sometimes breathtakingly inappropriate.) But one can also read the interview transcript, in conjunction with Linmark's poetry, for instance, as a reclaiming of the colonizer’s language. It's not English as American newscasters know it.
And it's this same off-kilter relationship to the "real," whatever "real English" may be, that characterizes Leche. Real-life presidents and minor celebrities appear, sometimes as "the real thing," sometimes as barely-disguised versions of themselves. (Ninotchka Rosca, I'm sure, recognized herself in a cameo.) For instance, the Leche of the title – “milk,” literally, but also an imprecation, and a different kind of bodily fluid altogether – is an underground cabaret and sex club that's also orphanage, museum, and Presidential whorehouse rolled into one, and Linmark uses this as an effective metaphor to explore the uneasy (or, to be more precise, easy) relationship between the sacred and the lurid, the political and the religious, the indigenous and the colonial, that exists in the Philippines. But is this place based on reality? In the Philippines, it may very well be. To the reader, it all seems so surreal, but as one character scolds Vince: "There's nothing surreal about Manila. It's only surreal because Manila's no longer part of your world." Sur-real, then, in the strict etymology of the word, as Linmark's fragmented narrative mirrors the country as refracted through colonialism and Hollywood.
Leche is not quite the playful, riotous explosion that was Linmark's debut novel, Rolling the R's; in that work, you could feel this sense of a joyful and barely controlled rebelling against the constraints of the narrative form and perhaps even the English language itself. (Although I must remind myself, and should be chastened, by the fact that my praise above also has to do with my unfamiliarity with Pidgin. I'm very guilty of exoticizing here.)
Leche is, in a sense, somewhat more restrained and sober (especially in combination with its emotionally shattering ending), but no less adventurous or ambitious. It's a novel mostly set in Manila, and perhaps one instantly recognizable to the Filipino reader -- but, as the omniscient travel guide tells us, "Your Manila is only one of the hundreds of millions of versions." Linmark's version is well worth visiting.
nuhafariha's review against another edition
3.0
It's one of those books where nothing really happens and that's the story. I liked the way the author experimented with different forms and the way Vince struggles with being of the Filipino diaspora.
lostinabookbrb's review against another edition
Could not get into pacing of the book and it is due at library.
emilytjames's review against another edition
emotional
reflective
slow-paced
- Plot- or character-driven? Character
- Strong character development? It's complicated
- Loveable characters? It's complicated
- Diverse cast of characters? No
- Flaws of characters a main focus? Yes
2.5
meredithlinks's review against another edition
3.0
I read this for my Asian Pacific American literature class. Every time I sat down to read this book I fell asleep. The ending of the book was great, but there was too much humor along the way that got in the way of the main story. The humor was also not my kind of humor, so I did not think the book was that funny.
anntieup's review
5.0
I loved this. When I started it I had no idea of the Hawai`i connection in the book so that just made it better, of course. So much in this book reminded me of my Filipino family and friends in my second home.
This is the first time I've read anything by a Filipino author but it won't be the last.
This is the first time I've read anything by a Filipino author but it won't be the last.
ginpomelo's review
adventurous
challenging
lighthearted
medium-paced
- Strong character development? It's complicated
- Loveable characters? It's complicated
- Diverse cast of characters? Yes
- Flaws of characters a main focus? Yes
4.5
A novel filled with parodic exuberance and tongue-in-cheek humor often runs the risk of archness to the point coldness, becoming too intent at skewering the ridiculous to actually carry a human center. L. Zamora Linmark's Leche sidesteps this trap by grounding the chaos of his setting with a fallible and searching viewpoint character, a balikbayan named Vince who wins a trip through a Mr. Pogi beauty contest. Through his incredulous but largely game eyes, the readers navigate the crooked sidestreets and gridlocked roads that make up life in 1990s Philippines.
Vince descends into an Aligherian hell from the first scene as he takes in the cacophony of voices, smells, and personalities in a Manila airport. He then interacts with a gaggle of personalities not unlike the Italian nobility that populate Inferno and Purgatorio--from the iconoclastic director Bino Boca to the distressingly effervescent fictional(?!) Kris Aquino. The rugged man who ferries him to the various sights of Manila is even named Dante. Linmark makes these parallelisms overt throughout the novel. But Leche also has much in common with another work of literature to use an epigraph from The Divine Comedy--the eponymous J. Alfred Prufrock from T.S. Eliot's landmark modernist poem.
Much like Prufrock, the inaction and ennui that Vince feels through much of the novel is a response to a wide range of anxieties and hurt that he has experienced in his life. While Prufrock's trauma comes from the unexpected assault of war and modernity, however, Vince's come from leaving his country as a child to build a life in a new one. The novel also intersects Vince's diasporic identity with that of his queer experience. I like that being gay is not the definitive aspect of his character--in fact, you can say that it only ends up complicating his already fraught relationships, not only with his friends and loved ones but also with his two countries.
This novel was slow burn for me. The din generated not only by the characters but also the setting, humor, and writing style can overwhelm a reader who is not expecting it. It took a while to warm up to Vince's character, but the final pages that take him on a jeepney ride out of Manila (and into Paradiso, perhaps?) ties up all the disparate parts of his identity, including his relationship with his deceased grandfather, and allows his story to end somewhere quiet, mournful, and beautiful. It is a wonderful meditation of the question that emigres often grapple with, whether one can ever truly go home.
Notice how I haven't yet mentioned how this novel is a veritable stew of postmodernist narrative tools, the most obvious aspect of Leche. Vince's sightseeing is punctuated by postcard messages, excerpts from tourist books, interview transcripts, even an extended scene from a Bino Boca movie extravaganza. A postmodern homecoming novel about a balikbayan is not new (hello there, Ilustrado). I decided to focus on the novels more affective qualities to demonstrate that formal inventiveness is not enough to create resonance. Leche checks off as many literary references as Ilustrado (read: a hell of a lot of them), but I argue that they do not distract from the characters' fiercely beating hearts.
Diaspora stories have become a staple of Philippine fiction, thanks to our historical and economic realities. Because this experience fractures so many of us, much of our literary real estate is invested in collecting the broken pieces and gluing them back together. Leche's foray into the diaspora archetype shows that some of the most emotionally rich places exist within the jagged edges that we are trying to smooth over. Let us go then, you and I.
Read on my blog.
Vince descends into an Aligherian hell from the first scene as he takes in the cacophony of voices, smells, and personalities in a Manila airport. He then interacts with a gaggle of personalities not unlike the Italian nobility that populate Inferno and Purgatorio--from the iconoclastic director Bino Boca to the distressingly effervescent fictional(?!) Kris Aquino. The rugged man who ferries him to the various sights of Manila is even named Dante. Linmark makes these parallelisms overt throughout the novel. But Leche also has much in common with another work of literature to use an epigraph from The Divine Comedy--the eponymous J. Alfred Prufrock from T.S. Eliot's landmark modernist poem.
Much like Prufrock, the inaction and ennui that Vince feels through much of the novel is a response to a wide range of anxieties and hurt that he has experienced in his life. While Prufrock's trauma comes from the unexpected assault of war and modernity, however, Vince's come from leaving his country as a child to build a life in a new one. The novel also intersects Vince's diasporic identity with that of his queer experience. I like that being gay is not the definitive aspect of his character--in fact, you can say that it only ends up complicating his already fraught relationships, not only with his friends and loved ones but also with his two countries.
This novel was slow burn for me. The din generated not only by the characters but also the setting, humor, and writing style can overwhelm a reader who is not expecting it. It took a while to warm up to Vince's character, but the final pages that take him on a jeepney ride out of Manila (and into Paradiso, perhaps?) ties up all the disparate parts of his identity, including his relationship with his deceased grandfather, and allows his story to end somewhere quiet, mournful, and beautiful. It is a wonderful meditation of the question that emigres often grapple with, whether one can ever truly go home.
Notice how I haven't yet mentioned how this novel is a veritable stew of postmodernist narrative tools, the most obvious aspect of Leche. Vince's sightseeing is punctuated by postcard messages, excerpts from tourist books, interview transcripts, even an extended scene from a Bino Boca movie extravaganza. A postmodern homecoming novel about a balikbayan is not new (hello there, Ilustrado). I decided to focus on the novels more affective qualities to demonstrate that formal inventiveness is not enough to create resonance. Leche checks off as many literary references as Ilustrado (read: a hell of a lot of them), but I argue that they do not distract from the characters' fiercely beating hearts.
Diaspora stories have become a staple of Philippine fiction, thanks to our historical and economic realities. Because this experience fractures so many of us, much of our literary real estate is invested in collecting the broken pieces and gluing them back together. Leche's foray into the diaspora archetype shows that some of the most emotionally rich places exist within the jagged edges that we are trying to smooth over. Let us go then, you and I.
Read on my blog.
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