I spent a month in the Philippines in 2006, and it’s still one of the best experiences of my life. Hopefully not too much in a gap yah way, but it is my only experience of a country outside Europe and North America. Ever since then, I’ve been intending to read at least one book by a Filipino author – and, indeed, got a copy of Miguel Syjuco’s Ilustrado when it was published (in the original English), in 2010. It’s taken me eight years to read this review copy – and I had to persuade my book group to read it, to get it to the top of tbr pile – but I ended up thinking it was really rather good.
I should start with the caveat that the other three people who read it for book group really disliked it. And it is certainly a quirky novel – but I have a lot more patience with structural experimentation than stylistic experimentation. Nobody needs another Ulysses (or, frankly, the original Ulysses) but there is plenty to be gained from seeing how the structure of a novel can be played with to bring something new. In Ilustrado, the lead character – also called Miguel Syjuco – is on the track of Edmund Salvador. This (fictitious) man was one of the most famous Filipino writers, and has recently been found dead in a river. ‘Syjuco’ (I’ll use inverted commas to distinguish between character and author; apologies if it gets annoying) heads from New York to Manila to find out more about what could have led to it – and to find the elusive manuscripts of Salvador’s rumoured final, enormously long manuscript.
The main thread of the novel is in the third person, following ‘Syjuco’ on this journey. He is a determined, slightly obnoxious character – he sexualises most of the women he meets, obsesses with his quest, and hasn’t got over his failed relationship. But he is also intensely human and (thus?) sympathetic – experiencing the mixed feelings of the Filipino-American returning to his homeland. He is both stranger and familiar, living a life that is disjointed from those of the people he meets with, stays with, eats with.
The airplane comes down low. From above, the city is still beautiful. We pass over brown water off the coast, fish pens laid out in geometrical patterns, like a Mondrian viewed by someone colour-blind. Over the bay, the sunset is startling, the famous sunset, like none anywhere else. Skeptics attribute its colours to pollution. Over there’s the land, the great grey sprawl of eleven million people living on top of each other on barely over 240 square miles – fourteen cities and three municipalities, skyscrapers and shanties, tumbling beyond Kilometre Zero and the heart of every Filipino, the city that gave the metro its name: Manila.
This thread was certainly the most enjoyable part of the novel. It was often quite funny, occasionally slightly broad, but an observant, somewhat beguiling narrative. I felt pulled along by his quest, even when not finding him the most pleasant character – perhaps it is the shared belief in the power of literature, and the need to pursue it.
Alongside this thread, though are others – not parallel storylines, exactly. One is ‘Syjuco’s’ journey told in the third person, as though by an omniscient author. And then there are excerpts from many of Salvador’s writings – whether his gang novel, his autobiography, or ‘Syjuco’s’ unfinished biography of Salvador. There are snippets of very well-judged imitations of Paris Review interviews with Salvador. And there are various paragraphs that tell jokey anecdotes about village idiot types. Thrown into all of them is a lot about Filipino politics (particularly those around when it’s set – which is 2000/2001). Syjuco doesn’t give much context, and expects you to know who the various people are – but a bit of judicious googling would help anybody out there.
Some of these worked really well. The biographical excerpts and the interviews really help to build a picture of Salvador, and give us the context for ‘Syjuco’s’ obsession. The bits from his books, though, seemed a little pointless – they didn’t add anything cumulatively, and felt a bit like Syjuco had included them simply for the fun of writing them. And the stereotyped anecdotes were just a distraction.
And yet, even the parts that felt unnecessary helped add up to the whole. I thought of Ilustrado a bit like an Impressionist painting – up close, the brushstrokes don’t seem to make much sense – but take a step back, and creates a whole picture. To pick another visual metaphor, it was like a collage. I thought the whole book, taken as a whole, worked really well, and quite unlike any other novel I’ve ever read. And yet I didn’t find it indulgent or pretentious – it was still pacey and intriguing. The prose style was well-honed without being showy. And, particularly towards the end, the plot takes centre stage and it all gets pretty page-turnery. There’s even a rather impressive twist that helps put the whole novel into context.
My enjoyment of Ilustrado was certainly also helped by my (albeit small) familiarity with Manila. I certainly don’t know it in the way a resident would, but I could picture the streets he described, the small places to eat, the homes. And it was all laced a little with my happy memories of being there. But don’t just take my word for it – it won the Man Asian Literary Prize.
Book group made clear that this is rather a divisive novel – and it’s certainly not the sort of thing I usually read. But I thought it was compelling, original, and well-handled. And I’d love to know any other recommendations of Filipino novels – particularly any that were originally written in Tagalog?