Several years ago long before its move to the Megamall, the bookfair was held also in the Roxas Blvd. vicinity, just about around the WTC, Pasay not New York version. But the books then seemed to be amateurish or at least not as massive in number as in the recent manifestations of the fair, particularly on the fifth floor of the Megamall with its attendant trappings of commerce, such as salesmen offering sundry bargains, whereas it used to be only encyclopedias, now they throw the whole gamut of VCD and interactive gizmos in with the deal, everything designed to be CD-ROM friendly.
Among books on sale at the New Day stall was Eric Gamalinda’s collection of short fiction, Peripheral Vision, certainly a worthy find if there wasn’t already a copy in the old homestead on Maginhawa.
And the yearly affair also coincides with the National Book Awards of the Manila Critics Circle, for a change this year held before and not after the Palanca awards which traditionally are on Sept. 1.
The UP Press was publisher of the year for quite a number of seminal books released, including Carlomar Daoana’s first collection of poetry.
For social sciences, a book on the impact of cell phone texting on Philippine society won the award, to which the authors, a majority of them PhDs, correctly reacted by saying "it’s all academic" but they appreciate nonetheless the critics’ recognition of their study.
The winner for journalism, the Philippine Center for Investigative Journalism’s Investigating Corruption, had probably Yvonne Chua accepting the ward, or was that Luz Rimban? Head honcha Sheila Coronel was absent busy preparing for the Ramon Magsaysay awards the next day. We could only hope that the trophy arrived at the PCIJ office in one piece, as the makers must concoct a more efficient glue or else the critics must commission artists to do the job, as was the original idea. Anong say mo, Manny Baldemor?
The Ongpin award for best art book, perhaps the most prestigious because it comes with a financial award of P10,000, went to a coffee-table book on the art of Jose Lozano, 19th century artist who took the letras and figuras one step further.
Last year a book entitled Letras and Figuras also won for – was it the essay? – authored by Jaime Laya, who was at the book awards again this year, this time as contributor for the anthology winner, a compilation of essays by widows and widowers edited by Erlinda Panlilio, From this Day Forward, published by Anvil led by Karina Bolasco, another widow.
After the book awards, there was the usual postmortem aftermath déjà vu all over again at the Tia Maria, where over beers and pulutan writers and their minions ruminated, pontificated, ululated, and generally shot the crap till closing time.
Gathered around the long long table, and here we are not necessarily name-dropping for lack of anything better to do, were at least one national artist, maybe two or three artists, a publisher, and several loudmouths.
The consensus was clear: the book awards must be done again next year, but since it will most likely be at the World Trade Center, then maybe we should look for another nearby watering hole there, and with as good a sisig too.
On Saturday last, penultimate day of the fair, was the mass book (re)launching of UP Press books the past year, among them Jose Lacaba’s Kung Baga sa Bigas, a sort of best-of collection from the author’s three previous volumes from the past 20 plus years.
We imagine a huge crowd, though as we write this the (re)launch has yet to take place, but we can imagine a conversation like this at the venue:
"What?!? Clovis Nazareno died last Thursday?"
"At 6 p.m. Ulcers, they said, which bled grievously."
Maybe there would be an impromptu performance or reading or two by friends of Clovis the Boholano, a fixture of the UP Writing Center in the early ’80s who really was too young to die, what with a young wife and four kids.
He had at least two books, For My Friends and Dearest Simeon Lugo, a clutch of Palanca awards including first prize in 1994, and a Panorama poetry award also in the mid-’90s.
Dead at 42, Clovis Nazareno was a poet of my generation. His remains lie in Loon, Bohol.