Bookish

I have finally conceded that the house is overflowing with books, and after giving away many of the children’s, it’s time for the ultimate sacrifice of giving up my own. I could ship some to the in-laws’ – god knows, they have space – but something in me balks.

Instead, I cull through my collection and see what I can sacrifice. Books I know I will not reread. This is the barbarity of Hong Kong and it’s shocking 10,000$ a square foot.

I post on an FB page for circulating books. I don’t have much hope because these pages are peopled by expats who think Central is all of Hong Kong. But miraculously someone replies. She lives a few stations away from me.

We have a little exchange over messenger. It is charming. She offers me some books in exchange. Although accepting would defeat the purpose, I can’t resist. To accept would be defeating the purpose. That little conversation made me smile. It made me think how this is how one could make friends – though of course I don’t want new friends, no sir. We, two perfect strangers, bonded over books.

We did the exchange the next morning. It was quick, no further chat. A little disappointing, but nevermind. As I said, I don’t have space for new friends. But for a fleeting moment, that feeling. There are people out there who get it.

***

I gave away three books and landed up with four. They were just what I needed over a long weekend filled with silence.

1. Landline by Rainbow Rowell: I have wanted to read Eleanor and Park for the longest time. But I guess this was the book I needed to read right now, even if it was somewhat romanticized. A marriage filled with resentment. This line:
   

   When Georgie thought about divorce now, she imagined lying side by side with Neal on two operating tables while a team of doctors tried to unthread their vascular systems.

2. The Expatriates by Janice Lee: Another one I’ve wanted to read for ages, but with the PhD I have never had the time. I probably still don’t. But right now I needed to lose myself in something. The Expatriates is about the kind of expat I am not, the rich ones. But it is set in Hong Kong and so recognizable. I have a thing about collecting books from places I’m tied to. This one I will keep.
3. The Lacuna by Barbara Kingsolver: I had heard about the Poisonwood Diaries, but somehow never felt compelled to read it. This one drew me in because of Frida and Diego. The lady who gave it to me said she gave up before it got to the Frida part. I’ve got to the Frida part, and it’s pretty good.

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Diana Vreelanding

I must confess, I was more familiar with Diana Vreeland’s name and her association with Vogue than anything more substantial about her. Nevertheless, her memoir DV sounded right up my alley.

Unfortunately, I was not. First of all, it’s more anecdotes and free-flowing thoughts as narrated to an interlocutor than an organised reflection. And then some of the thoughts were too bratty and posh for even my high tolerance level for that sort of thing. By the end of it though, I warmed to her style (while setting aside my misgivings over the politics, such as her assertion on the place of women etc) but still felt I had not really got a complete picture of her life or contribution to fashion.

Diana Vreeland – Empress of Fashion cured all that. It is a fabulous book, not just painting the portrait of an extraordinary person whose genius is evident only in a fragmented way in DV. Amanda Mackenzie Stuart puts Diana into the context of her time, a time when some women were highly educated but most were essentially powerless and when fashion offered and still offers a real-world domain in which women can wield power. For Vreeland, it was more about creativity than power. Her social connections got her a job, and thereafter she ran with it and became an influencer.

Throughout the biography, this strain of self-creation runs through. Vreeland invented herself from material that she had been told since childhood was substandard. Her mother flat out considered her the unworthy ugly child, and she coped by deciding that she’d fulfil her own fantasy of swanhood. And she did, partly by extending that fantasy outward to the whole world. She remained a relevant force in the fashion world well into latter years too. Sacked from Vogue, she was granted a position at the Costume Institute of the Met and she ran with that and reinvented it too.

While reading the book, I realised I was not really familiar with American fashion of the 30s-late 50s period, and I started Googling the names mentioned in the book and the images are so inspiring.

Dress by designer Claire McCardell

Dress by Mainbocher

Photo by Richard Avedon

Photos by Louise Dahl-Wolfe

Book passovers

Nishita had this list up on books she’s not sure she wants to read that made me think on similar lines. Here’s my list:

Books I’m going to pass on

1. The Luminaries: Borrowed this with great enthusiasm, found it too heavy – both in actual weight and content – gave up on it. It’s supposed to be awesome, but I think because it didn’t grip me from the start, I couldn’t be bothered to lug around the book and I wonder if I ever will be.
2. The Lord of the Rings series: Tried, failed, tried again by getting hands on the each part of the trilogy in separate books, failed again. Tried to watch the movie. Watched a bit. Interest died.
3. Russian authors of the 19^th century: Just can’t seem to get into them. Sad but true. I’m holding out for Anna Karenina but not very hopefully.
4. Anything by Charles Dickens: I’ve read the abridged versions so much so that I convinced myself I had read Great Expectations. Can’t find it in me to plod through the originals now. Like Thomas Hardy, Dickens is someone I would have read – and probably enjoyed unlike Hardy – had I been forced too in lit class. Now it’s too late.
5. The Hunger Games: I’m not into reading fantasy anyway, and I discovered the movies first, loved them, developed huge crush on JLaw and can’t be bothered to read the books.
6. Wuthering Heights: I feel I should read this as a counterpoint to Pride and Prejudice, but it all seems so grim.

Book I am determined to read

• Orhan Pamuk’s My Name is Red: The idea of this book seems awesome – a murder mystery based in the world of miniature painting. Everyone says it’s awesome. Why can’t I feel the same way? I don’t know. I’ve started and stopped numerous times, found myself fascinated by miniature painting from the parts I read, tried to convince myself it’s a book that should be read in stints when a cousin visited and finished it in two days flat. Now it’s been so long since I last dipped into it, I know that I’m going to have to start from the beginning all over again and that is not an appetizing thought.

However, I take solace in the fact that the same thing happened with Love in the Time of Cholera and suddenly, I happened to pick it up at the right time (for me) and now it’s one of my favourites ever. Heh.

• The Fault in Our Stars: Because MinCat.

Actually, there are loads of books, even edifying books, great literature and all that, that I’ve passed on. Life’s too short and there are too many books to read. Why waste time on those that don’t really hold you? Same with people, I guess.

What are your passovers?

Reading, blogging

I recently watched a TV programme which quoted a study that said the average Hongkonger reads 4 books a year. I gasped. Four a year is worse than I imagined when I heard people moaning about the decline in reading. Also, one of my most distinctive memories from my early days in Hong Kong is chancing upon the long lines for entry to the Book Fair (and promptly joining the queue) which seemed to indicate that reading is not a dead hobby horse yet (excuse the mixed metaphors, I couldn’t resist.)

On the other hand, I’m always bored when people wring their hands over how little they’re reading or how they should start reading again and pause expectantly presumably for me to offer some encouragement. Similarly trying are people who go: “You read so much. Suggest something for me to read!”

To the latter, I want to say: There is a universe of books. You at least have to pick a genre. Also: What I like, you may not like. But now I will say: Goodreads.com.

To the former, I am nonplussed. If you don’t read, don’t. I am married to a man who does not read and it does not perturb him or me, except when he gets angsty about me reading and snatches my book away. There are people who don’t read and since I married one, I cannot be snotty about those people though my mom, dad, sister and close friends are all readers. Only barefaced lust could have conquered that prejudice, and just barely.

The troubling assumption of these people is that reading is a good habit that needs to be cultivated. I don’t really understand that at all. For me, reading is like breathing. Breathing is not a habit. I can’t teach a full grown adult how to breadthe, can I? I read because I am.

Frankly, I probably read too much. When I realised that the husband’s argument to that effect might be making some sense, I quickly applied for a PhD in order to legitamise the amount I read. Now I shall read unquestioned. Hell, I shall read on the government’s tab. Something useful shall come out of it, I hope, but what I shall enjoy most is the reading.

Once I was lunching with a PhD student who was finishing her programme and looking for a job. “You could teach, no?” I offered. “Oh, I don’t want to teach,” she said quickly. “I just want a job that lets me sit quietly and read.” Ah, holy aspiration.

I also remember a similar conversation with Curly about our jobs and their drawbacks, which ended in her saying: “Okay, I don’t think anyone is going to pay us to sit in a spa and read books.” Well, I’ve been paid to do that, but not fulltime unfortunately.

Anyway, I digress. The point is, don’t ask a reader for help in getting you to be one. The gap is too wide.

***

Similarly blogging. People are always ruing how little they blog and how they should blog more. At least with reading everyone from philosophers to the self-help quacks agree that it’s a noble pursuit – so fine, maybe everyone should make the effort to lay eyes on the written word for the sustained period that it takes to finish a book.

But blogging? There’s no reason for it to be mandatory.

I blog because I enjoy it. I’ve kept a diary since read Anne Frank’s when I was 10. When I discovered blogging, my blog became my diary. There’s a difference between a blog and a diary, but in my case, there’s a lot of overlap. Recently, because I felt the need to explore my dark angst more deeply than I’d care to share with you, I started a private blog where I record these musings just as I used to in a physical book. The digital version is password protected and accessible anywhere (to me only) and I don’t have to rely on my family’s discretion and restraint to be sure that my dirty secrets are safe with me. AND I have Evernote to jot down random thoughts in, some of which end up being full-fledged posts on either blog. So yeah, actually, I blog twice as much as you think.

The most tedious blog posts are the ones in which people apologise for not blogging and promise to do better. Why? If you have nothing to say, don’t say it. The second most tedious ones are when bloggers force themselves to blog, often in a marathon.

The moral of the rant story: Read if you want, blog if you want. Or not. Don’t keep talking about it.

 

 

Reading speeding

Tiny Beautiful Things – Cheryl Strayed

In ancient Greece there was the Oracle of Delphi who one could go to when one was an existential crossroad, and the oracle in her wisdom would dispense advice. In the modern world, we have Sugar aka Cheryl Strayed in the Dear Sugar columns.

No, really. I’m not being sarcastic. This should be every sensitive, thoughtful 21^st century person’s bible.

When I first started reading this book, I wondered at her confidence and the audacity of bringing her own experience into the advice. This is not what advice columnists are supposed to do. This is not supposed to be about them.

But the introduction itself acknowledges it, and points out that this is Strayed’s power. And as I read, in most cases, I think her sharing her own experience helps her connect with the letter writer. And she’s had a helluva lot of experience, which I already knew from her book Wild. She’s led no life of comforts until quite recently. So it works.

I won’t say I agree with all her advice. But I agree with most of it. And as one reads the columns one begins to trust where she’s coming from. Which I think is so important (I’ve realised this with blog reading).

Each letter and the response from Sugar was like a tiny jewel that one could string onto a rope of greater wisdom to rub between one’s fingers when one’s soul needs solace. The letters range across situations and Strayed’s responses are wise, compassionate and spot on.

There were letters that made me think specially of certain people, there were of course letters that made me think of myself, there were letters I bookmarked mentally for when my children grew up and might need to read it.

This one’s for the bookshelves.

Following from The Perks of Being a Wallflower, I decided to catch up on Judy Blume. I remember reading and loving exactly one of her novels, the only one I could get my hands on at the local library as a tween, and it stayed with me over the years. Goodreads tells me it was Iggie’s House. So I pulled whatever I could find on our library shelves and got Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret and Fudge-A-Mania. The Margaret book is a standalone one and a timely book for someone who’s lost her religion. I would have loved the book to have definitely solved the religion riddle but Blume is all about the ambiguity and exploration that is childhood. I loved that the book tackled the issue of religion so fearlessly, in addition to its frank depiction of periods.

Judy Blume seems like a nice old lady, but she was considered revolutionary enough to be at the receiving end of death threats. Read this fascinating interview here.

Fudge-A-Mania deals with a slightly younger age bracket and is apparently part of a series. I loved the quirkiness of the characters, the coming-of-ageness and the slightest hint of romance. I love how old people are eccentric and wonderful in her books. And of course, the precocious protagonists.Obviously, my kids are going to have these on their selves. I’m resisting buying the lot in advance.

While I was reading the books, we happened to Skype with my niece who is now eight (how and when did that happen?) and she happened to be reading Judy Blume too. It was both weird and wonderful to be bonding with her over this, and bittersweet to recognise that she’s grown up enough to read and reflect on books on her own. Also to talk like this: “So basically, you know,…”

These books are a great mood elevator and I wanted more but couldn’t find any in the library. So I had to move on.

Crazy Rich Asians by Kevin Kwan

I had read somewhere – maybe the synopsis of this book itself – that there is a super-rich echelon of society in Hong Kong where marriages are almost always arranged by the doyennes of the community. Apparently, it’s not just Hong Kong but the extended elite community of Chinese in Asia and overseas. This book offers an insider’s view into that milieu.

As expected, it’s all fabulous wealth and the trapping of richesse like you can never imagine, but the defamiliarising element comes in the form of the interloper – a Chinese American girlfriend of an extremely eligible Sinagporean. Rachel Chu has no idea about her boyfriend’s antecedents and is in for a rude culture shock when she visits Singapore at his behest. You’d think it would be a good thing to discover that your boyfriend is super rich and comes from the cream of Chinese society, but the flip side is trying to break into a clannish and snobbish community that immediately closes ranks while presenting a deceptively indifferent exterior.

I enjoyed this book as an insight into a facet of Chinese society that I only had an inkling of, but also because I identified with the situation. No, I don’t come from an extremely wealthy or esteemed family, but what I realised is that most families behave in the same way. All families think they’re the bee’s knees and view outsiders with suspicion. There’s almost resentment when eligible members of the family are snapped up by people the family doesn’t deem sufficiently worthy – and probably no one would be sufficiently worthy to the family, particularly to the mothers of eligible sons. Some things are the same everywhere, it would appear.

 

The Perks of Being a Wallflower

Read it in one day-ish. It was that good, but also I was suffering from extreme angst and needed a distraction so read into the wee hours. Also, it’s not a voluminous tome.

1. It had me at the title.
2. I wavered on the first page. After that, I was a goner.
3. I’m developing a thing for YA if I didn’t already have one. Inching towards John Green, don’t know why I’m so reticent. Maybe the hype and fear of disappointing MinCat with my reaction.
4. Yes, people don’t talk like that. I think the kids in YA books are the kooky and precocious ones. And those of us who love those books have some of that inside us.
5. I feel like if I want to take a stab at writing, YA might be doable.
6. Ok this is not much of a review, is it? But I never claimed it was, so there!

 

The wonder of Goodreads

Is there no end to the social media I am on? I need to write a post on how I’m a social media addict as per V, or a social media enthusiast as per moi, but I guess the entire explanation can be summed up in one line – the internet lets me just fall down the rabbit hole and read, read, read thereby satiating my easily bored (with reality) mind and also provides the kinds of discussions I don’t have access to in real life.

So Thumbelina asked if I was on Goodreads and so I checked it out, and my God, how did this one escape me all this while. Needless to say, I’m addicted, because it’s book porn. I have this fetish for collecting books virtually because space and money do not allow me to do this in the real world (i.e. I cannot line up my fantasy bookshelf in real life, because my house literally does not have space for it). I’ve been tinkering with my shelves for the past few days, literally obsessing over the categorisation. I even went into my library record and am inputting books based on there. Yeah, a monster has been created, and it helps that it’s summer and I’m at a loose end till my boss gets snapping which she won’t because she’s on leave starting tomorrow.

Goodreads combines this ability to collects one’s reads in one place with providing reccos that are pretty good based on some creepy algorithm that analyses your reading pattern which is really useful when you have to library systems at your disposal and are spoiled for choice. The main point is reviews and discussion groups, so it’s useful to check out what people are saying about a book, and of course, since I do write my thoughts on books I read (if not really straight-up review them) anyway, I might cross-post mine.

I was dithering over whether to register as myself or my blog ID and finally went with the latter, because I know more people who read like I do on the blog than in real life alas, and the ones I do know in real life who read like me also read the blog. There’s a sliver of people who are not included in this overlap and I can live without them (on Goodreads).

My ID is TheBride. If you’re on Goodreads add me to your Friends because right now I have only three, sob!

Books on contemporary China

The 25^th anniversary of the crackdown on the student movement at Tiananmen Square got me interested in knowing more about the event. I found myself compulsively reading the many news stories about the people, mainly the activists, involved that came out around the anniversary.

So it was kind of serendipitous when I came across these two books in the library. Both are excellent reads.

A Heart for Freedom

Chai Ling was elected the commander-in-chief of the student movement at the Square. I’m always fascinated by the making of people who go on to risk it all for an ideal, and this is a pretty good book to read in this regard. One gets a picture of growing up in an rural area in post-cultural revolution China. Chai Ling’s parents were in the army and that ensured that they at least had food to eat, but her childhood strikes me as very hard, and her achievement at getting into one of the most prestigious institutions in the country more impressive. This achievement made her a star of her village, and her parents had high expectations of her, which she fulfilled in ways they could not have imagined.

Reading about student life in Beijing in the 80s when there was some degree of freedom of intellectual debate was also interesting. This freedom played a part in the events that followed, in which the students demanded greater accountability from their government.

Obviously, the most interesting part was Chai Ling’s recounting of the days of the actual student protest at the Square which ultimately culminated in a brutal government crackdown. She gives one an insider’s perspective on what goes into making a student movement, the kinds of debates and conflicts that take place in the backdrop, the naivete and the idealism, the need for quick decision-making and strong leaders, and the motivations of those who put their lives on the line.

Chai Ling is a controversial figure, who was sharply criticised after a video of her making some shocking statements emerged. Chai Ling deals with this video in the book; her version is that it was meant to be a final statement in case she was caught, was not meant for media release, was made when she was extremely stressed and her words were twisted in the translation. Not everyone is convinced by this explanation, but as a reader of the book viewing events through her lens, one can be more sympathetic.

The latter half of the book is about her escape and relocation in the West. I’ve always wondered what dissidents do once they are uprooted. How do they survive and meet their financial needs? In Chai Ling’s case, she went back to school and tried to live the life of an ordinary (Ivy League School) graduate. But her background followed her everywhere and made life difficult. Nevertheless, she persisted and even brought her entire family to the US. She was also lucky to meet and marry a man who was doing well, but I think she would have made her own way if that hadn’t happened.

The last section deals with her conversion to Christianity and her newfound enthusiasm for fighting the one-child policy in China. This is the part I found hardest to stomach. Chai Ling had had a terribly hard life, and I can understand the need for the kind of solace that Christianity provides, but it was kind of boring reading all about her journey of faith. While her chosen cause is a worthy one, and one close to her heart for personal reasons, she champions it from a Christian lens. So I kind of speed read through that section, which I’m sure was not the author’s intention.

I now want to read about other activists of the time. Recommendations?

Decoded

It’s not that easy to get one’s hands on contemporary Chinese literature in translation because there are not that many translations. So I leapt on this one when I saw it.

I absolutely loved this book, which is strange because it follows the life of a mathematical genius in a kind of dystopic Chinese city. Mai Jia, the author, writes from within the state-sanctioned apparatus, but he still presents a not-very-favourable picture of life under the political regimes of the recent past in China.

The book is often described as a spy thriller which is erroneous because it doesn’t satisfy any of the Western conventions of that genre because there is no great mystery unravelled at the end. I think the book makes use of magical realism, a favourite coping mechanism of writers from places where life can often be absurd and unbearable. There is a pared down quality to the writing which could either be owing to the translation or a Chinese way with words. It works for me and I was pretty much riveted from the start.

I have the feeling that there are nuances I might have missed because of unfamiliarity with Chinese history or Chinese literature. But I still enjoyed it.

On to happier things

Day 83: 9 May

My skepticism about Mother’s Day notwithstanding, I experienced that warm fuzzy feeling when Benji burst into the house waving a carnation wrapped in plastic and shouting “Happy Mother’s Day”. He then proceeded to give me the card he made for me at school and to explain it at length. It contained a heart with “I love U” written inside as well as a drawing in pencil of a mother that was so picassoesque that I had to search for my nose outside my face. Nevertheless, his earnest explanations were too cute, and Mimi was quite left out and I had to console her.

Day 84: 10 May

Finally, I decided to invest in a good but expensive counsellor. The first session was productive and hinted at good things to come.

Day 85: 11 May

Not sure why Frozen was discussed at a banking conference, but V returned convinced that the kids should watch it. I’ve been hearing a lot of people raving about it so was keen to watch it myself, though when it comes to animated movies I’m never very motivated despite the fact that I always end up enjoying them. Both V and I felt the film, while entertaining, was not worthy of all the hype. V questioned why Elsa had to be imprisoned for, as he put it, “her superpower”. The film seemed to be an allegory for the control of women for centuries for fear of their sexual and emotional power. While the message at the end of the film – that this power can be tempered with love and harnessed as a productive force – I’m not sure I entirely buy it. However, I did like the strong relationship between the sisters, I identified with the pain of being shut out by a sister, and I loved how at the end, it’s the two sisters holding hands and not a prince and princess getting hitched. The character I enjoyed most in this film was Olaf. I wondered how they’d resolve the combination of summer and a snowman, and that they did was what made this a fairytale for me.

Day 86: 12 May

With a weekend of thunderstorms, we’d been marveling from our balcony at the water gushing down the mountain next door, so V decided to take the kids to see it up close. We then climbed the mountain a bit and tracked the water upstream and V even held the kids  into the flowing water so that their feet were dipping in, while our helpers looked on horrified and shrieked: “Mosquitoes mosquitoes!” They were right and the next day the kids had huge welts. Benji very seriously told V: “Daddy next time don’t take me to the mountain and put me in the water because the mosquitoes will bite me and I’ll get a big boo boo.” I thought we’d be safe till we are about 50 from being lectured by our kids, but apparently this starts early.

Day 87: 13 May

A new colleague joined work to replace my old favourite colleague. The new girl seems nice too.

Day 88: 14 May

Thanks to a coupon from Zalora, I got a new pair of shoes. I’ve been needing a pair of white strappy shoes, and although I initially didn’t love the look of what came out of the box, they’re doing very nicely. They’re wedges which really helps. I feel like all my shoes should be wedges now.

Day 89: 15 May

Got this at the recommendation of a friend, and think it’s going to be good. I’m really enjoying reading histories of strong women in the past. I think this book will be a good entry point into Chinese history, which I need to know more of, as well.

Em and The Big Hoom

I had been dying to read this book since it first came out because: 1. It got really great reviews 2. It’s not often that I come across contemporary literature in English about my exact community.

And it more than lived up to my expectations. In the first place, the book is beautifully designed. I ordered a paperback, and had no expectations about how it would look but it turns out the pages have red edges (which weirdly added some value to my life) and there’s an interesting graphic mark at the beginning of each chapter. I’m not sure if all editions of the book have this cover, but I would want this exact one in hardcover.

The book is ostensibly about life with a mentally ill mother, and I did have expectations of doom and gloom. In fact, had the milieu of the book – the Goan Catholic community – not attracted me, I’d have given it a miss based on my assumption that the book would make me cry.

Well, Pinto pulls of the marvelous feat that is the hallmark of a lot of great works of art which is making you laugh through what should have been depressing events – in this case, literal depression. Let’s just say I laughed – out loud even – a lot, and only occasionally did I choke up.

The central character of the book is Em, the narrator’s mentally ill mother. It must not have been easy growing up with such a mother, and Pinto does describe the horror of it, but one comes away almost envious. Because Em is such a marvelous character, so erudite, with such sharp insights and turns of phrase.*

The book is a tribute to a mother, but also a love story. And this is the part I loved the most – the forays into the courtshop of Em and The Big Hoom, the throwback to the time that she was not mad and then the moments of gentleness when she is, particularly at the end.

There are also insights into being mentally ill itself, in so much as the writer can convey something he has not experienced and only heard described, as well as the treatment of the mentally ill at the time. But somehow this is the background, it does not overwhelm.

The book was reviewed in The Guardian just the day I finished it. The reviewer says this:

Apart from when he experiences grief (in by far the best section of the book), the narrator never comes forward, instead explaining things that don’t require explanation.

It made me mad. Not Em-mad, just angry. Who decides what needs explanation? Why do we need explanations? Funny the reviewer didn’t ask herself after reading a book about madness, the very state of which raises such questions. Why does the narrator need to explain and reveal himself? This book is not about the narrator. It’s about Em. Ouff! The egocentricity of reviewers. I want this. Thus the book should give me this. Okay, even I have expectations of books that I get cross about being denied, but 10 pages into the book should have told the reviewer that this is not a book about “living the lives of these people at the same time as they were living them” in a Bombay and that it’s perfectly fine, more than fine in fact, that it’s not.

Okay, now I have written a review of the review. Ignore the review, read the book.

 

*It also makes me feel better about the kind of mother I am. I am not a conventional mother by any standards. I read too much. I say odd things to my kids. I have screaming fights with their father in front of them (which I am working on not doing). I sing and roll on the floor, sometimes at the same time. I have weird hair. I paint my face, and theirs. I let them play with my leftover make-up, and sometimes dabble in the existing lotions and potions. I veer towards gender neutral parenting and living. I let them watch the iPad so I can zone out. I grudge them bites of my chocolate. Etc. Now I’m thinking I should have had them call me something older than “mummy” to signify these aberrations.