Nagasaki

On a whim, my friend Mervyn booked us tickets to Japan. The weather was perfect. There were no earthquakes. We had nothing else planned, for as long as we wouldn't tire ourselves too much. The last thing we wanted was to take a vacation from our vacation by the time we got home.

Nagasaki wasn't in our original plans; to be honest, we didn't have any. We spent a few days in Fukuoka, recommended by our common friend, Roger, who considered it his city -- until he spent an extended time for training in New York. 

Such was the spontaneity of our trip. Tired from clinic work, Mervyn, whom I've known for years -- from medical school, to internal medicine residency, and then to medical oncology fellowship -- craved for new perspectives. I suppose I did, too. A change of scenery was not the answer to our burnout, but it helped. 

We booked Shinkansen tickets from Fukuoka to Nagasaki. I believe our trip was on a Saturday. Balikan lang. I slept while sitting on a bench, lulled by the swooshing of quiet buses and cars. Merv left me to my nap, while he watched the grand finals of Tawag ng Tanghalan on his phone. That morning, we visited the atomic bomb museum. The atmosphere was heavy, but we felt that to properly honor the city we should pay respects to its history. 

"Ang sarap ng tulog mo, brother," Merv said. 

"Oo nga eh. I feel so refreshed. Sino'ng nanalo sa Tawag ng Tanghalan?" I asked. 

Merv must given me an answer, but I no longer remember the details. What I do remember is: we had nothing else to do for the rest of the afternoon, so we walked on, until we found a steep hill we eventually climbed. At the summit was a parking lot that would lead us to a pop-up weekend bazaar in a Shinto shrine. We ate ice cream under the shade. We felt like intruders, but we were welcomed. 

Surpise, surprise: Nagasaki was included in New York Times's annual list of 52 places to visit in 2026.

Unlike Hiroshima, which was almost completely obliterated by an atomic bomb in August 1945, the urban core of Nagasaki, America’s second target, was spared when the bomb missed its mark. This gives the city center a kind of sliding-door surrealness: This was all supposed to be gone, but somehow it survived. 

 You don't really plan for great trips. In a sense, they simply happen.  

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Berlin

View from my hotel room. Trees line road, their colors changing as winter approaches.

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Realizations while teaching Research

I'm pleased with the mid-year student evaluation for Research 2, the clinical and community research class I teach weekly in medical school. It's the most important feedback a teacher can possibly get: what, in the end, do the learners think of the course? 

My students rated the course as excellent, including the non-traditional teaching-learning activities. One particular activity, the peer-review, gives me satisfaction more than the others. I pair one group of students with another and instruct them to carefully study and critique the work assigned to them. In class, I listen to my students offering generous, well thought out, and considerate critiques. I learn a great deal from this exercise, too, and it frees me up from the task of doing the reviews all by myself. 

As the third quarter is unfolding, I have some realizations, especially as regards to my Research 2 class: 

Expect great things from, and think highly of, students. They live up to expectations, or will attempt to achieve lofty things. 

Allow creativity to flourish. This means creating certain allowances for unusual ideas and allowing them to explore unconventional research questions. 

Give them time to think. Setting aside dedicated study time, where they can work and meet with their groups, helps. Academic load in second year medical school is heavy and burdensome; their minds need space to think. 

Start with the capsule proposal before the full-length version. Capsule proposals are brief, concise, easy to read and critique, and force the students to distill the intricacies of methods and statistical analysis without being overwhelmed by length. Only when the capsule proposal is finalized can they expand it to create the final version. 

Use Google Documents! I can keep track of the evolving versions of the proposal, and my inbox is less cluttered.

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Single-function devices

I carry my camera, an Olympus OM-D Mark IV, to take pictures. The gadget, a single-function device, doesn't do anything else. It doesn't allow me to share photos directly to Instagram. To transfer the images from the camera to my computer, I need a physical cord. If I read the manual closely, I can activate wireless transfers, but where's the thrill, the ritual, in that? There are better cameras, for sure, such as the Leica Q: superior image quality preferred by photographs like Craig Mod, but it comes in a heftier price. Or the Canon DSLRs: excellent aperture speeds, high quality photographs, but they're bulky. And why don't I just use my iPhone? I do. But photography isn't as enjoyable. I suppose the best camera is the one that I actually use and enjoy.

I like Christopher Butler's essay, Single-function devices in the world of the everything machine, where he writes, "Limitation heightens creation."

Limitations expand our experience by engaging our imagination. Unlimited options arrest our imagination by capturing us in the experience of choice. One, I firmly believe, is necessary for creativity, while the other is its opiate. Generally speaking, we don’t need more features. We need more focus. Anyone working in interaction and product design can learn from rediscovering how older devices engaged the mind and body to create an experience far more expansive than their function.

The holidays are over. Photographs, like journal entries, remind me of the rest I relished these past days. 

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The Land in Winter by Andrew Miller

I could not bring myself to sleep when the fireworks started. I peeked through the window and saw the Marbel midnight skies light up. I eventually got up, prayed with thanksgiving to God for adding another year, turned on the lamp, checked up on Nanay in the other room, and looked for Paul. Our family dog was hiding underneath the rattan chair, stressed out by the sounds of human celebration. 

All of the above is a preamble to what really kept me up: Andrew Miller's The Land in Winter. I picked it up at the Dubai airport for no special reason other than I felt like it. There's no rhyme or reason to my book choices, but the blurb at the back cover convinced me. The novel was going to be about a country doctor in winter time. At the book stall, at 2:30 am local time, I remember speaking to the lady in Tagalog without even asking if she was Filipino (she was). I looked for my credit card, hidden in the backpack, and she patiently waited, even as a queue of customers was forming behind me. "Happy New Year po," she said as I proceeded to the boarding gate. 

Andrew Miller is spectacular. There's so much interiority in the four major characters of the book. We read about two couples who live in the West Country on December 1962. They're neighbors. The first is Eric and Irene. Eric is the country doctor. Irene is the wife who leaves behind her city life to support her husband's career. The second couple is Bill and Rita. Bill is the Oxford-educated gentleman who pursues farming to escape his father's expectations; Rita is the wife whose past life contains many controversies. 

We soon learn that Irene and Rita are pregnant. A snow storm occurs, setting the tone and setting for the interrelated stories. 

The novel is brilliant. (Spoiler alert here) As the book is ending, Irene comes to a point of acceptance that her marriage isn't going to be perfect. 

It excited her, and she opened her eyes. The car, the moon, Eric's face (the face of an actor) were all changed. She looked at him, his concentration (there was ice out there), his frowning into the onrush of night. She might just sit there, do nothing, say nothing, but it no longer felt inevitable. Her anger, at that precise moment, was absent. The anger, the fear, the shame, the wound that had to be tended like a wayside shrine. And what had replaced them? Only this: the rattling of the little car, the whirr of the heater, the shards of light beyond the edges of the road. A sadness she could live with. Some new interest in herself. 

I'm starting 2026 on a high note, reading-wise. Finishing this book lends proof to my observation that buying books from airports is a good thing. 

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My Reading Year 2025

A participant in a literary forum once asked me about my reading habits. My actual response escapes me now. But if you had asked me that right at this very moment, I'd say: I don't have any, except that I carry a book with me anywhere. I read bits and pieces of a book, and many books all at once. There are moments when I read many chapters in one sitting, if the work is compelling and if I don't have a lot of work to do. Owning a Kindle helps a lot. Tote bags also leave enough room for a paperback, even a hardbound.

But I should keep track of my reading with more rigor and discipline. The timelines are not clear in my memory. You'll notice that some books reappear here, mainly because I'm not done with them yet. I'm writing specifically about the short story collections, which I do not read from cover to cover. Tita Mavis wrote:

Stories are not chapters of novels. They should not be read one after another, as if they were meant to follow along. Read one. Shut the book. Read something else.

I also did a lot of rereading this year. I realize now that I profit greatly from reading a book over and over again. I find new meanings. The words and sentences don't change, but I do.  Overall,  2025 has been a good year for reading. What books surprised and delighted you?

Here are the books that have kept me company.

Honeybees and Distant Thunder by Riku Onda. Friendship and a piano competition! Bought this in the Instabul airport. 

 

A Carnival of Snackery by David Sedaris. David is funny. 

The Humans by Matt Haig. An alien and a dog!

Time is a Mother by Ocean Vuong. Ocean's poetry takes me to places. 

Voyager and Other Fictions by Jose Dalisay Jr. Great Filipino stories in English by a master storyteller.

Stone Yard Devotional by Charlotte Wood. Made me want to escape my daily routines for a bit. Was surprised to hear about this book in the New York Times Book Review podcast, many weeks after I had finished reading it. Bought this in the Melbourne airport. I notice that I'm likely to finish a book if I buy them from the airport!

The Collected Stories of Gregorio C Brillantes. Each story is a masterpiece and brings home the reality of the beauty of life in the Philippines. 

The Journal by Henry David Thoreau. I read him when I'm out of ideas to write about. I also want to be with nature, in the outdoors. 

 

Trick Mirror by Jia Tolentino. Thoughtful essays, especially the first one: about internet and social media. 

Mga Bulawan Nga Bulak (Golden Showers) by John Iremil Teodoro. His poems are in Kinaray-a, translated to English. Kanami gid. Naghibi ako sang ginbasa ko. 

Nervous: Essays on Heritage and Healing by Jen Soriano. Masterful, playful writing about trauma and identity. 

Imagine a City: A Pilot's Journey Across the Urban World by Mark Vanhoenacker. Superb writing about cities. Made me book many flights to various places. Why hadn't I heard of him earlier? I picked this book in the discount bin at National Bookstore in Gensan. 

The Bloodied Nightgown and Other Essays by Joan Acocella. What a thinker! I especially love her essay on JRR Tolkien. 

Wonder Boys by Michael Chabon. Extremely funny novel about academia, specially about a writer-professor who has not churned any new novel in years. He has other weird friends along the way. 

Winter Hours by Mary Oliver. I love Mary Oliver, and I love Prof. Majorie Evasco who gave this to me. 

The Uncollected Stories of Mavis Gallant. I don't read tita Mavis before I write. I get too intimidated and self-conscious just thinking of her surgically precise sentences.

Utopia Avenue by David Mitchell. Friends make songs and form a rock band. I cried at the end. I love David Mitchell. I endeavor to read everything he writes. I also enjoyed The Thousand Autumns of Jacob de Zoet. 

Montreal Standard Time by Mavis Gallant. A collection of the stories the author wrote for a newspaper, until she decided to leave Canada and start a life writing fiction in Paris. 

 

Being Mortal by Atul Gawande. Must-read for all doctors, especially medical oncologists. 

Things Become Other Things by Craig Mod. I follow his blog (craigmod.com), and I'm a huge fan of his writing and photography. So much wisdom and compassion. I'm considering doing a solitary pilgrimage hike of sorts in Japan. 

Out of the Silent Planet by C.S. Lewis. I like a good science fiction work. 

Vintage Munro by Alice Munro. Her stories are richer than full length novels. 

Here I Am by Jonathan Safran Foer. Brilliant. 

Varieties of Exile by Mavis Gallant. I'm a fan, clearly.

A Wilderness Station by Alice Munro. I'm a fan, too, obviously.

Silence and Beauty by Makoto Fujimura. Christ's image being trampled, and what the means in Japanese society. His sentences, not just his art, are a gift to the world and to artists, in general. 

Vital Signs, edited by Ronnie Baticulon and Marjorie Evasco. What a celebration of short stories about healing by Filipino writers. 

The Books of Jacob by Olga Tocarczuk. A heavy lift for me, but otherwise enjoyable when read once chapter at a time, with a few days in between. 

The MacArthur Study Bible given by Kuya Vance and Ate Milaine. 

The Glory of Christ by John Owen. A feast for the soul as Owen reminds us of what it means to behold Christ's glory. 

First Love, Last Rites by Ian McEwan. He's a genius. 

What We Can Know by Ian McEwan. His novel about the future but otherwise feels very present. 

A Month of Sunday by John Updike. A Protestant minister takes a leave of absence because of sexual misconduct. You deplore the minister, but Updike's prose is a joy. 

The Longing for Home by Frederick Buechner. I learned about Buecher through Russel Moore's podcast. 

The Remarkable Ordinary by Frederick Buechner. I plan to read everything he's written. 

The Fifth Season by N.K. Jemisin. A fantasy novel about the persecution of people who are able to do magic. 

Americanah by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie. I echo the director Steven Soderbergh's testimony about Chimamanda's work:

But the bottom line is her understanding of just pure storytelling matched with a prose style that's just as aerodynamic as can be achieved. Like there's not a wasted syllable in any of these works. And there are sentences, there are single sentences that you go, well, you could write a whole book about that sentence.

It's just I was completely floored. And so burn through everything that I could get really quickly because it was like a drug, like it was just great storytelling.

Pachinko by Min Jin Lee. Powerful story about many generations of a Korean family. 

 

The Collaborators by Katrina Tuvera. From a previous blog post: 

I read Katrina Tuvera's 203-page novel, The Collaborators, simply one of the finest novels you'll lay your eyes on. It traces the intertwining lives of Carlos and Renata, their daughter Brynne, and Jacob, son of Carlos's friend. The story spans key points in Philippine history: from the Japanese occupation, Martial Law, to the end of the 20th century, with President Estrada's impeachment trial in the background. I ordered the novel, along with a few others, a month ago from the Ateneo Press website, without knowing much about her and her genius. Since I'd started reading it last night, I couldn't put it down.

 

 

I hope I didn't miss anything.

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