A writer who merely sits behind his desk or peers at his city through a tinted car window could not have written this.
The person who has written these stories is well-acquainted with the nooks and crannies of Dumaguete (or “Dumaguet” until it becomes “Dumaguete” again in page sixty), he has sought refuge under its acacia trees, he has gone to the market for puto maya and native cocoa, has frequented the chicken inasal places, he has walked its streets, he is burdened by its secrets, he is intimate with its ghosts and the living, and knows his city like a lover knows his beloved’s face.
Wasn’t this supposed to be a collection of fantasy and science fiction? Doesn’t Neil Gaiman’s blurb on the cover further suggest this?
Yes, it is; and yes, it does. But I recognize in this book what I recognize in favorite writers like Khoury, Pamuk, and Mahfouz. Their works are celebrations of their cities. The love affair they have with their cities seep into their stories regardless of genre. And yes, it is a book of heartbreak and magic, horror and fantasy, but look deeper and see that it is a celebration of Dumaguete — it’s landscapes, seascapes, its food, and the loves lost and found on its soil.
Beirut has Elias Khoury, Cairo has Naguib Mahfouz, Istanbul has Orhan Pamuk, Dumaguete has Ian Casocot.
Someone give this guy multiple awards.
Oh, wait…
The Book-Butterfly 