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Trafficking in nostalgia: Essays from memory
[His] exuberance and commitment can be seen in his first collection of essays, the aptly titled Trafficking in Nostalgia: Essays from Memory. [Nostalgia is] the perfect word for the world Exie's essays inhabit.
...Writers are nostalgic by nature, and our longing for a world where words are enough fuels all our desires. The transactions we make with writing, the pleadings and negotiations for just one more turn of phrase from the Muse, are what we traffic in. But it also points to what it might mean to be caught in nostalgia, where images and memories collide.
—from the foreword by Rica Bolipata Santos
...Writers are nostalgic by nature, and our longing for a world where words are enough fuels all our desires. The transactions we make with writing, the pleadings and negotiations for just one more turn of phrase from the Muse, are what we traffic in. But it also points to what it might mean to be caught in nostalgia, where images and memories collide.
—from the foreword by Rica Bolipata Santos
- GenresNonfiction
196 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 2012
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53 people want to read
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Displaying 1 - 6 of 6 reviews
August 6, 2025
The first book written by a Filipino author that I have properly read as a conscious 20-year-old. My mother used to work with him. Exie really was arrogant, appparently.
Nevertheless, no one can earnestly capture the quiet, loud, humble, proud, constant thrum of being nostalgic into words than your own flesh and blood. Suddenly I am fourteen again, blood roaring in my ears during my first noise barrage, as I discover that I am part of something bigger than myself. Now I am twenty here, heart hammering against my ribcage during my first Creative Writing class in college under Glenn Diaz, as I rediscover that I am more than the research papers churned out of me. Soon I will be twenty-six somewhere, thoughts racing in my mind during my nth paycheck, as I have yet to discover whether the academe, or the creatives, or the... whatever is bound to steer the course of my life forever.
I hate myself for discovering Filipino nonfiction too late. Everyone starts somewhere. This is only the beginning, and nowhere close to the end.
Nevertheless, no one can earnestly capture the quiet, loud, humble, proud, constant thrum of being nostalgic into words than your own flesh and blood. Suddenly I am fourteen again, blood roaring in my ears during my first noise barrage, as I discover that I am part of something bigger than myself. Now I am twenty here, heart hammering against my ribcage during my first Creative Writing class in college under Glenn Diaz, as I rediscover that I am more than the research papers churned out of me. Soon I will be twenty-six somewhere, thoughts racing in my mind during my nth paycheck, as I have yet to discover whether the academe, or the creatives, or the... whatever is bound to steer the course of my life forever.
I hate myself for discovering Filipino nonfiction too late. Everyone starts somewhere. This is only the beginning, and nowhere close to the end.
October 17, 2025
technique and writing style-wise, this book is great especially since it used a lot of descriptions and change of POVS so that was really an interesting ride but nyeah, the content is not it for me... perhaps im searching for more vulnerability like beyond these beautiful words what was it like during those moments, was it stressful or sad or any other emotions? maybe its bec the author leaned in much rumination and hindsight which is great, dont get me wrong, but using that technique all the time... it does get boring
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September 1, 2025sir exie was my prof back in my first year of college, the only year i’ll spend on campus before the pandemic. he taught my favorite class which was the only one among my business-course mandated electives that comprehensively tackled literature (fiction and non-fiction alike) with the intention of engaging with it, thinking about it, and then expressing our thoughts on it via written outputs we had to periodically submit over the semester. we watched a film about chinese concubines. we were asked to buy a physical copy of the merchant of venice. we wrote down a poem on a piece of manila paper so that we can discuss it in front of our peers.
for the first output we had to submit in his class, he provided us with a prompt: “i hate it when the hero dies.” write what you will about it, was his instruction, at least what i remember him saying to us. go crazy, was how i understood it. sir exie chose to read what i had submitted aloud to the class. six years later, that essay remains to be, in my own completely biased and unprofessional opinion, one of the best and cringiest things i’ve written.
it was in his class that i learned an interesting, important, vital lesson about poetry that i carry with me until now: the poem gifted to us as readers is intended as the truth. to rewrite it and change it, ultimately transforms it. its essence may linger but to change anything about the poem, even if it may be as simple as adding a line break or tweaking a capitalization, alters it in some way.
it feels important to preface any thoughts on this book with these things, significant-only-to-me memories. it colored the way i approached this collection, colored it with the knowledge that sir exie was able to compound into a single semester a lot of learning and tenderness towards literature that i continue to tend to until now.
as i read it, the whole book felt like a large tending-to; tending to memories and nostalgia and long-passed feelings that seem as large as it is in present than it may have been in the past. i loved the stories where hilda, his wife, was present because it truly felt like she was /there/ in between all the words, an actual presence that was lit up by love and adoration and genuine regard. i loved how quiet the writing was. how it seemed like sentences were set up to leave me reeling while also allowing the sentence itself to breathe and sit in the feeling of what’s been written.
all throughout the book, i kept finding things to adore. but the last bit, where each essay/story was laid down in further detail, was probably my favorite part out of all of it. this line rang inside my head like a gong once i had read it: “the story is given. what is left is telling it.” there was so much to tell and it all felt like a gift. a good book can do that, i think. and at the end of it, there’s nothing else to do but to thank it and hope you’re not alone in the thanking.
for the first output we had to submit in his class, he provided us with a prompt: “i hate it when the hero dies.” write what you will about it, was his instruction, at least what i remember him saying to us. go crazy, was how i understood it. sir exie chose to read what i had submitted aloud to the class. six years later, that essay remains to be, in my own completely biased and unprofessional opinion, one of the best and cringiest things i’ve written.
it was in his class that i learned an interesting, important, vital lesson about poetry that i carry with me until now: the poem gifted to us as readers is intended as the truth. to rewrite it and change it, ultimately transforms it. its essence may linger but to change anything about the poem, even if it may be as simple as adding a line break or tweaking a capitalization, alters it in some way.
it feels important to preface any thoughts on this book with these things, significant-only-to-me memories. it colored the way i approached this collection, colored it with the knowledge that sir exie was able to compound into a single semester a lot of learning and tenderness towards literature that i continue to tend to until now.
as i read it, the whole book felt like a large tending-to; tending to memories and nostalgia and long-passed feelings that seem as large as it is in present than it may have been in the past. i loved the stories where hilda, his wife, was present because it truly felt like she was /there/ in between all the words, an actual presence that was lit up by love and adoration and genuine regard. i loved how quiet the writing was. how it seemed like sentences were set up to leave me reeling while also allowing the sentence itself to breathe and sit in the feeling of what’s been written.
all throughout the book, i kept finding things to adore. but the last bit, where each essay/story was laid down in further detail, was probably my favorite part out of all of it. this line rang inside my head like a gong once i had read it: “the story is given. what is left is telling it.” there was so much to tell and it all felt like a gift. a good book can do that, i think. and at the end of it, there’s nothing else to do but to thank it and hope you’re not alone in the thanking.
May 24, 2023
A few pages in on "Trafficking in Nostalgia," one gets the sense that they're reading from a learned mind. I found this collection of essays a satisfying blend of emotion and intelligence. Some essays moved me, formed a lump in my throat, and made me reflect about similar life experiences Abola touches on. The essay subjects were a varied collection: family stories, the music of his generation, his experiences as a Martial law baby, and his insights on literature and teaching, he writes about these with an immersive and emotional, and at times, experimental style.
The concluding essay I found most impactful. In writing about creative non-fiction, an explanation on the book's title is given. "To approach a memory, to retrieve it from the dusty rooms of the mind is to alter it. The desire to preserve comes up against the desire to exploit: to produce a piece of beautiful writing, to obtain a good grade, a compliment, a prize. One traffics nostalgia with many motives, some far less than noble." Having read mostly fiction for a while, reading those lines were enlightening and thought-provoking.They challeged my perceptions on creative non-fiction. How does one go about the business of writing the "creative treatment of actuality?" Is the duty of a nonfiction writer merely to tell what happened? How does a writer make memory and imagination co-exist? How truthful must it be, and how much imagination is considered less noble?
Overall, it was a satisfying read, the type that leaves you assured you've made good use of your time when you've reached the last page. He captures the feeling of nostalgia well. His sentences drip with melancholy and bring about that satisfying quality of literature, when you know and understand exactly what it means.
💫Favorite essays:
☁️Notes on an idea for a story: An experimental essay. Definitely had me thinking how it qualified as an essay until the last paragraph - which changed the context of the piece as a whole. A favorite style of mine.
🏠Many mansions - This was the essay Abola won a Palanca for and it's quite evident why.
💌My wife, the book-eater: Playful and romantic. It's about how his wife has a different taste for literature as he, how he judges her commercial taste but accepts and loves her anyway.
The concluding essay I found most impactful. In writing about creative non-fiction, an explanation on the book's title is given. "To approach a memory, to retrieve it from the dusty rooms of the mind is to alter it. The desire to preserve comes up against the desire to exploit: to produce a piece of beautiful writing, to obtain a good grade, a compliment, a prize. One traffics nostalgia with many motives, some far less than noble." Having read mostly fiction for a while, reading those lines were enlightening and thought-provoking.They challeged my perceptions on creative non-fiction. How does one go about the business of writing the "creative treatment of actuality?" Is the duty of a nonfiction writer merely to tell what happened? How does a writer make memory and imagination co-exist? How truthful must it be, and how much imagination is considered less noble?
Overall, it was a satisfying read, the type that leaves you assured you've made good use of your time when you've reached the last page. He captures the feeling of nostalgia well. His sentences drip with melancholy and bring about that satisfying quality of literature, when you know and understand exactly what it means.
💫Favorite essays:
☁️Notes on an idea for a story: An experimental essay. Definitely had me thinking how it qualified as an essay until the last paragraph - which changed the context of the piece as a whole. A favorite style of mine.
🏠Many mansions - This was the essay Abola won a Palanca for and it's quite evident why.
💌My wife, the book-eater: Playful and romantic. It's about how his wife has a different taste for literature as he, how he judges her commercial taste but accepts and loves her anyway.
August 25, 2022
took me awhile to finish it but as someone who's realistic i'm fond of personal essays ! I enjoyed reading the book and i'm very glad to unlock a lot of nostalgic memories while reading this book. it's relatable and feels homey (maybe bcos im filo and the events feels very close to my heart).
April 13, 2022
"Many Mansions", evoked a weird sense of longing for my childhood because my family also used to keep moving from one house to another. I enjoyed reading his essays abt teenage infatuation, how 80's music shaped his generation, his experiences as a college student during the Marcos regime, and him navigating life through adulthood.
Displaying 1 - 6 of 6 reviews