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Confessions of A Volcano: A Novel
“Confessions is an important text because it explores a different psycho-social landscape, it works within a Buddhist sensibility, a Japanese aesthetic, and places the Filipino novel on unfamiliar grounds: an Asian tradition. Philippine tradition as a mixture of folk belief, Roman Catholicism, and Spanish and American influences seems to have developed apart from major Asian religious and philosophical traditions. It is this other Asian tradition that Daniel, the novel’s protagonist, encounters in his visit to Japan. During his visit, he learns about Filipino contract workers, the Japayuki, the pleasure girls imported from other Asian countries. He witnesses the exploitation of these workers. At the same time and quite at odds with social reality, Daniel has an aesthetic pursuit: he is fascinated by the life and work of Osamu Dazai, an early twentieth-century Japanese writer. His fascination
with Dazai, who committed suicide by throwing himself into the Tokyo River, leads him to recreate a Japanese writer’s sensibility.”
TOMAS N. SANTOS
in Philippine Studies
with Dazai, who committed suicide by throwing himself into the Tokyo River, leads him to recreate a Japanese writer’s sensibility.”
TOMAS N. SANTOS
in Philippine Studies
176 pages, Paperback
Published January 1, 1990
8 people are currently reading
145 people want to read
About the author
Eric Gamalinda
23 books53 followersBorn and raised in Manila, Eric Gamalinda first published in the Philippines four novels: Planet Waves, Confessions of a Volcano, Empire of Memory, and My Sad Republic; a short story collection, Peripheral Vision; and a collection of poems, Lyrics from a Dead Language. All were written and published in the last decade of the twentieth century to literary acclaim and recognized with National Book Awards and the Carlos Palanca Memorial Awards many times over, on top of his nonfiction and plays. His fifth novel, The Descartes Highlands, was shortlisted for the Man Asian Prize. His other US publications include the poetry collections Zero Gravity, winner of the Asian American Literary Prize, and Amigo Warfare; and a short story collection, People are Strange.
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Displaying 1 - 11 of 11 reviews
June 17, 2015
I was curious about how this book supposedly "[placed] the Filipino novel on unfamiliar grounds: an Asian tradition." I have always been fascinated by the culture of Japan, and that is the principal reason for my buying this book--I wanted to see how the Filipino and Japanese cultures would mesh together in the space of the novel.
With this juxtaposition, my own prejudices against my own country were painfully called out, and it made me incredibly guilty, even as I continued to admire the Japanese way of looking at the world. I approached the book sociologically, and at times, I think we may have been on the same note. But then I was constantly reminded of Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie's TED talk on the singular story. I have the ugly habit of seeing a singular story of things when on a level greater than the interpersonal, having these presumptions on them and summing them up with such shallow judgments. This is true for me not just on things that are distant and foreign; it also holds true for the near and the familiar.
The truth is, I was left confused after finishing this book. I noticed that the author thought a lot about the concept of mono no aware, a Japanese term which pertains to a certain sentiment that you feel for the present: nostalgia from the knowledge that all things will come to pass. Luisa asks a fellow character once, "What do you believe, Hiroko?" Hiroko answers:
"In everything, in nothing... I believe that what I see will not last forever, and so everything in this regard is beautiful, if only because they are here, alive."
There was a general veil of sadness over all the stories within the book. There were glimmers of other sentiments, surely antonyms of sadness, but they were difficult to name--perhaps they cannot be named, even. But what is to be seen here? That, as the title of one of Yasunari Kawabata's novel goes, there is a natural juxtaposition of beauty and sadness in the images that the novel creates? And that therefore, this is how we must look at our own country wrought with numerous problems that we are all aware of but cannot resolve?
I have no answers for the questions that this book posed to me, the reader. All I know is, I liked this open-endedness, which seems very Japanese to me. Seeing Filipino life through a Japanese lens is a refreshing experience, if not a liberating one. Perhaps in my subconscious I was able to name the things that I could not name with my tongue; perhaps not. But the sentiment that the last page of the novel gave me left its mark: I am overwhelmed with an unexplainable feeling of hope.
With this juxtaposition, my own prejudices against my own country were painfully called out, and it made me incredibly guilty, even as I continued to admire the Japanese way of looking at the world. I approached the book sociologically, and at times, I think we may have been on the same note. But then I was constantly reminded of Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie's TED talk on the singular story. I have the ugly habit of seeing a singular story of things when on a level greater than the interpersonal, having these presumptions on them and summing them up with such shallow judgments. This is true for me not just on things that are distant and foreign; it also holds true for the near and the familiar.
The truth is, I was left confused after finishing this book. I noticed that the author thought a lot about the concept of mono no aware, a Japanese term which pertains to a certain sentiment that you feel for the present: nostalgia from the knowledge that all things will come to pass. Luisa asks a fellow character once, "What do you believe, Hiroko?" Hiroko answers:
"In everything, in nothing... I believe that what I see will not last forever, and so everything in this regard is beautiful, if only because they are here, alive."
There was a general veil of sadness over all the stories within the book. There were glimmers of other sentiments, surely antonyms of sadness, but they were difficult to name--perhaps they cannot be named, even. But what is to be seen here? That, as the title of one of Yasunari Kawabata's novel goes, there is a natural juxtaposition of beauty and sadness in the images that the novel creates? And that therefore, this is how we must look at our own country wrought with numerous problems that we are all aware of but cannot resolve?
I have no answers for the questions that this book posed to me, the reader. All I know is, I liked this open-endedness, which seems very Japanese to me. Seeing Filipino life through a Japanese lens is a refreshing experience, if not a liberating one. Perhaps in my subconscious I was able to name the things that I could not name with my tongue; perhaps not. But the sentiment that the last page of the novel gave me left its mark: I am overwhelmed with an unexplainable feeling of hope.
September 7, 2019
The actual book is special to me because I found it in a bookshop in Baguio City, and brought it with me even farther north on a spontaneous trip to Sagada. The content, though — bit jarring to juxtapose Manila with Tokyo, and until the very end I wasn’t sure what to make of it.
May 16, 2016
"Sometimes I like to think we choose yo go on living not because we are too drained even to bother with killing ourselves, but because of some obstinate, burning instinct for hope."
Beautiful. 10/10 would read repeatedly.
(And I admit the last chapter helped me a little in coping with this depressive feeling that's been hanging around me lately.)
Thank you, Eric Gamalinda, for existing.
Beautiful. 10/10 would read repeatedly.
(And I admit the last chapter helped me a little in coping with this depressive feeling that's been hanging around me lately.)
Thank you, Eric Gamalinda, for existing.
October 8, 2015
It's baffling how a book can be so Zen and a page-turner at the same time. I loved it.
June 10, 2025
I actually really loved this book. I love how Eric Gamalinda uses such descriptive imagery to tell the story. It is very interesting and has also showed the political and social climate of the Philippines during that time. Love the nod to Osamu Dzai and other references to both Japanese and Filipino cultures. My favorite part was the awareness of the narrator to their role in the book. It’s like breaking the 4th wall in theater plays. My professor actually recommended to read Eric Gamalinda and I didn’t know that I had his book in my collection because it was on my to read pile. It was really nice having encountered his works. Really nice to read
August 7, 2022
Eric Gamalinda is the bomb. Devoured this book. It sucks you into the world of the novel, where literature is a country and Japan is a character. Very haunting. Such beautiful, lyrical language. He’s a poet and it shows.
May 13, 2017
Although the book as a whole is poetic, it was too disjointed for my taste so I give it 2 stars.
September 2, 2017
Poignant.
February 12, 2017
"I have an edge over him: I write novels, and I dissolve my frustrations in the mesh of sentiments I throw in. He has no special function other than to observe, and that is the greatest frustration of all, to be able to observe and not do anything about it."
It’s astoundingly obvious that Eric Gamalinda’s Confessions of a Volcano (new edition by Anvil, 2014) is another polemical novel fused with the urgent desire to teach its readers the ins and outs of creative writing. Why polemical? Another astoundingly obvious observation is Gamalinda’s use of post-Marcos era as the springboard of the narrative, highlighting the fact that after the dissolution of a dictatorship, the struggle for survival has never seen its setting.
This novel, written in omniscient point of view intervened by first person POVs standing as the editorial soul – a watchful observer and sometimes an insecure novelist - on the characters, revolves around Daniel who visited Japan for research and journalistic purposes. This visit has changed his life and his perspectives towards the japayukis (Southeast Asian females hired to be entertainers in Japan). There he met Luisa and Rosie, both who escaped life from the Philippines to obtain the promise of a good life set in the cosmopolis of the “Land of the Rising Sun”. Daniel was able to meet Seiji, a young Japanese student whose enthusiasm is engrossed on culture, arts, and history, and whose intimacy with Luisa stayed firm and profound until Luisa’ suicide act. And there was the charming Hiroko, the reliable storyteller to Daniel while he was back in the Philippines. The exchange of “letters and fragments” added to Gamalinda’s attempt on the authenticity of dialogue and emotions. The bestselling poet-fictionist was able to lend his language – lyrical, exquisite, and profuse – to each of the characters while staying true to his role as narrator and observer.
Through the dialogues that abound in the plot, the readers had the chance to look into the yearnings and yieldings of the Filipina japayukis. Gamalinda, a professor at the Center for the Study and Ethnicity and Race, brought us into the journey of these impetuous yet tenacious hopefuls whose young lives are driven by their immediate family’s necessities back home and by the unquenchable thirst for significance, the latter being emphasized by Gamalinda as the more important reason for this tremendous Filipino diaspora.
Daniel’s interest in Dazai Osamu reflects how Gamalinda wanted to speak to us that the culture of a particular country will be best understood through the looking glass of its literary masters – the poets of the immemorial times and those whose works of pen served as sword-like machineries to go against the status quo and to fight for people’s liberty. One is sufficient to say that this novel is pedagogical one. Although the endeavor is discreet, this novel is drizzled with references to and samples of Osamu’s writings and philosophy, splattering on the pages the aesthetic musings of Japanese literature and literature in general. In its most basic sense, Confessions of a Volcano is a brave stint of seeing Philippine-Japanese connections in terms of literature’s role in dignifying men and women and lifting the voices of the unheard.
Is there such thing as japayuki literature? Confessions of a Volcano has, doubtless, the potential to commence this potentially strong canon. Or this might add to the rich yet unrecognized works establishing an asylum for these women victimized by a society lacking in consideration of human dignity.
It’s astoundingly obvious that Eric Gamalinda’s Confessions of a Volcano (new edition by Anvil, 2014) is another polemical novel fused with the urgent desire to teach its readers the ins and outs of creative writing. Why polemical? Another astoundingly obvious observation is Gamalinda’s use of post-Marcos era as the springboard of the narrative, highlighting the fact that after the dissolution of a dictatorship, the struggle for survival has never seen its setting.
This novel, written in omniscient point of view intervened by first person POVs standing as the editorial soul – a watchful observer and sometimes an insecure novelist - on the characters, revolves around Daniel who visited Japan for research and journalistic purposes. This visit has changed his life and his perspectives towards the japayukis (Southeast Asian females hired to be entertainers in Japan). There he met Luisa and Rosie, both who escaped life from the Philippines to obtain the promise of a good life set in the cosmopolis of the “Land of the Rising Sun”. Daniel was able to meet Seiji, a young Japanese student whose enthusiasm is engrossed on culture, arts, and history, and whose intimacy with Luisa stayed firm and profound until Luisa’ suicide act. And there was the charming Hiroko, the reliable storyteller to Daniel while he was back in the Philippines. The exchange of “letters and fragments” added to Gamalinda’s attempt on the authenticity of dialogue and emotions. The bestselling poet-fictionist was able to lend his language – lyrical, exquisite, and profuse – to each of the characters while staying true to his role as narrator and observer.
Through the dialogues that abound in the plot, the readers had the chance to look into the yearnings and yieldings of the Filipina japayukis. Gamalinda, a professor at the Center for the Study and Ethnicity and Race, brought us into the journey of these impetuous yet tenacious hopefuls whose young lives are driven by their immediate family’s necessities back home and by the unquenchable thirst for significance, the latter being emphasized by Gamalinda as the more important reason for this tremendous Filipino diaspora.
Daniel’s interest in Dazai Osamu reflects how Gamalinda wanted to speak to us that the culture of a particular country will be best understood through the looking glass of its literary masters – the poets of the immemorial times and those whose works of pen served as sword-like machineries to go against the status quo and to fight for people’s liberty. One is sufficient to say that this novel is pedagogical one. Although the endeavor is discreet, this novel is drizzled with references to and samples of Osamu’s writings and philosophy, splattering on the pages the aesthetic musings of Japanese literature and literature in general. In its most basic sense, Confessions of a Volcano is a brave stint of seeing Philippine-Japanese connections in terms of literature’s role in dignifying men and women and lifting the voices of the unheard.
Is there such thing as japayuki literature? Confessions of a Volcano has, doubtless, the potential to commence this potentially strong canon. Or this might add to the rich yet unrecognized works establishing an asylum for these women victimized by a society lacking in consideration of human dignity.
September 5, 2021
First published in 1990, Eric Gamalinda wrote this novel about the struggles of being an illegal "entertainer" in Japan, being a journalist in the post-Marcos regime Manila, and being young adults who hope for a brighter day as Japan's longest-reigning monarch dies.
At first, it was a little confusing because you don't have any idea where the story goes or who's the main focus. As much as I have an utmost appreciation for poets who use their ingenuity in writing novels, I feel like Gamalinda may have abused the freedom he had. Some of the sentences, especially the dialogues, are so full of big, uncommon words which, to me, are quite unnecessary--making the characters less interesting and believable. For example, there's no way that a guy from Tondo, Manila would ever say "That's neanderthal, Luisa." to a woman whom he had just met. But who knows? Perhaps, that's how bachelors from Tondo talked in the 90s...
There were also a lot of other side stories inserted all throughout that seemed so irrelevant to the main flow of the story. Word-vomit.
Overall, still a pretty decent read.
3/5 stars
At first, it was a little confusing because you don't have any idea where the story goes or who's the main focus. As much as I have an utmost appreciation for poets who use their ingenuity in writing novels, I feel like Gamalinda may have abused the freedom he had. Some of the sentences, especially the dialogues, are so full of big, uncommon words which, to me, are quite unnecessary--making the characters less interesting and believable. For example, there's no way that a guy from Tondo, Manila would ever say "That's neanderthal, Luisa." to a woman whom he had just met. But who knows? Perhaps, that's how bachelors from Tondo talked in the 90s...
There were also a lot of other side stories inserted all throughout that seemed so irrelevant to the main flow of the story. Word-vomit.
Overall, still a pretty decent read.
3/5 stars
January 29, 2016
One of those among the pile I think I should read again, when I'm older. Wiser. Or so I think.
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Displaying 1 - 11 of 11 reviews