I'm very hesitant to review this book, mostly because I'm not quite sure how to put to words what it is that reading this has made me feel.

It is at once both very familiar, and yet completely foreign. The Cantonese, the way that the author translates the slang and the phrases, the cultural traditions, the deeply embedded lifestyle that is Chinese pride and saving face...when I read about that, it was like something sparked in my blood. This part, I understand, and I have lived.

But then there's the fact that this story is told from the perspective of an immigrant to America, and I am very much an ABC, American-born-Chinese-- or, as Aunt Paula would say, a "bamboo shoot". So there's this whole other dimension of the story that is just as significant as the Cantonese that I simply can't comprehend. It's as if I'm a relative, but once-removed.

Overall, I don't think I've been as deeply moved by any other book I've read this year than I have by this one. I'm left with a feeling of hollow sadness that I can't quite put my finger on, and yet, I don't mind. For me, this story is worth the weight of consciousness that has been left behind.