Stephen Hong Sohn's Blog, page 15
August 1, 2022
A Review of Cassandra Khaw's Nothing but Blackened Teeth (Tor.com, 2021),
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ccape
Written by Stephen Hong Sohn
Edited by Corinna Cape
I remember having Cassandra Khaw’s Nothing but Blackened Teeth (Tor.com, 2021) proudly displayed during Halloween, reminding me that the cover was something appropriate for the holiday. Unfortunately, I didn’t get around to reading it until well into 2022. In any case, let’s let the official marketing description do some work for us: “A Heian-era mansion stands abandoned, its foundations resting on the bones of a bride and its walls packed with the remains of the girls sacrificed to keep her company. It’s the perfect venue for a group of thrill-seeking friends, brought back together to celebrate a wedding. A night of food, drinks, and games quickly spirals into a nightmare as secrets get dragged out and relationships are tested. But the house has secrets too. Lurking in the shadows is the ghost bride with a black smile and a hungry heart. And she gets lonely down there in the dirt. Effortlessly turning the classic haunted house story on its head, Nothing but Blackened Teeth is a sharp and devastating exploration of grief, the parasitic nature of relationships, and the consequences of our actions.”
I was disappointed that we don’t get the character names, so I’m providing them for you. Cat, our narrator-protagonist, is a plucky horror final-girl, while she arrives to the mansion with four friends. Faiz and Talia are married; Talia is somewhat of a rival. There’s the handsome Phillip, and then there’s Lin, who arrives a little bit later, and who has a bit of a history with Cat. Of the five, four—I believe—are of Asian descent, which is a welcome difference in terms of the American horror genre that I was raised on. In any case, Khaw plays quite well with the standard haunted house trope now infused with Japanese folkloric dynamics, involving yokai and associated figures. Over time, it becomes apparent that the legends about the house aren’t just fictitious. Indeed, a key climax point—and I’m giving you the spoiler warning here, so you can turn away if you need to—involves Talia becoming possessed in some form by the ghost-bride. The title is a nod to the narrator-protagonist’s obsession with the place where the mouth on the ghost-bride is supposed to be: there are just “blackened teeth,” seemingly ready to consume. While there’s a lot of mayhem and gore, to be sure, the novel is somewhat uneven, which I attribute primarily to the use of the first person, which doesn’t work as well for a horror fiction because we’re tethered to the perspective of a single person. Nevertheless, fans of the horror genre will feel fulfilled!
Buy the Book Here
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ccape
Written by Stephen Hong Sohn
Edited by Corinna Cape
I remember having Cassandra Khaw’s Nothing but Blackened Teeth (Tor.com, 2021) proudly displayed during Halloween, reminding me that the cover was something appropriate for the holiday. Unfortunately, I didn’t get around to reading it until well into 2022. In any case, let’s let the official marketing description do some work for us: “A Heian-era mansion stands abandoned, its foundations resting on the bones of a bride and its walls packed with the remains of the girls sacrificed to keep her company. It’s the perfect venue for a group of thrill-seeking friends, brought back together to celebrate a wedding. A night of food, drinks, and games quickly spirals into a nightmare as secrets get dragged out and relationships are tested. But the house has secrets too. Lurking in the shadows is the ghost bride with a black smile and a hungry heart. And she gets lonely down there in the dirt. Effortlessly turning the classic haunted house story on its head, Nothing but Blackened Teeth is a sharp and devastating exploration of grief, the parasitic nature of relationships, and the consequences of our actions.”
I was disappointed that we don’t get the character names, so I’m providing them for you. Cat, our narrator-protagonist, is a plucky horror final-girl, while she arrives to the mansion with four friends. Faiz and Talia are married; Talia is somewhat of a rival. There’s the handsome Phillip, and then there’s Lin, who arrives a little bit later, and who has a bit of a history with Cat. Of the five, four—I believe—are of Asian descent, which is a welcome difference in terms of the American horror genre that I was raised on. In any case, Khaw plays quite well with the standard haunted house trope now infused with Japanese folkloric dynamics, involving yokai and associated figures. Over time, it becomes apparent that the legends about the house aren’t just fictitious. Indeed, a key climax point—and I’m giving you the spoiler warning here, so you can turn away if you need to—involves Talia becoming possessed in some form by the ghost-bride. The title is a nod to the narrator-protagonist’s obsession with the place where the mouth on the ghost-bride is supposed to be: there are just “blackened teeth,” seemingly ready to consume. While there’s a lot of mayhem and gore, to be sure, the novel is somewhat uneven, which I attribute primarily to the use of the first person, which doesn’t work as well for a horror fiction because we’re tethered to the perspective of a single person. Nevertheless, fans of the horror genre will feel fulfilled!
Buy the Book Here
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April 11, 2022
A Review of Cherie Dimaline’s Empire of Wild (HarperCollins, 2020)
Posted by:
trihal
Written by Stephen Hong Sohn
Edited by Tripat Rihal
So, at the behest of a former student, I read Cherie Dimaline’s Empire of Wild (HarperCollins, 2020). As a note, Dimaline is a Canadian indigenous writer of Métis descent, and occasionally here, we’ve been casting light on other BIPOC writers! In any case, I read this work, and I had a lot of mixed feelings! Let’s let the marketing description give us more context:
“A bold and brilliant new indigenous voice in contemporary literature makes her American debut with this kinetic, imaginative, and sensuous fable inspired by the traditional Canadian Métis legend of the Rogarou—a werewolf-like creature that haunts the roads and woods of native people’s communities. Joan has been searching for her missing husband, Victor, for nearly a year—ever since that terrible night they’d had their first serious argument hours before he mysteriously vanished. Her Métis family has lived in their tightly knit rural community for generations, but no one keeps the old ways . . . until they have to. That moment has arrived for Joan. One morning, grieving and severely hungover, Joan hears a shocking sound coming from inside a revival tent in a gritty Walmart parking lot. It is the unmistakable voice of Victor. Drawn inside, she sees him. He has the same face, the same eyes, the same hands, though his hair is much shorter and he's wearing a suit. But he doesn't seem to recognize Joan at all. He insists his name is Eugene Wolff, and that he is a reverend whose mission is to spread the word of Jesus and grow His flock. Yet Joan suspects there is something dark and terrifying within this charismatic preacher who professes to be a man of God . . . something old and very dangerous. Joan turns to Ajean, an elderly foul-mouthed card shark who is one of the few among her community steeped in the traditions of her people and knowledgeable about their ancient enemies. With the help of the old Métis and her peculiar Johnny-Cash-loving, twelve-year-old nephew Zeus, Joan must find a way to uncover the truth and remind Reverend Wolff who he really is . . . if he really is. Her life, and those of everyone she loves, depends upon it.”
This review is admittedly going to be really short! As I mentioned, I have mixed feelings about this work! On the one hand, the premise is truly engaging. You want to get to know a little bit more about the Rogarou. On the other hand, I had a difficult time just finding the rhythm of the narrative. Joan is truly an intriguing, unique character, with an indomitable spirit. She knows that Victor is somewhere in this Reverend Wolff, but needs to figure out a way to get him to see his true identity. The problem is that the Reverend Wolf-Victor figure is now embedded in a cult-like church that is essentially controlling him, so he cannot remember who he truly is. Here, Dimaline is making a clear critique of Christian discourses that certainly enacted violence on indigenous communities. This political element is a clear motivation for Dimaline’s narrative, but I found the conclusion a bit rushed, and I am hoping that Dimaline’s ending was meant to set up another installment!
Buy the Book Here
comments
trihal
Written by Stephen Hong Sohn
Edited by Tripat Rihal
So, at the behest of a former student, I read Cherie Dimaline’s Empire of Wild (HarperCollins, 2020). As a note, Dimaline is a Canadian indigenous writer of Métis descent, and occasionally here, we’ve been casting light on other BIPOC writers! In any case, I read this work, and I had a lot of mixed feelings! Let’s let the marketing description give us more context:
“A bold and brilliant new indigenous voice in contemporary literature makes her American debut with this kinetic, imaginative, and sensuous fable inspired by the traditional Canadian Métis legend of the Rogarou—a werewolf-like creature that haunts the roads and woods of native people’s communities. Joan has been searching for her missing husband, Victor, for nearly a year—ever since that terrible night they’d had their first serious argument hours before he mysteriously vanished. Her Métis family has lived in their tightly knit rural community for generations, but no one keeps the old ways . . . until they have to. That moment has arrived for Joan. One morning, grieving and severely hungover, Joan hears a shocking sound coming from inside a revival tent in a gritty Walmart parking lot. It is the unmistakable voice of Victor. Drawn inside, she sees him. He has the same face, the same eyes, the same hands, though his hair is much shorter and he's wearing a suit. But he doesn't seem to recognize Joan at all. He insists his name is Eugene Wolff, and that he is a reverend whose mission is to spread the word of Jesus and grow His flock. Yet Joan suspects there is something dark and terrifying within this charismatic preacher who professes to be a man of God . . . something old and very dangerous. Joan turns to Ajean, an elderly foul-mouthed card shark who is one of the few among her community steeped in the traditions of her people and knowledgeable about their ancient enemies. With the help of the old Métis and her peculiar Johnny-Cash-loving, twelve-year-old nephew Zeus, Joan must find a way to uncover the truth and remind Reverend Wolff who he really is . . . if he really is. Her life, and those of everyone she loves, depends upon it.”
This review is admittedly going to be really short! As I mentioned, I have mixed feelings about this work! On the one hand, the premise is truly engaging. You want to get to know a little bit more about the Rogarou. On the other hand, I had a difficult time just finding the rhythm of the narrative. Joan is truly an intriguing, unique character, with an indomitable spirit. She knows that Victor is somewhere in this Reverend Wolff, but needs to figure out a way to get him to see his true identity. The problem is that the Reverend Wolf-Victor figure is now embedded in a cult-like church that is essentially controlling him, so he cannot remember who he truly is. Here, Dimaline is making a clear critique of Christian discourses that certainly enacted violence on indigenous communities. This political element is a clear motivation for Dimaline’s narrative, but I found the conclusion a bit rushed, and I am hoping that Dimaline’s ending was meant to set up another installment!
Buy the Book Here
comments
A Review of Katie Kimamura’s Intimacies (Riverhead, 2021).
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trihal
Written by Stephen Hong Sohn
Edited by Tripat Rihal
I’ve gotten in the bad habit again of taking a little bit too much time away from reviewing. I read Katie Kitamura’s Intimacies about a month ago, and it was such an intriguing read. Let’s let the official marketing description get us some key information: “An interpreter has come to The Hague to escape New York and work at the International Court. A woman of many languages and identities, she is looking for a place to finally call home. She's drawn into simmering personal dramas: her lover, Adriaan, is separated from his wife but still entangled in his marriage. Her friend Jana witnesses a seemingly random act of violence, a crime the interpreter becomes increasingly obsessed with as she befriends the victim's sister. And she's pulled into an explosive political controversy when she’s asked to interpret for a former president accused of war crimes. A woman of quiet passion, she confronts power, love, and violence, both in her personal intimacies and in her work at the Court. She is soon pushed to the precipice, where betrayal and heartbreak threaten to overwhelm her, forcing her to decide what she wants from her life.”
As someone familiar with most of Kitamura’s publications, I had a similar feeling while reading through this text: dread. There is something about Kitamura’s work, where you always feel like something bad is around the corner. For this particular novel, the bad is pretty much everywhere in the sense that our unnamed protagonist is not sure about the state of her relationship with Adriian. This relationship is refracted on a larger level by the murkiness that the interpreter faces as a kind of conduit of communication when it comes to war crimes cases that are being held at the Hague. As the protagonist comes to realize, the work of interpretation seems as largely subjective as the ethics in which so many of these cases are sometimes wrapped. This kind of ambiguity is the land in which readers are mired; you’re worried at every stage not only for the protagonist, but for the larger cultures and communities that are subsisting.
What I especially love about this particular text is Kitamura’s very effective use of first person narration: we feel this protagonist’s sense of claustrophobia, as she struggles to figure out whether or not she should stay in the Hague, remain an interpreter, and whether or not she can find a home there. We feel her unsettlement when she does not know when Adriaan returns from a trip meant to last only a week. We feel horror once we realize that the protagonist must work closely with someone that Adriaan knows, and who happens to be a major defense lawyer. If you’ve read Kitamura’s last two novels, then you know that characters don’t always survive. Really terrible things can happen, and I was especially worried about the many figures in this particular text. I will say that Kitamura’s conclusion gives us a minor salve, one that I thought was especially fitting given so much gloom that is palpable within this fictional world.
Buy the Book Here
comments
trihal
Written by Stephen Hong Sohn
Edited by Tripat Rihal
I’ve gotten in the bad habit again of taking a little bit too much time away from reviewing. I read Katie Kitamura’s Intimacies about a month ago, and it was such an intriguing read. Let’s let the official marketing description get us some key information: “An interpreter has come to The Hague to escape New York and work at the International Court. A woman of many languages and identities, she is looking for a place to finally call home. She's drawn into simmering personal dramas: her lover, Adriaan, is separated from his wife but still entangled in his marriage. Her friend Jana witnesses a seemingly random act of violence, a crime the interpreter becomes increasingly obsessed with as she befriends the victim's sister. And she's pulled into an explosive political controversy when she’s asked to interpret for a former president accused of war crimes. A woman of quiet passion, she confronts power, love, and violence, both in her personal intimacies and in her work at the Court. She is soon pushed to the precipice, where betrayal and heartbreak threaten to overwhelm her, forcing her to decide what she wants from her life.”
As someone familiar with most of Kitamura’s publications, I had a similar feeling while reading through this text: dread. There is something about Kitamura’s work, where you always feel like something bad is around the corner. For this particular novel, the bad is pretty much everywhere in the sense that our unnamed protagonist is not sure about the state of her relationship with Adriian. This relationship is refracted on a larger level by the murkiness that the interpreter faces as a kind of conduit of communication when it comes to war crimes cases that are being held at the Hague. As the protagonist comes to realize, the work of interpretation seems as largely subjective as the ethics in which so many of these cases are sometimes wrapped. This kind of ambiguity is the land in which readers are mired; you’re worried at every stage not only for the protagonist, but for the larger cultures and communities that are subsisting.
What I especially love about this particular text is Kitamura’s very effective use of first person narration: we feel this protagonist’s sense of claustrophobia, as she struggles to figure out whether or not she should stay in the Hague, remain an interpreter, and whether or not she can find a home there. We feel her unsettlement when she does not know when Adriaan returns from a trip meant to last only a week. We feel horror once we realize that the protagonist must work closely with someone that Adriaan knows, and who happens to be a major defense lawyer. If you’ve read Kitamura’s last two novels, then you know that characters don’t always survive. Really terrible things can happen, and I was especially worried about the many figures in this particular text. I will say that Kitamura’s conclusion gives us a minor salve, one that I thought was especially fitting given so much gloom that is palpable within this fictional world.
Buy the Book Here
comments
A Review of Julie Otsuka’s The Swimmers (Knopf, 2022).
Posted by:
trihal
Well, Julie Otsuka’s The Swimmers(Knopf, 2022) is a real slow burn, the kind that starts off a little wayward but then hits you right in the gut. As usual, Otsuka brings her lyrical spare prose to a fictional world in which a dynamic storytelling mode will move us forward, inexorably to a poignant conclusion. The official marketing description is here to provide us with some key information: “The swimmers are unknown to one another except through their private routines (slow lane, medium lane, fast lane) and the solace each takes in their morning or afternoon laps. But when a crack appears at the bottom of the pool, they are cast out into an unforgiving world without comfort or relief. One of these swimmers is Alice, who is slowly losing her memory. For Alice, the pool was a final stand against the darkness of her encroaching dementia. Without the fellowship of other swimmers and the routine of her daily laps she is plunged into dislocation and chaos, swept into memories of her childhood and the Japanese American incarceration camp in which she spent the war. Alice's estranged daughter, reentering her mother's life too late, witnesses her stark and devastating decline.”
This description is an interesting one because the novel doesn’t direct us to make this kind of explicit link between what the pool does for Alice specifically and how it relates to her personal history. Part of the issue is that Otsuka uses a first personal plural style that is reminiscent of her last novel The Buddha in the Attic . In this novel’s case, the group of swimmers that Alice is a part of give the early chapters a very impressionistic feel. The pool is in some ways the real protagonist. It is only in the center of the narrative that things shift more specifically to Alice’s perspective. The chapter concerning her mental decline is particularly affecting, and Otsuka wants to draw us into the atemporality that Alice faces, as her memories get jumbled up. This section reminded me of an episode from the series Castle Rock in which Sissy Spacek’s character is facing a similar issue. The ways in which times and places dramatically collapse is part of the brilliance of Otsuka’s delivery here. The section that was most difficult for me to read personally emerged in relation to the section in which we discover that Alice is sent to a long term care facility. Despite what is obviously a high quality institution, you can’t help but feel a sense that Alice has been left to find her way in this facility (as carework becomes exceedingly difficult for the family). Otsuka’s work is particularly devastating here precisely because of the demands placed upon individual families who cannot necessarily engage in these forms of labor. As always, Otsuka’s gorgeous prose propels us forward, despite the bleakness in Alice’s retrogression.
Buy the Book Here
comments
trihal
Well, Julie Otsuka’s The Swimmers(Knopf, 2022) is a real slow burn, the kind that starts off a little wayward but then hits you right in the gut. As usual, Otsuka brings her lyrical spare prose to a fictional world in which a dynamic storytelling mode will move us forward, inexorably to a poignant conclusion. The official marketing description is here to provide us with some key information: “The swimmers are unknown to one another except through their private routines (slow lane, medium lane, fast lane) and the solace each takes in their morning or afternoon laps. But when a crack appears at the bottom of the pool, they are cast out into an unforgiving world without comfort or relief. One of these swimmers is Alice, who is slowly losing her memory. For Alice, the pool was a final stand against the darkness of her encroaching dementia. Without the fellowship of other swimmers and the routine of her daily laps she is plunged into dislocation and chaos, swept into memories of her childhood and the Japanese American incarceration camp in which she spent the war. Alice's estranged daughter, reentering her mother's life too late, witnesses her stark and devastating decline.”
This description is an interesting one because the novel doesn’t direct us to make this kind of explicit link between what the pool does for Alice specifically and how it relates to her personal history. Part of the issue is that Otsuka uses a first personal plural style that is reminiscent of her last novel The Buddha in the Attic . In this novel’s case, the group of swimmers that Alice is a part of give the early chapters a very impressionistic feel. The pool is in some ways the real protagonist. It is only in the center of the narrative that things shift more specifically to Alice’s perspective. The chapter concerning her mental decline is particularly affecting, and Otsuka wants to draw us into the atemporality that Alice faces, as her memories get jumbled up. This section reminded me of an episode from the series Castle Rock in which Sissy Spacek’s character is facing a similar issue. The ways in which times and places dramatically collapse is part of the brilliance of Otsuka’s delivery here. The section that was most difficult for me to read personally emerged in relation to the section in which we discover that Alice is sent to a long term care facility. Despite what is obviously a high quality institution, you can’t help but feel a sense that Alice has been left to find her way in this facility (as carework becomes exceedingly difficult for the family). Otsuka’s work is particularly devastating here precisely because of the demands placed upon individual families who cannot necessarily engage in these forms of labor. As always, Otsuka’s gorgeous prose propels us forward, despite the bleakness in Alice’s retrogression.
Buy the Book Here
comments
A Review of Claire Kohda’s Woman, Eating (HarperVia, 2022).
Posted by:
trihal
Written by Stephen Hong Sohn
Edited by Tripat Rihal
Well, I don’t think anyone will beat the strange amalgam of quirkiness and horror that is Claire Kohda’s Woman, Eating (HarperVia, 2022), which revolves around a central character that is part human, part vampire, and of mixed ethnic heritage (British, Malaysian, and Japanese). Let’s let the official marketing description get us off the ground: “A young, mixed-race vampire must find a way to balance her deep-seated desire to live amongst humans with her incessant hunger in this stunning debut novel from a writer-to-watch. Lydia is hungry. She's always wanted to try Japanese food. Sashimi, ramen, onigiri with sour plum stuffed inside - the food her Japanese father liked to eat. And then there is bubble tea and iced-coffee, ice cream and cake, and foraged herbs and plants, and the vegetables grown by the other young artists at the London studio space she is secretly squatting in. But, Lydia can't eat any of these things. Her body doesn't work like those of other people. The only thing she can digest is blood, and it turns out that sourcing fresh pigs' blood in London - where she is living away from her vampire mother for the first time - is much more difficult than she'd anticipated. Then there are the humans - the other artists at the studio space, the people at the gallery she interns at, the strange men that follow her after dark, and Ben, a boyish, goofy-grinned artist she is developing feelings for. Lydia knows that they are her natural prey, but she can't bring herself to feed on them. In her windowless studio, where she paints and studies the work of other artists, binge-watches Buffy the Vampire Slayer and videos of people eating food on YouTube and Instagram, Lydia considers her place in the world. She has many of the things humans wish for - perpetual youth, near-invulnerability, immortality – but she is miserable; she is lonely; and she is hungry - always hungry. As Lydia develops as a woman and an artist, she will learn that she must reconcile the conflicts within her - between her demon and human sides, her mixed ethnic heritage, and her relationship with food, and, in turn, humans - if she is to find a way to exist in the world. Before any of this, however, she must eat".
This description is QUITE lengthy and quite on the money. I always adore first person narration, and Kohda’s work is particularly delicious in this regard, because she gives us the chance to enter into the interiority of this mixed race, mixed being human-vampire figure. The union of the art world and the vampire subjectivity was also an interesting intersection to consider. It becomes apparent though that the art internship that she’s started is hardly fulfilling, so she must find a way to deal with what is obviously a toxic workplace environment. The question of ethics in this novel is also interesting, as Lydia’s mother tries to deny their vampiric subjectivities. On the one hand, the novel is a kunstlerroman, but it’s also a monster roman, if there is a monster-development novel, as Lydia comes to grips with what it might mean to give in to her desire to have and to taste human blood. In any case, I definitely enjoyed reading this text and certainly would recommend it to anyone interested in the horror genre or speculative fiction.
Buy the Book Here
comments
trihal
Written by Stephen Hong Sohn
Edited by Tripat Rihal
Well, I don’t think anyone will beat the strange amalgam of quirkiness and horror that is Claire Kohda’s Woman, Eating (HarperVia, 2022), which revolves around a central character that is part human, part vampire, and of mixed ethnic heritage (British, Malaysian, and Japanese). Let’s let the official marketing description get us off the ground: “A young, mixed-race vampire must find a way to balance her deep-seated desire to live amongst humans with her incessant hunger in this stunning debut novel from a writer-to-watch. Lydia is hungry. She's always wanted to try Japanese food. Sashimi, ramen, onigiri with sour plum stuffed inside - the food her Japanese father liked to eat. And then there is bubble tea and iced-coffee, ice cream and cake, and foraged herbs and plants, and the vegetables grown by the other young artists at the London studio space she is secretly squatting in. But, Lydia can't eat any of these things. Her body doesn't work like those of other people. The only thing she can digest is blood, and it turns out that sourcing fresh pigs' blood in London - where she is living away from her vampire mother for the first time - is much more difficult than she'd anticipated. Then there are the humans - the other artists at the studio space, the people at the gallery she interns at, the strange men that follow her after dark, and Ben, a boyish, goofy-grinned artist she is developing feelings for. Lydia knows that they are her natural prey, but she can't bring herself to feed on them. In her windowless studio, where she paints and studies the work of other artists, binge-watches Buffy the Vampire Slayer and videos of people eating food on YouTube and Instagram, Lydia considers her place in the world. She has many of the things humans wish for - perpetual youth, near-invulnerability, immortality – but she is miserable; she is lonely; and she is hungry - always hungry. As Lydia develops as a woman and an artist, she will learn that she must reconcile the conflicts within her - between her demon and human sides, her mixed ethnic heritage, and her relationship with food, and, in turn, humans - if she is to find a way to exist in the world. Before any of this, however, she must eat".
This description is QUITE lengthy and quite on the money. I always adore first person narration, and Kohda’s work is particularly delicious in this regard, because she gives us the chance to enter into the interiority of this mixed race, mixed being human-vampire figure. The union of the art world and the vampire subjectivity was also an interesting intersection to consider. It becomes apparent though that the art internship that she’s started is hardly fulfilling, so she must find a way to deal with what is obviously a toxic workplace environment. The question of ethics in this novel is also interesting, as Lydia’s mother tries to deny their vampiric subjectivities. On the one hand, the novel is a kunstlerroman, but it’s also a monster roman, if there is a monster-development novel, as Lydia comes to grips with what it might mean to give in to her desire to have and to taste human blood. In any case, I definitely enjoyed reading this text and certainly would recommend it to anyone interested in the horror genre or speculative fiction.
Buy the Book Here
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April 10, 2022
A Review of Wendy Xu’s Tidesong (Quill Tree, 2021).
Posted by:
trihal
Written by Stephen Hong Sohn
Edited by Tripat Rihal
So, I had a couple of false starts with Wendy Xu’s So, I had a couple of false starts with Wendy Xu’s Tidesong (Quill Tree, 2021), but I finally sat down and finished it before bed last night! It was so great! I was feeling so stressed out, and I think that I just couldn’t let my brain settle to let myself get into this fictional world. Let’s let B&N give us some more information: Sophie is a young witch whose mother and grandmother pressure her to attend the Royal Magic Academy—the best magic school in the realm—even though her magic is shaky at best. To train for her entrance exams, Sophie is sent to relatives she’s never met. Cousin Sage and Great-Aunt Lan seem more interested in giving Sophie chores than in teaching her magic. Frustrated, Sophie attempts magic on her own, but the spell goes wrong, and she accidentally entangles her magic with the magic of a young water dragon named Lir. Lir is trapped on land and can’t remember where he came from. Even so, he’s everything Sophie isn’t—beloved by Sophie’s family and skilled at magic. With his help, Sophie might just ace her entrance exams, but that means standing in the way of Lir’s attempts to regain his memories. Sophie knows what she’s doing is wrong, but without Lir’s help, can she prove herself?” So, the proto-description section also mentioned Studio Ghibli, which I think is very accurate because the drawing style reminded me very much of things I’ve seen in Spirited Away etc. Sophie’s an interesting character because she’s very one-track minded: she really wants to get into this Royal Magic Academy but that single-minded purpose gets her in trouble. The introduction of Lir is a great plotting conceit, as there is a central mystery put into the story: we’re wondering exactly why Lir has lost his memory and how they can untangle their magics. This story is one ultimately not only about friendship (between Lir and Sophie) but also about fissure. The story uncovers a longer genealogical history that has created a chasm between Sophie’s grandmother and Sophie’s great-Aunt. In this respect, I thought the various stakes were compelling and certainly moved the reader forward. The final aspect that I’d like to consider is the way in which Xu weaves in subtle “Eastern” inspired stylistics into the graphic narrative. The names (like Lan) suggest the possibility that we’re in some sort of Eastern culture, but these context are never fully elaborated and remind me of the recent upsurge of fictions being touted as “Asian-inspired fantasy.” What are the benefits of allegorizing the East in this way? Or are these stylistics just another form of Orientalism? I’ve been thinking about these questions as of late, which is not to cast a critique on this particular graphic narrative in particular but that this rise in publications certainly merits a deeper discussion, and certainly a discussion that can be brought into the classroom. I can definitely see this text being adopted in certain classrooms as well. An involving, fun fantasy read with great visuals and spritely characters!
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trihal
Written by Stephen Hong Sohn
Edited by Tripat Rihal
So, I had a couple of false starts with Wendy Xu’s So, I had a couple of false starts with Wendy Xu’s Tidesong (Quill Tree, 2021), but I finally sat down and finished it before bed last night! It was so great! I was feeling so stressed out, and I think that I just couldn’t let my brain settle to let myself get into this fictional world. Let’s let B&N give us some more information: Sophie is a young witch whose mother and grandmother pressure her to attend the Royal Magic Academy—the best magic school in the realm—even though her magic is shaky at best. To train for her entrance exams, Sophie is sent to relatives she’s never met. Cousin Sage and Great-Aunt Lan seem more interested in giving Sophie chores than in teaching her magic. Frustrated, Sophie attempts magic on her own, but the spell goes wrong, and she accidentally entangles her magic with the magic of a young water dragon named Lir. Lir is trapped on land and can’t remember where he came from. Even so, he’s everything Sophie isn’t—beloved by Sophie’s family and skilled at magic. With his help, Sophie might just ace her entrance exams, but that means standing in the way of Lir’s attempts to regain his memories. Sophie knows what she’s doing is wrong, but without Lir’s help, can she prove herself?” So, the proto-description section also mentioned Studio Ghibli, which I think is very accurate because the drawing style reminded me very much of things I’ve seen in Spirited Away etc. Sophie’s an interesting character because she’s very one-track minded: she really wants to get into this Royal Magic Academy but that single-minded purpose gets her in trouble. The introduction of Lir is a great plotting conceit, as there is a central mystery put into the story: we’re wondering exactly why Lir has lost his memory and how they can untangle their magics. This story is one ultimately not only about friendship (between Lir and Sophie) but also about fissure. The story uncovers a longer genealogical history that has created a chasm between Sophie’s grandmother and Sophie’s great-Aunt. In this respect, I thought the various stakes were compelling and certainly moved the reader forward. The final aspect that I’d like to consider is the way in which Xu weaves in subtle “Eastern” inspired stylistics into the graphic narrative. The names (like Lan) suggest the possibility that we’re in some sort of Eastern culture, but these context are never fully elaborated and remind me of the recent upsurge of fictions being touted as “Asian-inspired fantasy.” What are the benefits of allegorizing the East in this way? Or are these stylistics just another form of Orientalism? I’ve been thinking about these questions as of late, which is not to cast a critique on this particular graphic narrative in particular but that this rise in publications certainly merits a deeper discussion, and certainly a discussion that can be brought into the classroom. I can definitely see this text being adopted in certain classrooms as well. An involving, fun fantasy read with great visuals and spritely characters!
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Amal El-Mohtar’s and Max Gladstone’s This is How You Lose the Time War (Saga Press, 2020)
Posted by:
trihal
Written by Stephen Hong Sohn
Edited by Tripat Rihal
This book is one of those that pushes us a little bit further afield again from Asian American literature, but I find it compelling to review here on Asian American literature fans. One of my reading groups picked Amal El-Mohtar’s and Max Gladstone’s This is How You Lose the Time War(Saga Press, 2020), which is primarily an epistolary novella situated in a speculative/ science fictional world in which there are two warring factions. These warring factions include two assassins, one denoted as Red and the other Blue. The two spend time writing to each other, playing a game of cat and mouse, as they both move through time and try to stage different events in order to alter the course of history, the present, and the future for their peoples. Between the epistolary exchanges, the author includes short third person intercuts, where the world building gets a little bit more robust. We know that Red comes from a people that are seemingly part cyborg, and the command structure is more militaristic. We know that Blue comes from a people that are connected to plants; they are more like a rhizomatically linked grouping that fall under the larger apparatus of something called the Garden. As the novella moves forward, it becomes apparent that the letters between the two are not merely ones in which Red and Blue are adversaries. Indeed, one of the club members said that this novella was killed as Killing Eve meets science fiction, and that description cannot be more apt. My minor quibble with the novel is that the world building aspects were not as robust as I would have preferred; it didn’t quite understand how the Red and Blue peoples were really all that differentiated because Red and Blue, as characters, lived such solitary lives. I also didn’t understand the compulsion for the two people to be at war, but perhaps that was part of the point. The novella takes a little bit of time to gain steam, but eventually, it really took off for me, and I could see where it was going. I found the concluding arc to be logical and cohesively thought out, with a kind of time loop scenario that I always enjoy.
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trihal
Written by Stephen Hong Sohn
Edited by Tripat Rihal
This book is one of those that pushes us a little bit further afield again from Asian American literature, but I find it compelling to review here on Asian American literature fans. One of my reading groups picked Amal El-Mohtar’s and Max Gladstone’s This is How You Lose the Time War(Saga Press, 2020), which is primarily an epistolary novella situated in a speculative/ science fictional world in which there are two warring factions. These warring factions include two assassins, one denoted as Red and the other Blue. The two spend time writing to each other, playing a game of cat and mouse, as they both move through time and try to stage different events in order to alter the course of history, the present, and the future for their peoples. Between the epistolary exchanges, the author includes short third person intercuts, where the world building gets a little bit more robust. We know that Red comes from a people that are seemingly part cyborg, and the command structure is more militaristic. We know that Blue comes from a people that are connected to plants; they are more like a rhizomatically linked grouping that fall under the larger apparatus of something called the Garden. As the novella moves forward, it becomes apparent that the letters between the two are not merely ones in which Red and Blue are adversaries. Indeed, one of the club members said that this novella was killed as Killing Eve meets science fiction, and that description cannot be more apt. My minor quibble with the novel is that the world building aspects were not as robust as I would have preferred; it didn’t quite understand how the Red and Blue peoples were really all that differentiated because Red and Blue, as characters, lived such solitary lives. I also didn’t understand the compulsion for the two people to be at war, but perhaps that was part of the point. The novella takes a little bit of time to gain steam, but eventually, it really took off for me, and I could see where it was going. I found the concluding arc to be logical and cohesively thought out, with a kind of time loop scenario that I always enjoy.
Buy the Book Here
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A Review of Julia Kagawa’s The Iron Sword (Inkyard Press, 2022)
Posted by:
trihal
Written by Stephen Hong Sohn
Edited by Tripat Rihal
So, I saved Julia Kagawa’s The Iron Sword (Inkyard Press, 2022) for a particular time when I really needed a brain break. It’s been one of the busiest professional periods of my life, and I rewarded myself with the second installment in Kagawa’s Evenfall series, which is a continuation of The Iron Fey series. Let’s let the official marketing description get us off the ground: “As Evenfall nears, the stakes grow ever higher for those in Faery… Banished from the Winter Court for daring to fall in love, Prince Ash achieved the impossible and journeyed to the End of the World to earn a soul and keep his vow to always stand beside Queen Meghan of the Iron Fey.
Now he faces even more incomprehensible odds. Their son, King Keirran of the Forgotten, is missing. Something more ancient than the courts of Faery and more evil than anything Ash has faced in a millennium is rising as Evenfall approaches. And if Ash and his allies cannot stop it, the chaos that has begun to divide the world will shatter it for eternity.” It’s been so long since I felt like I read the first in the series that I feel as though Kagawa shifted the narrative perspective to a different character. This time, Ash, is our narrator, and he’s working alongside the Iron Queen (otherwise known as Meghan Chase) and a handful of allies, Grimalkin (the ever present cat), Nyx (the Forgotten fey), Keirran, and others including Meghan’s brother Ethan and Ethan’s partner Kenzie, and of course, Puck (Robin Goodfellow). It will take an entire team to start unraveling the mystery of Evenfall and to engage more concretely the monster that dominated them in the first book in the series. It took me a while to get into this book. Part of the issue is that the first half felt very serialized: what I mean by serialized is that the characters are in the dark about these strange creatures who feed off “ugly feelings” (getting some Sianne Ngai in here LOL), Ash and his merry band of heroes, must go from one person to the next in order to get more information about these weird beings. Eventually, and here is where I pause to state that I am going to provide a spoiler, the team finds out that there is a new species of Fey that have been locked away. The leader of these Fey is quite angry that he was forced in a kind of tomb, and he plans to enact revenge against the other fairy kingdoms that enforced this incarceration. Evenfall comes to mean the reawakening of the monstrous leader. Though Ash and his allies are able to deter the leader’s henchmen from taking them out, this installment obviously sets up the bigger battle that is likely to ensue in the next volume in the series. Once readers get information about this new species of Fey, The Iron Sword finally hits its stride. Count on Kagawa to always keep her YA readers interested.
Buy the Book Here
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trihal
Written by Stephen Hong Sohn
Edited by Tripat Rihal
So, I saved Julia Kagawa’s The Iron Sword (Inkyard Press, 2022) for a particular time when I really needed a brain break. It’s been one of the busiest professional periods of my life, and I rewarded myself with the second installment in Kagawa’s Evenfall series, which is a continuation of The Iron Fey series. Let’s let the official marketing description get us off the ground: “As Evenfall nears, the stakes grow ever higher for those in Faery… Banished from the Winter Court for daring to fall in love, Prince Ash achieved the impossible and journeyed to the End of the World to earn a soul and keep his vow to always stand beside Queen Meghan of the Iron Fey.
Now he faces even more incomprehensible odds. Their son, King Keirran of the Forgotten, is missing. Something more ancient than the courts of Faery and more evil than anything Ash has faced in a millennium is rising as Evenfall approaches. And if Ash and his allies cannot stop it, the chaos that has begun to divide the world will shatter it for eternity.” It’s been so long since I felt like I read the first in the series that I feel as though Kagawa shifted the narrative perspective to a different character. This time, Ash, is our narrator, and he’s working alongside the Iron Queen (otherwise known as Meghan Chase) and a handful of allies, Grimalkin (the ever present cat), Nyx (the Forgotten fey), Keirran, and others including Meghan’s brother Ethan and Ethan’s partner Kenzie, and of course, Puck (Robin Goodfellow). It will take an entire team to start unraveling the mystery of Evenfall and to engage more concretely the monster that dominated them in the first book in the series. It took me a while to get into this book. Part of the issue is that the first half felt very serialized: what I mean by serialized is that the characters are in the dark about these strange creatures who feed off “ugly feelings” (getting some Sianne Ngai in here LOL), Ash and his merry band of heroes, must go from one person to the next in order to get more information about these weird beings. Eventually, and here is where I pause to state that I am going to provide a spoiler, the team finds out that there is a new species of Fey that have been locked away. The leader of these Fey is quite angry that he was forced in a kind of tomb, and he plans to enact revenge against the other fairy kingdoms that enforced this incarceration. Evenfall comes to mean the reawakening of the monstrous leader. Though Ash and his allies are able to deter the leader’s henchmen from taking them out, this installment obviously sets up the bigger battle that is likely to ensue in the next volume in the series. Once readers get information about this new species of Fey, The Iron Sword finally hits its stride. Count on Kagawa to always keep her YA readers interested.
Buy the Book Here
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April 6, 2022
A Review of Joan He’s The Ones We’re Meant to Find (Roaring Brook, 2021)
Posted by:
ljiang28
Written by Stephen Hong Sohn
Edited by Lina Jiang
As part of our spotlight review series, I’m continuing with Joan He’s The Ones We’re Meant to Find (Roaring Brook, 2021), which is He’s second publication after Descendant of the Crane, which I still mean to read! There’s always too much to catch up on! The official marketing description gives us some key contexts: “Cee awoke on an abandoned island three years ago. With no idea of how she was marooned, she only has a rickety house, an old android, and a single memory: she has a sister, and Cee needs to find her. STEM prodigy Kasey wants escape from the science and home she once trusted. The Metropolis—Earth's last unpolluted place—is meant to be sanctuary for those committed to planetary protection, but it’s populated by people willing to do anything for refuge, even lie. Now, she'll have to decide if she’s ready to use science to help humanity, even though it failed the people who mattered most.”
Cee and Kasey are actually siblings, though this overview of the novel fails to make that clear. There are a TON of plot twists and turns in this text, but the major one occurs about 2/3 of the way through. He is able to pull off this crucial change because the two storylines seem strongly linked. Kasey doesn’t know where her sister is, so her part of the narrative involves the sense of loss that comes with knowing that her sister might be dead. Cee’s storyline continually connects us to Kasey because Cee’s major memories—she seems to be suffering from amnesia—involve Kasey. Kasey’s portions, narrated in the third person, give readers the most crucial worldbuilding elements, as these characters exist in a future in which the world is ending. Climate change, in particular, has made it so that what remains of the human population must make drastic decisions in order to survive. This YA does not seem to be a series, but He still manages to pack a huge punch even with a single installment. Certainly, one of the strongest Asian American YA texts I’ve read in a while. One thing to consider about this text is the fact that the characters’ surnames are Mizuhara, but there’s very little content in the way of exploring any ethnic or racial heritage.
Buy the Book Here
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ljiang28
Written by Stephen Hong Sohn
Edited by Lina Jiang
As part of our spotlight review series, I’m continuing with Joan He’s The Ones We’re Meant to Find (Roaring Brook, 2021), which is He’s second publication after Descendant of the Crane, which I still mean to read! There’s always too much to catch up on! The official marketing description gives us some key contexts: “Cee awoke on an abandoned island three years ago. With no idea of how she was marooned, she only has a rickety house, an old android, and a single memory: she has a sister, and Cee needs to find her. STEM prodigy Kasey wants escape from the science and home she once trusted. The Metropolis—Earth's last unpolluted place—is meant to be sanctuary for those committed to planetary protection, but it’s populated by people willing to do anything for refuge, even lie. Now, she'll have to decide if she’s ready to use science to help humanity, even though it failed the people who mattered most.”
Cee and Kasey are actually siblings, though this overview of the novel fails to make that clear. There are a TON of plot twists and turns in this text, but the major one occurs about 2/3 of the way through. He is able to pull off this crucial change because the two storylines seem strongly linked. Kasey doesn’t know where her sister is, so her part of the narrative involves the sense of loss that comes with knowing that her sister might be dead. Cee’s storyline continually connects us to Kasey because Cee’s major memories—she seems to be suffering from amnesia—involve Kasey. Kasey’s portions, narrated in the third person, give readers the most crucial worldbuilding elements, as these characters exist in a future in which the world is ending. Climate change, in particular, has made it so that what remains of the human population must make drastic decisions in order to survive. This YA does not seem to be a series, but He still manages to pack a huge punch even with a single installment. Certainly, one of the strongest Asian American YA texts I’ve read in a while. One thing to consider about this text is the fact that the characters’ surnames are Mizuhara, but there’s very little content in the way of exploring any ethnic or racial heritage.
Buy the Book Here
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A Review of Chang-rae Lee’s My Year Abroad (Riverhead, 2021)
Posted by:
ljiang28
Written by Stephen Hong Sohn
Edited by Lina Jiang
Well, Chang-rae Lee’s latest, My Year Abroad (Riverhead, 2021) is definitely one of those books that are going to split readers. It’s more of a character study than anything else, but it is, as always given Lee’s gorgeous prose and use of first person, an expansive one. Let’s get some context: “Tiller is an average American college student with a good heart but minimal aspirations. Pong Lou is a larger-than-life, wildly creative Chinese American entrepreneur who sees something intriguing in Tiller beyond his bored exterior and takes him under his wing. When Pong brings him along on a boisterous trip across Asia, Tiller is catapulted from ordinary young man to talented protégé, and pulled into a series of ever more extreme and eye-opening experiences that transform his view of the world, of Pong, and of himself. In the breathtaking, ‘precise, elliptical prose’ that Chang-rae Lee is known for (The New York Times), the narrative alternates between Tiller’s outlandish, mind-boggling year with Pong and the strange, riveting, emotionally complex domestic life that follows it, as Tiller processes what happened to him abroad and what it means for his future. Rich with commentary on Western attitudes, Eastern stereotypes, capitalism, global trade, mental health, parenthood, mentorship, and more, My Year Abroad is also an exploration of the surprising effects of cultural immersion—on a young American in Asia, on a Chinese man in America, and on an unlikely couple hiding out in the suburbs. Tinged at once with humor and darkness, electric with its accumulating surprises and suspense, My Year Abroad is a novel that only Chang-rae Lee could have written, and one that will be read and discussed for years to come.”
So, what this review doesn’t tell you is that Tiller and Pong are both Asian. While Pong is an Asian American transnational, Tiller is 1/8 Asian, and this mixed race heritage is something that Tiller does come back to once in a while within the narrative. I bring up this issue because the novel seems to position Pong and Tiller at opposing poles in terms of their American cultural immersion. The differentiation of these characters is made evident about 1/3 through when Pong pops up in one chapter—the only chapter mind you where he gets to narrate—and we get Pong’s backstory as a survivor of the cultural revolution. This chapter ends up being incredibly important to the narrative, as it puts everything else into perspective. So much about Tiller’s life ends up being about luck: being at the right place and time to meet someone like Pong and later to chance upon someone who is in the witness protection program while Tiller actually has access to a kind of debit card that never seems to run out. For Tiller to live the life that he leads, one filled largely with daily ruminations on the strangeness of life, he has had to gain some incredible opportunities, ones that seem to run counter to so many others in the novel. Another review happened to mention that they read this novel as a kind of critique of millennial culture. I’m not quite sure where I stand on it, but as a character study, not everyone is going to be willing to follow Tiller’s perspective for the full length of this novel. At times, the prose and perspective border on excessive, but perhaps that is Lee’s point: the kind of navel-gazing that makes you wonder if the experiences that Tiller gains are all part of a long con that always has been the American dream.
Buy the Book Here
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ljiang28
Written by Stephen Hong Sohn
Edited by Lina Jiang
Well, Chang-rae Lee’s latest, My Year Abroad (Riverhead, 2021) is definitely one of those books that are going to split readers. It’s more of a character study than anything else, but it is, as always given Lee’s gorgeous prose and use of first person, an expansive one. Let’s get some context: “Tiller is an average American college student with a good heart but minimal aspirations. Pong Lou is a larger-than-life, wildly creative Chinese American entrepreneur who sees something intriguing in Tiller beyond his bored exterior and takes him under his wing. When Pong brings him along on a boisterous trip across Asia, Tiller is catapulted from ordinary young man to talented protégé, and pulled into a series of ever more extreme and eye-opening experiences that transform his view of the world, of Pong, and of himself. In the breathtaking, ‘precise, elliptical prose’ that Chang-rae Lee is known for (The New York Times), the narrative alternates between Tiller’s outlandish, mind-boggling year with Pong and the strange, riveting, emotionally complex domestic life that follows it, as Tiller processes what happened to him abroad and what it means for his future. Rich with commentary on Western attitudes, Eastern stereotypes, capitalism, global trade, mental health, parenthood, mentorship, and more, My Year Abroad is also an exploration of the surprising effects of cultural immersion—on a young American in Asia, on a Chinese man in America, and on an unlikely couple hiding out in the suburbs. Tinged at once with humor and darkness, electric with its accumulating surprises and suspense, My Year Abroad is a novel that only Chang-rae Lee could have written, and one that will be read and discussed for years to come.”
So, what this review doesn’t tell you is that Tiller and Pong are both Asian. While Pong is an Asian American transnational, Tiller is 1/8 Asian, and this mixed race heritage is something that Tiller does come back to once in a while within the narrative. I bring up this issue because the novel seems to position Pong and Tiller at opposing poles in terms of their American cultural immersion. The differentiation of these characters is made evident about 1/3 through when Pong pops up in one chapter—the only chapter mind you where he gets to narrate—and we get Pong’s backstory as a survivor of the cultural revolution. This chapter ends up being incredibly important to the narrative, as it puts everything else into perspective. So much about Tiller’s life ends up being about luck: being at the right place and time to meet someone like Pong and later to chance upon someone who is in the witness protection program while Tiller actually has access to a kind of debit card that never seems to run out. For Tiller to live the life that he leads, one filled largely with daily ruminations on the strangeness of life, he has had to gain some incredible opportunities, ones that seem to run counter to so many others in the novel. Another review happened to mention that they read this novel as a kind of critique of millennial culture. I’m not quite sure where I stand on it, but as a character study, not everyone is going to be willing to follow Tiller’s perspective for the full length of this novel. At times, the prose and perspective border on excessive, but perhaps that is Lee’s point: the kind of navel-gazing that makes you wonder if the experiences that Tiller gains are all part of a long con that always has been the American dream.
Buy the Book Here
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