Trust Exercise

Review: 4.5 stars

This one was recommended by my sister, who I trust with book recommendations wholeheartedly.

Trust Exercise follows Sarah and David, two impressionable drama students at an elite performing arts high school. They are pushed to their full potential by Mr. Kingsley, a teacher who humiliates his students in order to hone their acting into a sharp weapon. The first part of the book is extremely readable - the romantic tension between Sarah and David, the mystique of Kingsley and his inappropriate closeness to his students. It's a magnetic story.

But what makes this book truly amazing is the reframe in the second part, when you find out that Sarah has written a novel about her own past life, and in doing so has leveraged Karen's lived experience, rounding off its edges, and turning it into a bestselling novel. Karen's real life tragedy is expunged from Sarah's narrative, and she is relegated to a supporting character in Sarah's novel, but the source material is Karen's onw life. Suddenly the book isn't about what you thought it was about at all.

What's fascinating is how many angles of trust Choi explores. Most literally through the trust exercises themselves, which wring such extreme truths out of these kids that embarrassment becomes a bonding agent, tying the students to Kingsley with something close to hostage-level loyalty. Then the deeper, thornier question: who can be trusted with your story? What happens to the truth of what you lived when someone else remembers it differently, or appropriates it outright and reshapes it?

And then the third part arrives, with its unknown woman, and casts the first two parts into chaotic relief. Choi leaves it unresolved, and you begin to question everything. Who really owns this story? Are Sarah and Karen actually two sides of the same person? Can you even trust your own memory, or do traumatic experiences force you to compartmentalize, splitting your lived experience as a coping mechanism, a way to rebuild trust in yourself?

At face value this is an easy, propulsive, compelling novel. But if you choose to follow the rabbit hole, it becomes extremely cerebral. That duality is what makes it brilliant: it forces you to question every facet of trust, starting with the trust you placed in the narrator on page one.

Land of Milk and Honey

Review: 4 stars

My older sister is a voracious reader; I think our “to be read” stacks could rival each other in height. I always love unwrapping her birthday gifts to me, which are inevitably thoughtful reads. ‘Land of Milk and Honey’ was one she gave me a few years ago, and I’m glad I finally got to it.

Pre-pandemic, my husband and I were restaurant aficionados. At times, we (annoyingly) lamented that we were “done” with Michelin restaurants, no longer shocked by avant-garde cuisine. We had become the characters in Netflix’s ‘The Menu’ - pretentious, exacting, and inured by foams and gels. C. Pam Zhang wrote this novel during the pandemic, when everyday pleasures and shared experiences felt fragile. By setting the story in a near-future world of scarcity, Zhang explores how survival, ethics, and pleasure collide - and how what we take for granted, like a beautiful meal, can expose what’s broken in the world.

The narrator is a poor, French-trained chef recruited by a reclusive billionaire and his daughter, Aida, to work at a mountaintop bio-sanctuary in Italy. Below them, the world has been choked by smog and ash; crops and biodiversity are gone, and most people survive on mung-protein flour. On the mountain, she prepares lavish meals from exotic and extinct ingredients - golden chimpanzees, mammoth, quail, truffles, lamb’s ears. “If the land of milk and honey produced no further milk, this meal proclaimed, then we would sup of the last like kings and queens.” These dinners are not just indulgence; they are fundraising performances for an elite list of donors hoping to buy their way into a future agricultural reserve.

She becomes intoxicated by this world of rare ingredients and excess, even cosplaying as Aida’s deceased mother to preside over fundraising dinners, lending them a spiritual gravity. She and Aida fall into a sensual, consuming relationship, which deepens her ethical unease about living in luxury while the rest of the world starves. At the center of the novel is the belief that wealth and ingenuity can always delay catastrophe; that money can keep pushing collapse one meal further away.

When Aida asks why the narrator trained in French cuisine, her answer is devastating in its honesty: “I refused to be stuck...in the smallness of my mother’s life. In a fixed notion of cooking, my abilities, my worth as ascribed to my Chineseness my Asianness my smallness my womanness my perpetual foreignness - myself. French cuisine is respected everywhere. To earn the chance to cook real food, I needed that respect.” That word - real - hangs over the novel like a dare. It evokes The Matrix question: would you rather live in a beautiful illusion or the raw grit of reality? How many honeyed figs or luscious gougères is truth worth?

Zhang’s writing is deeply immersive; you feel the textures of fat, salt, sugar, ash, and rot. Land of Milk and Honey is unsettling, indulgent, and quietly devastating. It leaves you with a lingering discomfort about what we consume, what we ignore, and what we’re willing to trade for our morality.

Your Utopia

Review: 3 stars

It certainly has been a while - almost 3 years since my last post. Given how hectic it is having 2 young kids and a demanding job, it has been difficult to steal away time to archive my reading. Given a relative lull in the chaos for the next few months, I recommitted to sharing my favourite (and not so favourite) reads.

I have been rediscovering the public library with my family, and visits to the Central Branch just minutes from our house have been nostalgic. I remember going with my sisters and my mom when I was younger, hungry for the endless possibilities and underrated gems found in the library stacks. I truly aspired to be a librarian when I “grew up”, mostly in hopes of unilaterally waiving all my overdue book fees. I came across ‘Your Utopia’ on the “New Books” shelf at my library. I was delighted because I have been wanting to read Bora Chung’s work since I saw her books featured in a display at Foyles in London. I also have been very intrigued by Asian translated literature and short stories as of late, so this was the perfect choice.

‘Your Utopia’ is a selection of futuristic vignettes that explore the relationship between technology and humans, and essentially where one ends and the other begins. The opener - “The Center for Immortality Research” - stylistically reminds me of the author’s voice in ‘The Sympathizer’. Our matter-of-fact narrator is a senior manager deep down the food chain at a pharma conglomerate’s immortality research centre. She finds herself in increasingly ludicrous situations ranging from fending off a National Assembly candidate (an immortality zealot), to aiding and abetting the theft of commemorative DVDs amidst a knife attack. I found myself laughing aloud in the coffee shop at the dry humour permeating the story, and lamenting how corporate life can feel like a life sentence - even for those who are not immortal.

My favourite stories were “An Ordinary Marriage” and “The End of the Voyage.” In the latter, a COVID-inspired Zombie affliction - ‘The Disease’ - sweeps Earth, and humanity’s last hope is to send into space a pod of scientists, engineers and military personnel to avoid infection. What ensues is an onslaught of dark, bloody fiction, culminating in spontaneous cannibalism, hyperspace travel and mutiny. While the plot itself is not novel (imagine The Walking Dead meets Star Trek), it is the confidence with which Chung propels the reader to evermore fantastical and disgusting corners. For me, it drew real parallels with the height of the COVID-19 pandemic, when we secretly asked ourselves questions like" “Is it just easier to be part of the infected masses, instead of perpetually looking over your shoulder?” and “How much isolation can we get used to? Is our human tendency to adapt and survive a good thing?”.

While this read is not for everyone, I found the stories very entertaining, creative and thought provoking. I finished the book within a day. From a reader’s perspective, not every story was uniformly polished and the afterword from the author felt overly explanatory. However, on the whole, it left me curious to read Chung’s ‘Cursed Bunny’ - the more critically acclaimed sister to ‘Your Utopia’.

Pachinko | bracing, hopeful, absorbing

Review: 5 stars

‘Pachinko’ had been on my ‘to-read’ list for quite a while. I am finding that most National Book Award finalists are turning out to be some choice picks for my style of reading. This dynastic, sweeping sophomore novel from Min Jin Lee captivated me from start to finish. It follows several generations of Koreans, struggling to make sense of their self-identity in their homeland and in a highly stratified Japanese society.

At its heart, it is an immigrant story - one of unwanted pregnancy, of discrimination, of cherished yen earned through toil and desperation, and of the eventual reckoning of one’s self with parentage and parenthood. The story follows various characters, but Sunja’s voice rings throughout. Her actions as a teenager set off an inexorable series of events that culminates in hope for future generations, and a devastating blow to one branch of the family tree. Her secret affair with wealthy Koh Hansu on the shores of her fishing village is the genesis of how Hansu covertly becomes the puppet master of her clan. This includes protecting her family from certain death during the war, providing her with reputable employ to keep her family afloat, and funding their son Noa’s education to help him transcend the class he was born into. Despite Hansu’s behind-the-scene machinations, it is Sunja and Kyunghee’s powerful roles as breadwinners and family binders that make this a female-forward story.

The prose is delicate, honest and incredibly compelling. I was completely pulled into the narratives of each character, and invested in an internal debate between what qualifies as honourable and dishonourable. As a Chinese-Canadian, while I haven’t experienced anywhere close to the degree of ostracism that Noa and his brother Mozasu suffer in Japan as Koreans, I empathize with the impulsive desire to assimilate completely at times. Noa’s journey to mask his ethnicity through education and later through adoption of a Japanese name and personage proves futile in the end - his Korean heritage and struggle to come to terms with it becomes his eventual undoing.

This was an incredible read - and one of my most recommended books to friends. I also increasingly appreciate tragic, bittersweet endings, which ‘Pachinko’ successfully delivers upon. Hope you have a chance to delve into ‘Pachinko’ - it is well worth your while.

Little Fires Everywhere | relatable, tender, detailed

Review: 3 stars

I loved Celeste Ng’s ‘Everything I Never Told You’, so I eagerly grabbed her sophomore novel, ‘Little Fires Everywhere’ when it came out. I’m also trying to read more from Asian authors, so this was a great fit for my booklist.

Ng sets her story in Shaker Heights, a meticulously designed neighbourhood in Ohio, her native state. It follows the collision of two families - the Richardsons and the Warrens - and the consequences that arise as each member pursues their selfish interests. The conflicts begin small and crescendo quickly - a hidden teenage affair, a regretful abortion, an adoption controversy, a stolen surrogate baby. The drama ignites and grows into a blazing conflagration by the end, forcing Mia and Pearl Warren to flee town in haste, to the devastation of the four Richardson children.

I found Ng’s writing to be particularly powerful when delving into the pasts of Mia Warren and Elena Richardson, the two matriarchs in the story. She deftly captures the faded could-have-beens for each woman, rendering them as more than mothers. Elena’s epiphany as to why she holds her daughter, Izzy, at such arm’s length also rings with brilliant truth. Sometimes when we are threatened with the loss of something, we try not to love it too much for fear of pain. Ng also is a capable juggler - using Bebe Chow and Linda McCullough’s custody battle for a Chinese baby to further increase antagonistic tensions between the primary families.

You can read Little Fires Everywhere and easily relate to something in it - either the Asian-American immigrant experience, teenage angst, or secrets in one’s past, Perhaps the most relatable element of all is Elena’s articulation of what so many of us feel and practice in daily life: “…passion, like fire, was a dangerous thing. It so easily went out of control…Sparks leapt like fleas and spread as rapidly…Better to control that spark and pass it carefully from one generation to the next…Carefully controlled. Domesticated. Happy in captivity.” As Elena nurses her single flame, her daughter Izzy defies all rules and sets the world ablaze. Perhaps the novel is an ode to how our lives of normalcy are just waiting to be set ablaze by something, or someone.

I enjoyed much of the novel, but felt that the adolescent storylines lapsed into well-tread territory, with little left to discover. I would’ve also liked Elena to have been a more redeeming character earlier on. Her foray into villainy flattens the great character development we have from learning about her past. Although the novel reads as a thriller at times, it lacked the surprise and originality of Ng’s debut novel, which I had so loved. In particular, Mia’s revelation, which the entire story builds up to, seemed to me a let-down once unveiled. I don’t doubt that this novel will have many admirers, but for me, it fell short of a spectacular read.

The Sympathizer | satirical, open-ended, funny

Review: 5 stars

I follow Pulitzer Prize winners carefully, and picked up ‘The Sympathizer’ a year ago during a midnight Amazon binge. After a couple of false starts with the book, I finally got past the first chapter, and thank goodness, because it is now one of my favourite books.

‘The Sympathizer’ follows an anonymous narrator, ‘The Captain’, who is being held in North Vietnamese custody against his will. The narration of his confession sets in motion the novel, detailing his actions, thoughts and decisions before and during the war, through his evacuation from Saigon to America, and to his varied experiences abroad as a movie consultant and sleeper spy.

At face value, the Captain is a communist spy, working undercover in the confidences of the South Vietnamese and American police force. However, both his genetic identity and his experiences have lent him a deeply sympathetic nature. To those in Vietnam, he was seen as a half-breed outsider (his father was a French missionary), whereas to those in America, he is just another ‘yellow face’. Furthermore, his loyalties are hotly contested amidst the denouement of the Vietnam War. When Bon, his South Vietnamese friend, loses his wife and son during the evacuation of Saigon, the Captain’s whole body aches in sympathy. In direct contradiction, the Captain also comes off as a meek follower of Man, his co-communist conspirator. In one moment, the Captain effortlessly implicates and innocent as the true mole, whereas in another, he is haunted by the ghost of the innocent he helped kill. Born of divided affection, sympathy is the Captain’s Achilles heel - by feeling for all, he becomes traitor to all.

The protagonist is architected in such a way to reflect the moral debate around the Vietnam War, and to complicate the oversimplification of the conflict from the American perspective. By never aligning fully with one side, the protagonist leaves the reader in no-man’s land, with the impetus to learn more before forming judgement. There are stinging rebukes of America’s one-dimensional treatment of the Vietnam War, most clearly depicted in the Captain’s experience as a Vietnamese ambassador for the film, ‘The Hamlet’, an intentionally ill-disguised reference to ‘Apocalypse Now’. Also peppered throughout are the Captain’s truly laugh-out-loud observations of Vietnamese assimilation into America, human nature, and his own shortcomings. These not only serve up bite-sized witty realities, but lighten the mood of a largely sombre novel.

Nguyen, the author, has said in many interviews that he intended to write this novel mainly for a Vietnamese audience. He does not euphemise anything, and instead manipulates the Captain’s story to cast shadows and reflections on common beliefs about the Vietnam War. The novel’s conclusion is similarly open-ended, which was quite perplexing to me. In an allusion to Ho Chi Minh’s quote “Nothing is more important than Independence and Freedom”, the Captain finally has his epiphany that the answer to “What is more important than Independence and Freedom?” is in fact, “Nothing”. There many ways to read into this, but Nguyen deliberately leaves this thread untied for the reader to knot.

I highly recommend this novel - it is intelligent, thrilling and at many times, fun to read. For me, ‘The Sympathizer’ was reminiscent of ‘Catch-22’, another one of my favourite books. Nguyen has crafted a very successful novel, and I look forward to more from this original voice.

Crazy Rich Asians Trilogy | fantastical, fun, flashy

Review: 3 stars

Similar to the rest of the Asian-North American community, I was caught up in the Crazy Rich Asians storm. I had read the first book in the trilogy years ago, and purchased the sequels after watching the movie. Luckily, since I knew the books were not 'deep' in any sense, I was able to revel in the film's humour instead of expecting any lofty statements about Asian representation.

Kevin Kwan has written an easy-to-read, glittering trilogy that pulls back the veil on the stratospheric wealth of Asia’s top 0.01%. The most original element of his voice is the incredible depth to which he flaunts this wealth - from the most exclusive haute couture experiences, to specific watch, liquor and caviar brands that we’ve never heard of. The result is a light, captivating read. The novel is propelled forward by the romances of the protagonists - Nick, Rachel and Astrid - and by the catfight worthy familial politics and grandstanding that underpin it all.

One criticism that I have of the book is that character development was lacking for a story that spanned three full-length books. Nick is introduced as an aloof, charming, honourable gentleman with a rebellious streak, and ends this way as well. Throughout, Rachel remains a reasonable, down-to-earth woman, unswayed by the trappings of wealth. Astrid, the one character who does eventually shed her skin, still feels flat - the ethereal, ever-stylish beauty who can do no wrong. I hoped for more moments of tension, of disintegration and self-realization than I received.

I also felt that the cast of secondary characters - particularly Kitty Pong in China Rich Girlfriend and Carlton Bao in Rich People Problems - were somewhat superfluous. For all the things that exceeded my imagination (e.g., an IMAX theatre on a jet plane or a $10B offer for a mansion), what I was most skeptical about were two events in China Rich Girlfriend. The first was the ease with which Rachel diffused Carlton’s car racing frenzy, and the second was the logic behind Rachel’s poisoning, The denouement just seemed overly convenient and mess-free, leaving all our main characters untransformed.

I enjoyed the trilogy as a breezy summer read, and would recommend it as an effective antidote to stress. Kwan’s writing flows well, and every chapter oozes lavish and luxury. You leave feeling intoxicated by riches, in want of materialistic remedy, and optimistic about your chances of winning the lottery someday.

The Leavers | realistic, cultural, sensitive

Review: 2 stars

I was perusing the NPR top books of 2017 list and came across Lisa Ko's 'The Leavers'. I've been wanting to read more from Asian writers ever since I read Celeste Ng, so picked this novel up from Queen Street Books in Leslieville (a great spot). 

'The Leavers' is centred around the mother-son relationship of Polly and Deming, and the mystery behind why Polly suddenly vanishes one day. As we learn through flashbacks, Polly forged her own path to New York City from rural China, relying on her ambition and resourcefulness. However, upon arriving at the doorstep of the American Dream, she falls into the trap of many first-generation immigrants - working long, toxic hours at a nail salon, with her meagre paycheck doled out for basic necessities. The dissonance between the beautiful, independent life she has imagined for herself, and the harsh grey dependency of reality is one of Polly's key internal struggles. 

The novel nicely details the small moments of warmth that envelop mother and son amidst their battles for financial stability and belonging in the concrete jungle. It is also largely effective in portraying the identity crisis that Deming faces as he becomes 'Daniel Wilkinson' to his adoptive parents, Kay and Peter. Deming reflexively responds to triggers from his Chinese childhood - the intoxicating aromas of xiao long bao and lilting intonations of Mandarin conversations, while Daniel immerses himself in a life of self-described comfortable mediocrity with music as his only escape. Both lives beckon to him, and repulse him simultaneously.

I also enjoyed how the novel dove into a controversial notion in our society - the mother's right to be selfish. When we discover Polly's actual fate, and the battles she fought against herself as a new mother, I truly emphasized with her character's dilemma. To nurture a self that is separate from your children is difficult as a parent, yet this is a desire that I think many women (and men) face. Most of us acquiesce to the popular perspective that we should sacrifice our whole self in order to be a good parent, and that the deeper the sacrifice, the more perfect our love. However, I think this is worth debate, and that the balance between self and selflessness is different for each one of us. 

While I enjoyed many of the themes, there was something that fell short for me. I was sufficiently absorbed in the plot, but it was difficult for me to truly connect at an emotional level with the characters, particularly with Deming. Many of the reviews celebrated how timely and essential a novel this is, given the Trump administration's immigration stance. While the issue is broached in the novel, I feel as though deeper exploration of it was warranted in order for this to be celebrated as a political statement. I think there was also further richness left untapped in Kay's experience as an adoptive mother - the ease that she was relegated to a temporary stand-in seemed cold and underdeveloped. 

Overall, it was a promising read, but I felt that an author like Celeste Ng was more deft at handling the Asian American identity struggle, and would recommend her books over this novel.