Yellowface by Rebecca F. Kuang

 

323 pages

Publisher: The Borough Press

Owned / Trade Paperback

 

Blurb

 THIS IS ONE HELL OF A STORY

IT’S JUST NOT HERS TO TELL

Athena Liu is a literary darling and June Hayward is literally nobody.

WHITE LIES

When Athena dies in a freak accident, June steels her unpublished manuscript and publishes it as her own under the ambiguous name Juniper Song.

DARK HUMOUR

But as evidence threatens June’s stolen success, she discovers exactly how far she will go to keep what she thinks she deserves.

DEADLY CONSEQUENCES

What happens next is entirely everyone else’s fault.

 

Review

I’m not sure how I feel about this book. I do know that this is one occasion when I’m rounding my 3.5-star rating down rather than up.

June Hayward and Athena Liu met in college and shared a dream – to write a critically acclaimed bestseller and make it in the literary world. While June’s debut novel didn’t stand out in any way, Athena’s first book shot her straight to the dizzying highs the two young women had been dreaming about. June blames the ‘failure’ of her book on the fact that she’s not interesting enough as a white woman writing a white woman’s story.

When Athena dies in front of her, June gets over the shock quick enough to steal Athena’s just-finished draft. And with that act, and the way she makes up excuses for what she knows is bad behaviour, we know everything we need to know about June’s character – we’re dealing with a selfish opportunist.

From there on, June rewrites Athena’s story and manages to get a publishing contract. She happily agrees to publish her new story under the name Juniper Song and doesn’t object to a somewhat ambiguous author picture either. The book is a huge success, just what June/Juniper has always dreamed about, but it isn’t long before the online reading community starts asking questions. While June/Juniper and her publishing team manage to quell the storm, this is only the start and from that moment forward it is a downhill journey for our thieving author.

There is no doubt that this book is of its time given that it deals with plagiarism, cultural appropriation, and Twitter shitstorms. And all of it is shared with us by an unreliable narrator who lies to us, to the other characters she interacts with, and to herself.

Because the book is told from June/Juniper’s perspective, it is unclear whether the people around her, especially her publishing team, believe what she tells them or simply prefer not to search for the truth. In fact, I’m not sure how aware June herself is of the lies she shares or if she’s buying into the excuses she comes up with. We never really get an explanation as to why June/Juniper pulls the same stunt a second time, given how close she came to losing it all with the first book. We’re also not given a resolution to what’s been happening in the story. When the book ends, all appears to be lost except that June/Juniper turns her downfall into a new opportunity for redemption and future success, be it only in her mind. Or is it?

I guess we’ll never know.

And I guess that’s my main issue with the book. While June/Juniper’s perspective was fascinating in a car crash sort of way, there’s nothing in this story to balance it with. Because we know nothing about those who call her out and attack her on social media, we have no idea about their motivation (beyond outrage over plagiarism). Athena’s mother’s reasons for not wanting to be involved with her daughter’s writing are never explored or explained either. In fact, very little is explored in this book except for June/Juniper’s obsession with making it in the literary world.

Having said all of that, I was impressed with the way Kuang managed to have June/Juniper’s excuses and reasonings almost make sense. The online attacks against June/Juniper felt so familiar that they made me as uncomfortable while reading as they do when I witness them on Twitter in real life. The story clearly indicates how isolating the life of an author can be, and how easy it is for a person to lose perspective when they have nobody around to interact with. And the book definitely provides food for thought about who should write what and why not.

The blurb I found on Goodreads (the version I used above came from the back of my trade paperback) ends with the following paragraph:

What's the harm in a pseudonym? New York Times bestselling sensation Juniper Song is not who she says she is, she didn't write the book she claims she wrote, and she is most certainly not Asian American--in this chilling and hilariously cutting novel from R. F. Kuang.

While it summarizes the book perfectly, I fear I must have missed something because I didn’t find anything about this story hilarious. But that may be a ‘just me’ situation.

To narrow my thoughts down to one paragraph… Yellowface is a well-written and mostly captivating story. I’m just not sure how much I liked it. Between the unreliable and selfish main character, a serious lack of (sympathetic) secondary characters, and an ending that wasn’t really a resolution, I’m struggling to remember that there were large sections of this book I not only liked but admired.

  

 

Panenka by Rónán Hession

166 pages

Publisher: Bluemoose

 

Blurb

His name was Joseph, but for years they had called him Panenka, a name that was his sadness and his story. Panenka has spent 25 years living with the disastrous mistakes of his past, which have made him an exile in his home town and cost him his dearest relationships. Now aged 50, Panenka begins to rebuild an improvised family life with his estranged daughter and her seven year old son.

But at night, Panenka suffers crippling headaches that he calls his Iron Mask. Faced with losing everything, he meets Esther, a woman who has come to live in the town to escape her own disappointments. Together, they find resonance in each other’s experiences and learn new ways to let love into their broken lives.

Review

I read Leonard and Hungry Paul by Rónán Hession just under a year ago and adored the book. As I wrote at the time, ‘it is a quiet read…sweet, uplifting, and all the more thought-provoking for it’. So, I went into Panenka with high expectations and I’m very happy to report that I wasn’t disappointed.

Like its predecessor, Panenka is anything but an action-filled page turner. And yet, the story gripped me from the very start, and I would have found it next to impossible to put the book down for long. Thankfully, there was no need for me to be away from the story for any length of time after I started reading.

This is very much a character-driving story. A story about life, the moments that define us, and the always present opportunity to choose differently and, maybe, do better. For the most part (and with the possible exception of Panenka himself), the issues the characters in this book face aren’t huge, or earth-shattering. That makes them all the more recognisable. And the same is true for the way they deal with their situations. And that’s what made this book so special for me. It doesn’t create drama for the sake of it, because life, with its ups and downs, is dramatic enough without overstating the facts.

What most impressed me about Panenka and its predecessor is the apparent discrepancy between what appears to be a simple and subdued story and the glorious, thoughtful, and thought-provoking language in which is told. So many sentences and paragraphs stopped me in my tracks. I’d re-read them while pondering the message or admiring the choice of word, the imagery, the depth. I’m sharing a few examples below, but I was spoiled for choice in this book and could easily have come up with a much, much longer list.

“It struck him how unreliable age was as a measure of anything. All it did was count the distance from the start when what truly mattered was the time remaining.” (p.63)

“Well look at us. I could have asked for the full tour – you could have shown me around all your own facts and circumstances, given me the tourist board version of yourself. A whole story that I would later have to revise or unlearn based on who you turned out to be. Bit if I start with what you’re actually like, pick you up where I found you, then at least I’m starting with my information. I can sketch you my won way, and then colour you in over time.” (p.99)

“At times this place has been like quicksand. At other times like the centre of the world.” (p.112)

“Sometimes, as I get older, I wonder whether all that’s left are the unfixable things.” (p.115)

“Loneliness is a torch. It can show you things about yourself.” (p.123)

“But isn’t that what allowing yourself to be loved is all about – letting something greater than fear into your life?” (p.160)

 

Long review short. Panenka is a treasure of a book. The quiet story it tells is filled with humanity. It touched me deeply without ever turning sentimental. Between Leonard and Hungry Paul and Panenka, Rónán Hession has earned his place on my list of ‘must-read authors’.

Small Things Like These by Claire Keegan

 116 pages

Publisher Faber & Faber

Part of The Art of Reading Book Club with Colm Tóbín

 

Blurb

It is 1985, in an Irish town. During the weeks leading up to Christmas, Bill Furlong, a coal and timber merchant, faces his busiest season. As he does the rounds, he feels the past rising up to meet him – and encounters the complicit silences of a people controlled by the Church.

The long-awaited new work from the author of Foster, Small Things Like These is an unforgettable story of hope, quiet heroism and tenderness.

 

Review

“The worst was yet to come, he knew. Already he could feel a world of trouble waiting for him behind the net door, but the worst that could have happened was also already behind him; the thing not done, which could have been – which he would have had to live with for the rest of his life.” 

What to say about this book?

What to say about a story that left me both happy and dissatisfied?

Basically, this is the tale of a good man, Bill Furlong, paying it forward; performing an act of kindness that mirrors the similar act decades earlier, performed for his mother. I loved this aspect of the story. What’s not to like about a man confronting, facing, and overcoming his fears in order to do what is right?

I’m less happy that the story ended on the act, without showing us any of the consequences. Of course, it is easy enough to predict what might happen next, but I would have liked to see it unfold. As it is, I can imagine two very different outcomes and in an ideal (reading) world, I would have read about the positive option playing out. Maybe not immediately, but I like to think that in the end, Bill’s act of kindness would have been met by those who care for him, backing his decision. As it is, I will never know.

Then again, maybe that’s for the best. Rural Ireland in 1985 is not a place I recognise. Of course, my first visit to Ireland didn’t happen until two years later, but even what I saw, learned, and intuited at the time is nothing like what I encountered in this story. 1985, it doesn’t feel that long ago, but it is fair to say that Ireland has come a very long and mostly positive way since then. Based on the little I do know about those times and public attitudes back then; it is just as easy to imagine Bill’s act leading to the destruction of everything he holds dear.

I’m not entirely sure how I feel about the contrast between the way the story is told and what it is about. The writing is easy, gentle, and almost entirely without a sense of urgency. The content on the other hand is edgy, pressing, and filled with tension. Especially the first part of the book left me with the impression that I was reading a gentle vignette of times gone by. But the longer I lived with the words I’d read, the darker this apparently simple tale turned.

So, that’s where I’m at. Somewhat confused about how I feel about this story. It was beautifully written and deceptively easy to read. It was also darker than I expected, and it has left me with enough food for thought to last me days, if not weeks. While I’m not sure how much I liked Small Things Like These, I am very glad I’ve read it and I’m looking forward to (eventually) discussing this little gem with my book club.

Idaho by Emily Ruskovich

308 pages

Publisher: Vintage

Blurb

One hot August day a family drives to a mountain clearing to collect birch wood. Jenny, the mother, is in charge of lopping any small limbs off the logs with a hatchet. Wade, the father, does the stacking. The two daughters, June and May, aged nine and six, drink lemonade, swat away horseflies, bicker, and sing snatches of songs as they while away the time.

But then something unimaginably shocking happens, an act so extreme it will scatter the family in every different direction.

In a story told from multiple perspectives and in razor-sharp prose, we gradually learn more about this act, and the way its violence, love and memory reverberate through the life of every character in Idaho.

Review

I’m not entirely sure what to say about this book except maybe that it once again confirms that I’m not really clever enough for the sort of literary works that win major prizes (The International Dublin Literary Award in this case). Having said that, this story was a delightful and relatively easy read, something which I can’t say for all recognized literary ‘master-pieces”. But a story needs more than just being readable in order to be a great read. And this story, for me, lacked some of that ‘something more’.

The start of this book, and the shocking events that form the centre of everything that happens, read like something that would be developed. I expected some sort of twist, a shocking revelation, or even a miraculous turn-around. And (I realise this may constitute a spoiler) I was deeply disappointed that face-value was basically all there was to that horrific event.

The ‘revelation’ at the end, if you can call it that, is a bit of a conceit, as in that it comes to a character who wasn’t there, doesn’t know all the facts, and therefore can’t be sure of the truth of what they appear to know; a character, furthermore, who may well feel guilty about where they ended up in life and may be projecting that guilt further than it should go. I’m not sure about the answer, because it’s not actually in the book.

The ending itself is somewhat of a non-event. It brings together what for me were the two main characters of this story, but only for a day and it doesn’t answer any of the questions the start of the story created.

But, having said all of the above, I have to admit that this was an easy book to read. The story captivated me, as did the characters, maybe because of how ordinary they were, despite that one shocking moment. Although I have to admit that at least some of my motivation while turning the pages was the expectation of and hope for if not a twist in the tale than at least enlightenment about the why.

On the other hand, I can’t say I’m devastated about not having received more clarification either. Because there is some charm in playing the ‘I wonder’ and ‘what-if’ games after finishing a book.

To summarize, Idaho is a very well written and captivating study of various fascinating characters. It’s definitely not a book for those who demand clear answers and closed endings. But it will probably prove to have been a wonderful choice for a bookclub discussion.

The Handmaid’s Tale by Margaret Atwood

 311 pages

Publisher: Vintage

Reading Group Read

Blurb

Offred is a Handmaid in the Republic of Gilead. She may leave the home of the Commander and his wife once a day to walk to food markets whose signs are now pictures instead of words because women are no longer allowed to read. She must lie on her back once a month and pray that the Commander makes her pregnant, because in an age of declining births, Offred and the other Handmaids are valued only if their ovaries are viable.

Offred can remember the days before, when she lived and made love with her husband Luke; when she played with and protected her daughter; when she had a job, money of her own, and access to knowledge. But all of that is gone now....

Funny, unexpected, horrifying, and altogether convincing, The Handmaid's Tale is at once scathing satire, dire warning, and literary tour de force.

Review

Nolite to bastardes carborundorum

I’ve just added this title to my list of ‘extra special’ books, but somehow that label doesn’t fit right for The Handmaid’s Tale. Don’t get me wrong. It is without a doubt a fabulous work of fiction, superbly written, and with an unforgettable storyline. But ‘extra-special’ to me indicates something wonderful, pleasant. And nothing about this book can be described as pleasant. The words stark, horrific, prophetic, terrifying and too-close-for-comfort spring to mind.

I read this book before. I think it may have been fifteen years ago. The story, for the most part, stuck with me. But, I have to admit that it could almost have been two different books—they certainly were two very different reading experiences. All those years ago I read a fascinating piece of speculative, dystopian fiction. Even then it felt all too plausible, but not in an immediate way.

Re-reading the book now, given the political climate we now find ourselves living with, the story feels less speculative, almost less fictional. It doesn’t take a huge stretch of the imagination anymore to visualize a scenario as we encounter in this book, unfolding around us in real time.

“Ordinary is what you are used to. This may not seem ordinary to you now, but after a time it will. It will become ordinary.”

There is so much in this book to scare a person witless. You read this book and you can imagine how it might happen, and worse, how it might swallow you up too. There’s an insidious quality to this story, making the outrageous borderline logical, acceptable even. I found myself reading certain sections several times, knowing that what I’d read was wrong, but having a hard time pinpointing exactly why or where. I’m not sure whether I’m impressed or horrified that this book made me understand how people get drawn in to, and learn to live with, a situation that’s against their personal best interest.

“We lived, as usual, by ignoring. Ignoring isn’t the same as ignorance, you have to work at it. Nothing changes instantaneously.”

But, think about it. In a time when humanity is threatened because fertility is down, doesn’t it make sense to mobalize those women who are still able to give birth? Just as countries have for centuries mobilized men (and more recently women) in times of war?

“Already we were losing the taste for freedom, already we were finding these walls secure.”

And that’s of course another worrying truth. While people may say they value their freedom, far too many seem to find comfort in being told what to do, think, and say. Humanity is supposed to stand out among mammals because of our capacity for independent thought, but all too often and all too many of us prefer to live without thinking too hard, happy to ‘follow orders’ without contemplating the consequences—for ourselves and for others.

There was so very much in this story that horrified me and made me angry. But there was only one section that truly broke my heart: when Offred apologies, near the end of the book. Apologizes for acting on the need to connect with another.

While I’m sad that the story doesn’t reveal what really happened to Offred, or even whether the end of her story is positive or negative, I do appreciate it was the perfect way to conclude the tale. An answer to the ‘what happened next’ question, regardless of what that answer would have been, would have robbed this story of much of its power. It is because the story ends the way it does that I found myself going over what I’d read and what I hoped/feared/imagined followed Offred’s tale.

This is, without a doubt, one of the best books I’ve ever read. It is also among those stories that stay with me forever, because it is too unique, too shocking, and/or too thought-provoking to ever fade.

In which I ramble on about At Swim-Two-Birds by Flann O’Brien

Reading Group Read

247 pages

Irish

The blurb

Flann O'Brien's innovative metafictional work, whose unruly characters strike out their own paths in life to the frustration of their author, At Swim-Two-Birds is a brilliant impressionistic jumble of ideas, mythology and nonsense published in Penguin Modern Classics.

Flann O'Brien's first novel tells the story of a young, indolent undergraduate, who lives with his curmudgeonly uncle in Dublin and spends far too much time drinking with his friends. When not drunk or in bed he likes to invent wild stories peoples with hilarious and unlikely characters - but somehow his creations won't do what he wants them to. A dazzling work of farce, satire, folklore and absurdity that gives full rein to its author's dancing intellect and Celtic wit, At Swim-Two-Birds is both a brilliant comic send-up of Irish literature and culture, and a portrayal of Dublin to compare with Joyce's Ulysses.

My thoughts

Rambling alert! I know I’ve said it before, but this review is more a stream of consciousness reflection of what I thought while reading than a review of the book. It has also been written in two parts. It’s amazing what a night’s sleep will do with random thoughts.

****

I fear I’m not clever enough for this book. Or maybe it’s just that my brain doesn’t work the right way. Yes, I did pick up on the fact that this is a book about a character writing a book about a character writing a book in which the characters take over and attempt to bring down the author. As such the story jumps back and forth, not only from character to character but also from plot to plot. I apologize in advance for the fact that this collection of my thoughts may well do the same thing.

Note to self – Pooka: (in Irish mythology) a hobgoblin or sprite able to take on the form of various animals.

Because I write myself I’m all too aware that the characters I write and who should therefore be under my control, all too often take over and lead the story in a direction I couldn’t have foreseen. In fact, the whole premise that characters lead their own, independent lives while the author sleeps only to fall in with their plans during waking hours rather delights me. Especially since I have woken up once or twice, knowing exactly where a story of mine should be going next. I’m just not convinced that is the message I’m supposed to be taking away from this book. In fact, I’m completely bewildered as to what, if anything, I’m supposed to have gained from reading this book.

Part of my problem was that the story/stories rely on the classics and mythology a lot of the time, and I’m not well enough versed in either to appreciate their application. I’m just glad I managed to notice them and the fact that they more often than not went over my head.

For purely selfish reasons the following sentence made me smile; the timing is rather perfect.

“The tune came duly, a thin spirant from the Patience opera.”

I’m glad I persevered with this story, despite not having any idea what I was reading. In between everything I didn’t understand I occasionally came across little gems that made me smile. For example, how prophetic was the author to write the following in 1939, long before portable music players were thought of:

You are not in the habit of carrying a small gramophone in your pocket, are you, Sir?

I wonder if I’m wrong when I think that the journey the Pooka makes with the Good Fairy, Casey, Slug, and Shorty has overtones of Beckett?

It’s fun how this book appears to break several rules writers are always told to follow, such as ‘show, don’t tell’. Flann O’Brien takes ‘telling’ to a whole new level with his paragraphs starting with ‘Nature of legend’ or ‘Description of Mr. Hickey’, followed by a collection of descriptive facts. The author, of course, knows exactly what he’s doing and even has one of his characters pointing writing mistakes out.

“From a perusal of the manuscript which has just been presented in these pages, he had expressed his inability to distinguish between Furriskey, Lamont and Shanahan, bewailed what he termed their spiritual and physical identity, stated that true dialogue is dependent on conflict rather than the confluence of minds and made reference to the importance of characterization in contemporary literary works of high-class, advanced or literary nature.”

Question: Are we absolutely sure Mr. O’Brien was Irish? That sentence (and many others) runs on like I’ve only known Dutch and German sentences to do.

As much as I never got to understand what exactly I was reading, I have to admit to getting somewhat caught up in Shanahan, Furriskey, Lamont, and Orlick’s efforts to take control of their author’s life through writing his.

It is probably fitting that I’ve written a ‘review’ that’s at least as obscure as the book it deals with. And I’m not much clearer on how I should rate this book. Part of me wants to keep it low because it was so very confusing and I never got to that point of clarity where it suddenly all made sense. On the other hand the fact, that I finished the book and couldn’t help being intrigued despite—or maybe because of— the insanity of what I was reading makes me think it must be a work of genius. I’m just not clever enough to ‘get it’. J

Truthfully I have to admit that I’m no clearer as to what this story is really about now that I’ve finished it, then I was before I started reading. I can only hope that at least a few of my fellow bookclub members have a better idea and will be able to enlighten me. I think this is either going to be a very interesting or a very short book discussion J

****

Okay. I slept on it and woke up realising at last what I had found in this story. I have no idea if this is what the author had in mind when he wrote the story just as I don’t know if I’m the first or the hundredth person to say this. For me this book and all the stories within its story were a metaphor for writing. It’s about the relationship between author and characters; about characters taking a story for a spin the author didn’t see coming; about taking scenes from real life and fictionalising them, when necessary extracting revenge in the process.

It is of course possible I only found what I wanted to be there. And, what’s more, despite the fact that I’ve now come up with what is for me a plausible explanation of what I’ve read, I’m still not sure whether this was an extremely clever book or 247 pages of nonsense. Considering the status of this book I have to assume the first option is right and I’m just not wired the right way to appreciate it all.