Wild Swans may well be the most depressing book I've ever read. Don't let that keep you from giving it a try, though, for by some strange mechanism, iWild Swans may well be the most depressing book I've ever read. Don't let that keep you from giving it a try, though, for by some strange mechanism, it also ranks among the most uplifting books I've read, chronicling as it does a courage, resilience and will to survive which are nothing short of riveting. I could sum the book up by saying it's the greatest ode to courage and resilience ever written, or that it's one of those rare books which make you despair of humanity and then go a long way towards restoring your faith in it, but no, I'm not going to leave it at that. I'm going to do this book justice, because damn it, it deserves it.
For those of you who missed the hype back in the early 1990s, Wild Swans is the true history of three generations of women living through the horrible nightmare that is modern Chinese history. One is the author herself, now a naturalised British citizen. The second is her mother, an earnest Communist who raised a large family at a time which was extremely bad for family life. The third is her grandmother, who was married off as a concubine to a warlord as a girl and lived to see her family suffer for this unfortunate connection again and again. Using these three extraordinary lives as her main focus, Jung Chang tells the history of China's even more extraordinary twentieth century, from the late Qing Dynasty in the first decade of the century to the relatively free 1980s, a period comprising the Republican era, the battle between the Kwomintang and the Communists, the Great Leap Forward and the Cultural Revolution. It's gripping stuff even for those who know their Chinese history, and it blew me away when I first read it halfway through my Chinese degree, making me wonder (for the first time but not the last) whether I really wanted to devote the rest of my life to China. It took me two more years to decide that I did not, but this book, whose memory has always stayed with me, played a large part in that decision. To this day, I vividly remember the horror I experienced when I read the long section about the Cultural Revolution. It brought alive the terror of that particular episode of Chinese history better than any other book I'd read, and it shocked me to my core.
While Wild Swans is largely about the three women mentioned above, the most interesting person in the book (I hesitate to call him a character as he was obviously a very real person) is the author's father, a high-ranking cadre who genuinely believed in the Communist ideals and strove all his life to implement them in daily life. At first, he is infuriating in his refusal to grant his wife and children the privileges to which they are entitled as his relatives (on the grounds that to do so would amount to nepotism and corruption, which is precisely what the Communists are supposed to be trying to eradicate), but as the story progresses, you realise that there is something quite heroic about Mr Chang -- that he is, in his daughter's words, 'a moral man living in a land that [is] a moral void'. By the time the Cultural Revolution rolls around the corner, you feel such admiration for him that you'd personally drag him away from the humiliations and beatings he receives for sticking to his guns if you could, to prevent him having to experience that loss of faith and dreams which is bound to follow. His is a tragedy with a capital T, and it's harrowing -- one of the most painful things I've read, and then some.
Yet for all the personal struggles described in the book (and there are many of them), the main struggling character of Wild Swans is China itself. Chang does a great job chronicling what J.G. Ballard called 'the brain-death of a nation', sharing historical facts in a way non-sinologists will understand and showing the cruelty and mercilessness inherent in the Chinese -- or should that be humanity in general? She does a marvellous job describing the panic and unpredictability of the early Cultural Revolution, when absolutely everybody could be denounced at the drop of a hat, and when pettiness and lust for power reigned. Along the road, she provides fascinating insights into Mao Zedong's selfishness and megalomania, and into the hypocrisy and incongruity of the movements he set in motion, which brutalised human relationships like nothing else ever has. And all these atrocities she juxtaposes with the integrity and courage of her parents and grandmother, who get through it all with some hope and optimism left intact. It's a riveting story, and Chang tells it well.
If I have any complaints about Wild Swans, they concern the first few chapters and the romanisation of names. The early parts of the book, which deal with events the author did not witness herself, feel a bit aloof and lifeless. (It gets better once Chang starts telling about her parents, and once she reaches the part of the story to which she herself was privy (the Great Leap Forward, the Cultural Revolution), the book becomes quite unputdownable.) As for the romanisation, I wish the publisher had hired an editor skilled in Pinyin, as Chang's spelling of Chinese names is all over the place (something non-sinologists won't notice, but which is an eyesore to me). These are minor flaws, though, which hardly detract from the overall quality of the book. Wild Swans is an intensely compelling read -- moving, unsettling and unforgettable. It should be compulsory reading for everyone remotely interested in China, or in history in general. ...more
I never fail to be impressed by the way Murakami captures mood and feelings. Even in his less fantastic novels, of which this is one, he draws you intI never fail to be impressed by the way Murakami captures mood and feelings. Even in his less fantastic novels, of which this is one, he draws you into a world that is all his, and so full of possibilities and connections that you feel you could grasp them if you reached out. Except you don't, because in Murakami's universe it's easier to stay put and wait than to get actively involved. It's about memories and reminiscences, about wishes and alternate realities, and if you were to reach out and touch anything, you would break the carefully crafted atmosphere, leaving nothing but some loner's neurotic ramblings about the things he should have done but sadly never did. You wouldn't want to do that, now would you?
South of the Border, West of the Sun is set in a familiar Murakami landscape where lonely men listen to jazz and classical music, get obsessed with mysterious women with death in their eyes, and crave a connection with just one fellow soul. This time around, the protagonist is Hajime, a man in his late thirties who seems to be going through a bit of a mid-life crisis. Reasonably happily married and the successful owner of two jazz bars, Hajime seems to have it all, except for two things: he can't really connect to anyone, and he is haunted by memories of the women he has wronged. Most of all, he is haunted by the memory of his childhood friend Shimamoto, the only person in his life to whom he has ever been close, but of whom he lost sight at age twelve. And then Shimamoto suddenly reappears in his life, tempting him with promises of closeness and understanding and confusing him profoundly.
As stories of mid-life crises and marital infidelity go, this one is nothing out of the ordinary. It follows Hajime through his obsession with Shimamoto and his insecurities, regrets and justifications, leading him all the way to some modicum of self-discovery. So far, so generic adultery novel. What sets the book apart from countless other such books is its mood. Like other Murakami books, South of the Border, West of the Sun is a mood piece. It has a dreamlike, timeless quality, a mellow intensity, and a jazz-and-rain-fuelled melancholy which occasionally drips off the pages. It evokes loneliness and obsession in a way few other authors manage to evoke them. It's like being submerged in a bath of longing and nostalgia, and I, for one, really enjoy that sort of thing. There's something quite cathartic about it.
Much has been said about Hajime, the protagonist of South of the Border. Like many Murakami characters, Hajime is not an action hero; he spends most of the book waiting for fate to deal him a lucky card, and when he finally gets it, he doesn't really know what to do with it. Nor does he seem to notice that the cards he was initially dealt were actually quite good. He is a dreamer and a drifter, floating through a world in which he doesn't seem properly anchored, feeling rather than observing, longing rather than acting. He is haunted by memories and wallows in his own mistakes without having the guts to address them. He is not necessarily the world's most attractive protagonist, but all the same it is interesting watching the world through his eyes, sensing his guilt and sharing his cravings. And if he doesn't seem to be all that different from countless other Murakami protagonists, well, so be it. That's Murakami for you -- writing the same story featuring the same protagonist over and over again, but in a way which keeps you coming back for more.
As for Murakami's refusal to tie up the loose ends in this book, which seems to baffle certain reviewers, I like that. I like that we never find out exactly what Shimamoto has been up to for all these years. I like that her disappearance remains unexplained. I even like the fact that we never find out her first name (Hajime keeps calling her by her family name, even when they are having sex). It adds an air of detachment and mystery to the novel, which in turn just adds to its dreamlike quality. It allows you to fill in the blanks yourself, and at the end of the day, that is what I like most about good fiction -- its ability to make you fantasise and write parts of the story yourself. Maybe that's why I like Murakami so much; he draws me into brilliant moodscapes and leaves me there, thinking, feeling, wondering what I would do in a given position. Sometimes I wish I never had to leave his world, but alas, even the best jazz gets tedious after a while......more
I could write a one-sentence review of this book, saying that it features Beethoven, talking cats and obsessive love and that therefore I couldn't butI could write a one-sentence review of this book, saying that it features Beethoven, talking cats and obsessive love and that therefore I couldn't but love it. Or I could write another one-sentence review, stating that it's Murakami and that therefore it's inherently good and interesting. Both of these statements would be true and more or less complete, but all the same I think I'll go into slightly more detail.
Kafka on the Shore is a story about a fifteen-year-old bookworm who calls himself Kafka (as you do) and runs away from home, partly to look for his lost mother and sister, but mostly to get away from his horrible father, whose crimes against him are never fully explained. Fate draws him to a town where, among other things, he meets two women who may well be his mother and sister, which doesn't prevent him from having sex with them. His story, which is as Oedipal as they come, is intersected with that of Nakata, a sixty-year-old simpleton who, among many other unique gifts, can talk to cats. It quickly transpires that Kafka's and Nakata's lives are interconnected, but exactly how this is doesn't become clear until the end, if indeed it does then.
There is much to enjoy here. As always, Murakami's prose is supremely efficient; every sentence matters and takes you closer to the inevitable denouement. As always, the characters are tremendously likeable and off-beat. One could argue that they're not entirely three-dimensional, but who cares when they have such a story to tell? For theirs is quite a story. Like all of Murakami's 'weird' books, Kafka on the Shore is light on facts and heavy on metaphysical stuff. It's not a book for those who like straightforward stories; many of the questions raised are left unanswered, which I love but which will leave those who are of a slightly more literal bent unsatisfied. Nor is it a book for people who care about realism. What with its curses, entrances to other worlds, mackerel rainstorms, ghosts, concepts assuming human form and heavy emphasis on fate, destiny and reincarnation, Kafka on the Shore has a distinctly fairy-tale-like atmosphere, which is probably why I liked it so much (apart from it featuring Beethoven, talking cats and obsessive love, I mean). Parts of the story were clearly inspired by Japanese mythology. In its own turn, I can see this book being the inspiration for a very good Japanese movie. Maybe it has a little too much violence and incest in it to be turned into an anime film, but I can think of quite a few 'regular' Japanese directors who could do great things with this particular brand of mysterious magic realism. Which begs the question: how come the book hasn't been adapted to the screen yet?
Anyhow, to cut a long story short (and to prevent this turning into a panegyric on Japanese cinema), I loved this book. If I'm not giving it five stars, that's because it lacks the emotional resonance of Norwegian Wood (my favourite Murakami book so far) and because Philip Gabriel's translation is a little too American for my taste. If I could give it four and a half stars, though, I would -- for the skilful way in which Murakami weaves together his two storylines, for his haunting descriptions of the power of memories and longing, for the many matter-of-fact weird touches he adds (Johnnie Walker and Colonel Sanders, anyone?), and, naturally, for his throwing in Beethoven, talking cats and obsessive love. It doesn't get any better than that, does it? ...more
Memoirs about life in twentieth-century China tend to be profoundly depressing. I remember reading Wild Swans as a student and being so utterly depresMemoirs about life in twentieth-century China tend to be profoundly depressing. I remember reading Wild Swans as a student and being so utterly depressed afterwards that I seriously wondered if I really wanted to go on learning Chinese and becoming a sinologist. And then I went to China and realised that no, I most certainly did not want to be a career sinologist. China and I are a bad match, but that doesn't stop me from continuing to be fascinated by the country.
Of all the memoirs of life in twentieth-century China which have been published over the past twenty years, this is my favourite, precisely because it is not depressing. Sure, Wong describes some pretty shocking stuff, but for all that, the tone of her book is remarkably light-hearted. It's an easy, thoroughly engaging and occasionally mind-boggling memoir-cum-history of China which I highly recommend to anyone who is remotely interested in China.
The first half of the book is quite unique. In it, Wong (born into a fairly wealthy Canadian Chinese family) describes her teenage love affair with Maoism, which culminates in her visit to China in 1972, at the height of the Cultural Revolution. While shocked by the poverty she encounters, she decides to stay in China, becoming one of only two foreign students allowed to study at the newly reopened Beijing University. Eager to impress their two foreign guests, the authorities try to pamper then, only to find that Jan and her American fellow student Erica are devoted Maoists who, rather than having favours bestowed on them, want to become worker-soldier-peasant students just like their Chinese classmates. So when they're not learning Chinese by reading Mao and translations of Stalin, they shovel manure, work heavy equipment and break their backs harvesting aubergines and peanuts. While doing so, they encounter an awful lot of stuff that isn't quite right (and do some things themselves that are't completely right, either), but being young and naive and impossibly idealistic, they turn a blind eye. Wong ends up staying in China for six years, during which time her belief in Mao's brand of socialism very slowly erodes. From the reader's perspective, it takes an awful lot of time for her to realise that the Cultural Revolution is a disaster, but her misguided faith and enthusiasm do make for a very interesting read. Hers is a rare first-hand account of the Cultural Revolution from a brain-washed Westerner's point of view, and it's compelling stuff.
The second part of the book is less unique, but still fascinating. After a lengthy stint in North America, Wong returns to China in the late 1980s as a journalist, and decides to stay in Beijing when all hell breaks loose on Tiananmen Square in June 1989 and nearly all other foreigners are being evacuated from the country. Her account of the Tiananmen massacre is utterly compelling and chilling. She then goes on to describe meetings with dissidents, social ills in the countryside, the effects of China's new-found capitalism, etc., all the while drawing comparisons with the China she knew in the 1970s.
I guess one of the reasons why Red China Blues strikes such a chord with me is because in a way, Jan Wong's relationship with China mirrors my own. Like Wong, I went from infatuation with China to an acute dislike of the country. Needless to say, my own story isn't nearly as spectacular or dramatic as hers, but still, I recognise the feelings she describes.
Which is not to say that you have to be a disillusioned sinologist to appreciate this book. There's plenty to enjoy for non-sinologists. I have never read any of Jan Wong's columns in the Globe and Mail, but judging from this book, she is an excellent journalist. She is well-informed, has a good eye for odd and telling details and comes up with some very astute observations on China's past, present and future. Furthermore, she is honest and self-deprecating and gets good quotes from the locals because they trust her more than they do non-Chinese-looking-and-speaking journalists. It's easy to criticise Wong for being so terribly naive in the 1970s, but I for one found her portrayal of a genuinely deluded Maoist quite fascinating, not to mention frequently entertaining. As I said, it's a remarkably light-hearted book given the subject matter -- a nice change from all the serious, soul-crushing memoirs which have been published about life in China over the past twenty years. Very highly recommended to those who like well-written accounts of unusual lives and even more unusual historical developments. ...more
The Inheritance of Loss may well be the most depressing work of fiction I've read since reading The Mists of Avalon in the early nineties. Nobody actuThe Inheritance of Loss may well be the most depressing work of fiction I've read since reading The Mists of Avalon in the early nineties. Nobody actually dies in it (at least, none of the major characters does), but it has a pervasive sense of loneliness, hopelessness and self-hatred which is quite sobering.
Set in a North Indian village close to Nepal, Kiran Desai's novel tells the intertwined stories of five people: a snobbish former judge who is more British than the British themselves and can't get over the fact that India is not British any more; his orphaned and sadly neglected teenage granddaughter Sai; Sai's Nepali tutor-cum-love interest Gyan, who gets caught up in the Nepali struggle for independence and has to choose between his ideals and the girl he loves; the judge's impoverished cook, who tries to make the best of a very bad situation but is not getting very far; and the cook's son, Biju, who is trying to make a living in far-away New York. The plot mainly focuses on the goings-on in the Indian village, where life is getting increasingly less peaceful, but there are many chapters detailing the lives of Indian illegal immigrants in America which are just as powerful, if not more so.
It's easy to see why The Inheritance of Loss won the 2006 Booker Prize; it's just the kind of multi-cultural story the Booker judges love, full of local colour and wry observations about life, class, history, cultural identity and the effects of colonialism. Desai has quite a talent for description; many of her short chapters read like vignettes on some aspect of her characters' lives and/or memories, and many are quite colourful or impressive. Sadly, the storyline sometimes gets a little lost in between all the details and memories. The characters don't really have story arcs, and there are parts where it seems the story itself isn't really going anywhere, either. And indeed the ending doesn't provide any great changes or developments. I guess that is the point of the book, though; life has no redemption, no happy ending for these characters. It just goes... on.
As a meditation on life and humanity, then, The Inheritance of Loss is quite impressive. It's likely to turn you into a bit of a misanthrope, but don't hold that against it; it's a beautifully written book and an interesting look at a part of the world many of us aren't all that familiar with. ...more
An End to Suffering is an ambitious book -- a valiant attempt to introduce the reader to Buddhism, examine Buddhism's relevance in today's world and cAn End to Suffering is an ambitious book -- a valiant attempt to introduce the reader to Buddhism, examine Buddhism's relevance in today's world and compare it with Western philosophy, combined with a generous dose of travel writing (descriptions of places which were important in the Buddha's life and what has become of them), Indian history (comparisons between the Buddha and Gandhi) and personal memoirs. This probably sounds like an interesting combination, and it is, but as far as I'm concerned, Mishra doesn't entirely pull it off. While parts of the book are fascinating (I particularly enjoyed the memoir aspect and the insightful way in which Mishra draws a comparison between Eastern philosophy and Western philosophy, notably Nietzsche), others are not nearly as well developed (the introduction to Buddhism remains just that -- an introduction). The different genres don't always blend smoothly, either, which occasionally makes for awkward reading; more rigorous editing would have improved the book considerably. Still, it's one of the more interesting books I translated despite these shortcomings; those who like popular philosophy and well-informed travel writing with a personal touch will find much to enjoy in it. ...more
Dance Dance Dance is a bizarre, Kafkaesque tale about a lonely man who embarks on a journey to find a former lover who has called out to him in a dreaDance Dance Dance is a bizarre, Kafkaesque tale about a lonely man who embarks on a journey to find a former lover who has called out to him in a dream, only to find himself drawn into a surreal world full of offbeat characters and strange events. While not as hauntingly beautiful as Norwegian Wood, it's great and fascinating stuff, full of style, filmic descriptions and endearing characters. It reads like a film, and that's a compliment in my book. ...more
Norwegian Wood is a beautifully evocative account of Japanese student life in the late 1960s. It's a bit sentimental by Murakami's standards, but boy,Norwegian Wood is a beautifully evocative account of Japanese student life in the late 1960s. It's a bit sentimental by Murakami's standards, but boy, is it engaging. At turns humorous, fascinating, melancholy and poignant, this story about an unusual student who is torn between two rather unusual women is probably the best book I've read this year. I just love the characters Murakami comes up with. Even the minor characters are special and endearing. ...more
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