Bellevue Square | eery, otherworldly, unsettling

Review: 3 stars

My friend Patrick and I have a lovely Christmas tradition. We gift each other our most anticipated read, or our favourite read from the past year. Over the years, he’s sent me some great choices, and this year, he opted for ‘Bellevue Square’ by Michael Redhill.

Redhill has written a cerebral thriller in which the credibility of our narrator, Jean Mason, is questioned throughout the novel. Jean lives a fairly ordinary life in Toronto, until she discovers from chance acquaintances that she has a doppelgänger that frequents Bellevue Square, and that myth has it only one of the doppelgängers can exist in the physical world. This news ignites Jean’s all-consuming hunt for her look-a-like, Ingrid. Jean works with a band of haphazard characters that frequent the square to unravel this mystery. We soon learn that Jean suffers from mental illness, and that is when we begin to question the veracity of her commentary and whether we, the readers, are being duped ourselves. The novel pulses towards an inexorable face-off between the Jean and Ingrid, in which only one can survive.

The premise of the novel is original, but at times gimmicky, and Redhill takes many pains to elevate the suspense of the novel. He guides the reader unwittingly to invest deeply in Jean’s character, which I think is a wholly successful rendering. We empathize with her struggle to appear ‘normal’ to her sons and husband, and are impressed by the ease with which she slips into the patchwork fabric of Toronto’s underbelly. This outpour of support for Jean is what makes the twist in the end quite dramatic. The finale unravels our notion of who, or what, Jean really is and prompts us to shift our sympathies to Ingrid.

While the ending is intriguing and refreshing to me, I found that there were a few doldrums in the novel, when pace fell off and my interest waned. I would’ve appreciated more time allotted to the hasty ending to explore the questions of reality and existence that Redhill launches with pages left to go. Overall, this was a good read with a well-developed protagonist, but fell short for me on a few other dimensions.

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.

Exit West | imaginative, surreal, intimate

Review: 4 stars

‘Exit West’ was listed as a Top 10 book of 2017 by the New York Times, and so I ordered a copy off Amazon earlier this year. It piqued my interest because the novel seemed to be a contradiction - at once eerily realistic in its description of the refugee experience, all the while ignoring the laws of physics.

‘Exit West’ follows a pair of new, young lovers - Saeed and Nadia, who are" “subversives” in an anonymous Muslim country, teetering on the brink of civil war. The heady concoction of marijuana-tinged forbidden romance draws the two together, as curfews, bank runs and downed phone lines wreak havoc across their city. They catch wind of magical doors that are opening at random, bending distance to teleport willing travellers to unknown destinations. Thus begins Saeed and Nadia’s journey through this secretive network of doors, with each destination warping their relationship slightly more than the last.

Hamid has written a very clever story - one that adeptly blends ambiguity with the detailed emotional tapestry of the migrant experience. Saeed and Nadia could be fleeing Yemen, Syria or Somalia - their origin is of no import. By stripping this away and urging the reader to accept teleportation as reality, Hamid generalizes the refugee crisis so that it is the responsibility of the world. How would we act if a door were to spontaneously open in our bedrooms, shadowy, beleaguered figures emerging at all intervals throughout the day? What would we protect, what would we give? This surreal, yet genius interpretation of global diaspora insists upon activating the reader’s empathy.

I also thoroughly appreciated the deterioration of Saeed and Nadia’s romance, proving that circumstance and proximity are not enough to sustain love. Saeed is drawn more and more to the trappings of his home country, and shrouds himself in devout prayer. In contrast, Nadia finally feels as though she can shed her skin, and camouflage herself to be whoever she desires now. Their growing chasm is so honestly captured, and feels like a story repeated in every city in the world. Hamid writes this to illustrate their tenuous bond:

“Saeed wanted to feel for Nadia what he had always felt for Nadia, and the potential loss of this feeling left hm unmoored…Saeed made a point to smile with Nadia, at least sometimes, and he hoped she would feel something warm and caring when he smiled, but what she felt was sorrow and the sense that they were better than this, and that together they had to find a way out.”

This story feels old and clairvoyant at the same time. Refugees escaping certain persecution with uncertain promises awaiting at their destination. Upcroppings of peripheral migrant neighbourhoods, like outstretched tentacles from the world’s urban apexes. The right to electricity and connectivity wielded as new-age weapons by iinvaded authorities, against the invaders. New generations of ‘natives’, lighter in colour than those who previously donned the name.

This timeless novel successfully melds reality with fantasy, while providing a gentle, patient periscope into an unravelling relationship. I found it to be a thought-provoking read, and highly recommend it for those who would enjoy an inventive lens on today’s refugee crisis.

Home Fire | incendiary, daring, unexpected

Review: 4 stars

I walked into BMVQ over the summer, and was immediately taken by the stunning cover of ‘Home Fire’. I’m a fairly risk averse reader - I try not to judge a book by its cover, and I rely heavily on awards, reviews and ‘best of’ lists before affirming my choices. Luckily, Home Fire was a Top 100 pick of 2017 by the New York Times, so I happily bought it.

‘Home Fire’ is the story of three siblings - Isma, Aneeka and Parvaiz, who are ostracized from their Pakistani community in Britain because of their father’s legacy as a jihadi fighter. The novel is told in four voices - one for each sibling, with the final reserved for Karamat Lone - the father of Aneeka’s love interest, Eamonn, and Britain’s Home Secretary.

Isma fatefully meets Eamonn while studying abroad in America, igniting a collision course that leads to fatal consequences. Three parallel plot lines weave in and out, steadily ratcheting up the novel’s tension. The first - Isma’s blossoming friendship and affection for Eamonn, which is countered by Aneeka and Eamonn’s passionate love affair. The second - Aneeka and her family’s burning disdain for Karamat, born from his rejection of his Muslim community and refusal to help resolve their father’s death. The third - Parvaiz’s seduction by ISIS and his subsequent journey to Syria to honour his father.

Shamsie’s writing is poetic and heartbreaking. The novel reads as a thriller at times - so compelling are the plot and the protagonists’ struggles. She employs mixed media to evoke the realism of how public opinion is presented (tweets, hashtags, news headlines), how youth communicate across oceans (texts, skype messages), and also how ISIS guides their pilgrims to the frontline (poems, Quran verses).

The ending is one of the most moving and shocking conclusions to a novel that I’ve come across. It requires re-reading to fully absorb the enormity of each person’s actions, and to fully bear witness to all-consuming love. Shamsie wields the perspective of a removed onlooker in the final scene to create an immutable newsreel of horror and beauty, and to allow the reader to pass judgement and propose motives.

I recommend this book to those looking for a moving, ambitious exploration of the intersection of political and private agendas, and the wide spectrum of Muslim expression.

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.

Less | self-deprecating, light, human

Review: 2 stars

I could’ve done with less of Less. I decided to read it as part of the Now Read This bookclub, and also because it won a Pulitzer. It also came recommended by Kevin, from the BMVQ store, and he recommended ‘A Little Life’ also, which I adored. Given all this, my expectations were pretty sky high, and they quickly plummeted as I kept reading.

Less follows the whirlwind travels of 50-year-old Arthur Less, a faded novelist who is escaping his ex’s nuptials. As we go from Mexico to Germany to Japan, Less encounters new paramours, all the while reminiscing about his old ones. Our protagonist is highly self-deprecating, at times over-confident (as when he believes he can speak German), and above all, unmoored. Where the novel succeeds is in the charm Less brings to embarrassing situations, juxtaposed with his comically critical self-regard.

Perhaps this novel was difficult for me to relate to given the stage of life Less is in, but I felt that too much effort was exerted to create the whimsical atmosphere that permeates the novel. I also didn’t personally like Less’ character, as much as I may have found it to be a very round and well-developed persona. Flirtatious and awkward exchanges between Less and lesser characters are drawn-out and not in line with my sense of humour. Even the mysterious first-person narrator who tells us of Less’ trials and tribulations is who we expected it to be all along, making for a anticlimactic ending.

For those who have read Greer before, or are interested in a fairly light LGBTQ comedy, this might be a good fit for you. However, personally, I felt my time could’ve been better spent on another read.

Sing, Unburied, Sing | timely, tragic, soulful

Review: 3 stars

'Sing, Unburied, Sing' was the first pick of the 'Now Read This' bookclub. It has also been awarded the National Book Award and appeared in a number of Top 10 Books of 2017 lists. Needless to say, it's been on my to-read list for quite awhile, and I dove into it during a family vacation to Santa Cruz. 

The novel is a railroad track with two parallel stories - one involving teenage Jojo, his toddler sister Kayla and a road trip with his mother Leonie to retrieve their father Michael from Parchman penitentiary; the other follows River, Jojo's Pop, and his time own time at Parchman decades earlier. Throughout, these parallel tracks cross, as spirits from the past - Richie, Pop's fellow inmate, and Given, Leonie's deceased brother - assert themselves on the protagonists' reality, insistent on their own agendas. 

Ward's writing modulates easily to craft each narrator's unique voice. It is effortless to empathize with Jojo in his role as Kayla's protector from a seemingly deadbeat, drugged-up mother. Similarly, I can easily meld myself into Leonie's conscience, urging her to love her children right, to be more than what circumstances have defined her to be. Ward effectively puts forward her thesis - that the restless souls of so many wronged black men and women are actively invading our present consciousness, influencing the actions of their ancestors generations later. The corpses are buried but their stories of injustice linger, demanding witness and reparation. Each character in the novel perceives these spirits to different extents, but not one is immune to the consequences of these African American lives. This is most poignant during the scene when Jojo and his family are pulled over by a cop, and Jojo, an unarmed black teenager, stares down the barrel of the officer's pistol for no good reason at all. It is a nightmarish history repeating itself again, different scenery, different weapon, same tragedy. 

Ward's novel is creative, unflinching and timely given our social struggle with ongoing racism and police brutality, particularly in the U.S. While I felt her novel was highly successful, for some reason, the story was less resonant with me. Perhaps I am not the right reader, in the wrong country. While my opinion and rating of the novel may be debatable, I do feel however that it is an important contribution to the prevailing discussion on racism. 

A Little Life | tortured, unforgettable, compulsive

Review: 5 stars

I recently discovered the Queen Street BMV store in Toronto, where you can buy new (and recently released) books for 10-50% off list price. As usual, I was taking my baby out for an afternoon stroll and decided to pop in to find my next read. 

I thumbed through the stacks of popular reads on display, hesitating on "Americanah", before my eyes wandered to "A Little Life" on the staff picks shelf. The novel is often described as a portrait of the friendship between four men, and it piqued my interest since I thought I could gain insight into the mysterious world of male relationships. 

I was forewarned by Kevin, the staff recommender, that this would be a heavy read - one that I would need to mete out over days, if not weeks. I had felt the same way about "A Fine Balance" by Rohinton Misry, one of my favourite books, so readily jumped at the challenge. 

How can I appropriately synthesize this book?

Intensely, compulsively readable and plot-driven. Emotionally draining and replenishing. I found myself rushing through sentences, and then abruptly closing my eyes to abate the inevitable tragedy I knew would transpire several lines down. My heart chilled and physically ached as Jude tentatively unfurled his past and as he reviled and hacked at his own body. I blinked back tears during the small domestic moments and effortless gestures of affection between Willem and Jude. I raged against Caleb and his monstrosity. I reflected on my own friendships and how at a loss I was when dear friends have questioned their self-worth or will to live. I had to steel myself constantly for the next paragraph, the next page, the next chapter, for the onslaught of pain, misfortune and sorrow that I knew might obliterate the pockets of warmth that enveloped the characters just short pages ago (especially during "The Happy Years" period). 

It is an emotionally difficult read. Yanagihara distils the essence of being a friend, a parent, an enemy to yourself, and reveals it through small thoughts, small feelings, small actions. It speaks truths and assaults your lack of creativity - for there are so many different lives, so many different kinds of pain, that we cannot begin to imagine. She gets it so right, and stumbles so infrequently that it is difficult for me to understand how she conceived of this tale and its details. The addictive cycle of hurt, intervention, half-hearted appeasement and willful pretending is likely one that rings true for many friendships who have endured through pain. 

This book is a gift - a story that I thought about before I went to sleep and as I was on vacation in Vancouver (and cursing myself for leaving it behind in Toronto). It will stay with me for a long time, and will be a book that I consistently recommend to all serious readers. 

The God of Small Things | whimsical, profound, heartwrenching

Review: 5 stars

Along with many of my friends, I am turning 30 this year! To commemorate the occasion, I am gifting each of my dearest girlfriends one of my most memorable reads to date. To my friend Charlene, I shared "The God of Small Things". When I first read this over five years ago, I remember being so taken by the style of writing and the story, that I knew it would be an all-time favourite...however, I had forgotten much of the story in the years since! I decided to re-read it, and was treated to the piercingly original and charming narrative of Ms. Roy. 

Her most obvious talent is her ability to mould and shape words to tickle the reader's imagination, and to capture the effervescent innocence of youth. Phrases like "Orangedrink Lemondrink Man", "fountain in a Love-in-Tokyo", "Loved from the Beginning", "Esthappychachen Kuttappen Peter Mon" are clever mantras repeated throughout the novel, ways to ground you in what has passed, and prime you for what is to come. At first blush, these are mischievous descriptions, but later, the waves of nostalgia that accompany these catchphrases remind you of when life was simpler, brighter.

The novel is centred around Estha and Rahel - a pair of brother-sister twins living in Kerala, India, and the fateful summer when their cousin Sophie Mol visits from abroad. What follows is an unspeakable tragedy, "the Terror", that is heavily foreshadowed and revealed piece by piece through the eyes of each main character. Caste, political ambition, childhood recklessness and stubborn pride, all conspire to tear apart the beautiful, magical youth that Estha and Rahel have crafted with their powerful imaginations. 

Roy is such a clever writer, that I found myself smiling and laughing to myself throughout, interspersed with pauses of genuine sadness. I've never found an author as confident and as willing to break the rules as her, and this is what makes the novel so successful. Her ability to conjure up emotions in the reader is astonishing. When Ammu warns Rahel that "When you hurt people, they begin to love you less", I feel like a child admonished myself. Near the end, when Estha cries out from the accelerating train: "Ammu! Feeling vomity!", I began to cry, intimately grasping the despair of being unable to comfort my child in need. 

I also loved her ability to immortalize small truths about life that I've always felt, but never succeeded in articulating. For example, when she describes how Velutha, an Untouchable that works for Ammu's family, plays with Rahel, Estha and Sophie Mol:

"It is only now, these years later, that Rahel with adult hindsight recognized the sweetness of that gesture. A grown man entertaining three racoons, treating them like real ladies. Instinctively colluding in the conspiracy of their fiction, taking care not to decimate it with adult carelessness. Or affection. It is after all so easy to shatter a story...To let it be, to travel with it, as Velutha did, is much the harder thing to do." 

Re-reading "The God of Small Things" cemented the novel in my canon of most treasured books. I turned the final page with tremendous regret and with deep satisfaction. I highly recommend this to anyone looking for a refreshing, original read. 

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.