May 22, 2018 § Leave a comment
First published in English in 2015
Simon comes across as a slightly awkward boy, with family that shares way too much for comfort. He also has three close friends, one boy and two girls (but there’s a slight unease in that triangle, because one of the girls has a crush on the boy, while the boy seems to like the other girl). All very teenage-angsty.
It seems Simon would be okay with all this—he seems like an easy-going guy, happy to go along with the flow, were it not for one secret that he’s kept for as long as he remembers—one that somehow gets found out by a random classmate, Martin, who happens to read his secret emails. Simon’s gay.
I’ve read elsewhere (and my brother has told me) that this book has received some very excellent reviews. And yet I remained a little skeptical, to be honest, because I’m not a huge fan of cute, lovey-dovey YA fiction. I even thought I would give it up halfway through. But not only did I finish it, I found it rather enjoyable!
The book was at times funny, at times heart-warming, and at times just really really spontaneous and frank. Simon as a character, as a boy, just came right out of the pages (or the screen of my phone)—that was how relatable he was.
He was fun and flawed, making him very real for me. And I wanted to root for him all the way.
March 28, 2018 § Leave a comment
First published in Chinese in 2010
Translated to English by Nicky Harman in 2010
This book is a collection of ten stories about Chinese mothers and their daughters—daughters they have lost, daughters they were forced to give up, daughters they chose to give up, daughters who left them, daughters who have stayed with them in their hearts all these years.
I first found out about Chinese girls being adopted by Western families about a couple of years ago. A storyteller friend of mine at that time asked if I would come on board to help do some reading and research on a topic closely related to a story he wanted to tell: what goes through the mind of an adopted daughter whose birth mother in China simply left her at a random orphanage when she was less than a year old?
The more I read into the topic, the more I realised just how complex the issue is. There wasn’t any straightforward answer to why a mother would leave her child at an orphanage—sometimes it was poverty, sometimes it was the one-child policy, sometimes it was simply because she was a daughter.
The stories in this book are as varied as they come, in terms of where the mothers came from, and how they lost their daughters. And as one of the comments at the back of the book says: “One would have to have a heart of stone not to be moved.”
Yet at the same time, while I appreciated the hardships and heartache, it also almost felt like I was being spoon-fed. Were the stories moving? Yes. Were they painful? Also, yes. Did I feel bad for the mothers and their daughters? Yes. But those feelings didn’t feel organic, in a way. Almost as if Xinran was telling me that those were the feelings I was supposed to feel.
This is my second Xinran book, the first one being a novel, Miss Chopsticks, which I read about 8 years ago (wow, how time flies!). And when I read my thoughts on that book back then, I realise my feelings for Xinran’s writing style hasn’t changed much—I don’t dislike it, but I can’t say I like it very much either.
March 9, 2018 § Leave a comment
First published in the French in 2010
Translated into the English by Alexis Siegel in 2015
Zoe is a young woman who works as a product model. She also has a boyfriend who she lives with and goes home to everyday after work. The thing is, though, that Zoe isn’t particularly happy with her job—it can be extremely demeaning, and she can’t seem to see where it might lead to in the future. Her relationship with her boyfriend is also not a very fulfilling one—she’s not getting the love and attention that she craves for, and he doesn’t seem to care less how she is feeling.
It is at this point when Zoe, while sitting on a bench eating her lunch, sees a man peeking out of his window. She walks to this man’s apartment, asking to borrow his toilet, and an odd sort of friendship kindles from this chance meeting.
As it turns out, the man is an extremely established author, Thomas Rocher, though Zoe doesn’t know this because she’s not only not a keen reader, she’s also (gasp!) never been to a bookstore before. Oddly enough, this seems to put Thomas at ease, and their relationship starts to grow, and very soon, Zoe is living with him.
Thomas showers her with everything she could ever want in a relationship—love, attention, surprises. But the rule about things that seem too good to be true is that they are often just that—too good to be true. Soon, Zoe notices a glaring oddity in their relationship—they never leave the house. And one night, when she wakes up to find that Thomas is sitting in the kitchen with an unknown woman, Zoe learns that she has somehow gotten entangled in something she has never imagined possible.
It’s a fun graphic novel to read. The art is simple but very impactful at the same time, the use of colours very deliberate (I feel), which lend certain emotions to the panels and pages. The story itself, though not very eventful, is rather fast-paced and contains twists in some unexpected places.
I’ve been reading a couple of heavier books recently, and this graphic novel was a rather welcome interruption.
February 24, 2018 § Leave a comment
First published in the Japanese in 1966
Translated into the English by William Johnston in 1969
It is sometime during the 1640s, and Christianity in Japan is under siege. Father Sebastian Rodrigues is determined to travel to Japan to help the oppressed Christians, to lead them and be their guiding light. It’s not an easy journey, even from the start, where he and two others like him have to travel by sea, in secret, so as not to be discovered by the ever-vigilant powers-that-be.
On the ship, he gets to know a Japanese who professes to be a Christian. His name is Kichijiro. He seems to be a coward, as word has it that he had apostatized once before in order to save his life. Rodrigues doesn’t really know what to make of this man—how can he have trampled on the fumie (a picture in the likeness of Christ) and still call himself a Christian? Little does Rodrigues know that this man will somehow be a most unexpected companion throughout his journey in Japan.
This is a difficult book to discuss. At least it is so for me. The book, indeed the author, constantly forces us to think deep and understand within our own hearts what faith means to us. What it means to one person may completely differ from the next, and religion in the time of peace can paint such a contrasting picture when compared to time of war or persecution. If it was to save your own life, would you deny your faith? And if it was to save lives other than your own, would you then deny your faith?
Freedom of religion is, in most of today’s world, a basic right. And yet, there are still parts of the world where this freedom is denied—some in more subtle ways than others. Some are brutally persecuted, not unlike the Japanese Christians in this book. Others are suppressed and cornered without even realizing that they have been muzzled.
And then Rodrigues, in a moment of desperation, sends this question to the heavens:
You are silent. Even in this moment are you silent?
Religion is a difficult thing.
February 9, 2018 § Leave a comment
First published in the Chinese in 2006
Translated into the English by Ken Liu in 2014
Wang Miao is an expert in nanotechnology. One day, he is invited (forcefully) to attend a meeting in which he finds out that the armies of the world are getting ready for a war. He doesn’t understand—this is the most peaceful time on Earth for a long time. What war, and who is the enemy? Instead of telling him, the general, General Chang, leaves him with this to ponder on:
“Yes, the entire history of humankind has been fortunate. From the Stone Age till now, no real crisis has occurred. We’ve been very lucky. But if it’s luck, then it has to end one day. Let me tell you: It’s ended. Prepare for the worst.”
This meeting proves to be a turning point in Wang Miao’s life. Very soon after, a countdown timer appears in front of him. Only he can see it, and it continues to tick away the seconds. He is disturbed by this and seeks advice from a fellow scientist friend, Shen Yufei. She suggests something that has never occurred to him: “Stop your [nanomaterials] project.” He doesn’t understand—what is the link between the countdown appearing in front of him, and his work? But instead of offering any explanation, she only tells him: “Just stop. Try it.”
All this leads to his discovery of a virtual reality game, Three Body. In this virtual world, the weather is completely unpredictable. When is day? When is night? How many hours has passed? When is the next sunlight? How long will it last? There are no real answers to these questions in this Three Body world, and that is the aim of the game: to figure out the laws that govern this world, and thence calculate a way to predict the climate.
This game sucks Wang Miao deeper and deeper into a world that is both fascinating and horrifying. How do you survive in a world where drought can last for centuries, and cold nights can go on for decades without a single moment of sunshine? And in what way is this world connected to the one he is living in?
I don’t think I’ve read that many science fiction books in the past. (I just Googled “science fiction”, and it appears that dystopian fiction is sometimes considered a sub-category of science fiction. I beg to differ, but that is a topic for another day.) In fact, I’m finding it extremely difficult to recall the titles that I’ve read that fall into this genre. I guess it’s obvious—I’m not a huge sci-fi fan.
So why did I choose to read this one? Not to mention, it comes in a set of three, and The Three-Body Problem is only the first instalment of the trilogy. I chanced upon it. China is making this book into a film, and because of some personal connections, I somehow got interested to find out what the original work was like, and how it would compare to the upcoming film.
My thoughts after spending a week with the book: it’s not a bad one. I can see why it has become such an influential book in China. The premise is interesting, the ideas are cool, the plot is quick. And yet, that is all I can say about it: it’s not a bad book. It’s just not great for me.
There was a lot of explaining going on, and while I appreciated those parts (my lack of knowledge in advanced sciences really needed them), I also found them a little dry and easy to glaze over.
That being said, though, I have a feeling that I will continue to read the second and third books. I’m not absolutely excited and hyped about it, but I do want to know how it will end. And that’s a sign of good storytelling.
January 1, 2018 § Leave a comment
First published in the English in 1897
A stranger comes to a quiet little inn somewhere in the country. He’s wrapped from top to toe. The innkeeper’s wife finds this somewhat odd, but given that the stranger offers quite a handsome sum, she offers him a room and some food in return. The stranger is a curiosity—he keeps himself wrapped up despite being indoors and warm, as if he is always cold. He’s desperate to get his things from the station, insisting that his things are sent for immediately, which creates some unease with the villagers.
Some odd things happen around the village, and the villagers are convinced that these happenings have to do with the stranger’s arrival. They attempt to confront the stranger, only to see him slowly strip and disappear before their very eyes!
The Invisible Man is a short enough book, and quite a good one to end the year with. The language was simple and un-flowery, the characters rather interesting. Griffin, the scientist who became The Invisible Man, was especially intriguing. But perhaps the one person I found most interesting of all, was H.G. Wells himself.
As Griffin talked to his friend Kemp about how he came to turn invisible, and his first experiences as an invisible man, I found myself thinking, “How is it that Wells managed to think of all these things?” Things like stumbling down the stairs because he couldn’t see his feet, or mud stains betraying the shape of his invisible feet, or food that had yet to be assimilated being visible (and frightening, I believe, given that the food would be “floating”).
This is my first time reading Wells, and I don’t usually fare well with books that come from a century ago. But I feel that perhaps my reading tastes have changed somewhat, or perhaps Wells just reads well for me. I’m now rather interested to read the other book that he’s so famous for—The Time Machine.
December 23, 2017 § Leave a comment
First published in the French in 1942
Translated into the English by Joseph Laredo in 1982
Meursault tells us that his mother has died. He’s not sure if she died today, or yesterday. All he knows is that he received a telegram telling him that his mother has died. He takes a couple of days off from work so that he can attend her funeral. He spends the night at the home where she spent the last years of her life, then goes back to his own home. He meets a girl the next day, takes her for a movie and spends the night with her. He goes back to work, but tries to avoid having to talk about his mother, or the funeral.
Instead, he focuses on everything else. The neighbour with that dog that he loves and hates at the same time. That acquaintance who asks him for favours and calls him his “mate”. That girl he’s seeing who seems to be just the person he might want to marry one day.
Then one day, he commits a terrible crime—one that he doesn’t have an explanation for, or at least, not one that is acceptable by all those who question him. No real motive, no remorse. He simply feels frustration, the absolute nuisance that this event has caused him. And he tells it plainly to whoever asks.
The Outsider, or The Stranger by other translators, is a short book. It reads simply enough, though I don’t believe it to be a simple book. It presents, not a complex idea, but a very deep and thought-provoking one—is it more sinful to commit a crime, or to not show the “proper” and “accepted” emotions at the appropriate times?
Is Meursault guilty for pulling the trigger, or for not feeling remorse for this crime, and for not crying at his mother’s funeral?
In an Afterword by Camus, he says:
… the hero of the book is condemned because he doesn’t play the game. […] you must ask yourself in what way Meursault doesn’t play the game. The answer is simple: he refuses to lie. Lying is not only saying what is not true. It is also, in fact especially, saying more than is true and, in the case of the human heart, saying more than one feels.
It is easy enough to think that perhaps Meursault is simply a very unemotional person, or that he doesn’t love his mother, hence why he didn’t cry. For me, even though it did seem at first that Meursault perhaps didn’t share a good relationship with his mother, I got the feeling that he did, in fact, love his mother.
I realized that I’d managed to get through another Sunday, that mother was not buried, that I was going to go back to work and that, after all, nothing had changed.
This, to me, did not read like the thoughts of someone who didn’t feel the loss of his mother. He was just too honest with himself—he was tired from the travel, he was irritated by the inconveniences—and didn’t think it necessary to cry simply because that was what was accepted and expected.
You cry when your mother dies. You show regret and remorse when you’ve committed a crime. You cry for God when you are sentenced to death.
Is Meursault an outsider, then? An outsider because he doesn’t react the way people are expected to react? Maybe. But if we were all truthful about our feelings, or lack of them, would we maybe discover that we are all outsiders in our own way?