Review by Thilsana Gias of "Dust Child" by Nguyễn Phan Quế Mai

 

Dust Child is a breathtaking novel which powerfully weaves together the stories of people affected by the Vietnam War. 

The narrative itself is non-linear and told through multiple perspectives, allowing readers to simultaneously piece together the broken lives of the characters whilst untangling the complexity of what it means to have family in a time of conflict.

Nguyễn Phan Quế Mai particularly focuses on the struggles on Amerasian children, the women who bore them and the soldiers that left them behind. As readers, we find ourselves constantly challenging our own perceptions of duty, loyalty and honour as characters condemn each other's acts of survival whilst seeking forgiveness for their own wrongdoings.

Something significantly striking about this novel is the way that the writer allows characters to create a comforting, domestic bubble to protect themselves, only for it be abruptly punctured time and time again by trauma: "'Don't cook anything red!' he screamed as he washed up in the bathroom. She stared at the soup, made from ripe tomatoes she'd sautéed with finely chopped shrimps. Perhaps the colour resembled blood - blood that he'd seen or blood that he'd caused to spill."

Despite exploring such abject darkness, the novel is a multi-sensory delight for those who seek comfort in tropical settings. With references to sprawling markets, fresh rambutan, and expansive rice fields, you are rewarded with the richness of Vietnamese culture without crude romanticisation or the stench of death overpowering beautiful moments in the narrative. 

Something that is also distinctly Vietnamese about the narrative is the dialogue - the author often has entire sentences in Vietnamese or transliterated English showing how characters are able to break and build bonds with each other despite cultural and linguistic barriers.

The vibrancy and colour in this novel is also drawn from the respect that the characters have for storytelling. Stories become a source of power, betrayal, comfort and healing, even if untrue. What is most compelling about Dust Child, however, is the way that stories give a voice to the displaced, discriminated against and deployed. Clearly, the author's personal experiences with uniting American veterans and their children in Vietnam is what gives the novel a distinctly human touch.

About the reviewer
Thilsana Gias is an MA Creative Writing graduate from the University of Leicester and a secondary school English Teacher based in Luton. She doesn't have much time for reading these days but is making a conscious effort to read something other than Macbeth, Jekyll and Hyde and An Inspector Calls.

Review by Thilsana Gias of "The Hen Who Dreamed She Could Fly" by Sun-Mi Hwang

 

What do you think of when you hear the word "fable"? Your mind might soar to Aesop's The Town Mouse and The Country Mouse or if you are prone to harrowing school flashbacks, Orwell's Animal Farm. 

But unlike these examples, Sun-Mi Hwang's fabulist novel features a protagonist that we can actually get behind and cheer on - a humble and endearing little chicken called Sprout. 

Sprout is by no means a one-dimensional character - through her struggles and sacrifices for motherhood, we see a vivid portrayal of the complexity of human emotion, allowing the character to transcend the simple role of a moral-inspiring creature and become her own valid being with a fierce sense of determination in a cruel and lonely world: "Just because you're the same kind doesn't mean you're all one happy family. The important thing is to understand each other."

Sprout's voice is deliberately portrayed as very plain and honest (given her upbringing as a lowly caged hen) and contrasts with the chiding voices of harsher and more arrogant animals that set the confining social expectations and standards of farmyard life. Consequently, it is through Sprout's uncomfortable interactions with these creatures that we realise the novel is an allegory for the trials and tribulations that immigrant mothers experience in a harsh and judgemental society. 

Now, more than ever, exposure to such voices has become an utmost necessity as we see daily news reports featuring refugees of war and environmental disaster struggling to build nests for themselves and their children; facing hostility from governments, communities and even the very lands and seas they traverse on their arduous journeys. Therefore, having these disturbing realities presented to us in the colourful yet unforgiving backdrop of the natural world allows us to focus on humanity of a yearning mother without much political noise or confusion.

Perhaps what is most captivating about the novel is how beautiful the setting looks to the protagonist despite the hardships she faces in it - we are treated to lovely descriptions and illustrations of acacia trees which evolve and change with the seasons alongside Sprout, who tries to find hope wherever she can.

If you are still wondering why you should read a book about a chicken, know that Sprout's heart-wrenching story, full of daring escapes, sinister weasels and holes of death, has a rather magnetic quality, drawing international audiences of all ages and even inspiring a comic and popular animated film. So, if there's a moral here, it's that birds of a feather flock together and that maybe, just maybe, great minds think alike.

About the reviewer
Thilsana Gias is an MA Creative Writing graduate from the University of Leicester and a secondary school English Teacher. She spends her days trying to find time to write and crying every time a child confuses Romeo and Juliet with Rapunzel: "Romeo, Romeo, let down your hair!"

Review by Thilsana Gias of "A Cup of Sake Beneath the Cherry Trees" by Yoshida Kenkō, trans. Meredith McKinney

A Cup of Sake Beneath the Cherry Trees is a short selection of essays taken from Yoshida Kenkō's longer collection called Tsurezuregusa, or Essays in Idleness. 

Kenkō (c.1283 - c.1352) was a Japanese monk who wrote in the zuihitsu (follow the brush) stream-of-consciousness style, which was often used to create loosely connected personal essays reflecting on the ephemeral aspects of life.

Now, you might be wondering, "What could I possibly have in common with a medieval monk?"

Well, as we now live in times of self-isolation and social distancing, who better to relate to than the introspective Japanese monk?

Whilst monks are typically seen as recluses who are far removed from society in every aspect, what I have learnt from Kenkō is that the musings of monks are still very much about people, society and the connections we can forge through finding the same sparks of inspiration. Kenkō himself reflects on this by saying, "It is a most wonderful comfort to sit alone beneath a lamp, book spread before you, and commune with someone from the past whom you have never met." He then goes on to admire "scholars of former times"  whose "moving" works date to around 6th century - 4th century BC ... leaving us with a rather cosy picture of a monk happily settling down to discuss his favourite authors in the same way that you or I might. 

What's particularly interesting about this concept is that Kenkō reinforces the age-old idea that words transcend space and time. In fact, you almost get a sense that you're physically holding generations of human inspiration in your hands, when you listen to him speak about what people of former times found beautiful or captivating:

"Should we look at the spring blossoms only in full flower, or the moon only when cloudless and clear?"

"Could poems on the themes of 'Going to view the blossoms to find them already fallen' or 'Written when I was prevented from going to see the flowers' be deemed inferior to 'On seeing the blossoms'?"

"It is natural human feeling to yearn over the falling blossoms and the setting moon - yet some, it seems, are so insensitive that they will declare that since this branch and that have already shed their flowers, there is nothing worth seeing any longer." 

Kenkō's vivid imagery gives us moving glimpses of what humanity was and still is. He chooses to discuss the "spring blossoms" and "setting moon" -  things that are unchanging with time, making his essays read like conversation starters with us. He paints pictures of the smallest striking moments and decides to share them with none other than your good self. 

Now, it is easy to feel intimidated by such grand portrayals of nature and mankind. Those of you who were initially wondering "What could I possibly have in common with a medieval monk?" may now be thinking "How could I possibly relate to someone as cool as this monk?"

Fear not.

Kenkō very clearly says: "No-one could be less enviable than a monk. Sei Shōnagon wrote that people treat them like unfeeling lumps of wood, and this is perfectly true." I challenge you to find anything more relatable than that.


About the reviewer
Thilsana Gias is an MA Creative Writing graduate from the University of Leicester. Her favourite Shakespeare play is Macbeth. She is an English tutor and will train to teach Secondary School English soon. She's also hoping she'll finish re-working her dissertation into a publishable piece of writing.