Reviews and Comments

In a dystopian not-so-far future, a young woman tries to build a community and a religion amidst the violence, poverty and desperation. It is speculative fiction in its most unsubtle form, exploring our own society through an adventure-driven plot (and, be warned, LOADS of violence). It's social commentary is a bit on-the-nose. Compared to other works by Butler I read, I didn't think it was as skillful (Bloodchild) or original (Kindred). But if you take the book for what it is, you can immerse yourself in the story, appreciate the fact that for once the default identity of characters is not white and male, and feel even more pessimistic about the turn our world is taking.

Like all good science fiction, The Left Hand of Darkness is not really about other planets  (like Winter, a frozen world dominated by a bureaucratic and a pre-modern kingdom), other eras (when people, ideas and goods can travel between worlds) or other beings (genderless humans). It's about us, the political structures and social relations we live in. Le Guin excels at this. The story is a solid adventure. I am less of a fan of the slightly hippie ying and yang duality philosophical musings, and the aphorism-like writing, which are not my vibe.

Creepy fairy tales and myths. By which I mean, even creepier than usual. It was high and lows. My favourites: The Daughter Cells, The Six Boy-Coffins and The Rabbit. It is certainly a clever book, and a well-written one, too. I found some of the stories too cerebral, or too concerned with not being obvious, to the point that they become hard to enjoy. Admittedly, I am not at all sure the enjoyment was necessarily in the author's plans.

A flowing monologue about literature, intellectualism, centrism, political apathy, Chile. Maybe I read another book compared to the person who wrote the back-cover description: I read the narrator as much more ambiguous that they make it sound. I picked it to get to know more about Chile, but I mainly feel like I know more about the crisis of consciousness of a dying soul.

Vietnam, 1950s. Pyle is the quiet American, young, idealist, determined to bring democracy to Vietnam. Fowler is the disillusioned, cynical British reporter. Phuong is the Vietnamese woman they both want. As a novel, it is impeccable. It also offers an insightful, complex commentary on that war, and many other wars too. The portrayal of Phuong (as a flower, a victim, a child, a servant woman), the frequent use of sexual imagery to talk about the colonies and their inhabitants are very disturbing. Even if Greene seems to be aware of it, i.e. aware that everyone is making up their own Phuong to fit their story. Does it make it OK?

After a very gory first chapter, Man Tiger settles into a family history that juxtaposes surrealism and the bleak reality of a muddy Indonesian village, in a house where relative poverty and domestic violence are an everyday issue. The narration proceed in meandering ways, with side characters and stories that would deserve their own books, until the hit-you-in-the-stomach finale. Man tiger is a sort of hyper-realistic metaphor for the kind of deep anger and frustration that can bring a man (sic) to kill.

Loved this one. It is a melancholic homage to Hong Kong in the 1950s, of course from the eyes of a British kid, son of a colonial civil servant. It is full of affection and enthusiasm for the city, explored week after week by the then 10yo author. It is also a sweet, at times hilarious family portrait, conveying, beyond the humor, immense love and admiration for Martin's mum, and resentment for his dad. I bought it on my second-to-last night in Hong Kong, at the theatre show inspired by the book, so maybe I was in the ideal conditions to find it a fantastic read.

Inspired by Martin Booth's memoir, Gweilo, I decided to buy yet one more book before leaving Hong Kong. The back cover suggests that it 'invites' comparisons with Gweilo, but really if you read them on consecutive days, invitations turn into demands. I'm afraid that Booth is a better writer, and has a talent for creating a sense of nostalgia without sounding boring, or like an old uncle constantly shaking his head at the moral decay of our times and the new generation. Feng Chi-Shun's book is more interesting as a document, quite literally a documentation of what Hong Kong was like 50 years ago, than it is as a memoir. But this is no small thing: the Hong Kong to which the author had access is different from Booth's, and certainly unknown and harder to imagine for gweilos like me.