Tag: book review

Unwelcome, by Quincy Carroll

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Bottom Line Upfront: A smart book by a talented author. Well worth your time.

Middle Kingdom Life was a gold mine of information for people wanting to go live in China–particularly that niche of personality that teaches English as a Second Language, a gig requiring little more than the ability to speak English natively (and a white face, depending on your school). MKL covered every aspect of expat life imaginable, and in their section on Chinese women, the authors advised that the Chinese women who could speak English well were not representative of Chinese women as a whole, a not-so-subtle way of warning us to watch out for visa hunters and the women unwanted (perhaps for valid reasons) by Chinese men as they approach their third decade of life.

The reverse is also true: the people from the West who find themselves in China, teaching English with literary pretensions or teaching English while nurturing their nicotine and alcohol addictions (often hand-in-hand with literary pretensions) are not representative of your average person in the Westerner. It takes a particular type to go to China in the first place; a peculiar type to stay and yearn to go back.

So then, what kind of person does this? Who would walk away from their life and their family to go teach English in China for less than the minimum wage back home? In America, you could live in an apartment with no insulation and no central heat and air, you could use only public transportation and eat street food.

Would you Instagram it?

Would you tweet about your exotic American adventure?

For so long you had simply drifted through life with your head down but now you were constantly on display and although you hadn’t thought that you would like it, you did. You were talented in China. You had never been that good at anything, really, back home.

Unwelcome by Quincy Carroll captures the life of many young American men. It’s a smart book. Our main character is Cole, an unwanted guest in his brother Abraham’s apartment and (we’ll come to find out) not much wanted anywhere else. In China, Cole felt special, and he has something else going for him too: he’s biracial, a Chinese father, American mother.

There’s insinuations throughout the book that his father is partly responsible for Cole’s current malaise: lack of a strong masculine role model led to a lack of confidence, and lack of confidence leads to overcompensation. Cole himself isn’t a very active character, and when he does take action, he goes overboard.

Quincy Carroll does a great job letting us see all this without telling us. Cole is half-Chinese and we understand this from reading…but there is no direct mention of his hapa status until page 146. We don’t get a description of his physical appearance until his Tinder date, but by then we know. A lesser writer would have told us in the first few pages—indeed, if Quincy took this to any of the literary agents or writing groups I’ve participated in during the past few years, not only would they have admonished him for not describing Cole’s appearance on page 1, they likely would’ve suggested that Quincy have Cole look into a mirror, a neat narrative trick.

Unwelcome respects its readers far too much for this. Nothing is spoonfed to us, and we’re allowed to draw our own conclusions. Not only does Cole have issues in America, but in China too.

The key difference is that in China it’s easier for Cole to bullshit himself. Cole works for a beer distributor and has success. Hired for his language skills, working on his second-person POV novel in his spare time, it’s not long before Cole’s co-workers, Sam and Paul, discard him for a local, Marbury, who speaks Chinese better and understands local mores (he suggests having a hotel owner try the beer in front of them rather than relying on her promise that she will), and of course, this dismissal comes after Cole has properly trained his replacement.

The part of Unwelcome that resonated the most with me was Cole struggling to belong in the States and the memoir throughout the book, a second-person narrative where Cole embraces the truth about himself, veering away when time comes to address what happened with his girlfriend. I did live in China for a few years, and returning to the States was one of the most difficult things I ever did. Even the most loving families will struggle to understand what you’re doing and why—it’s not just friends who drift apart.

Unwelcome also deals with toxic masculinity. This is most apparent in the Vegas bachelor party for Cole’s brother (with a mound of white privilege almost as big as the coke they’re snorting) and of course, Harmony.

The way Cole and Harmony first meet is clever, and his drunken insistence on a date reflects his own cluelessness on how to treat women. I also get the impression that Harmony fetishizes Cole. Him being white was good enough, but discovering that he’s half-Chinese? You can’t miss her excitement, at least as we see it from Cole’s POV.

Which brings us to the incident. In the second-person narrative, Cole denies (a bit too specifically) that he raped her. Perhaps he did—at the bachelor party, Cole punches another guy in the face for joking about assaulting a passed-out girl. Harmony gives her take in a bilingual first-person epilogue. It’s not definitive what happened (nor should it be), and the idea that men should engage in psychological tricks to get women hearkens back to that “alpha male” bullshit that dominated the college scene in the early 2000’s. The chief proponents of those ideas have since moved on to new grifts but the underlying issues for young men remain.

All in all, Cole is unwelcome, he’s awkward, another clueless young man, product of a dysfunctional family, an apathetic society, or perhaps above all else, his own life choices.

Buy Unwelcome at Amazon or directly from the publisher.

Also check our Quincy Carroll’s first book: Up to the Mountains and Down to the Countryside

The Flock of Ba-Hui (And Other Stories)

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I got the review copy for this book back in December. I wrote the review in April and now I’m posting a shortened version of that bloated mess here, in October.

You can’t say I don’t finish what I start and here we have The Flock of Ba-Hui (And Other Stories), a translation of a series offbeat and original horror stories set in the Lovecraft universe by Chinese authors. I’ll admit I’ve never read anything by Lovecraft–my horror experience began with Goosebumps in elementary school, jumped to Edgar Allan Poe in junior high, and then pole-vaulted over Lovecraft all the way to The Stand. So I don’t have an opinion of Lovecraft’s work to influence what I think of Ba-Hui, and while if you spend two seconds googling Lovecraft you’ll no doubt be shocked to learn that a white man born in the 19th century harbored some racist leanings, it has nothing to do with this review.

Like I said, The Flock of Ba-Hui is a translation of a series of Lovecraftian stories. What makes these stories different is that they’re set in China, written by Oobmab, a fan who originally posted them on the Call of Cthulhu subforum on The Ring of Wonder (http://trow.cc), an online fantasy and gaming community. Doing the translating are Arthur Meursault and Akira, two dedicated Lovecraft fans themselves, who had the tall task of translating these stories while preserving the tone of the originals and making them understandable for Western audiences.

The four tales of horror range from the mountains of Sichuan province (the titular story, The Flock of Ba-Hui) to an ancient tower (Nadir) to the former German colony of Qingdao (Black Taisui, with a nod to Xu Fu, whose ultimate fate might’ve been as Jofuku in Japan to Tibet (The Ancient Tower). To help explain certain references to Western audiences, the translators have provided footnotes and a framing device linking all stories together, with a nice ending.

If you enjoy action-packed horror, look elsewhere. But if you like atmospheric slow burns, then you’ll have a great time with The Flock of Ba-Hui. For me, I can appreciate the atmosphere, as well as the dedication needed to translate these stories in the first place. I thought the titular story was the best, and I hope The Flock of Ba-Hui will provide an impetus to rescue other Chinese stories from obscurity. There’s much to be discovered, and we can’t let big publishing force-feed us the same boring, workshopped shit forever, right?

Check out The Flock of Ba-Hui, and get the paperback copy; leaving it out on your desk at work sparks some interesting conversations.

7 Questions for Authors: Antonella Moretti, author of ‘Parsley & Coriander: Life in China with Italian Flavour’

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China is fertile ground for any writer, and the internet  has given a voice to people who aren’t anointed by the Sino Twitterati. Parsley & Coriander: Life in China with Italian Flavour has no mainstream coverage, no Peter Hessler blurb to signal to you that this is the “right” kind of China book. It’s as simple as someone went to China, and wrote what they experienced.

Parsley & Coriander takes place over a year and the narrative is divided among Luisella, Emma, and Astrid, three Italian wives uprooted from Europe and dropped into China via their husbands’ careers.

And this is a China some of you might know: the gated expat compounds. Grimey ESL teachers, these ain’t; these women have drivers, their husbands have careers and for some the prospect of returning to their home country becomes terrifying rather than a cruel daydream.

Formatting is an issue for this book. Sometimes the characters speak with em-dashes, sometimes in quotes, while in other chapters they think in quotes. There’s also too much telling, and not enough happening; some chapters consist of a conversation. You’ll read chapters where not much is happening, and you’ll wonder what the point is.

There is good stuff in the book, though. And that just poses another problem: there isn’t enough of it. Parsley & Coriander should have been about Emma’s failing marriage and her relationship with her driver, Mr. Wang, perhaps told from Luisella’s perspective. Everything else should have served that plot.

But as enjoyable as Emma and Mr. Wang’s story is, it’s too little, too late. Parsley & Coriander is an enjoyable book.

With hints of a much stronger story.

Mrs. Moretti was kind enough to answer some questions about her life in China, her writing process and her to-be-read pile:

Let’s begin with my favorite question during my three years in China: why did you come to China?

I followed my husband. He got a job offer in China and we jumped at the chance, thinking that that could be a great opportunity for the whole family. So far, I’m very happy with our choice. 

There’s a tendency to pull from real experiences for an expat novel. How much of this comes from real life?

Even if it is a novel with invented characters, my book draws fully from the real life of an expat woman in China. It was easy for me to describe the daily life of the characters because they are expat ladies like me. I know the feelings of excitement, fear, loneliness. I understand how an expat wife can feel lost, without a role, overwhelmed. They are privileged ladies, indeed, but they also have to face many challenges. In order to keep their family united, they have to be strong, positive, proactive.

What is your writing process?

For this book, I first sketched the characters, their personality, background and the message I wanted each of them to deliver. Then I outlined a plot, creating a different story for all of them. I wanted some obstacle on their way, something they had to fight to demonstrate their courage.

Luisella prefers to remain in China instead of returning to Italy. Do you sympathize with her point of view?

I do! Even if I love Italy, I wouldn’t go back at the moment. I feel that China gives us more opportunities and it’s a more dynamic place. 

What about China has changed since you arrived? Do you feel anything has changed for the better or worse?

Since I arrived, there are many more skyscrapers in Suzhou. And Technology runs so fast! Now we don’t use cash anymore to pay, and even when we buy baozi at a small stall we use our phone to pay. Sometimes I feel amazed by all these changes, sometimes they scare me. 

One nice thing I noticed, is that pollution is less severe than six years ago when I first arrived in China. The problem still exists, but they made improvements. This comforts me since I plan to live here still for a long time.

What are the top three books in your to-be-read pile?

I’m currently interested in expat novels so I’m reading your “Expat Jimmy” and “South China Morning Blues” by Ray Hecht. I also started a book about the life of factory girls in South China. But I have to admit I’m to busy writing my second book, so I don’t read as much as I should.

Anything else you’d like to share with us?

I’m often contacted by women who have to follow their husband in China and are deadly afraid of moving in this country. It’s easier than you think, girls! Of course, this country has its bad sides, like every other place in the world, but life here can be very convenient. With the right attitude, this experience will be enriching and positive. 

Un grandissimo grazie to Mrs. Moretti for allowing me to read her book and feature it here.

Buy Parsley & Coriander on Amazon, and be sure to check out her blog, in English and Italian. For more updates, follow Mrs. Moretti on Facebook and Twitter.

The Prophet Penis – a review of Arthur Meursault’s ‘Party Members’ (spoilers)

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A repost. Find the original on Medium.

When you’re a dick you can do anything — that’s the only way to success!
When you’re a dick you can do anything — that’s the only way to success!
 

There is a scene close to the end of Party Members in which Yang Wei is confronted by his lackey, Pangpang. Pangpang has evidence which could doom Yang Wei’s ambitions: an audio recording of the night Yang Wei and his mistress ran over the daughter of migrant workers. Seeing that the little girl was still alive, Yang Wei backed over her to make sure she was dead.

I thought that perhaps Pangpang has some noble motive. Does he want justice for the girl Shanshan, whose grieving parents were railroaded for non-existent crimes and whose money was embezzled by Yang Wei — harmonizing at its finest — or perhaps he wants to send a message to the other officials, that they aren’t above the law?

No:

“Do you think this is about something else?” asked Pangpang, confidence beginning to emerge on his face. “I don’t know why you started talking about justice and changing things. I don’t care for any of that. I don’t care about that stupid girl who died — if her parents were so stupid as to allow her to play on the road then they deserve to have their daughter smashed up. I just want my fair share of all that money you’ve made for yourself over the last few months.”

Yang Wei promptly clubs Pangpang to death with his giant, talking penis.

Party Members follows Yang Wei has he moves from low-level desk jockey to powerful city official in the nameless and drab Ministry, fucking anyone who stands in his way. He appropriates funds intended for earthquake victims, netting him the favor of Director Liang, the monstrously overweight head official.

The trigger for Yang Wei’s journey is his co-worker, Little Qi. After a dinner where Little Qi shows off his wealth, Yang Wei’s penis decides enough is enough: it comes to life, guiding him to the top.

Along the way, Yang Wei acquires all the status symbols of a powerful official: an iPhone-addicted mistress, a black Audi, a Louis Vuitton bag (for storing his growing, sentient penis) and most importantly, a taste for KFC.

Keenly aware of what it takes to succeed in Chinese officialdom, the penis encourages Yang Wei to eat more KFC. We’re introduced to the bucket of KFC chicken by seeing a child defecate in one, where the penis teaches Yang Wei his first lesson. KFC continues to turn up throughout the book and its significance cannot be understated. To get rich is glorious; to consume fried chicken is erotic:

Grabbing the chicken, Yang Wei tore the flesh open with his fingernails, soiling the inside of his nails with breadcrumbs and fat. He brought the chicken up to his mouth, his tongue flicked in and out of the meat as he used his tongue and teeth to widen the hole he had made. Once done, he rammed the remaining shreds back down into the man-bag, the hot meat pocket fully encasing the head of his salivating cock.

Shortly before Yang Wei’s metamorphosis into a penis, he visits a prostitute. Among the choking smog, he sees the words EAT PEOPLE on a sign for a hair salon. The words change to FUCK PEOPLE.

Lu Xun used EAT PEOPLE as reference to the cannibalistic nature of Chinese society. Updated to the twenty-first century and the continued glory of getting rich (and eating KFC), Meursault puts a modern twist on Lu Xun’s critique. Simply put, the elite no longer eat people. They fuck people, and to paraphrase George Carlin: when you’re fucking people you have to keep fucking them until they’re all dead.

The strong devour the weak, and Yang Wei’s penis ends up devouring him, walking upright and transforming Yang Wei into a flaccid, helpless penis. The book ends with a test designed to weed out the final stragglers: the sodomy of Little Qi, told from Yang Wei’s perspective. And when I say Yang Wei’s perspective, remember that at this point Yang Wei is the penis and the penis is walking upright. We are spared no detail, of course, and as I was reading a near first person description of someone else’s bleeding anus, I thought, an editor gave this his blessing. Or, he told Meursault to crank it up to eleven. Either way, the scene made me uncomfortable and that’s the whole point.

We finish Party Members understanding that the penis will continue its rise through the ranks without its due comeuppance, and this takes us back to the penis’s first lesson, given after Yang Wei sees the child defecate in a bucket of KFC:

That no matter what you do, no matter how badly you behave, even if you are literally turning everything you touch into shit — nobody will stop you. Be careful of those with more power than you; but in regards to everything else, you should treat the world like a leftover bucket of KFC. Just shit all over it.

I once worked with a man who proclaimed that God had sent him to China. Prone to long soliloquies on how China would soon overtake the West, he dismissed the Great Firewall as a Western myth while simultaneously defending the blocking of Facebook. He bragged about his powerful Chinese connections and frequently promised the people he liked that he could keep them “safe” come contract renewal time. Once he was too old and the school no longer felt like lying about his age to secure his residence permit, he had no choice but to return to America, where he published a glowing book about China through a vanity press. Party Members is a sharp critique of a nation that takes itself too seriously, and I wish I could force him to read it.

Preferably with a bucket of KFC.

Party Members is available on Amazon. Check out Arthur Meusault’s blog too.

Read my other book reviews here.

Quotes from Party Members:

Originality, creativity, self-reflection, and all the other useless qualities unnecessary to China’s relentless growth had been expunged to create a reliable army of the unreliable. Any morsels of these vices that may have sat nascent within the young Yang Wei had been successfully harmonised out of his system.

As long as there was always somebody unimportant around to clear up the mess, everybody would just concentrate on their own affairs out of fear of attracting attention to themselves and losing the little empires they had struggled so hard to accumulate.

They had never existed, and any memory of them was soon replaced with the intricate details of who a certain Shanghai actress was dating and the fact that a new season of China’s Got Talent had been approved. Shanshan’s life was as short, fleeting, and unimportant as that of the butterfly that had led to her death.

These days all of the old gods were dead, buried beneath decades of Mao’s destruction and forgotten by the unstoppable march of modernity. Only the God of Wealth remained, grown fat by the offerings and prayers for sports cars, designer clothes, and the latest mobile phones.

Postmodern Cantonland: a review of ‘South China Morning Blues’, by Ray Hecht

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The Gibson-esque Sprawl exists, and it’s here. We’re sitting in a postmodern
Cantonland. Culture and identity can’t keep up, and everything gets
spread thinner and thinner. Tens of millions of migrant workers enter
the area every day, and hundreds of thousands of us aliens from overseas
mix in too. Maybe this is what the future of globalism looks like. It’s
prosperous to be sure, but not very romantic.

In the summer of 2008, I received an email. If you’ve ever taught English in China, then you know the email, and its promises. Free apartment, travel money, paid holidays, and my favorite: the opportunity to experience life in a developing, dynamic country.

In South China Morning Blues by Ray Hecht, we hear from twelve people experiencing life in China, the developing, dynamic place for expat reinvention since 1979.

The book opens in Shenzhen with Marco. Marco isn’t just an expat businessman, he is the expat businessman, a failure in the West who has come, has seen and is all set to conquer:

“Jackie”, my workmate (Chinese people and their English names, am I right?), bobs his head up and down. Looking so damn out of place, he wears the same white dress shirt, with the outline of a wife-beater underneath, which he wears every day. Badly in need of a haircut and with long pinky nails, he looks like he couldn’t get a job here serving drinks, and yet I know that he makes a salary four times the national average.

Marco never learns Jackie’s real name, and by the time Jackie steals Marco’s clients and leaves him high and dry, it’s too late; Marco shows up in Guangzhou, heavier and humbled.

There are twelve narrators whose chapters are marked by their Chinese zodiacs. Most of them want to be someone else, someone “successful”, what they want to see in the mirror instead of what they actually see. If I tried to sum up everyone’s stories, I’d never finish this review.

So I’ll touch on a couple:

Sheila and Lu Lu are young Chinese women caught between modern life and tradition. Both bend, and it’s Lu Lu who breaks, marrying a policeman she met while working as a KTV girl. She cheats on him, staying stays in a loveless marriage for the financial support, which comes in handy; her husband arranges everything, and Sheila helps her give birth in Hong Kong, ensuring that her child will have all the benefits of Hong Kong citizenship.

Terry is a Chinese-American writer who works for a local magazine by day, by night putting together “the great expat novel”, Cantonland. He becomes involved with Ting Ting, an artist who has moved to the Pearl River Delta region from Beijing. Not content to merely practice art, Ting Ting treats herself like a work of art, coloring her hair and recoloring it when her natural roots show through. She yearns to be an instrumental part of the next great art scene. Ting Ting is too concerned with appearances; she spends hours coloring her hair for her date with Terry, and he never comments on it.

The party at Lamma Island closes out the book, but while the book ends, everyone’s stories don’t stop.

We do.

We stop hearing about these people as their lives go on: Terry is a step closer to writing his book, Lu Lu has given birth to her baby and Marco?

He sits unnamed on the ferry, a shell of diminished importance.

***

Some people have lamented the lack of a “great” expat novel; they wish to see an expat equivalent to The Sun Also Rises. Another reviewer brought this up concerning Quincy Carroll’s excellent Up to the Mountains and Down to the Countryside.

Instead of looking back and making comparisons, let’s look forward. Along with Up to the Mountains, books like Harvest Season and South China Morning Blues set the standard for fiction from a transient class of lifelong outsiders.

Available at Amazon and the publisher’s website.