Asia Archives - Page 3 of 4 - A Geography of Reading

Epistrophe in Tim O’Brien’s Going After Cacciato

October 13, 2012 by Isla McKetta, MFA 5 Comments

“It was a bad time. Billy Boy Watkins was dead, and so was Frenchie Tucker. Billy Boy had died of fright, scared to death on the field of battle, and Frenchie Tucker had been shot through the nose. Bernie Lynn and Lieutenant Sidney Martin had died in tunnels. Pederson was dead and Rudy Chassler was dead. Buff was dead. Ready Mix was dead. They were all among the dead.”

So begins Going After Cacciato by Tim O’Brien. In six sentences he repeats the words “was dead” five times and “death” or “died” three times. With this repetition, he sets a horrible scene—a battlefield in Vietnam where the men expect to die—and it becomes easy to sympathize with Cacciato as he sets off on foot for Paris. France.

What is O’Brien Doing with this Repetition?

What O’Brien is doing, repeating a phrase at the end of clauses, is called epistrophe. This rhetorical device is meant to bring emphasis. But like its sibling, anaphora (same thing but placed at the beginning of clauses), epistrophe adds more than emphasis—it creates an incantatory effect. It creates magic.

Writers are often taught that repetition is a bad thing, but if we look at the world around us, we can see how entrancing this effect is. Think about the verses of the popular song that are stuck in your head right now—nearly any song will do. Even if the phrases do not repeat within the verse, the verse itself is a repetition and the words become nearly impossible to forget.

Epistrophe as Framing Device

Because O’Brien sinks the phrase “was dead” so deep in our psyche as we read this passage, we feel the inevitability of death as much as the soldiers do. It becomes accepted. This may sound callous, but it isn’t. O’Brien is setting the reader in the same psychic landscape as the soldiers. He is also allowing himself a lot of freedom.

What do I mean by that?

By building a grand expectation of death and dying in these first sentences, O’Brien doesn’t have to mention death at all for a very long time. He is free to explore his characters and the odd situation with Cacciato for pages at a time without returning to the topic of death. That’s because the epistrophe has sunk in and the reader is repeating (knowingly or not) “was dead.” There is a limit and if O’Brien never brings the topic up again, the opening would be wrong for this book. But the next time he does bring up death, it builds on and affirms this rich incantation that he’s already created for us.

In fact, O’Brien waits a full page before bringing up death again (I think he could have waited even longer). In another book, that might seem like a short time, but the intervening passage is filled with rot and missing soldiers and lost limbs (things that also contribute to the general atmosphere of the book) in a staccato, Hemingway-esque style that is also uniquely O’Brien.

I am only a few pages into this novel and I don’t have any idea what’s going to happen, but I am excited to see how O’Brien builds on his epistrophe.

I started using anaphora in my own work in an unconscious way. It wasn’t until an advisor pointed it out that I was able to play with the power of this device. And there is power in it. Until picking up Going After Cacciato, I had thought it was a device better suited to meditations and magical stories. O’Brien is showing me how limited my imagination was, and I can’t wait to play with epistrophe next.

If this review made you want to read the book, pick up a copy of Going After Cacciato from Powell’s Books. Your purchase keeps indie booksellers in business and I receive a commission.

Quiet Restraint in American Visa by Wang Ping

October 9, 2012 by Isla McKetta, MFA 2 Comments

American Visa: Short Stories by Wang Ping covers locations as disparate as the Red Chinese countryside and the New York Subway. The life of her character, Seaweed, is never easy, but the author’s telling of the stories using only the sparest detail removes all trace of melodrama and lets the reader experience it for herself. Using short declarative sentences, Wang lays out the bare facts of the Cultural Revolution, spousal abuse, making it in America as an immigrant, and feeling unloved as a child.

Precise Adjectives

In one paragraph in “Lipstick,” Wang summarizes the barest details the reader needs to know about the Cultural Revolution for the effect of the story. “Who still had the guts to keep a lipstick in 1971, the prime time of the Cultural Revolution? Anything which was related to beauty, whether Western or Oriental, had been banned.” The only adjectives in those two sentences are prime, Western, and Oriental and yet Wang conveys the force of the danger Seaweed was encountering as she explored this forbidden femininity.

Raising the Stakes

“I’d secretly been trading books at school through a well-organized underground network. Everyone obeyed its strict rules: Never betray the person you got the book from; never delay returning books; never re-lend without the owner’s permission.”

Wang identifies the stakes without ever naming the punishment. The reader is dropped into a world of conspiracy and rebellion by school kids and is left to imagine what terrible fate would befall the students if they were caught.

Similarly, she goes from describing Seaweed’s pinching to their mother’s reaction “My mother always punished me with the bamboo stick behind the door.” She fills in the sisterly rivalry, but leads the mother’s punishment up to the imagination.

Always Leave Them Wanting More

Perhaps it is growing up with movies and television, but I am used to having all the blood and guts played out for me. A severed foot is a gross-out tool, but it doesn’t serve a greater purpose. By not telling me what the soldiers would do or what her mother would do with that bamboo stick, Wang has captured my imagination, and the imagination is often much more brutal than what the writer would have described.

Wang doesn’t shy away from bad things, only awful, and that makes my interpretation of the awful even worse. “The Story of Ju” opens “Ju hung herself on the eve of her wedding.” Obviously this is not going to be a happy story, but the simplicity of the sentence shaped my view of the world Seaweed lives in, a world where sadness is quotidian and characters are resigned to their fates, where “the dead are dead.” Even in describing the abuse Ju’s mother, Crazy Hua, suffers, Wang gives us the aftermath rather than the event. “After that, she came to work every day, often starved and badly bruised.” There is no hope that Hua will ever escape her circumstances but Wang is not elaborating on the horrors of their lives with grisly detail, she simply names them.

It isn’t until Wang lets Ju speak for herself that the reader is privy to the events themselves. Even then, as Ju describes her mother kneeling “on the broken pieces of the bowl.” or her stepfather demanding she “replace” her mother as she’s tied to a chair, Wang had so prepared me to imagine my own horrors that the scene came alive in gruesome detail, but only in my imagination. In reflecting on the story, I find it has taken on a new life in my imagination and in fact I remember the details I created as though they were actually written into the story.

Tight Sentences

Although Wang is writing in a second language, there is no accent or accident in her sentences. The entire flavor of Seaweed’s relationship with her sister Sea Cloud is contained in the two sentences that start “American Visa.”

“Sea Cloud asked me to help her get out of China on the night when we were sailing from Shanghai to Dinghai to attend Father’s funeral. I was surprised as well as pleased.”

If this story stood alone, the reader would know from these two sentences that Seaweed is the stronger sister who has managed to escape circumstance and therefore has power in the relationship, but that Seaweed doesn’t know it. Seaweed craves the acceptance of her sister, whom she envies. We also see that it was difficult for Sea Cloud to come down from her perceived pedestal and ask her sister for something, she had to wait for a moment of quiet during a time that would have brought them closer in sharing grief for their father. Two short sentences, almost entirely devoid of adjectives, and Wang manages to convey a lifetime of struggle between two sisters.

In Polska, 1994, I wrestled with how to describe a rape scene and a culture that is foreign to my audience. I wanted the reader to feel the full force of the scene because it causes the transformation in the main character, but I wasn’t sure how graphically I want to lay it out. Wang showed me to use description of horrors carefully. I don’t want to bowl the reader over, I want to provide them the tools to bowl themselves over.

If this review made you want to read the book, pick up a copy of American Visa from Powell’s Books. Your purchase keeps indie booksellers in business and I receive a commission.

Reimagining Imagery with Murakami’s The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle

June 23, 2012 by Isla McKetta, MFA Leave a Comment

A writing professor once advised me to keep writing fresh and to examine the words you use—tears don’t ever really roll down someone’s face. But how can you reexamine every word or phrase you use and still have time to write? Sometimes it helps to look at things from a new perspective and this week Haruki Murakami helped me do just that with The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle.

When I read “network of red lines” as a description of the narrator’s bloodshot eyes, my writing spidey-sense perked up. “Bloodshot” is an easy word. Too easy. You can say “spider web” but that stands out against nearly any paragraph. I loved “network of red lines.” It was concise and vivid and I could picture it and it also didn’t have to interrupt the flow. Except I wanted it to because it made me think about freshening my own descriptions.

A note on translation here: I don’t read Japanese, so I will never know exactly what words Murakami uses, and I am taking for granted that his translator has not run away with the story. Also, “network of red lines” could be the way bloodshot eyes are standardly described in Japanese. Regardless, it was new to me and I loved it.

I read Murakami chiefly for fun, though he is a wonderful and imaginative writer. I am grateful to him for reminding me that language is infinite and even one fresh examination can spawn wonder. I’m off to see if I can spawn some fresh imagery in my own writing. Just as soon as I finish this fantastic book.

If this review made you want to read the book, pick up a copy of The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle from Powell’s Books. Your purchase keeps indie booksellers in business and I receive a commission.

Mystery in Su Tong’s Garden

May 29, 2012 by Isla McKetta, MFA Leave a Comment

Su Tong creates a world of magic and mystery in the title novella of Raise the Red Lantern. Though we are never certain if the magic is real or imagined by Lotus, it feels authentic. Su blends the real with the ethereal so gently that even the harshest skeptic can enjoy the mystical elements of the story.

Our first view of Lotus is as she is being carried into the garden of her new home. She seems plain, with her “face covered with dust and looking unbearably exhausted.” We are told that Lotus is very practical, still washing her hair in the sink where her father had committed suicide. This plainness and unflappability lead us to see her as having a cool head and so when she starts to unravel, we naturally think there is great cause. If Lotus had been hysterical from the onset, we wouldn’t trust her ability to separate reason from emotion.

The first inkling of anything remotely spiritual is Joy chanting sutras over her Buddhist rosary, but her sincerity is dismissed by Chen. Then, during the first night Lotus spends with Chen, we get the swirling of her consciousness: “Lotus seemed to fall from a high place into a dark valley where pain and dizziness were accompanied by a feeling of lightness.” Whether this is an effect brought on by the house or by Lotus’s mental state, it feels eerie and gently portends a death in a well.

The concealment of the “Well of Death” in overgrown weeds lends it an air of magic, and the butterflies and the song of the cicadas make it more so. Su increases the mystical quality of the place by linking it in Lotus’s mind with a prior experience under wisteria which “seemed like suddenly waking from a dream.” When “[s]lowly she pulled back a few branches of wisteria,” it is as though she pulls back a curtain separating the real world from a magical one. Lotus hears “the sound of her breathing being sucked down into the well and amplified” and then “[a] gust of wind rushed up,” and the well seems to have taken on life. Lotus is unnerved by the falling of flowers as she leaves it and I was also set on edge.

“Crystalline specks of brightness” on Coral’s face and her hair being covered with dew after a hard frost would otherwise seem unlikely, but Su has established that the rules of the Well of Death are unlike the rules elsewhere in the Chen family compound and by the time Coral is singing The Hanged Woman under the wisteria in a black cloak, I am prepared for anything to happen there. Descriptions like rain “splashing off the aspen and pomegranate leaves with a sound like shattering jade” should also seem improbable, but they are so lovely and we are so wound up in the text that they contribute to the mysterious ambience.

Chen provides a foil for Lotus’s suspicions about the garden. She tells him: “[t]his garden is a little spooky” and he resists her flatly: “A couple of people died in that well, that’s all; jumped in and committed suicide.” But his dismissive response only heightens the reader’s belief in the mystery. Now there is a reason that the well feels haunted and when Chen becomes serious after Lotus guesses the suicides were concubines, she has convinced him a little of the spookiness and convinced me a lot. He may think she’s imagining things, but he also doesn’t want her near the well. This is the part in the story where we realize that it doesn’t matter whether he believes in the magic or whether he mistrusts Lotus’s mental stability, and it doesn’t matter which the reader believes. Both explanations point to the same disastrous consequences for Lotus.

Lotus starts to go mad and causes Swallow’s death, and then witnesses the murder of Coral, but by then she has lost her credibility in the Chen household. If the story were told in the first person, it would be crucial for the reader to decide whether Lotus is credible or not, but the narrator is credible and the narrator leaves us with the feeling that although Lotus has gone mad, there is something bad about that place.

I have a soft spot for magical realism. I like to read about intersections between the logical world and the spiritual world and I have tried to write about them, but I find I often doubt my own worlds. Su Tong taught me from this story to set the scene well. The reader (especially an American reader) will likely have doubts about the authenticity of the magic. Any fictional world needs to set up its ground rules. Su set up his by providing me with a lot of everyday activity but then seducing me with magical images. Su used the natural resistances of the characters to mirror and then overcome the doubts of the reader. As Lotus comes to believe in the magic of the place, I wasn’t yet convinced, but when Su showed me how Lotus overcame Chen’s doubts, he also overcame some of mine. But even then he left me an out. The story worked just as well if I believed Lotus was mad.

If this review made you want to read the book, pick up a copy of Raise the Red Lantern from Powell’s Books. Your purchase keeps indie booksellers in business and I receive a commission.

Hisaye Yamamoto: Quiet in a Boiling Bath

May 26, 2012 by Isla McKetta, MFA 2 Comments

Family tension seethes under the surface of the title story of Hisaye Yamamoto’s story collection Seventeen Syllables. Mrs. Hayashi has given up her passions long ago for a life of quiet suffering. When she discovers an interest in and a talent for haiku, she adds heat to the simmering boil of her family life. And yet Yamamoto conveys the initial familial tension and ensuing boil over through the careful, almost quiet, use of displaced description and contrast.

Description of the family life and Mrs. Hayashi’s character do not take place how I expected. Poetry is Mrs. Hayashi’s one passionate outlet and she reaches out of her placid shell to introduce her daughter, Rosie, to this expression of her soul. When Rosie responds patronizingly to her poem and subsequent description of haiku, Mrs. Hayashi gives no facial expression-only a response which Rosie takes as either satisfaction or resignation. A different writer would fashion a blowup here and the character’s passions would bubble all over the page. By having Mrs. Hayashi retreat into herself, Yamamoto is conveying the depth of her habitual repression.

A similar thing occurs when the Hayashis are visiting the Hayano family. I could feel Mrs. Hayashi brighten when she talked about poetry and the depth of her passion was portrayed only through her distraction from her husband’s needs. I felt already fear for her that she was engaging with Mr. Hayano instead of his wife. Culturally, I expected her husband to bristle at this breach of etiquette. But Yamamoto does not provide a flashpoint here. Instead she shows a wife backpedalling because she knows she’s in trouble, “I’m sorry…You must be tired.” He says nothing and Yamamoto gives only the spare insight of Rosie who “felt a rush of hate for both – for her mother for begging, for her father for denying her mother.” The weight of his control needs no further description.

The sparseness of detail and lack of blowups forced me to read closely, and in reading closer I was able to see where Yamamoto alludes to Mrs. Hayashi’s tension by describing other events. When Rosie is in the bath after her encounter with Jesus, she sings so as not to think of him “the larger her volume, the less she would be able to hear herself think.” She pours on more and more hot water and then immerses herself slowly in the boiling bath “until the water no longer stung and she could move around at will.” Yamamoto is providing a parallel to how Mrs. Hayashi lives her life – she has tried to stop herself from thinking and immersed herself in this heated situation, but she got comfortable and started to move around. Given the controlling nature of her husband, she must at least subconsciously expect to have the heat on the water turned up. So did I. The tension increases, and because the violence of Mr. Hayashi has only vaguely been hinted at, my fear was even greater. Mrs. Hayashi and Rosie know what this man is capable of, but I didn’t and because Mrs. Hayashi is resigned to her fate, I was forced to worry for her.

Yamamoto uses the contrast of the giddy play of the young girls to heighten the effect of the silence of the older women. The girls, even shy Natsu, romp and play and show off Haru’s new coat to the point of barging in on the adults. Mrs. Hayashi shows she wants to be more than the silent, obedient Japanese wife when she engages in the girl’s play, asking to inherit the coat. Mrs. Hayano serves as a cautionary character who, though she spends most of the scene “motionless and unobtrusive,” continues to fulfill her wifely duties in bearing children and fixing tea. This one page explores the full range of female openness within their culture and illustrates how delicately Mrs. Hayashi teeters between childlike bursts of excitement and the expected sobriety of a Japanese wife and mother.

We see from other exchanges that Mrs. Hayashi has not lost all sense of decorum. When Mr. Kuroda comes to deliver her award, her speech is so perfectly written, I could hear the softness of her whispering and the extra syllables she would have added in Japanese to speak in the properly indirect and feminine manner. “It is I who should make some sign of my humble thanks for being permitted to contribute.” Though even here she breaks form by asking to open the package in his presence, a general taboo.

Yamamoto raises tension with the heat, literally. The heat of the day and the imminent tomato spoilage provide atmospheric clues to the coming climax. Everything is hinted at, much like real conversations in Japanese. A character in another story from the same collection explains the culture, “Like a Japanese – quiet.” Yamamoto is softly yelling for me to pay attention. We aren’t privy to the shameful scene in which Mr. Hayashi must surely have thrown Mr. Kuroda out and we aren’t privy to Mrs. Hayashi’s torment as she watches her Hiroshige burn, but we don’t need to be. In the quiet desperation that Yamamoto has built, Mrs. Hayashi’s story and her insistence, “Promise me you will never marry!” say it all. The fire is hotter than ever, but she will re-acclimate herself soon enough, and then she will swim free once more.

Quiet desperation is important in my own writing. My characters often cannot say what they feel most deeply and I struggle to convey the constraints of the world to the reader. I can learn from Yamamoto’s way of “throwing” her tension like a ventriloquist throws his voice. I can also learn from her use of contrast to show the tightness of the constraints.

Though I read this book long ago now, I continue to think about Yamamoto when I realize too late that I am in an untenable situation. I think about this steadily heating bath and how comfortable you can feel before you are boiling. I have a terrible memory for books, but sometimes, when the writing is as strong as Yamamoto’s and when the message is something I need to hear, I carry them with me forever.

If this review made you want to read the book, pick up a copy of Seventeen Syllables from Powell’s Books. Your purchase keeps indie booksellers in business and I receive a commission.