我觉得这个书评适合大多数美国华人，尤其是来自于北京上海的美国华人

[hhcare]

5 yr. ago
VehaMeursault
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This is the worst book I've ever read, and it's being praised like no other. Is it me?
Edit, disclaimer: I don't hate the book, and I'm happy for the author that she got published, and I'm also happy there are others who do enjoy it. There's not a shred of resentment in me; only confusion.

Dear Friend, From My Life I Write To You In Your Life is the most empty thing I've ever read, and it's being praised as if it's another one of Camus'. It pisses me off to no end, because although it starts off very strongly, and although its prose is of quite a pleasant nature, the second page in it deteriorates into pseudo-philosophy, asking questions and raising topics that aren't further discussed, making it seem like all the critics only read the first page and judged it fantastic. It feels like the guy at the dinner table quoting Camus when asked what he'd like to drink, if that makes any sense.

I want to know your thoughts on the matter to figure out if it's just me.

The book begins with twenty four short, numbered paragraphs of which the topics swing about with no resolutions whatsoever. I'm talking tweet-sized sections here, so there's no time to think, alright? Just get in, loser, because we're going fast.

Number one: MC is reminiscing on the first time she saw before-and-after photos after migrating to America, and she reflects on how definitive this concept seems—as if there's a clear distinction between what one was and what one is, and that therefore there is the possibility of leaving past mistakes behind. A stellar analogy by the author, and a cast iron ground for what seems to promise a great work of literature.

Nope.

Paragraph two cuts in without any further mention of the above: an acquaintance called, MC's husband met the woman, he brought her to the airport, and two weeks later the woman had jumped out of a window. MC doesn't visit the funeral.

Okay.

"Our memories tell more about now than then," MC continues right after, god knows why, and as if this is something about which everyone is in unison. "Doubtless the past is real," she then proclaims. Over two millennia of philosophy settled right then and there, ladies and gentlemen.

Paragraph three: past, present, and future are not one and the same MC explains. Roger.

Paragraph four. MC is staying at a hospital for the second time. The first isn't mentioned, because why would it? MC then channels a bit of Freddie in telling that she too at times wishes not to have ever been born. Being alone in her thoughts, she then feels a 'collective sigh': her tears seemed to prove something.

What on earth is a collective sigh in the first place, and how on earth can she experience one when she's precisely alone in a basement room? Her words, mind you; not mine!

But forget about all of this, because paragraph five, and everyone in MC's life apparently wonders what she's hiding: her mother, a bathhouse employee, and apparently that makes up everyone MC knows. If you're now wondering where the hell this is coming from, then welcome to the club: why would people think this; why would they ask this; why are we told about this?

Next! Number six makes sure we're aware that there are five time zones in China—MC's country of birth—and that the whole nation uses one, unified zone. She reflects that time is ingrained in all our experiences and memories, and wonders how many of us have ever wished to have had a bit more time... The ellipse is not my addition.

I could go on and on, but I'll spare you the other eighteen tweets, along with all the unfinished thoughts, philosophically interesting but otherwise out of place questions that are never actually further reflected upon, shallow references to Dostoevsky with no further weight to them, abruptly ended paragraphs, frequently strange and sometimes flawed interpunction, and at times even unfinished sentences. I wish I was being hyperbolic with that last one, but I'm not. I quote: "Your roommate, several women said to me, eyeing her torn paper gown and oblivious half-nakedness when she moved about in the hallway, where we all sat on sofas or chairs, socializing as we had been encouraged to do." What about this roommate? Why did these women bring her up? Now, you might think that perhaps the period was meant to be a comma and that what is now the next sentence would then have finished the first. That's very sharp of you, and very charitable, because nope: next paragraph.

I shit you not; that actually happened: an unfinished sentence that raised several questions was the last sentence of a fucking paragraph.

Please, for the love of literatue, can someone helpe out here? This book with a phenomenal title, a fantastic first page, and oftentimes even prose that makes me envious in ways I've rarely felt before—this book has won The Guardian's First Book Award, despite all of the above.

And mind you: this is all only thirty pages in, and that with a font size that overly respects the far-sighted.

Someone tell me what I'm missing here. Please.