A Review of Sequoia Nagamatsu’s How High We Go in the Dark (William Morrow, 2022)

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Written by Stephen Hong Sohn
Edited by Corinna Cape



Sequoia Nagamatsu’s How High We Go in the Dark (William Morrow, 2022) is the first book I’ll review that’s published in the new year, and, well, it is a doozy! About halfway through the book, I kept thinking that it reminded me a little bit of Cloud Atlas, especially in the ways that Nagamatsu brings together interlinked stories through the repetition of certain characters and motifs.

The novel is one that truly speaks to this current moment, so let’s hazard something of a plot summary here (without major spoilers). The basic premise is that a disease has been unleashed via microbes that emerge out of the Siberian permafrost. The disease initially targets the young, causing their cells to become infected and to begin to change: something that was once a cell found in a heart shifts into something that is supposed to belong in the liver. Thus, the disease has something of a shapeshifting quality. The problem is of course the organs begin be compromised over time. Without a cure, affected individuals can only hope to find a donor, so that they can get a replacement organ. Nevertheless, this treatment is not a cure and only buys the individual more time. The novel, for the most part, reads as extended elegies. Different sections focus on how individuals of various stripes and types (of all walks of life) deal with how the plague has affected them. In the second section, for instance, we are taken into the perspective of a budding Asian American comedian who finds his greatest job at an amusement park that doubles as a euthanasia site. Yes, you heard it here: the amusement park gives families a final day in which to bond, at the end of which the kids go on a ride, which euthanizes them. Another section explores the ethics of genetic engineering, as a pig becomes sentient. The scientist tasked to work with this pig attempts to free him from the facility, but the pig, Fitch, ends up deciding to donate his body so that it can be used to find a cure for the plague. In yet another section, a man works at an elegy hotel, locations that enable families to deal with their loss. He also must navigate complicated family dynamics, as his mother is slowly succumbing to the virus, and he is the best family member to come to her aid once she passes away.

Perhaps, the most devastating chapter is the one involving a man who must watch as his wife slowly succumbs to the virus. He fixes robotic dogs, and his wife has taken to the various services these dogs can provide. Their pet robotic dog, Hollywood, becomes a kind of vessel for the wife’s personality and memories. She teaches the dog to sing in her voice, to speak in her voice, and even to record some of her memories. The problem is that these dogs do not last forever, so even as there is an essence to her that has transferred into the dog, it will not be sustained over time. These sections are more or less loosely linked: the plague impacts everyone in this novel, and characters are referred to obliquely from one story to the next. This novel is, of course, one very aware of this contemporary moment, where so much death shrouds us in everyday life. About two years ago, my mother passed away from a very long bout with cancer. I couldn’t help but think of her throughout my reading of this novel, precisely because Nagamatsu’s gift is granting dignity to characters who must face such devastating losses. It is certainly something we must all grapple with in this time of COVID. The latter sections take interesting turns, with the final chapter being the biggest doozy. You’ll want to be patient and read this section slowly, so you’ll understand how things are all wrapped up together. The expansive nature of this novel is impressive given the fact that it is ultimately contained in under 300 pages. Luxuriate in Nagamatsu’s prose, while you keep some tissues nearby.

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A Review of Zeyn Joukhadar’s The Thirty Names of Night (Simon & Schuster, 2020)

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Written by Stephen Hong Sohn
Edited by Corinna Cape



Feast on the exquisite prose and the haunting, epic story offered by Zeyn Joukhadar in The Thirty Names of Night (Simon & Schuster, 2020)! Let’s let the official marketing description get us situated: “Five years after a suspicious fire killed his ornithologist mother, a closeted Syrian American trans boy sheds his birth name and searches for a new one. As his grandmother’s sole caretaker, he spends his days cooped up in their apartment, avoiding his neighborhood masjid, his estranged sister, and even his best friend (who also happens to be his longtime crush). The only time he feels truly free is when he slips out at night to paint murals on buildings in the once-thriving Manhattan neighborhood known as Little Syria, but he’s been struggling ever since his mother’s ghost began visiting him each evening. One night, he enters the abandoned community house and finds the tattered journal of a Syrian American artist named Laila Z, who dedicated her career to painting birds. She mysteriously disappeared more than sixty years before, but her journal contains proof that both his mother and Laila Z encountered the same rare bird before their deaths. In fact, Laila Z’s past is intimately tied to his mother’s in ways he never could have expected. Even more surprising, Laila Z’s story reveals the histories of queer and transgender people within his own community that he never knew. Realizing that he isn’t and has never been alone, he has the courage to claim a new name: Nadir, an Arabic name meaning rare.
As unprecedented numbers of birds are mysteriously drawn to the New York City skies, Nadir enlists the help of his family and friends to unravel what happened to Laila Z and the rare bird his mother died trying to save. Following his mother’s ghost, he uncovers the silences kept in the name of survival by his own community, his own family, and within himself, and discovers the family that was there all along.”

This description is actually rather robust. The story’s narrative conceit involves alternating perspectives. Nadir provides one perspective, which is always told to a narratee, who we quickly discover is Nadir’s mother, who died in a tragic accident involving a fire evacuation and a collapsed fire escape. The other perspective emerges once Nadir finds Laila’s Z’s journal. The journal details her artistic development as well as her transgressive romances. Laila Z’s journal also contains a narratee, whose identity is not revealed until the final sections of the story. What I absolutely adored about this particular narrative was its full-fledged adoration of all things related to birds. This novel makes me wonder if Joukhadar had to do a bunch of research or whether Joukhadar was already a fan of all things birds and thus could embed it into this kind of work. There’s so much texture to the knowledge offered by both Laila Z and Nadir in terms of birds, their beauty, and how rare some can be. I also learned quite a bit about the rarefied art world and the struggles of an emerging, woman of color artist. As my mother passed away in 2019, I found this novel immensely affecting for the ways in which Nadir continually hails her mother after she has died, devoting so much time and energy to the ways in which Nadir’s mother remains such a vital presence. What this novel gets right is the unending nature of grief. The other element that I most appreciated was the site of possibility that this novel offers for transgender characters. Nadir’s journey is wrought with sensitivity and understanding, a sense that Nadir too seeks to find the kind of metaphorical flight that he continually observes in all of the flying animals that surround him. Dazzling and poignant!

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A Review of Lilliam Rivera’s Dealing in Dreams (Simon & Schuster Books for Young Readers, 2019)

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Written by Stephen Hong Sohn
Edited by Corinna Cape



As part of my shorter spotlight/ lightning reviews, I wanted to cover Lilliam Rivera’s Dealing in Dreams (Simon & Schuster Books for Young Readers, 2019). This novel was one I was reading because of the interests of a former student, and we wanted to chat about it over Zoom. Reconnecting with former students through reading has been one of the pleasures of the remote regime (despite how challenging it has otherwise been). The marketing description gives us this background information: “At night, Las Mal Criadas own these streets. Sixteen-year-old Nalah leads the fiercest all-girl crew in Mega City. That role brings with it violent throwdowns and access to the hottest boydega clubs, but Nala quickly grows weary of her questionable lifestyle. Her dream is to get off the streets and make a home in the exclusive Mega Towers, in which only a chosen few get to live. To make it to the Mega Towers, Nalah must prove her loyalty to the city’s benevolent founder and cross the border in a search of the mysterious gang the Ashé Riders. Led by a reluctant guide, Nalah battles crews and her own doubts but the closer she gets to her goal the more she loses sight of everything—and everyone—she cares about. Nalah must choose whether or not she’s willing to do the unspeakable to get what she wants. Can she discover that home is not where you live but whom you chose to protect before she loses the family she’s created for good?”

The novel is further billed as a cross between Mad Max and The Outsiders. I guess that hybrid is a reasonable description because we’re in a dystopian future in which teenagers are front and center. The marketing description is interesting because they call the main character and narrator Nalah but she primarily goes by Chief Rocka in the novel. She doesn’t change her moniker until very close to the conclusion. In this dystopian world, female gangs rule over Mega City. The most powerful of the female gangs end up getting entrance into the Mega Towers, which is what Chief Rocka/ Nalah hopes for Las Mal Criadas, which numbers about half a dozen. They embark on a quest at the behest of the ruler of the Mega Towers and travel into the apocalyptic Cemi Territory. You won’t be surprised to find out that Chief Rocka finds out much more about the structure of power in Mega City and Cemi Territory, and the lines between those whom she considers allies and villains begin to blur. I really loved this novel, and it’s one that I might consider teaching in the future. Rivera’s enmeshing of Latinx cultures into the dystopian science fictional world presents us with a fresh take on race and how it evolves in future imaginaries.

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A Review of Graci Kim’s The Last Fallen Star (Rick Riordan Presents, 2021)

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Written by Stephen Hong Sohn
Edited by Corinna Cape



So, I absolutely adored Graci Kim’s The Last Fallen Star (Rick Riordan Presents, 2021), a middle grade novel that’s targeted for readers eight to twelve years of age. I’m obviously way outside of that audience, but I’m here to say that this book is certain to be a hit with readers of all ages. YAY for inclusivity! Let’s let the official marketing description provide us with more information: “Riley Oh can’t wait to see her sister get initiated into the Gom clan, a powerful lineage of Korean healing witches their family has belonged to for generations. Her sister, Hattie, will earn her Gi bracelet and finally be able to cast spells without adult supervision. Although Riley is desperate to follow in her sister’s footsteps when she herself turns thirteen, she’s a saram—a person without magic. Riley was adopted, and despite having memorized every healing spell she’s ever heard, she often feels like the odd one out in her family and the gifted community. Then Hattie gets an idea: what if the two of them could cast a spell that would allow Riley to share Hattie’s magic? Their sleuthing reveals a promising incantation in the family’s old spell book, and the sisters decide to perform it at Hattie’s initiation ceremony. If it works, no one will ever treat Riley as an outsider again. It’s a perfect plan! Until it isn’t. When the sisters attempt to violate the laws of the Godrealm, Hattie’s life ends up hanging in the balance, and to save her Riley has to fulfill an impossible task: find the last fallen star. But what even is the star, and how can she find it? As Riley embarks on her search, she finds herself meeting fantastic creatures and collaborating with her worst enemies. And when she uncovers secrets that challenge everything she has been taught to believe, Riley must decide what it means to be a witch, what it means to be family, and what it really means to belong.”

There’s a reason why this description is so lengthy, and it’s related to the fact that the world-building elements in this text are so rich and expansive. For those not in the know, the imprint Rick Riordan Presents focuses on diverse voices, and they’ve done some amazing work to provide a platform for great Asian American writers (we earlier covered Yoon Ha Lee’s Dragon Pearl, for instance). In any case, The Last Fallen Star really surprised me because I originally found Riley’s narrative voice to be a little bit cloying. I definitely found Riley’s character arc to be especially rich and compelling. As she realizes the life of her sister is in jeopardy, Riley must confront a number of dark secrets related to the magical clans and their leadership structure. Riley can’t rely on prevailing assumptions of the good and the bad, but must really start to think critically about who is really on her side and who might be not. I especially found the world-building to be so engaging. As someone who is Korean American, I was somewhat familiar with certain elements that Kim was weaving into her magical world. At the same time, she really introduces some unique elements that makes Riley’s adventures so interesting. There are talking animals, strange creatures, unique portals, and fancy gadgets. The other thing that I want to mention before I conclude this review is that the stakes of this fictional world are very high. Kim does not draw back from the potential of death or violence for the book’s characters, even its very young ones, which I appreciated because it reminds us that there are consequences to any significant acts and that the pursuit of an ethical path can be dangerous. A definite standout. I very much look forward to what Kim has in store for us! =)

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A Review of Abbey Mei Otis’s Alien Virus Love Disaster: Stories (Small Beer Press, 2018)

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Written by Stephen Hong Sohn
Edited by Lina Jiang


I missed this wonderful collection when it originally debuted three years ago, but now I’m here to rectify that oversight in my review of Abbey Mei Otis’s Alien Virus Love Disaster: Stories (Small Beer Press, 2018). The publisher’s page gives us this marketing description: “Abbey Mei Otis’s short stories are contemporary fiction at its strongest: taking apart the supposed equality that is clearly just not there, putting humans under an alien microscope, putting humans under government control, putting kids from the moon into a small beach town and then the putting the rest of the town under the microscope as they react in ways we hope they would, and then, of course, in ways we’d hope they don’t. Otis has long been fascinated in using strange situations to explore dynamics of power, oppression, and grief, and the twelve stories collected here are at once a striking indictment of the present and a powerful warning about the future.”

I absolutely love that the description engages the issue of power and oppression because these themes are at the heart of practically every story. I’ll focus on a couple of my favorites, though all were well worthy of their own mini-reviews. Most of the stories are told in the first person, and Otis absolutely shines using this narrative perspective. The quirky nature of the stories is made evident in the first offering, “Alien Virus Love Disaster,” in which the protagonist of a part of a community exposed to some sort of alien infection that has caused bumps to develop on parts of their bodies. This story strikes as a way of thinking about the problematics of labor in dangerous locations and brings to mind the perils faced by the working poor, as they take jobs that might put their health at risk. My absolute favorite was “Moonkids,” which focuses on a group of dispossessed and exiled young adults, who have been expunged from the lunar colony because they are unable to pass an exam. Much like “Alien Virus Love Disaster,” the central characters in this story are on the fringes: these so-called “moonkids” aren’t like their Earth-raised counterparts, having had their bodies change due to a lower gravity environment. At the same time, they have the knowledge to understand the way of life they have lost: the highly exclusive life they might have lived on the moon had they been able to stay. These characters wrestle with their melancholia, as they struggle to make lives on Earth. In “blood, blood,” humans must wrestle with alien life forms which have discovered a way to leave their bodies and live their lives via their consciousness. The story comes at a point where humans are beginning to find out that they too can split from their bodies, so the narrative considers the ethical dilemma of what it means to be human if you don’t have a physical body. The weirdest story in the collection, if I could pick one, is definitely “If you lived here, you’d be evicted by now,” which unveils a fictional world in which people must kill someone in their own home in order to retain their residency! If any of these descriptions peak your interest, then you should pick this collection up. Otis’s work always retains a dark humor and unique narrative sensibility; there are consistently shocking turns, and these stories often end in unexpected ways. Definitely a standout collection, one well worth revisiting for future reads.

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A Review of Aditi Khorana’s Mirror in the Sky (Razorbill, 2016)

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Written by Stephen Hong Sohn
Edited by Lina Jiang



So, Aditi Khorana’s Mirror in the Sky (Razorbill, 2016) was one of those titles I meant to read a while ago but haven’t gotten back to. This year I’ve really been trying to review authors that haven’t necessarily been covered here at AALF, so here I am! The premise of this particular title really struck me, as it involves a kind of mirror Earth that we become aware of. The story is told through the first person perspective of Tara Krishnan, a high school student, of biracial ancestry. Her mother is white, while her father Sudeep, is of South Asian (Indian) descent). Tara lives in Connecticut and attends a very homogenous boarding school in which Tara is one of the few POC students. When news breaks about the mirror Earth, which is soon designated as Terra Nova, this moment serves to push characters into different philosophical directions. Tara’s mother, for instance, wants to join a commune out in California to explore what her life could be like beyond her caretaking duties as wife and mother. Indeed, the emergence of Terra Nova pushes Tara’s Mom to wonder what her life might have been like if her own parents had survived. As we come to discover, Tara’s Mom still finds herself thinking about the fact that her parents died when she was just a young child. The emergence of Terra Nova pushes her to make decisions that focus more on her own interests rather than those of her husband or child. Tara’s own quandaries primarily revolve around her sense of outsidership at the high school. She has a major crush on Nick Osterman, while she finds herself having to navigate the fact that she’s just been allowed entrance into the popular set (which includes a group of three girls: Halle, Alexa, and Veronica). Khorana’s novel works best when it really pushes the science fictional angle. That is, the existential questions that make characters wonder about their futures and what possible paths they might have took are the most compelling parts of this text. At the same time, Khorana’s plot leans a little bit too heavily into the high school social drama, especially as the novel ends.

I will provide the requisite spoiler warning at this point, so do not read further unless you want to find out some plot details about the end. Tara’s primary concern seems to be about fitting in but there’s a way in which her own struggles seem a little bit shortsighted, especially given both the larger familial dynamics that have made her parents’ relationship so unstable as well as the larger global crises arising out of Terra Nova. As the novel hurtles toward the inevitable break down of Tara’s new social clique, I kept wondering more about Terra Nova. A hastily constructed conclusion gives us some sense of what is going on with Terra Nova, but this section does not seem fully integrated into the main storyline. A promising premise with some great writing but the parts don’t fully cohere (at least for me).

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A Review of Xiran Jay Zhao’s Iron Widow (Penguin Teen, 2021)

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Written by Stephen Hong Sohn
Edited by Lina Jiang



Xiran Jay Zhao’s Iron Widow (Penguin Teen, 2021) is a title I picked up at the behest of a friend. I’ve been noticing that I’m less liable to read things on my own, and I’ve been seeking out more opportunities just to be able to talk about the things I read. Thus, I’ve been gravitating toward titles that other people send me to, and such was the case with Zhao’s debut, which is certainly promising. It is part of the Asian-inspired fantasy trend that has really taken YA and adult arenas by storm. Zhao’s work definitely stands alongside the publications of Neon Yang, R.F. Kuang, Cindy Pon, Fonda Lee, Ken Liu, and the many others who have explored variants of Chinese fantasy landscapes within fictional worlds. In almost all cases, the Chinese elements are loosely configured, as place names and historical events have changed in some form or another. Such is also the case with Zhao’s Iron Widow.

Let’s let the official marketing description do some work for us: “The boys of Huaxia dream of pairing up with girls to pilot Chrysalises, giant transforming robots that can battle the mecha aliens that lurk beyond the Great Wall. It doesn't matter that the girls often die from the mental strain. When 18-year-old Zetian offers herself up as a concubine-pilot, it's to assassinate the ace male pilot responsible for her sister's death. But she gets her vengeance in a way nobody expected—she kills him through the psychic link between pilots and emerges from the cockpit unscathed. She is labeled an Iron Widow, a much-feared and much-silenced kind of female pilot who can sacrifice boys to power up Chrysalises instead. To tame her unnerving yet invaluable mental strength, she is paired up with Li Shimin, the strongest and most controversial male pilot in Huaxia. But now that Zetian has had a taste of power, she will not cower so easily. She will miss no opportunity to leverage their combined might and infamy to survive attempt after attempt on her life, until she can figure out exactly why the pilot system works in its misogynist way—and stop more girls from being sacrificed.”

So, the general world building of this novel is definitely first rate. You have a fictional world defined by patriarchal paradigms, which ultimately leave women as sacrifices on the battlefield. Zetian is sick of this stuff and really refuses to be part of this kind of narrative, instead finding ways to push back. This resistance is really part and parcel of Zhao’s feminist rendering of a battle system that purposefully puts women at a disadvantage. Perhaps, the most unique element of this book is Zhao’s characterization of Zetian. She’s spunky, and her attitude almost seems a little bit out of the realm of this book, meaning that I feel like I’d find someone like her on the street, finding her way through a crowd and demanding justice in some contemporary, real-life arena. The other really original aspect of this text is Zhao’s willingness to explore a possible polyamorous love triangle, in a way that is complex. Typically, I’ve seen variations on love triangles in many YAs, but the tendency is to focus on monogamy as the ideal outcome. Zhao definitely destabilizes this expectation, especially as Zetian finds herself simultaneously attracted to two different men, inasmuch as these men also seem to be attracted to each other. Zhao also leaves some considerable surprises up her sleeve, especially concerning the male-dominated society and how that power model has been constructed. But, I’ll leave it all here, and remind everyone that there is a second installment waiting for us! =)

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A Review of Anthony Veasna So’s Afterparties: Stories (Ecco, 2021)

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Written by Stephen Hong Sohn
Edited by Lina Jiang



Anthony Veasna So’s Afterparties: Stories (Ecco, 2021) was absolutely on the highest priority for me in terms of reading. I had anticipated this work because there are so few Cambodian American writers (at least that I have read). This work does not disappoint. Let’s let the official marketing description do some work for us: “A vibrant story collection about Cambodian-American life—immersive and comic, yet unsparing—that offers profound insight into the intimacy of queer and immigrant communities Seamlessly transitioning between the absurd and the tenderhearted, balancing acerbic humor with sharp emotional depth, Afterparties offers an expansive portrait of the lives of Cambodian-Americans. As the children of refugees carve out radical new paths for themselves in California, they shoulder the inherited weight of the Khmer Rouge genocide and grapple with the complexities of race, sexuality, friendship, and family. A high school badminton coach and failing grocery store owner tries to relive his glory days by beating a rising star teenage player. Two drunken brothers attend a wedding afterparty and hatch a plan to expose their shady uncle’s snubbing of the bride and groom. A queer love affair sparks between an older tech entrepreneur trying to launch a ‘safe space’ app and a disillusioned young teacher obsessed with Moby-Dick. And in the sweeping final story, a nine-year-old child learns that his mother survived a racist school shooter.”

I’ll spend some time focusing on a handful of the stories, but I wanted to say the uniqueness of the tone makes this collection really impressive. I can only compare the collection to Jenny Zhang’s Sour Heart, which masters a mixture of poignancy, dark humor, amid the complications of the immigrant experience. The opening story, “Three Women of Chuck’s Donuts,” explores what occurs when a strange man continually shows up at a donut shop, always leaving behind an uneaten apple fritter. Who is this man and why is he showing up? This story is particularly striking for its unique consideration of the gendered nature of diasporic experiences. “The Shop” was one of my favorites, as it explores what the pressures that face a young Cambodian American man, as he returns home after college, to figure out what direction he should take in life. “Human Development” was another standout, as it explores the same-sex relationship between two Cambodian American men in San Francisco. This story really conveys the complexities of the Cambodian American experiences, as the older of the two gentlemen really takes ethnic pride to another level. “Generational Differences” ends the collection and focuses on the incredible divergence between those that lived through the genocide and those raised primarily in the United States, who grow up in that aftermath. The sophistication of these stories is always evident: so is meticulous in the level of characterization and perspective. It’s certainly a collection I will teach in the future. For those that may have been following this debut author, you will know that he passed away tragically just before the publication of Afterparties.

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