A Review of Tony Tulathimutte’s Rejection: Fiction (William Morrow, 2024)

[uttararangarajan]

Written by Stephen Hong Sohn
Edited by Uttara Rangarajan

Well, Tony Tulathimutte’s Rejection: Fiction (William Morrow, 2024) is my doozy read for this year. This one was probably too much for me, but I’m glad I read it. It’s gotten a lot of buzz as a collection that squarely deals with incel culture. Let’s go on to that ever-important marketing description: ““Sharply observant and outrageously funny, Rejection is a provocative plunge into the touchiest problems of modern life. The seven connected stories seamlessly transition between the personal crises of a complex ensemble and the comic tragedies of sex, relationships, identity, and the internet. In “The Feminist,” a young man’s passionate allyship turns to furious nihilism as he realizes, over thirty lonely years, that it isn’t getting him laid. A young woman’s unrequited crush in “Pics” spirals into borderline obsession and the systematic destruction of her sense of self. And in “Ahegao; or, The Ballad of Sexual Repression,” a shy late bloomer’s flailing efforts at a first relationship leads to a life-upending mistake. As the characters pop up in each other’s dating apps and social media feeds, or meet in dimly lit bars and bedrooms, they reveal the ways our delusions can warp our desire for connection.These brilliant satires explore the underrated sorrows of rejection with the authority of a modern classic and the manic intensity of a manifesto. Audacious and unforgettable, Rejection is a stunning mosaic that redefines what it means to be rejected by lovers, friends, society, and oneself.”

 

 I love linked story collections, so I hope that I found all the basic links, but the kind that Tulathimutte has written is my favorite: characters in one story sometimes return in another. What I adore about this approach is that you get a more kaleidoscopic view of a given character. Of course, Tulathimutte increases the cohesion of this fragmented narrative through the rubric of rejection. The challenge for readers of this work emerges in the tone as well as the content. It is highly satirical and potentially comic, but it is advanced through and by the complications of dating and erotic attraction and all the messiness that that can sometimes entail. There were points where I did think that the narrative went a little bit too far, but satire is that thing of taste. What one person considers funny or critical another might find too much or just not humorous. I did really enjoy the last story, which is essentially a meta-epistolary story from an editor to the fictive character Tony, who has had his manuscript rejected. Here, the editor essentially engages in a kind of analysis of the pitfalls of Tulathimutte’s previous stories, ultimately castigating fictive Tony for being too obfuscating. The real author Tulathimutte might be heading off at the pass the ways in which satire can leave readers without a firm positionality of social critique to stand on, but I still found enjoyed it, partly because it hews closest to popular literary criticism. I’m sure this collection will get critical attention from scholars, as the meta dynamics are reminiscent of the best in this genre (see, for instance, Nam Le’s first story from The Boat). Like I said: the doozy read of the year.

 

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A Review of Erin Entrada Kelly’s First State of Being (Greenwillow, 2024)

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Written by Stephen Hong Sohn
Edited by Uttara Rangarajan

I haven’t read something in the middle grade arena for awhile, and I was compelled to because Erin Entrada Kelly, a Fil Am writer, just won the Newberry Medal for First State of Being (Greenwillow 2024). I remember I would always consider reading the Newberry Medal winner as a kid, and there are definitely some standouts for me. Growing up, one of my absolute favorites was Dear Mr. Henshaw, and one of my all time favorite novels of any genre, any period, any age group is Madeleine L’engle’s A Wrinkle in Time. It’s the latter book that First State of Being sort of reminds me of. With that teaser in mind, let’s turn to the marketing description: “It's August 1999. For twelve-year-old Michael Rosario, life at Fox Run Apartments in Red Knot, Delaware, is as ordinary as ever—except for the looming Y2K crisis and his overwhelming crush on his sixteen-year-old babysitter, Gibby. But when a disoriented teenage boy named Ridge appears out of nowhere, Michael discovers there is more to life than stockpiling supplies and pining over Gibby. It turns out that Ridge is carefree, confident, and bold, things Michael wishes he could be. Unlike Michael, however, Ridge isn’t where he belongs. When Ridge reveals that he’s the world’s first time traveler, Michael and Gibby are stunned but curious. As Ridge immerses himself in 1999—fascinated by microwaves, basketballs, and malls—Michael discovers that his new friend has a book that outlines the events of the next twenty years, and his curiosity morphs into something else: focused determination. Michael wants—no, needs—to get his hands on that book. How else can he prepare for the future? But how far is he willing to go to get it? A story of time travel, friendship, found family, and first loves, this thematically rich novel is distinguished by its voice, character development, setting, and exploration of the issues that resonate with middle grade readers.”

 

So, I’m actually going to start with my critiques: I actually wanted way more science fiction! When I think back to L’engle’s novel, she didn’t shy away from the sci-fi aspects of that text, especially when explaining the folds in time and space that allow for travel to distant points to occur (quicker than the speed of light). The second critique I have stems from the ending, so I’ll provide you with my spoiler warning now (as per usual). I’ll assume you looked away or that you’re still reading because you have already read the novel and just want to hear what I have to say about it. The conclusion sees Ridge going back home to his time period, some point way far into the future, but we don’t find out about the outcome of his experiment nor do we know too much about the cultures of the future as envisioned by Kelly. I do think a detailed epilogue or perhaps an appendix of what life in the future is like might have been really interesting. But beyond these quibbles, I can understand why this book received the medal. The ones that win this award have a lot of heart, and this novel has it in spades. It first develops it in the way that Gibby takes care of Michael, even though they live in an area that is not necessarily the most affluent. The relationship that Michael has with his very hard-working mother is also a high point, where we can absolutely see that despite some of the challenges of growing up where he is, he can look up to a mother who understands and prioritizes what is best for him. And then there’s some of the people who live in the same apartment complex: Michael develops some key friendships there that help him transition into being a more sophisticated human being, something that will also enable him to support Ridge, as they all figure out a way for Ridge to return to his time period. It's a heartwarming novel, one that does not shy away from all the challenges that come with growing up as an adolescent in the 1990s. And, I can definitely relate.

 

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A Review of Tasha Suri’s Jasmine Throne (Orbit, 2021)

[uttararangarajan]

Written by Stephen Hong Sohn
Edited by Uttara Rangarajan

Tasha Suri’s Burning Kingdoms trilogy is completed, so I’m now starting with the first: Jasmine Throne (Orbit, 2021). This first installment is clearly one of those Asian-inspired high fantasies. I wonder sometimes about the need to code Asian-ness so specifically in these texts in the first place, but I digress (for now). Let’s let the pithy marketing description give us some more information: “Exiled by her despotic brother, princess Malini spends her days dreaming of vengeance while imprisoned in the Hirana: an ancient cliffside temple that was once the revered source of the magical deathless waters but is now little more than a decaying ruin. The secrets of the Hirana call to Priya. But in order to keep the truth of her past safely hidden, she works as a servant in the loathed regent’s household and cleaning Malini’s chambers. When Malini witnesses Priya’s true nature, their destinies become irrevocably tangled. One is a ruthless princess seeking to steal a throne. The other a powerful priestess desperate to save her family. Together, they will set an empire ablaze.”

 

 This description really doesn’t do enough to outline the variety of major characters that you’ll see throughout the text. From what I recall—and pardon my hazy memory, as I finished this one using a mix of audiobook and print editions, and I completed this one over a good month—there are at least three or four other major characters, including Bhumika, someone with powers much like Priya, and then Ashok, who is Priya’s brother and part of the revolutionary movement to depose the current power structure. The novel starts out a bit slow, but Suri is giving us time to get into the world-building. This world is one in which magic is somewhat hidden, and Priya seems to have some powers related to nature, which are connected to the Hirana. The deathless waters are the places where temple-goers used to be able to bathe into and, if they survived, they were given increasing level of magic ability. As I understand it, figures can be bathed up to three times, and the thrice-born, as they are named, are the most powerful of them all. What the synopsis doesn’t really outline is there is a queer romantic subtext between Malini and Priya that is all the more complicated by each other’s station. Malini realizes that Priya would be a powerful ally, given her magical abilities, while Priya begins to understand that, should Malini be able to find a way out of the Hirana, Malini might be a better ruler than the current one and give everyone a better chance at flourishing. But there are tons of obstacles. Needless to say, the novel sets up the chess pieces to let us know that an even larger battle is brewing. Though Priya and Malini go their separate ways by the ending of the novel, we know that each is well-positioned to make the kingdom a better place. I appreciated most Suri’s attentiveness to character development, which makes the novel move much faster at the later stages, given your investments in each character. A good example is even a minor figure like Rukh, a character who infested with the rot, and who is introduced very early on in the novel. He seeks out Priya for her aid. You are inclined to hope that there will be a way to save him, even as it is clear he might have multiple intentions for gaining Priya’s favor. By the end, Rukh’s arc is particularly well-earned and poignant, and Suri thus always leaves a very satisfying element to the stories, even as the larger battles of power remain unclosed. Very much looking forward to the second in this series!

 

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A Review of Jen Wang’s Ash’s Cabin (First Second, 2024)

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Written by Stephen Hong Sohn
Edited by Uttara Rangarajan

I’ve been meaning to pick up Jen Wang’s Ash’s Cabin (First Second, 2024) for quite some time! I have been a huge fan of Wang’s work since Koko Be Good and have read most of what has come out since then (e.g. Stargazing, The Prince and the Dressmaker). I want to start off by saying I hope I have not made any gendering errors here, as I sometimes automatically revert to a gendered pronoun due to grammatical misfiring in my brain, so please give me some grace! In any case, Ash’s Cabin was the perfect book for me to read at the time. I remember that as I moved further into it, all I could think about was My Side of the Mountain and Hatchet, two books that I loved as a kid. Lo and behold, these two books are cited in a “for further reading” section by Wang, so we obviously read the same things as a kid. Let’s move to that ever-crucial marketing description: “Ash has always felt alone. Adults ignore the climate crisis. Other kids Ash’s age are more interested in pop stars and popularity contests than in fighting for change. Even Ash’s family seems to be sleepwalking through life. The only person who ever seemed to get Ash was their Grandpa Edwin. Before he died, he used to talk about building a secret cabin, deep in the California wilderness. Did he ever build it? What if it’s still there, waiting for him to come back…or for Ash to find it? To Ash, that maybe-mythical cabin is starting to feel like the perfect place for a fresh start and an escape from the miserable feeling of alienation that haunts their daily life. But making the wilds your home isn’t easy. And as much as Ash wants to be alone…can they really be happy alone? Can they survive alone?”

 

So, Ash ends up deciding to find out if Grandpa Edwin’s secret cabin ever existed, but they have to come up with a plan to get their way up to the area. Fortunately, Ash pushes against their parent’s wishes for vacation plans and instead is allowed to go up to some relatives in that area. Once Ash finds the perfect way to go exploring (which ends up of course creating drama down the line), they go deep into the wilderness with his trusty dog Chase. They eventually find the cabin, but living on one’s own is harder than Ash realizes. All the books they’ve read do not necessarily translate to skills out in the wild. After Ash poisons themself, they have to get help, and Ash eventually finds someone who is also finding their own way. They strike a brief friendship, and this new friend helps Ash refurbish their grandfather’s cabin. Of course, I completely forgot to mention that Ash is ¼ Chinese, as their grandfather was Chinese American! In any case, the friend goes on their way, while Ash continues to live the good life up at the cabin. When a bear attack injures Chase, Ash must make some difficult decisions about what they want to do. After all, by that point, Ash’s family has sent many people out to look for them, and Ash has been avoiding the helicopters that they see overhead. Ash ultimately realizes that they must go back to civilization and give Chase the car that the dog needs. Once back home, Ash begins to discover that they can find their way through a world that is increasingly being sensitive to their pronouns and their journey. In this respect, Ash’s story is one that will resonate with many readers, who to find a path and a life in which their gender is theirs to claim. What I especially appreciated about Wang’s political approach to this trans storyline is that Wang refuses to allow anyone to misgender Ash through deadnaming. Any time Ash’s deadname is used it is blocked out, so we already see how the graphic perspective can enact a form of representational justice. In this era of anti-DEI and book banning, I am worried that a Wang’s graphic novel may not find its readers, but I am so happy that this book is out into the world, especially in this moment and in this time of political violence. These are the kinds of books that can absolutely save lives. At the same time, Wang’s art and story are always first rate, and we should feel lucky that we are in a moment that we can see such brilliant work being produced and shared.

 

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A Review of Susanna Kwan’s Awake in the Floating City (Pantheon, 2025)

[uttararangarajan]

Written by Stephen Hong Sohn
Edited by Uttara Rangarajan

Ah, the call of travel is always a great occasion to bring a book onto a plan. Such was the case with Susanna Kwan’s Awake in the Floating City (Pantheon, 2025), which is an auspicious debut. The field of Asian American speculative fiction has really taken off, and this novel is evidence that this subarea is one of the most robust in the current moment. Let’s let the marketing description do some work for us: “Bo knows she should go. Years of rain have drowned the city and almost everyone else has fled. Her mother was carried away in a storm surge and ever since, Bo has been alone. She is stalled: an artist unable to make art, a daughter unable to give up the hope that her mother may still be alive. Half-heartedly, she allows her cousin to plan for her escape—but as the departure day approaches, she finds a note slipped under her door from Mia, an elderly woman who lives in her building and wants to hire Bo to be her caregiver. Suddenly, Bo has a reason to stay. Mia can be prickly, and yet still she and Bo forge a connection deeper than any Bo has had with a client. Mia shares stories of her life that pull Bo back toward art, toward the practice she thought she’d abandoned. Listening to Mia, allowing her memories to become entangled with Bo’s own, she’s struck by how much history will be lost as the city gives way to water. Then Mia’s health turns, and Bo determines to honor their disappearing world and this woman who’s brought her back to it, a project that teaches her the lessons that matter most: how to care, how to be present, how to commemorate a life and a place, soon to be lost forever.”

 

The novel is primarily told through Bo’s perspective. Both are Chinese American characters, which is a crucial element to this story precisely because so much Chinese American cultural history is woven in throughout. The other important element is the city of San Francisco, which emerges as a kind of third character here. I tend to think that Kwan’s novel is really a response to the COVID pandemic. Bo’s experiences being isolated in a flooded high rise seems to be something of a refraction of the experience of so many in that early lockdown period, but Kwan really takes it in a different direction with the climate fiction elements. The rains seem to be neverending and most residents of the city have taken flight, off to drier areas or at least somewhere where produce can be grown more easily. Given Bo’s status as an able-bodied individual, you might think that she would have left, but San Francisco is her home, and she just can’t quit it. When Mia reaches out with request for help (Mia is a centenarian from what I remember), Bo can’t really say no. After all, Bo has been a caregiver in the past, and she develops a soft spot for the irascible Mia. What I loved most about this novel is that it is both a plot of friendship and alternative kinship, one that rises over and above any romance element. At the same time, Kwan is really attentive to issues of archiving and grief, as she sees her city transformed into something basically unrecognizable. The novel is also a kuntslerroman. Bo sees herself as a failed artist, but connecting with Mia allows her the opportunity to rekindle her connection to her creative endeavors. As Mia’s condition begins to worsen, Bo gives herself a deadline: to try to draw up a huge archival production that is partially based upon Mia’s past. While Kwan’s work is a quiet work, one that is primarily a character study, there is a level of narrative urgency that occurs once readers discover that Bo has one clear opportunity to leave. But this leavetaking would require that Bo leave Mia in a state of debility. Bo eventually makes a cataclysmic choice, which may maroon here in San Francisco, but for Bo, who has gotten used to foraging from her own mycelial wall and who cannot seem to think of anywhere else as home, you know that she’s made the right decision. Mia dies, but not before she seeks Bo’s masterful work, one created with the help of an erstwhile romantic partner. With the power of drones and projecting technology, the city is awash in images and colors, and a past that many will understand is part of what makes San Francisco so beautiful and so melancholic. An elegant work constructed with impressive restraint.

 

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A Review of Y-Dang Troeung’s Landbridge (Duke UP, 2024)

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Written by Stephen Hong Sohn
Edited by Uttara Rangarajan

I knew I would eventually review Y-Dang Troeung’s Landbridge (Duke UP, 2024), but I also knew that it was going to be a challenge. Troeung is someone that I crossed paths with in practically another academic life, when I was barely out of graduate school and had the chutzpah to try to get do a bunch of editing (thinking that I would somehow manage all that and write books and articles necessary for tenure). During that period, there were some major strikes of luck. One was the opportunity to co-edit an issue of Modern Fiction Studies with the brilliant, monstrously well-read Paul Lai and then the indefatigable and generous Donald C. Goellnicht. During the editing process, Troeung’s piece on Monique Truong would come to the top of the pile, and her piece would go on to be published in the special issue on Theorizing Asian American Fiction. Goellnicht would pass away unexpectedly around 2019. Goellnicht also happened to have advised Troeung as a graduate student, and then Troeung would pass away in 2022. Fortunately for all of us, Troeung has already left an indelible legacy with an academic monograph (Refugee Lifeworlds) and this creative nonfictional work, which was published posthumously. Let’s let the marketing description do some work for us: “In 1980, Y-Dang Troeung and her family were among the last of the 60,000 refugees from Cambodia that Canada agreed to admit. Their landing was widely documented in newspapers, with photographs of the prime minister shaking Troeung’s father’s hand and patting baby Y-Dang’s head. Troeung became a literal poster child for the benevolence of the Canadian refugee project. She returns to this moment forty years later in her arresting memoir Landbridge, where she explores the tension between that public narrative of happy ‘arrival,’ and the multiple, often hidden truths of what happened to her family. In precise, beautiful prose, Troeung moves back and forth in time to tell stories about her parents and two brothers who lived through the Cambodian genocide, about the lives of her grandparents and extended family, about her own childhood in the refugee camps and in rural Ontario, and eventually about her young son’s illness and her own diagnosis with a terminal disease. Throughout this brilliant and astonishing book, Troeung looks with bracing clarity at refugee existence and dares to imagine a better future, with love.”

 

This creative nonfictional work is not for the faint of heart. You might have to take some space at times to read it, but I will say immediately that I’m so glad that this work is out in the world, as it adds to the growing and necessary body of Cambodian American cultural productions. There was a time that I really struggled to add Cambodian American literature to my syllabi. At one point, I felt like I basically only had the option of Loung Ung, but these days, the writers in this ethnic subset are truly growing. Landbridge is an anachronistically sequenced work, with short chapters typically around 1-3 pages in length. Troeung toggles through multiple time periods, but there are some major temporal concentration points. There’s of course the sections that deal with her parents’ time during the genocide and their lives as refugees. Then, there’s Troeung growing up in Canada. One of the best recurring motifs is the one about how the family would engage in digging up worms to make extra money. Though this type of activity might seem strange to some, for Troeung, it was always a time of family bonding and community building, and she comes to look back nostalgically on those moments, as evidence of her family’s resilience. Then, there’s the section where Troeung has traveled to Hong Kong, a time of budding romance and a time where she begins to wrestle with the ghosts of her past. The proximity she retains to Cambodia allows her to visit consistently, and she struggles with how to reframe her understanding of the country and to consider its history as one that cannot only be encapsulated by trauma and catastrophic death. Finally, there is her return to Canada and the challenges that come with tenure and then the diagnosis of cancer. Interspersed throughout the work are the most heartbreaking yet crucial sections: letters that Troeung is writing to her young child, some of which are dated into the future. Here, we see Troeung thinking proleptically, archiving this relationship so that there is a record for her child to return to again and again. Despite the gravity of the subject matter, Troeung has the prose of a poet, and the fragmented styling suits this lyric quality. This creative nonfiction of course reminds me more and more of the boundary breaking ways that scholars have been exploring their work and this text can easily be put alongside the many now emerging from academics, such as Anne Anlin Cheng’s Ordinary Disasters and Sarah Chihaya’s Bibliophobia. Let’s hope it’s part of a long and enduring trend. 

 

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