The Third Son by Julie Wu (Algonquin Books, expected publication date April 30, 2013)

In one of those “small world” occurrences, I heard about this book from a friend I met through ultimate frisbee; he had been in contact with the author via Twitter. I read a description of the book and was interested; historical fiction set in the post-WWII era is right up my alley. I went to NetGalley and requested an advance reader’s copy (ARC), which the publisher, Algonquin, graciously granted, and I read the book over the course of a few days.

“A wound that never healed. A promise never to be fulfilled. That was family.”

Saburo, the titular third son of a Taiwanese family in Japan-occupied Taiwan, has been maltreated by his family ever since the death of his younger brother, Aki. Both his father and mother punish him physically, and he gets the smallest share of every meal, causing him to be diagnosed with malnutrition. He is bright but dreamy, and neither his teachers nor his parents appreciate his intelligence. One of his few tender experiences as a young boy is when he meets young girl, Yoshiko, during an air raid; he also experiences kindness from his cousin Toru, a doctor.

Once the Japanese have been defeated, the Chinese come, and once again Taiwan is under another country’s rule. Amidst chaos, oppression, and death, Saburo finds Yoshiko again. Saburo’s older brother Kazuo makes advances on Yoshiko, but she and Saburo marry. Saburo vows to take the legendarily difficult exam to go to America and study at a university, despite the fact that, unlike Kazuo, he did not attend the best university in Taiwan. He studies on his own, with Yoshiko’s support, and passes; he then must leave Yoshiko and their new baby, Kai-ming, to go to America.

Throughout the novel, Saburo faces many obstacles; some are political (his father is a politician; quotas from Taiwan to the U.S. make visas difficult to get; there is corruption on both/all sides), but many stem from his family’s unjust treatment of him. The difficulties Saburo faces because of his family are worse than any he encounters because of the political events in Taiwan; this has the twin effects of lessening the impact of important political events (e.g. the anti-government uprising in February 1947 and the “White Terror” that followed) and making the story more universal and Saburo more relatable.

Once in the U.S., Saburo faces a new choice: to do as his family instructed, spending only one semester studying engineering (his talent and passion) and one studying pharmacy, to help with the family business upon his return, or spend all his time on engineering. His loyalty to his family in spite of their treatment of him is incomprehensible to many Americans he meets, who encourage him to put himself first for once and follow his dream of earning a Master’s in engineering and bringing Yoshiko to live with him in the States. Saburo is torn between the two value systems, but with Yoshiko’s encouragement, he finally makes his choice.

The Third Son is a well-written historical novel, an immigration saga that illuminates core differences between two cultures. Those who enjoyed Alan Brennert’s Honolulu or Julie Otsuka’s The Buddha in the Attic will almost certainly enjoy The Third Son.

Fever by Mary Beth Keane (Scribner, publication March 12, 2013)

Fever is a richly imagined, sympathetic portrait of Mary Mallon, the Irish immigrant better known as Typhoid Mary.

Mary, who makes her living as a chef to fancy households in New York, is one of the first known carriers of typhus; she is immune, but can pass on the disease through her cooking. Eventually, a government “sanitation engineer” tracks her down, and she is essentially kidnapped and imprisoned. Three years later, she finally wins her freedom, but only by agreeing to give up her life’s work and passion: cooking.

Giving up cooking means not just giving up her livelihood, but admitting that the health officials were right: that she is a carrier, that she did – inadvertently – bring sickness and death to many families. It is a difficult truth to face. Mary acknowledges, “It was possible to live in such a way as to keep one’s back to the things that were not convenient….She’d taken a risk, but living was itself a risk, and more people agreed it was a risk worth taking.”  And toward the end of the novel, Mary reflects: “[She] wondered whether it was possible for a person to know something and not know something at the same time. She wondered whether it was possible to know a truth, and then quickly un-know it, bricking up that portal of knowledge until every point of light was covered over.”

Most of the book is written in close third person from Mary’s perspective, which encourages the reader to sympathize with Mary. There are also a few sections with just Alfred, Mary’s longtime partner (but not husband), which explain his side of the story, but which probably aren’t entirely necessary.

Overall, Fever was a rich, engrossing, compelling novel. In fact, I so enjoyed it that I read two follow-up books: the short, nonfiction Typhoid Mary by Anthony Bourdain, and Keane’s earlier novel, The Walking People – both of which I recommend.

Thanks to Greg Mortimer at Scribner for a pre-pub copy of the book.

Fellow Mortals by Dennis Mahoney (Farrar, Straus & Giroux, published February 5, 2013)

By throwing a match and a cigar into some dry bushes while on his route, mailman Henry Cooper causes a fire that kills a woman, burns down two houses, and damages two more. Henry is desperate to do everything he can to help the people whose lives he affected: Sam, now a widow; the Finn sisters, whose house was destroyed; the Carmichaels, a family of four; and couple Billy and Sherri Kane. Some of them want nothing to do with Henry; others accept his help immediately.

Of all of the people whose lives the fire affected, Sam Bailey is the one Henry must try hardest to reach. Sam’s wife Laura died in the fire, and Sam has retreated into the woods behind their old house, where he builds a cabin and carves trees into sculptures. Henry insists on helping him, and the two develop a relationship that is at first uneasy, but eventually becomes something resembling a friendship. Eventually, Henry draws his wife Ava out to the woods to spend time with Sam as well, though Henry asks Sam not to tell her how much he’s helping build the cabin; due to a heart condition, Henry isn’t supposed to do hard physical labor (yes, that’s foreshadowing).

This is a quiet, observant, transformative novel in which the characters wrestle with innocence and guilt, loss and forgiveness. Henry’s culpability for the fire, his guilt and desire to help both deepen and complicate his relationships with the people on Arcadia Street, and with Ava. In the wake of the tragic fire, some people are cleaved apart, while others cleave together. Henry’s essential goodness and innocence allow him to persevere, if clumsily, in forming bonds between people.

Mahoney’s characters are believable, and the sense of place is keenly developed. Comparisons to Stewart O’Nan (Songs for the Missing, Last Night at the Lobster) and Leah Hager Cohen (The Grief of Others) are apt.

Thanks to Emily Bell at FSG for a pre-publication copy of the book.

Cross-posted on the Robbins Library blog.

To be perfectly honest, I wasn’t thrilled when my book club chose Tolstoy’s famous (and famously long) Anna Karenina. However, part of what I like about being in a book club is that it often provides that little nudge necessary to tackle a book that I might not otherwise have the motivation to begin on my own.

So, I downloaded the e-book version from the library’s digital media catalog and put it on my e-reader…then waited until about three days before our book club meeting to begin it. Needless to say, I didn’t finish in time for the discussion, but I did finish eventually – two and a half weeks later. And I’m so glad that I took the time to read Anna at a leisurely pace, in little sections, absorbing and savoring, because it is marvelous.

There are at least five main characters: Anna herself, of course; her husband, Alexander Alexandrovitch (Karenin); her lover, Alexey Vronsky; her niece Kitty; and Kitty’s husband Konstantin Levin. Anna’s brother, Stepan Oblonsky, and his wife, Darya Alexandrovna (Dolly), also play significant roles. Tolstoy’s mastery is such that the reader enjoys insight into each character, and is able to understand and sympathize with each.

Over and over again, the characters’ emotions struck me as familiar, and I was surprised at how little human nature has changed. We “modern humans” tend to think of ourselves as more advanced, more enlightened, more complicated, and more progressive: but here is the character Natalia saying, “Parents now are not expected to live at all, but to exist altogether for their children,” and there is Kitty reveling because Levin’s jealousy proves his love for her. Here is Karenin exclaiming, “I cannot be unhappy, but neither she nor he ought to be happy,” and there is Anna lamenting, “And no one understands it except me, and no one ever will; and I can’t explain it.” Here is Anna making the Vronsky of her imagination fit with the Vronsky in reality, and there is Vronsky made cold and vindictive by Anna’s need for him.

Even one character’s light suggestion that “they ought to find out how to vaccinate for love, like smallpox” could have been the seed of the idea for Lauren Oliver’s recent popular young adult series, beginning with Delirium.

All of these emotions and reactions are so recognizably human that the book truly is timeless, retaining its power throughout the years. One line that had a particular impact was one of Anna’s last to Vronsky: “Respect was invented to cover the empty place where love should be. And if you don’t love me any more, it would be better and more honest to say so.”

I don’t think I’ll ruin it for anyone if I admit it has a tragic ending, but Anna Karenina is not relentlessly sad or hopeless. There are social engagements, horse races, hunting and farming scenes, meditations on business and bureaucracy, government and religion. There are also little touches of humor, intentionally or unintentionally. For example, very early on, when Anna goes to visit Dolly, she tells her hostess, “I assure you that I sleep everywhere, and always like a marmot.” (Are marmots particularly sleepy creatures, like sloths? I don’t know.) Later, Anna’s friend Betsy says to her, “Possibly you are inclined to look at things too tragically,” which is a rather dark piece of irony, considering Anna’s fate.

As someone who put off reading this long, classic work that I feared would be dense, impenetrable, and boring, I can now assure you that it is none of these things; it is in fact the opposite. Anna Karenina is an engrossing read, a comprehensive portrait of unchanging human nature.

With a new movie version recently released, one may be tempted to skip the book in favor of the movie. However, if you have the time and patience to read it, you’ll be rewarded with a lasting and memorable experience.