I have this (wholly evidence-free) belief that this novel is an elaboration of some work the author did several years ago as part of school or as part of her development, and picked back up again after finishing her (very good, much longer) fantasy novel Babel. Because this one seems either instantly-dated, or the output of a very young person who is feeling disillusioned after being exposed to anti-Asian racism/orientalism + publishing BS for the first time. (Perhaps after reading that amazing New Yorker story about one unsuccessful writer stealing the life story of another -- again I have no evidence for this, just random musings).
On a more serious note, do you not reckon that the sensible thing for us literary navelgazer types to do at this point is just....acknowledge that we are enamoured with our moral masochism, own up to it, roll with it? Or is the whole jig, in some essential way, dependent on us not owning up to how much fun all this guilt is?
I have this (wholly evidence-free) belief that this novel is an elaboration of some work the author did several years ago as part of school or as part of her development, and picked back up again after finishing her (very good, much longer) fantasy novel Babel. Because this one seems either instantly-dated, or the output of a very young person who is feeling disillusioned after being exposed to anti-Asian racism/orientalism + publishing BS for the first time. (Perhaps after reading that amazing New Yorker story about one unsuccessful writer stealing the life story of another -- again I have no evidence for this, just random musings).
Nice try Phoebe but it will remain fair game to make fun of white people for as long as they drink things out of those mason jars
If that's a reference to the photo this is in a Vietnamese-run restaurant and not a mason jar!
On a more serious note, do you not reckon that the sensible thing for us literary navelgazer types to do at this point is just....acknowledge that we are enamoured with our moral masochism, own up to it, roll with it? Or is the whole jig, in some essential way, dependent on us not owning up to how much fun all this guilt is?