Yiyun Li

I've waited so long to read this and write my review because Li and I share many of the same characteristics in our suicidal depressions. It's been a bit difficult to read, in other words. So I skimmed much of this book and my review is therefore much less trustworthy than the others on this page.

As I read the first half of this book I had the uncomfortable feeling of looking into my own yawning void. It wasn't illuminating, just familiar. I kept comparing this book to Pam Houston's show more Contents May Have Shifted, also a first-person narrative about trying not to kill yourself. Reading Houston's book, I felt the narrator's white-knuckled grip on the edge of everything, her desperate, slipping hold. And when she got a firmer grip, even if she didn't help me get mine, I felt like she told me some lovely things about what we do while we're here. With Li's book, on the other hand, I'd nod my head yes and wonder why, why any of this. Like I said, this was hard to read.

Li seems unable to stand the aching void, too. Her book is about suicidality; no, it's about being a writer; no it's about psych hospitalizations; no, it's about reading other authors; no, it's about being in the Army, it's about her mother. By the last third or so, it all makes sense as you realize that all the diversions, all her reading of Thomas Hardy, Katherine Mansfield, Soren Kierkegaard and others has been about avoidance and survival for Li, as it was for some of them, as it has been for me. So by the end of the book I was no longer skimming.

I don't know what to rate this. As a representation of suicidality, it's spot-on. As a sophisticated, postmodern narrative that averts and inverts it's self-regarding gaze, it's a marvel. As a work of literary commentary, it's unique and valuable. Yet as a reading experience, solely for me, it fails. How many stars is that? show less

A grieving mother interrogates herself through a conversation, in thought, with her suicided teenage son, Nikolai. And since this is Yiyun Li writing, the interrogation takes the form of word worrying — meanings, origins, overuse, etc. The dead son, who killed himself at 16 even as Yiyun Li’s son did, is articulate and incisive, formerly precocious but now merely clever. He challenges his mother at ever step, catching out her clichés and lack of facility with adjectives. Together they show more perform a sort of dance of words. Is she working through her very real grief? Or is this a two-handed meditation? Are we witnessing decline or recovery? And what about this justifies the addition of “a novel” to the title?

Yiyun Li is such a clear, precise thinker that she almost can’t help undercutting herself. And so she worries her relationship with her son like beads on a prayer chain, over and over. It’s frazzling. Because the reader cannot escape the knowledge that Yiyun Li’s son also killed himself. Nor the two suicide attempts of her own that she repetitively reflects upon in her previous non-fiction work, “Dear Friend, from My Life I Write to You in Your Life.” It’s worrying. I don’t know whether writing and publishing, “Where Reasons End,” helped Yiyun Li reconcile herself to her son’s death. But I do wonder about it as a form of literature. And I hope she finds solace and pours her immense talents into other characters in the future.

Although extremely well-written, I don’t think I can recommend this work. show less

A potent but uncomfortable story about the dysfunctional relationship between two young girls growing up in a small village in post-war France.

I say uncomfortable, because the main characters are neither familiar types nor particularly empathetic. Fabienne is at times aggressive, manipulative, manic, and self-destructive. Her BFF Agnes, by contrast, is submissive and unambitious. Their relationship definitely isn’t a healthy thing, but it does feel authentic and the arc of their show more friendship makes for a compelling read.

Doomed by fate to lives constrained by poverty, hunger, lovelessness, death, and general awfulness, the girls cope in very different ways, Fabienne’s frustration and darkness diametrically opposed to Agnes’s passive compliance. Yet together they create for themselves a sort of co-dependent sanctuary bounded by imagination, games, and shared understanding. This fragile balance is disrupted when one of their “games” results in Agnes being plucked out of their little village and given a chance to live a larger life as a critically acclaimed child author. How will this experience reshape the way they interact with the world and each other? Let’s just say, it’s complicated.

The author, Yiyun Li, definitely isn't interested in exploring familiar stereotypes or tropes. If you’re comfortable with that, then there’s much to enjoy here: Li is a gifted writer and the “differentness” of this is refreshing and compelling. Just know what you’re getting into! show less

Yiyun Li’s first collection of short stories reveals significant talent and consistency. Each of the ten stories is excellent, though perhaps the opening story, “Extra,” is the finest of the bunch. Li’s stories tend to concentrate on either subjugated life in China, or the less certain lives of immigrant Chinese in America. In most cases there is some form of inter-generational conflict. Ancient Chinese practices and beliefs clearly percolate through the muffling of communist show more societal reinvention. This raises numerous questions. What now is filial duty? How can romantic love — an individualistic emotion — be pursued? To whom does one owe allegiance if not to oneself? How can we judge whether a life is a good life?

Throughout the writing is crisp and slightly detached, especially in the more satirical pieces. There is a sense that these words have been chosen with care, patiently, and that they are presented with well-earned assurance. And even though there are few technical flourishes, the stories nonetheless have a solidity that warrants repeated reading.

Gently recommended. show less