Simpers along with irritating, prurient superficiality.
Three bleak, repetitious tales about young Japanese women entangled in sadistic sexual relationships with American men: previously untranslated 1980s work by prize-winning Japanese novelist Yamada (Trash, 1995, etc.).
The title story involves a love affair between Kim, a young exotic dancer, and Spoon, a black Navy deserter. Nicknamed for the spoon he fingers in his pocket, he deals drugs and eventually gets hauled away by the military for trying to sell confidential documents. Part of Spoon’s attraction to Kim is his strange otherness: his huge size, musky smell, greasy soul-food diet and disgusting manners. She enjoys being a “bad girl” and mixing pleasure with pain when they have rough sex, which must mean love. Yamada’s descriptions are comically hackneyed and devoid of irony, perhaps a function of the translation (e.g., “it was far more difficult to lick his wounds than to suck his cock”; “I cried and moaned as if I were at death’s door”). The next story, “The Piano Player’s Fingers,” follows a similar, intentionally provocative path as it describes an affair between big, black jazz piano player Leroy Jones and diminutive party girl Ruiko, who’s not as vulnerable as she looks. Leroy rapturously bats her around, disappears for two years, then returns in the company of various beautiful women, to Ruiko’s obsessive jealousy. For a short while, the two resume their dangerous coupling, but it ends badly. The language is silly (“Leroy’s fingers, playing my body, had captured my heart”), the characters undeveloped and stereotypical. “Jesse” deviates from the other stories, which were related by naïve-sounding protagonists with little sense of self-worth. A third-person narration shows Coco, the new girlfriend of a divorced American, trying to win the affection and respect of Rick’s 11-year-old son, Jesse, whose mother is also Japanese. Over a period of ten days, while Rick is absent on a trip, Coco endures the boy’s emotional manipulations and makes some intelligent deductions about love.
Simpers along with irritating, prurient superficiality.Pub Date: Feb. 14, 2006
ISBN: 0-312-35226-3
Page Count: 240
Publisher: St. Martin's
Review Posted Online: May 19, 2010
Kirkus Reviews Issue: Jan. 1, 2006
BOOK REVIEW
Tinny perhaps, but still a minutely rendered and impressively steady feminist vision of apocalypse.
The time is the not-so-distant future, when the US's spiraling social freedoms have finally called down a reaction, an Iranian-style repressive "monotheocracy" calling itself the Republic of Gilead—a Bible-thumping, racist, capital-punishing, and misogynistic rule that would do away with pleasure altogether were it not for one thing: that the Gileadan women, pure and true (as opposed to all the nonbelieving women, those who've ever been adulterous or married more than once), are found rarely fertile.
Thus are drafted a whole class of "handmaids," whose function is to bear the children of the elite, to be fecund or else (else being certain death, sent out to be toxic-waste removers on outlying islands). The narrative frame for Atwood's dystopian vision is the hopeless private testimony of one of these surrogate mothers, Offred ("of" plus the name of her male protector). Lying cradled by the body of the barren wife, being meanwhile serviced by the husband, Offred's "ceremony" must be successful—if she does not want to join the ranks of the other disappeared (which include her mother, her husband—dead—and small daughter, all taken away during the years of revolt). One Of her only human conduits is a gradually developing affair with her master's chauffeur—something that's balanced more than offset, though, by the master's hypocritically un-Puritan use of her as a kind of B-girl at private parties held by the ruling men in a spirit of nostalgia and lust. This latter relationship, edging into real need (the master's), is very effectively done; it highlights the handmaid's (read Everywoman's) eternal exploitation, profane or sacred ("We are two-legged wombs, that's all: sacred vessels, ambulatory chalices"). Atwood, to her credit, creates a chillingly specific, imaginable night-mare. The book is short on characterization—this is Atwood, never a warm writer, at her steeliest—and long on cynicism—it's got none of the human credibility of a work such as Walker Percy's Love In The Ruins. But the scariness is visceral, a world that's like a dangerous and even fatal grid, an electrified fence.
Tinny perhaps, but still a minutely rendered and impressively steady feminist vision of apocalypse.Pub Date: Feb. 17, 1985
ISBN: 038549081X
Page Count: -
Publisher: Houghton Mifflin
Review Posted Online: Sept. 16, 2011
Kirkus Reviews Issue: Jan. 15, 1985
SEEN & HEARD
BOOK TO SCREEN
This book sings with the terrible silence of dead civilizations in which once there was valor.
Written with quiet dignity that builds to a climax of tragic force, this book about the dissolution of an African tribe, its traditions, and values, represents a welcome departure from the familiar "Me, white brother" genre.
Written by a Nigerian African trained in missionary schools, this novel tells quietly the story of a brave man, Okonkwo, whose life has absolute validity in terms of his culture, and who exercises his prerogative as a warrior, father, and husband with unflinching single mindedness. But into the complex Nigerian village filters the teachings of strangers, teachings so alien to the tribe, that resistance is impossible. One must distinguish a force to be able to oppose it, and to most, the talk of Christian salvation is no more than the babbling of incoherent children. Still, with his guns and persistence, the white man, amoeba-like, gradually absorbs the native culture and in despair, Okonkwo, unable to withstand the corrosion of what he, alone, understands to be the life force of his people, hangs himself. In the formlessness of the dying culture, it is the missionary who takes note of the event, reminding himself to give Okonkwo's gesture a line or two in his work, The Pacification of the Primitive Tribes of the Lower Niger.
This book sings with the terrible silence of dead civilizations in which once there was valor.Pub Date: Jan. 23, 1958
ISBN: 0385474547
Page Count: 207
Publisher: McDowell, Obolensky
Review Posted Online: April 23, 2013
Kirkus Reviews Issue: Jan. 1, 1958
BOOK REVIEW
BOOK REVIEW
BOOK REVIEW
© Copyright 2025 Kirkus Media LLC. All Rights Reserved.
Follow
Popular in this Genre
We can’t wait for you to join Kirkus!
It’s free and takes less than 10 seconds!
Already have an account? Log in.
OR
Sign in with GoogleTrouble signing in? Retrieve credentials.
Welcome Back!
OR
Sign in with GoogleTrouble signing in? Retrieve credentials.
