I'm reading a novel by Madeleine Thien -
Do Not Say We Have Nothing.
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I was completely drawn in by a review in the NYT, a good bit of which I've put below. I can't put the book down now that I've finally got around to reading it. Ms. Thien has another book out recently,
Dogs at the Perimeter, set in Cambodia at the time of the Khmer Rouge and in present day Canada. Looking forward to reading that one as well.
https://www.nytimes.com/2016/10/24/...-nothing-a-portrait-of-souls-snuffed-out.html
The background of “Do Not Say We Have Nothing” pulses with music. Ms. Thien has that rare, instinctive sense of what it’s like for a person’s brain to be a hostage to its inner score — the call inside these characters’ heads is always louder than the call of the outside world, most fatally that of the Communist Party — and her observations about Bach and Prokofiev, Shostakovich and Debussy are some of the book’s sweetest pleasures, as are her ruthless critiques of musicians. (Zhuli’s assessment of a gorgeous-but-bloodless fellow violinist: “She played Beethoven as if he had never been alive.”)
But slowly, sentiment begins to shift at the Shanghai Conservatory of Music. Students began writing essays asking, “What good is this music, these empty enchantments, that only entrench the bourgeoisie and isolate the poor?”
Zhuli, Kai and Sparrow each make different choices about how to survive the violent assault on their identities, not one of them happy, all of them worthy of a dirge.
Ms. Thien captures painfully well the depersonalization and numbness of living through the Cultural Revolution, particularly the “day-to-day insincerity” of casual conversation, larded with perfunctory praise for the party and Chairman Mao. (It sounds as if it’s coming from a Communist Twitter bot.) Her depictions of the Red Guard’s brutality are graphic and difficult to read: Zhuli’s parents, property owners, are trussed like chickens, beaten and sent to re-education camps.
The novel culminates, perhaps inevitably, with the protests in Tiananmen Square. It’s a virtuoso stretch of writing, rendered with a blue-flame intensity, blazing and tactile and full of life. Noodle sellers, exhilarated, are giving away food. (Ms. Thien pulled this from the historical record; her novel has endnotes.) A burning mattress “flew in slow motion onto an army truck.” Sparrow crumples under the weight of a heavyset worker who has been pierced by a bullet.
Even before the tanks roll in, the reader is left to wonder if history is simply destined to repeat itself. One father of a student complains to Sparrow: “These kids think it’s all up to them. They have no understanding of fate.”
It’s a possibility Ms. Thien examines throughout the novel: “How time is bent and elastic and repeated. ” But the Book of Records, with its constant emendations, suggests another possibility. “I have this idea that ... maybe, a long time ago, the Book of Records was set in a future that hadn’t yet arrived,” Zhuli says.
The implication is that China is still an unfinished work — just like Sparrow’s Symphony No. 3, a thing of true beauty, which he was forced to hide in the roof of his house. There it got lost, as did the man he was supposed to become. Yet years later, he found himself able to compose again. But he couldn’t complete that particular piece. The notes he sought were buried in the past.