Update: lymphoma roars back

Things came crashing down again. I had a PET scan Monday 1/21 at Mission Bay, then a visit to my cardiologist Tuesday (through rain). I felt a bit week when I got home. Wed. morning, on the way to the toilet, I slid or my legs gave way. I didn’t pass out, but there was a thud, and soon my bathroom was filled with firemen (eight, I think).


I wanted to be taken to UCSF where I had an appointment with my oncologist on Thursday, but UCSF was refusing to admit anyone, and I was put in CPMC. There, I was knocked out, something was dropped down my esophagus. Besides taking pictures, it sealed off an ulcer.


The PET scan revealed more and new lymphoma, and treatment began even before test results were interpreted. It seems that cancer is pressing against nerves, accounting for considerable pain. I’m getting some morphine product for pain and using a walker to get around. A physical therapist came to Millbrae and I have some exercises that I do—quite pathetically.


My numbers are presumably collapsing (neutrophenia) as I’m de facto returned to isolation. Another round of chemo will follow a week of recovery. I feel that there was no consideration of different therapies as I was hurtled literally from my toilet (without pants or shoes) into this chemo (with retuxin, that has so far not messed me up as much as prednasone did).

Chang-Rae Lee Novels (3) Aloft

It took me a long time to get around to reading Aloft. (2004), Chang-Rae Lee’s third novel (having read his fourth and his first two). His decision to write about white (mostly of Italian descent, but not very ethnic in identification or culture, and living in Cheever/Updike exurbia) was brave, but I have to say that I prefer the other three of the first four each of which centers on Korean or Korean-American protagonists (always male, including Jerry Battle, né Battaglia).


I don’t find any of the characters in Aloft particularly sympathetic, and there is not a lot of plot, either, though some significant things happen within it. Through most of the book, I was thinking that too little of it was aloft, but the climax erased this criticism and is gripping, as well. (The itinerary of the last flight in the book is very detailed, and boring for someone unfamiliar with the detail of Long Island and New England geography, as I am.)

I guess a novel about a family in the building trade (originally brick-laying, eventually upscale landscape design and construcion) is going to be much concerned with money, especially in that the younger generation (Jerry’s son, Jack, egged on by his pretention wife, Eunice) overspends and pisses away the Battle Brother business.

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Sort of related to this is that it is hard to believe that the builder narrator (Jerry) would think or write such beautiful prose with such complex syntax. I don’t think that normal builders (Italian or other descent) think or write like Jerry (who turns 60 in the course of the book does). (His octogenarian father, Hank, who IMO emits more credible lines for a landscaper, in an assisted-living facility called Ivy Acres.) Self-absorbed, run-on sentences are credible, but Jerry’s are suspiciously gilded and literary, as well as running long.

©2019, Stephen O. Murray



Chang-Rae Novels (2): A Gesture Life

The protagonist of  Chang-Rae Lee’s A Gesture Life (1999) is Franklin “Doc” Hata, a man of Korean parentage who was adopted by a wealthy Japanese couple and grew up in Japan. Hata, himself, though never married, adopted a racially mixed daughter, Sunny, whom he pushes to excel just as his own adoptive parents pushed him. Sunny, however, proves to be a bit more rebellious than was Hata.


When A Gesture Life opens, Franklin Hata, now retired, is living in Bedley Run, New York, a pillar of respectability and decorum. He takes very good care of his exquisite home, he’s polite to his neighbors and he was almost venerated by the customers who came into his shop. Hata, however, may have missed out on much of life simply because an incident in his youth caused him to “play it safe” and refuse to take chances. Better to live a peaceful, quiet life, albeit a lonely one, Hata decided early on, rather than expose oneself to the pain of heartbreak.

Lee frequently jump-cuts back and forth between Hata’s life “now” in Bedley Run and his youth in Japan. In this way, we learn who Franklin Hata really is and why he makes the choices he does, for even in Japan, Hata felt like an interloper and this feeling of “not belonging” caused him to excel at everything he did, from academic to military work.

The event that, more than any other, set the stage for the rest of Hata’s life occurred while he was in the military: he met and fell in love with a Korean woman called K, a woman sent by the Japanese army to “comfort” its soldiers. Hata denied his feelings for K during the war, and so, partly in an effort to atone and partly to suppress the pain of heartbreak, Hata denied the full flowering to his own emotional life.. He sublimated his own desires.

Lee’s prose in A Gesture Life is elegant and quiet and contains none of the heavy-handed symbolism found in his next (third) novel, Aloft. His transitions from present to past and back again are almost seamless and the pace of the book is slow but steady. A few of the characters are rather one-dimensional, but Hata and Sunny are rich and complex. Although I preferred the narrative that took place during the past, both those and those set in the present are artfully composed.

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A Gesture Life is an elegant and beautiful novel and, one that is ultimately very sad. It reminds me and many others of Kazuo Ishiguro’s The Remains of the Day. Franklin Hata, is a man, who, like Stevens, tugs at your heart until you find it impossible to forget him.

Chang-Rae Lee novels (4) The Surrendered

Korean-American (in Seoul, the South Korean capital, during 1965, though father’s family was originally from Pyongyang, now the North Korean capital) writer Chang-Rae Lee is less of a performer than the actress-turned-writer Anchee Min. He read more than she and talked less.

He said that he found writing in the first person — after three novels told in the third person — liberating. Without having to be concerned about perspective and what the narrator could know, he feels The Surrendered is less intellectualized than his earlier novels, more embodied.

I complained that in The Surrendered, the relatives to whom the survivor, June Han, is moving in the first chapter are never mentioned again once she is led, more than half-starved to an orphanage en route. Lee dismissed my concern, suggesting that I assume they were dead. I continue to think that not accounting for the abandonment of trying to reach a family in the safety of south — the southeasternmost tip of the Korean peninsula — needs some accounting for, even though I accepted the jump to the 1980s and New York didn’t. There is some mention of how it happened in the text.

There’s nothing about how Sylvie Tanner got out of Manchkuo, but I could accept that ellipsis better than the lifechance-altering abandonment of the attempt to get further south to her relatives on which pretty much the remainder of the novel (minus the sections set earlier in Manchuria being increasingly brutally administered by the Japanese) depends.

The Surrendered is at once a big book (480 pages) encompassing three generations of characters on the same number of continents, and sketchy. There are enthralling, often horrifying set pieces, but the middle of the story of the two main characters who survive the frozen hell of the Korean war is barely sketched.

The novel opens with a harrowing account of an eleven-year-old Korean girl, June Han, trying to protect her younger brother and sister in a desperate flight south from the communists. Her teacher father was rounded up as a traitor and her older brother was drafted and either killed or captured. Her older sister is taken away for sexual servitude, but blown up with her mother on the road. Which leaves June clinging to the top of a boxcar on a south-moving train.

The horrors are by no means over for her, and she is nearly dead from starvation when an America GI from upstate New York (Ilion), persuades her to follow him to an orphanage. Hector Brennan has had traumatic experiences I the war himself, including an enemy soldier who is tortured by another member of Hector’s squad and ends up begging to be put out of his misery. After that Hector worked with black GIs on tending to corpses. Better stinking remains than seeing or inflicting more killings, Hector decided. And he was already suffering survivor guilt and sexual guilt from the death of his alcoholic father before the war.

At the orphanage to which he led June, he becomes an indispensable handyman, and also the lover of Sylvie, the opium-addicted wife of a Presbyterian missionary who runs the orphanage and is frequently away setting up other ones. The children love Sylvie, June most of all and forges a special relationship with her.

Sylvie Tanner was the child of missionaries in Manchuria at the time the Japanese annexed it. Although that is not where she became addicted to opium, she witnessed the rape of her mother, the torture of her young Chinese mentor, Benjamin Li, and more before escaping (how she did is another lacuna in the novel).

There are more disasters and bases for survivor guilt for both June and Hector at the orphanage. 30years on, June has closed her successful Manhattan antique business, sold her co-op apartment (or vacated it if she was renting it) and hired a private detective to find Hector and to find the son she had by him (seemingly not with him, though it seems she got to the USA as his wife) who went off to Europe after graduating from high school and never came back. Nicholas seems to have used what he learned about antiques form his mother’s business, working and stealing from a succession of European antique shops.

It may seem like I have told a lot of the plot, but I have only laid out the beginnings of the layers of stories of suffering and anguish of June, Hector, and Sylvie and of the very complicated relationships at the Korean orphanage, the most extended — though interrupted — story in the center of the web of anguished failures to save others in the novel.

As if there weren’t enough horror from the wreckage of Korea in the 1950s, Lee includes three accidental deaths and two by cancer and a charred copy of J. H. Dun ant’s 1862 A Memory of Soldering, the site of an 1859 battle that was fought in what is now northern Italy (between Verona and Milan) and was the last major battle in world history where all the involved armies were under the personal command of their monarchs (Napoleon III and Victor Emmanuel II against the Hapsburg Franz Joseph I) involving more than 200, 000 men and 37,000 casualties, and leading to the founding in 1863 of both the International Red Cross and the Geneva Conventions on warfare. The Red Cross link is why Sylvie’s mother gave it to her. (Both Sylvie and Hector witness Violations of the Geneva Convention.) I don’t think that Lee needed to pile on casualties from the Second Italian War of Independence, though the chain of ownership of the book spans four generations.

Combat is in the distance in the parts of the novel set in Manchuria and Korea and far in the past for the battle of Solferino, the site at which the book ends. The Surrendered is not a war novel, Lee insists. Oddly, he thinks that The Surrendered is more about individual, less about fitting in than his earlier three novels. It seems to me that, as in Pearl of China, there are American missionaries trying to cope with Japanese conquest in The Surrendered, and also much about how June and her ex-husband, the Irish drunkard Hector Brennan (father of the child she wants to see again before she dies, have fit into American society (she more successfully than he, though he is native to it). Trying to put together life in North America after cruelties and outright atrocities in Asia seems to me as central to The Surrendered as to A Gesture Life.

I didn’t have a chance to ask how A Memory of Solferino survived its second conflagration, not wanting to sound too much like someone who is unable to distinguish fact from fiction and assuming that answers to questions not answered in the work exist.

A woman, who had known Lee at Yale, but had not seen him in recent years, asked him a question about feeling responsibility to his community. The question was rather telegraphese. The answer was that he could not write a whole novel driven by anyone’s notions of any extra-literary “ought to.” Readers would lose interest, but have no chance to do so, because the writer would lose interest.

He said that he does not know where his fiction is going, that he keeps asking questions about the characters, and if he did not, if he had everything worked out before writing, he’d lose interest.

Lee said that he aspires to write a novel less than 200 printed pages, but that his novels don’t fit in that slot, so they take five (plus-or-minus one) years to write. The one he is currently writing is about a Chinese emigrant to the US. I don’t recall his saying that it’s being narrated in the third person, so perhaps should not assume/extrapolate that it is.

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I can’t imagine anyone doubting that Lee cares about the quality of his prose. Indeed, he joked that some reviewers think he is too concerned with it. But it’s not “art for art’s sake,” but very much involved in exploring damaged characters. The ones here are “collateral damage” of war: a phenomenon not of merely historical interest by any means (alas!).

Though a horror in the first part of the book derives from the experiences of a paternal uncle, Lee was born long after the shooting war ended (there has never been a peace treaty). Also, he came to the US when he was three. (Min was 27 when Joan Chen helped her to come to the US.)

The opening is so painful to read about that I put it down twice. After surviving that, I devoured the remaining 450+ pages in two days. That qualifies it as a “page-turner.” There were surprises and there are still some things I find mysterious, including how A Memory of Solferino survived its second conflagration. Light reading, The Surrendered definitely is not, but compelling reading, it is.


©2010, Stephen O. Murray



Chang-Rae Lee novels (1) Native Speaker

I was absorbed by Native Speaker (1995). Chang-Rae Lee, who was born in Korea in 1965 and came to the US at the age of three, shows the high psychic costs of “getting ahead” in America on three Korean Americans–the narrator (Henry Park) who is paid to engage in surveillance used against other Asian-Americans, his father who was trained as an engineer in Korea and built up produce stores in America, and the charismatic seemingly rising, progressive star Henry Kwang, a city council member from Queens on whom Henry is spying.


Henry’s “American” (white) wife, Leiia, is irate that he does not show any emotions about their recently dead seven-year-old son (or about anything or anybody else). He is also guilty about betraying his fellow Korean quasi brother, reporting to the sinister private detective agency, Glimmer & Co., on what Henry does.

There is much affecting and effective observation of immigrant stoicism (not least that of the literally nameless housekeeper Henry’s father hires[1]) and some very beautifully supple prose. A little editing should have pared some passages that contribute nothing and should have established a time perspective (either remembered or ongoing). The other characters (including Henry’s dead son and John’s living ones, as well as his Anglo coworkers and wife) are not as well realized. Still, the stories of these three intersecting lives are vivid and haunting and this first novel is a major achievement.


Two expressions of what many Asian-Americans (from West Pacific/East Asian quasi-Confucian backgrounds) have felt:

Henry Park: “When I was a teenager, I so wanted to be familiar and friendly with my parents like my white friends were with theirs…. I wanted just once for my mother and father to relax a little bit with me. Not treat me so much like a son, like a figure in a long line of figures. They treated each other like that, too. Like it was their duty and not their love.” (p. 205)

John Kwang: “I find myself getting caught up. When others construct and model you favorably, it’s easy to let them keep at it, even if they start going off in ways that aren’t immediatelyy comfortable or right. This is the challenge for us Asians in America. How do you say no to what seems like a compliment [and probably is intended as one]? From the very start we don’t wish to be rude or inconsiderate. So we stay silent in our guises. We misapply what our parents taught us.” (p. 180)

[1] He stresses to his wife that family patriarchs are also referred to by role rather than by personal name: his father “never called my mother by her name, nor did she ever in my presence speak his. … And to this day, when someone asks what my parents’ names were, I have to pause for a moment, I have to rehear them not from the memory of my own voice, my own calling to them, but through the staticky voices of their old friends phoning from the other end of the world” (p. 63). Moreover, his fantasy/invisible brother didn’t have one (p. 191).