From the age of 18 to approximately 22, I went through my blue period. This era was marked by dateless Friday nights, dateless Saturday nights, Soprano-less Sunday nights (The Sopranos not having gone on air yet), and a long flirtation with hipsterism. During this time, I watched relationships end with such arbitrariness that I was left to conclude the Universe had conspired against me.

Maybe you've gone through a period like this. It's called youth. And if you have, you know there's a certain pleasure to be taken from the pain. Sure, part of me was preparing for my eventual transformation into the male version of a cat lady (a priest, I guess). But another part of me enjoyed dwelling in a half-depression. I listened to sad songs, I pretended to read poetry, I rewatched Richard Linklater's Before Sunrise 2,000 times, and I drank countless Moscow Mules at various hipster bars.

It was during this time I read David Guterson's Snow Falling on Cedars. Despite its pretentious title, it is an accessible, mixed-genre book: a police procedural, courtroom drama, and story of star-crossed love, all rolled into one. (Of course, the movie version starred Ethan Hawke, the patron saint of morose twenty-somethings). The uniqueness of the book comes from its setting in Puget Sound in 1954. It is a place of snow and fog and a dark legacy with regards to its Japanese-American population, who were shipped off to internment camps during World War II.

Snow Falling on Cedars unabashedly harkens to Moby Dick. It's main character is named Ishmael, and he, like Ahab, is a cripple, who lost a hand during World War II. He is obsessed with Hatsue, a Japanese girl whom he loved as a child. Love and obsession, two sides of the same coin.

The main storyline concerns Hatsue's husband, Kabuoe, a fisherman who is charged with killing Carl Heine. By way of motive, Kabuoe believes that Carl's family reneged on a contract to sell Kabuoe a strawberry field.

Ishamel, the crippled former lover of Kabuoe's wife, is a writer for the local paper. He covers the story while moping through life like the protagonist in a thousand emo songs. While the trial is taking place, there are flashbacks to Ishmael and Hatsue's relationship; the internment of Hatsue's family; and Ishmael's service in the war. Guterson is quite successful in evoking the everything-in-life-hinges-on-this feel of young love:

Inside their cedar tree, for nearly four years, he and Hatsue had held one another with the dreamy contentedness of young lovers. With their coats spread against a cushion of moss they'd stayed as long as they could after dusk and on Saturday and Sunday afternoons. The tree produced a cedar perfume that permeated their skin and clothes. They would enter, breath deeply, then lie down and touch each other - the heat of it and the cedar smell, the privacy and the rain outside, the slippery softness of their lips and tongues inspired in them the temporary illusion that the rest of the world had disappeared...

Ah, young love. And no, I am not and have never been a 12 year-old girl.

Way back when I first read this book, a great measure of my enjoyment came from wallowing in Ishmael's misery. However, there are other pleasures to be had, for readers who have learned that the sun and moon do not rise and set with every relationship.

There is a wide cast of characters possessed of the rural quirkiness well-mined by the likes of the Cohen brothers. Aside from Ishmael, Hatsue, and Kabuoe, you meet sheriff Art Moran, the prosecutor Alvin Hooks, the Gerry Spence-like defense attorney, Nels Gudmundsson, and Ole, the elderly strawberry farmer.

More than the characters there is a sense of place. This is a lush, tactile novel, and you get enveloped in the weather and atmosphere:

Center Valley's strawberry fields lay under nine inches of powder and were as fuzzy through the snowfall as a landscape in a dream, with no discernible hard edges. On Scatter Springs Drive the trees had closed the road in so that the sky was little more than an indistinct, drab ribbon overhead, but down here the dramatic expanse of it was visible, chaotic and fierce. Looking out past the windshield wipers Ishmael saw billions of snowflakes falling in long tangents, driven southward, the sky shrouded and furious.

Part of the problem with life is we grow old too soon and forget too fast. When I think back to all the time I spent listening to Belle & Sebastian and pondering the monastery, I want to build a time machine just to go back in time and punch myself in the face.

A book like Snow Falling on Cedars helps me remember what it meant to be young, and in love, and certain that all happiness hinged on these very things.

Egy kis háború, egy kis tiltott szerelem, egy kis sós tengerszag, belecsomagolva egy tárgyalótermi drámába - igazi sikerrecept.

Megfigyeltem amúgy, a tárgyalótermi drámákat alapvetően két csoportra oszthatjuk - az egyikben az ügyész genyó, a másikban a védő. No most itt az ügyész, aki azon van, hogy Kabuót, ezt a jóravaló japán halászembert elítéljék Carl Heine, a másik jóravaló halászember meggyilkolásáért. No most ha a regényben Kabuót is citálják az esküdtszék elé, valójában az író nem mást akar a vádlottak padjára ültetni, mint az előítéleteket. Ahogy Guterson kibontja San Piedro szigetének történetét, úgy válik egyre világosabbá, miért jogos a japán bevándorlók (köztük Kabuo) bizalmatlansága az "őshonos" amerikai lakosság (köztük az esküdtszék vagy épp az igazságszolgáltatás képviselői) iránt. A mélyben bujkáló, rendszerszintű rasszizmus, amely arra a feltételezésre épül, hogy a japánok kiismerhetetlenek és potenciális gyilkosok, már a második világháború idején is oda vezetett, hogy az egész közösségre alkalmazták a kollektív bűnösség elvét - most pedig fegyvert ad az ügyész kezébe, aki igazi aljadékként az előítéleteket meglovagolva kísérli meg akasztófára juttatni Kabuót. Nagyon sok mindenkinek kell felülemelkednie a vélt vagy valós sérelmein ahhoz, hogy az igazság ilyen körülmények között is diadalmaskodjon*.

Szerteágazó, de jól kézben tartott cselekmény és masszív atmoszféra fémjelzi a kötetet, különösen erős a helyszín, a zsebkendőnyi zord sziget, San Piedro ábrázolása, ahol magányos halászok és a földbe tíz körömmel kapaszkodó eperkertészek tengetik napjaikat. Guterson magabiztosan használja az angolszász epikus próza nyelvét, tanmeséjén nem is látszik, hogy tanmese - csak annyit érzékelünk, hogy jó regény.

* Spoiler alatt: Guterson nem naiv, meg sem próbál úgy csinálni, mintha esély lenne arra, hogy a többségi társadalom tagjai kollektíve megvilágosodjanak, és kimásszanak az idegenellenesség nevű mentális gödörből. Ennek köszönhető a keserédes zárás: Kabuót ugyan felmentik, de nem azért, mert az esküdtszék egy drámai jelenet után szembenézett saját előítéleteivel. Nem - ami azt illeti, ők (egyikük kivételével) nyugodt lelkiismerettel vesztőhelyre küldték volna szerencsétlen felebarátjukat, annak ellenére, hogy a védő, sőt még a bíró is igazi szemfelnyitogató beszédekkel próbálta jobb belátásra bírni őket. Csak bizonyos külső események (egy tépelődő, szintúgy sebeket hordozó újságíró magánnyomozása) vetettek véget a méltatlan pernek, ilyen értelemben pedig az egész egyáltalán nem tekinthető az értelem diadalának rossz beidegződéseinken, inkább csak oltári nagy mázlinak.

Imagine what WEST SIDE STORY would have been like if Maria had married Chino like a good little girl. And Tony just sat around Pop's Soda Shop feeling sorry for himself. For ten years.

David Guterson has written a careful, elegant novel that pushes all the right liberal buttons (racial prejudice, evil military men, small town nastiness) but resolutely avoids any kind of heat, sexual, political, racial, or otherwise. The "oppressed" Japanese are sentimentalized to the point of being laughably unreal. The white, small-town rubes are a flock of sheep. They're all empty-headed gossips as well as weak-minded bigots. Small towns are all alike. Big cities are full of enlightened, independent thinkers. Natch! (This story must have really wowed them on the Upper West Side of Manhattan. Hey, that's where all the book reviewers are. Do you think maybe . . . maybe Guterson planned it that way? Nah . . .)

What makes this book so offensive -- is that it isn't offensive. There's nothing in it that anyone IMPORTANT could find frightening, or objectionable. It's written beautifully, with tasteful nature descriptions on every page. It's all very careful, very reverent, very dull.

This is a beautifully written story about a particularly ugly time in our history. The characters are vividly drawn along with the geography of the setting. Extraordinary effort.

Все это время, смотря на обложку, думала, что это что-то про любовь. Когда прочитала жанры — что это полицейский детектив. Когда послушала часть книги — поняла, что это историческая проза, а я такое обожаю.

Очень зимняя тоскливая книга про упущенные возможности, которые забирает у тебя жизнь в один момент, и вся твоя дальнейшая дорога круто поворачивает в совершенно иную сторону.

Все начинается со смерти местного рыбака и подозреваемого в этом жителя острова из числа японцев, чьи родители когда-то иммигрировали в США. Эти события дадут толчок долгим и тяжелым воспоминаниям разных персонажей о войне с Японией, ксенофобии, детской наивной влюбленности, тяжелом труде на клубничных полях, соседях. И каждый раз как будто что-то идет не так, лишая людей их дома, работы и любимых.

В комментариях на Я.Книгах куча жалоб о том, что книга затянута, а я дослушала и хотела бы, что она была вдвое больше. Это не про крутые события, а про жизни, счастье и трагедии.

Из интересного — слово «снег» в разных его вариантах встречается в книге ровно 100 раз.

Listened to on audio.

An interesting tale that toggles between a courtroom drama and the historical background of the main characters: Kabuo, a Japanese man is accused of murdering Carl, a fellow salmon fisherman. There is a land dispute that provides the motive and much circumstantial evidence to support the accusations. Kabuo's wife and the town newspaper editor have history that bring additional layers to this complicated story that delves into first loves, jealousy, prejudice, the effects of war, and the quicksand that small towns can create when everyone knows everyone.

What I appreciated most was how the same basic "facts" could be seen and interpreted differently by various characters, depending on the filter they had operating as a result of their own personalities, histories, and attitudes. It brought to mind the phrase "we see things as we are, not as they are". Watching the various characters go through their mental gyrations, I was not sure until close to the end how things might turn out, which created both curiosity and a sense of dread for the characters.

There was much to appreciate about this story, including the historical elements that played out as the U.S. engaged with Japan in WWII, with the resulting internment camps and mistreatment of the Japanese Americans, even those who served in the war. It was a shameful time which is well represented here, along with the residual suspiciousness that comes with those racial/ethnic divides.

What kept this from being a five star read was some repetitiveness that became almost annoying in the courtroom testimony, and perhaps a tad too much detail at times, which slowed down the read. But, overall, I found it interesting and enjoyable.

Prevod na srpski škripi, muca i zapinje. Možda je i knjiga malo dosadna, možda joj nisam dala pravu šansu, ali posle 100 strana ne mogu više. Ostavljam.

I enjoyed this random selection from a used book store.

It's basically a Whodunnit, cleverly crafted with the back stories of the various characters interwoven throughout the narrative. An American fisherman is found dead, a local Japanese man is on trial for his murder. The trial press exposes the simmering racial tensions dating back to the war.

A Japanese girl and her American childhood best friend experience testing times as they come of age. Separated by war and race, what will become of their dreams?

This novel is slow and focuses a lot on the breath-taking scenery and descriptions. It's not exciting or thrilling but more of a period drama. There are a fair number of graphic sex scenes and some very offensive language especially in the scenes relating to the war. It's a shame as the story is worth reading.

A small west coast US island community is rocked by the murder of a fisherman in the 1950s. The investigation and trial bring up painful history for the island's Japanese-American community and others.

I loved the way it went into such depth with the different characters. I found it a bit slow in places, but the pace fitted with the setting and the characters. It's more of a psychological study than a murder mystery.

I found it a little hard to get into this book. It took a while before I cared about the characters, but once that happened it was a fantastic read. He has an excellent way with words, and the story was edge of seat riveting at one point.
I used to live in Island County and Skagit County, so that added dimension to the book (which, by the way, I've been wanting to read since it was published.)
Soemtimes, especially in the beginning, I had trouble placing characters.
If you are interested in subjects of prejudice, World War II, PTSD or a good story, you will really enjoy this book. Timely.

You know that guy who's at every party, the one who loves to hear himself talk and tells long-winded stories while the unlucky few who got caught in his gravitational pull nod politely and and start eyeing the exits?
Yeah. David Guterson is That Guy.
His book has a really intersesting subject: a few years after World War Two, a man of Japanese descent is accused of killing a white man on the small island community of San Piedro. The story follows the trial and breaks every now and then for flashbacks about various characters' pasts. Good story, but Guterson bogs it down with absolutely pointless backstories and details. I didn't need to know, for example, what six different random San Piedro residents did when the huge blizzard hit, or how the accused man's wife's mother was a mail order bride from Japan. And I think the book would have been equally enjoyable if Guterson hadn't treated his readers to a description of how the murder victim spent his last day alive screwing his wife in the shower.
Guterson also works hard to keep his story dramatic (the courtroom scenes, I might add, are mind-numbingly boring). The accused man, Miyamoto, at first denies knowledge of the murder and then changes his story towards the end of the book, and whenever a character asks Miyamoto why he didn't tell the truth from the beginning, Guterson is careful to arrange the dialogue so Miyamoto never has to actually answer that question. Similarly, when a character uncovers some Very Important Evidence towards the end of the book, he takes his sweet time delivering the evidence to the judge so Guterson can stretch his story out for thirty more pages.
By the last fifty pages of the book, I was just waiting for it to end and hoping there would be a really good twist ending that would make the whole experience better.
(by the way: there isn't one)

UPDATE: This. A thousand times this.

This book started promising, as I love atmospheric settings and beautiful writing. I got thrown off a bit when the story barely progressed due to flashbacks of each new characters entire life. It started to come together more about halfway through when it really starts to give you the context needed to understand all the racial and romantic tensions behind the trial, and I appreciated the narrative construction. However, you have to read through a good dose of racist characters, or narration where the male gaze is strong. The majority of the characters are unlikable and the ones with promise (the women) pretty much only exist for the pleasure of the male characters, or are just mother figures. The coroner comparing the size of the corpse’s reproductive parts to his own while performing the autopsy? The lawyer dwelling on his impotence while about to question the wife of the victim? The main character frequently noting how things are pressed up against Hatsue’s breasts? No thanks!