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I, literally, abandoned this book half-way through. I may not be an expert on good prose but I definitely recognize when I am NOT privy to such. This novel rests on the fact that it is an account of real events. A people's version of one of the "greatest-atrocities-of-the-twentieth-century." I don't intend to demean the subject matter here, but a lot of this book regurgitates, unquestioningly, a textbook understanding of the Khmer Rouge. The author blantly inserts generic socio-political backstory via her father's character and... dammit it's annoying!
Most memoirs tend to really get under my skin. It is bad enough now that so many people hold this democratic notion that everyone has a story to tell. Sure, such may be true, but most people can't tell a story.* Even worse, as is the case here, is when the author has such a compelling story that it is virtually an individual right to recount the events and a moral directive that we appreciate the text. The imperative of most memoirs of this type is a reductionist, monolithic, unreflexive projective vomit of "facts" where only the "truth" is of value.**
To be fair to this author, however, her writing is not as bad as a lot of memoirs. I'm giving her book two stars but I tend to be a harsh grader anyway. Just because I don't appreciate the book-as-written does mean that I am not engaged by horror and sorrow at what she has lived through under the Khmer Rouge.
For something more didactic regarding Cambodia circa 1975-1979, read "Sideshow" by William Shawcross.
Be careful, though, it's a little dated (yes, he refers to Cambodians as a "sensual race") and it also purports to be nonfiction. It doesn't suffer from some unblinking sense of entitlement, however. Shawcross is true journalist; an outsider to the story. He's not speaking from a point of unimpeachable privilege, he's not telling his story, but just a story and he's backing it up with research and careful analysis, as well as, managing to take out all the bullshit rhetorical devices.
* no, I cannot write either (and, yes, I am bitter).
** On this subject, I like "The Hazards of Memoir Writing" by Edward Said. Said responds to some of his critics about "erroneously" reconfiguring the past in narrative.
Most memoirs tend to really get under my skin. It is bad enough now that so many people hold this democratic notion that everyone has a story to tell. Sure, such may be true, but most people can't tell a story.* Even worse, as is the case here, is when the author has such a compelling story that it is virtually an individual right to recount the events and a moral directive that we appreciate the text. The imperative of most memoirs of this type is a reductionist, monolithic, unreflexive projective vomit of "facts" where only the "truth" is of value.**
To be fair to this author, however, her writing is not as bad as a lot of memoirs. I'm giving her book two stars but I tend to be a harsh grader anyway. Just because I don't appreciate the book-as-written does mean that I am not engaged by horror and sorrow at what she has lived through under the Khmer Rouge.
For something more didactic regarding Cambodia circa 1975-1979, read "Sideshow" by William Shawcross.
Be careful, though, it's a little dated (yes, he refers to Cambodians as a "sensual race") and it also purports to be nonfiction. It doesn't suffer from some unblinking sense of entitlement, however. Shawcross is true journalist; an outsider to the story. He's not speaking from a point of unimpeachable privilege, he's not telling his story, but just a story and he's backing it up with research and careful analysis, as well as, managing to take out all the bullshit rhetorical devices.
* no, I cannot write either (and, yes, I am bitter).
** On this subject, I like "The Hazards of Memoir Writing" by Edward Said. Said responds to some of his critics about "erroneously" reconfiguring the past in narrative.