I recommend Prozac

“Life is no vacation. If you get your education, there are things you won’t have to do.”
(said Martine – Sophie’s Mother, page 58)

“Because of you, I feel like a helpless cripple. I sometimes want to kill myself. All because of what you did to me, a child who could not say no, a child who could not defend herself. It would be easy to hate you, but I can’t because you are part of me. You are me.”
(Buki – Sophie’s friend at the group, page 203)

Dear Sophie,

I am writing you this note while sitting on the edge of my greatgrandmother’s grave, an elevated tombstone in the high mountains of Léogane, overlooking a majestic lime-colored mountain range. Suspended as I am here, far from terra firma and close to the clouds, I feel that this is the one place in the world where I truly belong. This is the place that I most wished as a home for you too, the place I had in mind when I had Tante Atie stand with you in the middle of a cemetery plot and pronounce, “Walk straight, you are in the presence of family.”
I guess I have always felt, writing about youm that I was in the presence of family, a family full of kindness as well as harshness, a family full of love as well as grief, a family deeply tooted in the past, yet struggling to confront an unpredictable future. I felt blessed to have encountered this family of yours, the Cacos, named after a bird whose wings look like flames, and named after revolutionaries who fought and died in flames. I felt blessed to have shared your secrets, your mother’s, your aunt’s, your grandmother’s secrets, mysteries deeply embedded in you, in them, much like the wiry vetiver clinging to the side of these hills.
I write this to you now, Sophie, because your secrets, like you, like me, have traveled far from this place. Your experiences in the night, your grandmother’s obsessions, your mother’s “tests” have taken on a larger meaning, and your body is now being asked to represent a larger space than your flesh. You are being asked, I have been told, to represent every girl child, every woman from this land that you and I love so much. Tired of protesting, I feel I must explain. Of course, not all Haitian mothers are like your mother. Not all Haitian daughters are tested, as you have been.
I have always taken for granted that this story which is yours, and only yours, would always be read as such. But some of the voices that come back to me, to you, to these hills, respond with a different kind of understanding than I had hoped. And so I write this to you now, Sophie, as I write it to myself, praying that the singularity of your experience be allowed to exist, along with your own peculiarities, inconsitencies, your own voice. And I write this note to you, thaking you for the journey of healing – from here and back – that you and I have been through together, with every step wishing that both our living and our dead will rest in peace.

May these words bring wings to your feet,

Edwidge Danticat
Summer 1999

When I finished reading this letter and found that it’s from Edwidge herself – as the writer, I was surprised. I don’t think it’s a common style for the writer to be ‘involve’ in her own story as herself. This reminds me to a Indonesian writer, that sometimes pop up and talk as himself to the persons in his story. So he is the part of the story. And I find it a cool way to make the reader surprised.
In this case, whether or not Sophie as well as the story is a reality of the author’s life, the letter just make the story more real and become a good explanation, conclusion, and underline the message she intended to show.

Something about Breath, Eyes, Memory didn’t connect with me. It’s not the subject matter, difficult though it is—showing the trauma some Haitian girls are subjected to, the ways that rape continues to echo through the generations of a family, and the struggles of living between two places. I’m glad when literature can make me aware of what’s happening in the world and remind me of the hardships others are enduring every day. And because I long for fair treatment of women, I’m thankful for injustice and cruelty to be exposed and, I hope, defeated.

Edwidge Danticat’s writing style, however, was puzzling to me. I like subtle, nuanced novels. But if Danticat’s characters had been any more low-key, they’d have been asleep. I didn’t feel any fire or emotion in a story that ought to have been extremely emotional. This is a big contrast to a book like When a Bulbul Sings, by Hawaa Ayoub, whose protagonist also endures hardship and cruelty against women—but in that book, I was on the edge of my seat wondering what was going to happen to her. Not so in Breath, Eyes, Memory, where by the end of the book, I didn’t feel any connection to any of the characters.

I also think there’s a way of writing about other cultures that draws me in as a reader and almost makes me forget that I’m reading a book at all. The writing style in this book, however, didn’t feel seamless to me. I was always very aware that I was reading someone writing about a culture; I didn’t lose myself in that story. (I know that doesn’t make much sense. I’m not doing well expressing myself today.)

This year I’ve read a number of books related in various ways to hyphenated identities. Some of them have held a mirror up to my own flaws that need to be mended—a good kind of challenge. Breath, Eyes, Memory didn’t do that for me, even though it also presents the hardships of liminality. I think the problem is that there’s nothing in this story that directly implicates me. I’m very sorry for what happens to these Haitian girls, but it’s not a situation that seems related to me at all, and so I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with this new knowledge. For that matter, neither do the characters in the book. Those who endure don’t have any answers even for their own lives, let alone the bigger situation. I don’t need pithy answers to huge problems, but Danticat’s perspective seemed to me extremely bleak, with very little hope.

Early in the book, Sophie tells us that “Whether something was funny or not depended on the way Tante Atie told it” (19). I may be misreading Breath, Eyes, Memory, because it’s a new cultural vista for me, but I didn’t see much here that could be understood as humor, the way Danticat told it. Near the end of the story, for example, we read:

     On the way out, I saw Buki’s balloon. It was in a tree, trapped between two high branches. It had deflated into a little ball the size of a green apple.
     We thought it had floated into the clouds, even hoped that it had traveled to Africa, but there it was slowly dying in a tree right above my head. (221)

Not very funny, but also not pointing the way to what we’re supposed to do next.

This would be a great companion book to Junot Diaz's The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao or This Is How You Lose Her in terms of exploring the cultural trauma of a Caribbean nation (in this book's case, Haiti vs its next door neighbor, Diaz' Dominican Republic). There was a lot of nice imagery and some beautiful writing in this book, and a wonderful sense of place. Danticat avoids cliches, so I was never really sure where the book was going. I liked that it avoided drama and sentimentality, but for me it landed a little to far on the side of cold detachment.

breathtaking and beautiful. a lyrical way of exploring how culture and tradition deeply influence us and how we view ourselves.

Questo è il primo romanzo scritto nel 1994 da una Danticat all’epoca appena venticinquenne, ed è sorprendentemente maturo per la giovanissima età dell’autrice.

È la storia, narrata in prima persona, di Sophie Caco e di sua madre Martine. Sophie all’inizio del romanzo è una bambina dodicenne che vive a Croix-des-Rosets, ad Haiti, con la zia Atie. Sua madre l’ha dovuta lasciare per andare a lavorare a New York quando Sophie era ancora una bambina piccola. Tanto che Sophie non la ricorda quasi per nulla, e se non fosse per la foto che Tante Atie tiene incorniciata in casa questa madre non avrebbe neppure un volto. Per Sophie la madre è Tante Atie, è a lei che scrive bigliettini d’auguri per la festa della mamma, è lei che vorrebbe la accompagnasse a scuola per partecipare alle lezioni di lettura. Così, è forte lo shock quando un giorno Martine manda a Tante Atie un biglietto aereo per la figlia: è stata troppo tempo senza di lei, e ora vuole recuperare il tempo perduto facendola andare a vivere con lei in America.

È dunque la storia straziante di una donna che è stata costretta a emigrare per mantenere la famiglia (una famiglia fatta di sole donne, perché il nonno è morto, Atie non è sposata e Sophie è senza padre). Ma è anche la storia di tradizioni antichissime come quella che prevede che le madri testino le ragazze per assicurarsi che siano ancora vergini, pratica umiliante che va avanti fino al giorno del matrimonio, e vissuta estremamente male da Sophie. Ed è anche la storia di violenze, stupri e le loro conseguenze.

È un romanzo estremamente poetico, ma anche molto violento in alcuni punti. Violento come può esserlo la realtà. È un romanzo bellissimo che si legge in un paio di sere, e che mi sento di consigliare a tutti. Una lettura intensa, nonostante la brevità.

I started reading this book four and a half hours ago, and I finished it in one sitting, with only one break to get some more tea. Danticat so successfully sketched out her characters that it felt like 12 year old Sophie was grabbing my hand and pulling me along with her.

The language of this book isn't particularly ornate - no need to bust out a dictionary here - but the author still manage to make Haiti seem so very real. In fact, the clarity of the language lent the story a fable-like quality that only made the words and messages all the more powerful.


This is a book is alternately uncomfortable and inspiring. There is some horrific violence that is actually uncomfortable to read, but it's counteracted by the sheer strength that these women show. Every chapter contains some small nugget of wisdom to apply to life.

Breathe, Eyes, Memory is a vibrant and beautiful novel about memories and inheritance, strength and insanity, mothers and daughters and the cycles we are all unconsciously a part of. Watching Sophie attempt to break free was a uniquely magical experience and one I highly recommend to everyone.

Beautifully written

This had me sobbing in the end...at work. Uncontrollable sobbing...! I loved it. Totally identified with the main character and her struggles. *tears*

Full RTC

Beautiful, moving and insightful. I’m so glad I got a copy with the author’s reflection on the work 20 years later. She provided so much insights on the work after the fact. The story touched me — misunderstood trauma passed down, complicated grief and loss, love, rage and misplaced anger that grows in silence alongside beautiful daffodils and hibiscus. Made me deeply consider the harshness and beauty passed down through generations of Caribbean women. Breath, Eyes, Memory is special. Big shout outs to Donna Bailey Nurse and What's a Black Critic to Do? for putting me on to Danticat and so many others!

As the story opens, Sophie Caco, is living with her aunt in the Haitian village of Croix-des-Rosets. Sophie’s life in the village is heavily influenced by the local women, and is filled with songs, stories, and cooking. She occasionally visits her grandmother who lives in a remote village. Sophie’s mother, whom she barely remembers, lives in New York City.

When Sophie is twelve, her mother sends for her to come to the States. Sophie’s mother experiences recurring nightmares due to a traumatic event that occurred while living in Haiti. The storyline follows Sophie’s coming-of-age and her mother’s influence, following Haitian cultural practices to ensure her daughter’s ongoing virginity. These practices have led to shameful feelings, perpetuated through multiple generations. Sophie returns to Haiti seeking answers from her female relatives.

Edwidge Danticat writes beautifully. She has an amazing ability to bring to life the sights and sounds of multicultural environments. As a warning to sensitive readers, several traumatic events (and their aftermath) are described, such as bulimia, rape, and suicide. It is not an easy or light read. It is difficult to believe this is a debut novel. I have read other books by Danticat and am always impressed by the quality of the writing.

Women go through painful stuff in so many places around the world. This story has once again proven how women will always have to endure more, sacrifice, learn more...we always have to do more than men to be considered for anything, as anything.

I am deviating but throughout the story about these four women from Haiti, I was constantly struck by the enormity of their burden as a result of society's expectations, the violations of their bodies and minds, yet they still managed to get up every day to live a 'normal' life haunted by ghosts of their past.

The book follows Sophie a young Haitian girl who joins her mother in the USA after being raised for years by her aunt. The story takes us through her life in the America but most importantly her relationship with her mother and herself as she fights to be free.

3.5 stars