1. Yu writes a lot about mothers. A lot? What is a lot? A lot is the number of times they crop up throughout the course of a book of short stories only 173 pages in length when that number becomes:
a) noticeable
b) disproportionate to other themes in the book
c) worth, in the opinion of the reviewer, remarking upon
But, in this instance, vis-a-vis mothers, the characterization of "a lot" may be far more indicative of the reviewer's attitude towards, experience of, and relationship with her own mother than anything else.
"What's wrong" a typical mother might ask, "with there being a lot of stories about mothers? Aren't mothers important? Why not write a lot of stories about them? Why shouldn't they appear in every story? Doesn't every story begin with a mother? What would be a motherless story? Mr. Yu seems like a nice young man to me."
"The Birth of Athena is a story without a mother."
"What?"
"She was born from the head of Zeus. Popped right out of his forehead."
"Pah, what nonsense. Are you hungry? Do you want some tea? Let me cut you a little more lasagna."
(In despair). "Dionysus was born from out of his thigh.
"What was that?"
"Oh nothing"
"It was something."
"Nothing worth repeating, I swear."
Mother (frowning).
Me (thinking) Zeus was a real cunt-head. Haha. (frowning)
2. Most of the stories in this collection have inventive (some might say, "gimmicky") structures. Yu also plays not only with the structure of stories, but with the process of storytelling itself, often calling attention to it, for instance, within the story: "Look Ma, I'm writing a story." In fact, he pretty much literally says "Look Ma, I'm writing a story" in one story which is about writing a story about his mother's life, trying to put it in order before she dies. This allows him to make metafictional statements about reality (the story is called "Realism" which is the title of the book the mother has bought herself) and the function of stories—both literary and the ones we tell ourselves in structuring (i.e. making sense of) our lives. Which is also a way of saying, how we fictionalize our lives. Another story consists of various fragments from files of notes that the narrator supposedly keeps of stories unwritten. These fragments seem to be meant for an Ur-story about his mother that he can never quite get right, being a story too big for words, his self-described meager talent being insufficient to such an enormous task.
Mother: Such a nice boy.
3. There's a story about a man playing the role of a sitcom son and the relationship he has with the various sitcom mother's he's had throughout the run of the series. A lot of this story is written in film script form. A good example of both his inventive (aka gimmicky) narrative devices and his thematic "obsession" with mothers.
Mother: How about just a small square of lasagna before I put it away?
Me: We just had cake and coffee!
Mother: I thought you'd like to pick.
Me: (sigh) No, nothing really. Thanks. I'm stuffed.
Mother: Stuffed? You hardly ate anything. What, are you anoretic now, on top of everything else? Is that what you want? Well, I'm just going to wrap it up for you anyway. You can take it with you. If you don't want it now you can have it later.
Me: No please, we have so much food…(sighs, slumps down on couch, stares emptily at television
--which shows a rerun of a sitcom of late 70s/early 80s vintage, one of those ubiquitous shows of the period depicting a divorced mom, two daughters, no dad in the picture, etc.
sound of laughtrack
4. Dads are in short supply in these stories. Compared to mothers, they are under-represented. They're mainly missing. Non-factors. On the rare occasions you do see them, they're usually walking out the door, never to be seen again.
Mother: Have you heard from your father lately?
Me: Good grief. Why would I have heard from him?
Mother (shrugs): How would I know?
sits down in armchair with cup of tea.
Both Mother and Me silently stare at television. [tense silence between them]
Laughtrack. Then commercial for an all-you-can eat pasta special at Olive Garden.
5. There are also a preponderance of middle-aged men inhabiting these stories. These middle-aged men are usually wading up to their chins in mid-life crises. Women, in the form of wives, often exist in the orbits of these troubled men, suffering, largely in supportive roles, their suffering second-hand, willing but unable to help.
Mother: I'm always here for you. A mother is always there.
Me: Yeah. But not in these stories. A mother can't help at this point.
Mother: A mother can always help. Don't ever forget that.
Me: (under breath) Yeah, right.
Mother: What was that?
Me: I said, yeah, right, I know.
Mother: Are you being sarcastic.
Me: No. (rolling eyes)
Mother: Don't roll your eyes at me.
Note: When I was little, my mother used this phrase many times: "Don't roll your eyes at me." Until I was an adult, I honestly didn't know what she was talking about. I pictured someone rolling their eyes about their sockets in complete 360 circles and I knew for certain I wasn't doing any such thing: I tried it out several times just to be sure I wasn't doing it without knowing (perhaps I was retarded and/or a lunatic and rolling my eyes around like pinwheels unawares) but I only succeeded in making myself dizzy. Why was she saying that I was rolling my eyes? I was so genuinely puzzled by her assertions that she thought I was being a wise-ass and playing dumb, further infuriating her.
From this experience (and other language experiences like them)I eventually learned:
a. To be wary of the use of figures of speech; though they may be assumed to clarify a point through colorful imagery, they might just as easily do the exact opposite.
b. The danger inherent in literalness.
6. Yu likes to utilize science (quantum physics, parallel worlds, complicated mathematical equations) and popular culture (video games, sci-fi, and comics) in his fiction too. The title story of this collection is about a middle-aged man (again) who is coming to the realization that he just doesn't have what it takes, that he is never going to fulfill his lifelong dream of being a superhero. Yu treats this fantastic theme in a thoroughly realistic way, as if he were talking about an aging athlete who realizes he'll never be an NBA star or a soap-opera writer who once dreamed of winning a Nobel Prize. It makes for some funny and surprisingly poignant moments and I think it's the best story in the book. Incidentally, there is no significant mother character in this one.
Mother: Had to throw that in, didn't you?
Me: Just trying to be funny, ma.
Mother: Right. Ha ha.
7. Ultimately, what I find so horrible about being around other people is that you're subject to their interpretation. Even if you explain yourself with what you think is great precision and care, you are still at their mercy. The horror is compounded if you're an articulate well-spoken person, skilled with words; in fact, let's suppose for the sake of argument you are a writer. In that case your skill with words will more than likely far surpass that of a non-writer with whom you may be speaking. Think about it: no matter how carefully you compose your presentation, your interlocutor might misunderstand you, or, through their own dysfunctions and personal agendas, their own ineptness with words, either purposely or unconsciously redefine what you said to suit their preconceptions of you, themselves, and their world.
The horror of the situation cannot be overstated, in particular for a writer. Imagine you've just written the most beautiful, elegantly crafted poem of your life and you had to submit it to Paris Hilton as opposed to the editors of The Paris Review for consideration. The next time you see your poem she's rewritten it in her own words using the keypad of her cell phone. Now imagine her doing this with your very identity. What would you'd look like after she was done rewriting you? Shudder to think.
Remember: You are always no more than a character in someone else's story. Once you get caught in someone else's narrative, you have no control over your fate. Your goose is cooked. It's like being pulled into the current of a powerful river, being sucked into an undertow. You have no control over where you're going or where you'll wash up. Your ego is drowned.
T.S. Eliot: "Til human voices wake us and we drown."
Every social interaction is a small drowning. You lose at least half of yourself during every time you engage socially with another. No wonder I feel so exhausted after a party. No wonder I feel so diminished.
Remember: Beware of people.
They should have a fence built around them with a sign posted warning of the dangers of wading into them, especially if there is no lifeguard on duty. If necessary, the buddy-system is advisable. But make sure your buddy can swim and you both speak the same language.
Mother: So now you're telling me that by having dinner together, I'm killing you. Is that it? I'm drowning you. That's nice.
Me: No, I'm not saying that. Exactly. Um. Can we change the channel? These hilarious sitcoms are really beginning to get me down.
Mother: Go ahead. I don't want to drown you. (points to table) The remote is right in front of you.
No one moves.
Mother: Well? I thought you wanted to change the channel?
Me: Never mind. This is fine. I changed my mind instead.
Sound of laugh track. Fade to credits.
I like the part, after the director and producer and listings of the principals, where the names go rolling by so fast they're an illegible blur.
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