Skip to main content

Everything I Never Told You Bares All: A Book Review

I gave Everything I Never Told You by Celeste Ng four stars because it was really good. In fact, it was so good, it hurt. I don't know if I could read it again, though. I felt a lonely ache each time I read it, but I would encourage anyone to read this at least once. I didn't want to give it four stars. I wanted to give it less, because while I would devour the book in lengthy segments of time, it hurt to read it, so it took longer than usual to read. This is a testament to Ng's talent.

I loved the omniscient narrator who gave readers insight into each of the characters innermost thoughts without influencing in anyway. It hurt to read because all the characters were so silently raw and unwilling to speak when needed. There were several times that I wanted to shake any one of the characters, "Say something! Say what you mean!", but I had to remind myself they were not real. Ng made them real. She made the hurt real and while reading, I became almost like the youngest character, Hannah, joining the narrator in "watching" the family.

I would recommend the book for several reasons. For writers, this is a wonderful book for reading an exceptional omniscient narrator as well as how to build flesh and blood characters who will annoy, love, anger, feel sympathy for. As just a reader, it gives a wonderful sense of otherness. If anyone has never felt different or like an other, the novel does an amazing job of showing how a family of others still feel so alone.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

¿Y la Prieta?

My grandma, Ita, called me Prieta. She called me this because my skin is toasted brown. When I was born my mom says I was light skinned, but she knew “que iba ser morena” because the inside of my little baby thighs were already darker than the rest of me. In the sun, I turn a darker brown. I get even more Prieta. It was a term of endearment. My sister, who has a light complexion, was called guera or guerinchi. When I tell people who don’t speak Spanish what Prieta means, dark or the dark one, their eyes open wide and a small gasp escapes. I see the offense they feel for me sprinkled on their faces like the freckles I will never have. When I try to explain, the offense still shadows their eyes. That is the problem with Spanish. Wait, maybe, that is their problem with Spanish. Even when I explain, they are suspicious. Their faces ask, “Is this true?” as if I am setting them up for a joke. But how can I explain the cultural and literal meaning of a word at the same time?

Stream of Conscious Wednesday

At Village Inn, my favorite writing place. This one, is my favorite in the city. Bright orange booths with light fixtures out of Rock Hudson's Pillow Talk, and witty quotes on the wall like, "Never trust a skinny chef."  The cloudy skies stream in through tinted windows and continue to draw me away, seduce me into daydreaming about all the things I should be writing and trips I should be taking and money I need to be saving. So I can go high and low and down below the country's line I have never crossed before.  Then I look back to the screen and I think, Ita, Ita, what do I write about Ita. My thesis, a memoir, and Yeah, my stories are that interesting. There are many, but I need pictures, I need something, because right now they are floating, tiny little words on paper bouncing around outside the atmosphere of my brain.  Oh, there's an art show soon. I should go. It's starting to rain and it makes me think of dancing. Dancing Donna Summer style wi

Los Dichos

No hay mal que por bien no venga. Tanto quiere el diablo a su hijo que hasta un ojo le quiere sacar. Mejor sola que mal acompa ñ ada. Tanto pedo para cagar aguado. Lo barato sale caro. Más seguro más amarrado. Para buen entendido muy pocas palabras. Para cada roto un descocido. Hijo pepe mariquita! Para pendeja no se estudia. Limosnero con garrote. Soy como Orozco, cuando como no conozco. La zorra nunca ve su cola ni el zorrillo su fundillo. El muerto y el arrimado al los tres días huelen. Amores de lejos, amores de pendejos. Estaba haciendo chili con la cola. Me  da diarrea con gusanos. Enfermo que come y mea, y el diablo que se le crea. La esperanza es la última que muere. El flojo trabaja doble. De noche todos los gatos son pardos. Una cosa es Juan Domínguez y otra cosa es no la chingues. Es de Don Cuco, entra la bola no se supo. Primero me besa un ciego. Dime con quién andas y te diré quien eres. No porque te levantas más temprano