Dear friend, from my life I write to you in your life

Review by New York Times Review

THE BOOK OF JOAN, by Lidia Yuknavitch. (Harper Perennial, $15.99.) It's 2049, and a satellite colony has been taken over by a despot who has claimed victory over a child-warrior, Joan. The story's narrator, Christine, is determined to honor Joan by burning her story into her own skin. Our reviewer, Jeff Vander Meer, praised this "brilliant and incendiary" novel for its "maniacal invention and page-turning momentum." DEAR FRIEND, FROM MY LIFE I WRITE TO YOU IN YOUR LIFE, by Yiyun Li. (Random House, $16.) Li, an acclaimed MacArthuraward-winning novelist, charts her transformation into a writer in this series of essays. Written over a two-year period when she was critically depressed, this collection considers her relationship to English and her literary forebears, and explores two central questions: Why write? And why live? MY CAT YUGOSLAVIA, by Pajtim Statovci. Translated by David Hackston. (Vintage, $16.95.) In 1980s Yugoslavia, Emine, a young Kosovan bride, flees with her son, Bekim, to Finland. Years later, after growing up an outcast - the boy was not only a refugee, but also gay - Bekim is prodded to confront his family's history by his roommate: a talking cat, whom our reviewer, Téa Obreht, described as "a vainglorious, labile, impulsively abusive bigot." A COLONY IN A NATION, by Chris Hayes. (Norton, $15.95.) Hayes, a white journalist for MSNBC, draws on his childhood growing up in the Bronx to explore race, subjugation and power. He frames his discussion around what he sees as two "distinct regimes" in the United States: "In the Nation, you have rights," he writes. "In the Colony, you have commands." His analysis draws on the country's colonial roots to expose what he sees as a founding hypocrisy: White colonists fought for independence - and the right to subjugate others. I AM FLYING INTO MYSELF: Selected Poems, 1960-2014, by Bill Knott. Edited and with an introduction by Thomas Lux. (Farrar, Straus & Giroux, $16.) In poems that touch on estrangement and desire, Knott embraced experimentation and provocation. This posthumous collection is helped along by Lux's introduction and appraisal, including what he called "Knott's high imagination, great skills, singular music and crazy-beautiful heart." THE HOME THAT WAS OUR COUNTRY: A Memoir of Syria, by Alia Malek. (Nation Books, $16.99.) Malek, raised by Syrian-American parents, came to Damascus in 2011 to reclaim her grandmother's apartment, and began reporting in secret on the war. She interviewed citizens and documented their courage; as she restored her family's home, she was forced to confront her fears for Syria's future.

Copyright (c) The New York Times Company [August 30, 2019]

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Review by Booklist Review

In her first nonfiction book, a work of arresting revelations, MacArthur fellow Li (Kinder Than Solitude, 2014) chronicles her struggle with suicidal depression and looks back to decisive moments in her repeatedly bifurcated life. A writer of meticulous reasoning, probing sensitivity, candor, and poise, Li parses mental states with psychological and philosophical precision in a beautifully measured and structured style born of both her scientific and literary backgrounds. As she describes her hospitalizations and precarious aftermaths, she considers other before-and-after conjunctures in her life, from her early years in China, including her time in the army, to her aspirations as an immunologist, to her arrival in America, where she dismayed everyone who knew her by deciding to become a writer instead. As she describes her mind's self-destructive tendencies, she also shares profound and provocative musings on time, memory, melodrama, language, and suicide, and portrays writers who have inspired her, including Katherine Mansfield, from whom she borrowed the book's title; Stefan Zweig; and William Trevor. This is an intelligent and affecting book of fragility and strength, silence and expression.--Seaman, Donna Copyright 2017 Booklist

From Booklist, Copyright (c) American Library Association. Used with permission.

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Review by Publisher's Weekly Review

The vexed intersection between writing and living (or not living) is explored in these ruminative essays. Novelist Li (Kinder Than Solitude) explores tenuous subjects-ruptures in time, the difficulty of writing autobiographical fiction, the pleasures of melodrama-in meandering pieces that wander through personal reminiscences and literary meditations. Braided in are fragmented recollections from her youth in China, including a stint in the People's Liberation Army; her migration to America to become an immunologist, a career she abandoned to write fiction; stays in mental hospitals; travels as a literary celebrity to meet other literati; and intricate appreciations of writers, including Thomas Hardy, Elizabeth Bowen, and William Trevor. The book can be lugubrious; Li repeatedly visits the theme of suicide-including her own morbid impulses-and is given to gray, fretful melancholia ("There is an emptiness in me.... What if I become less than nothing when I get rid of the emptiness?"). Much of the text is given over to belletristic why-we-write head scratchers such as "this tireless drive to write must have something to do with what cannot be told." But the wispy philosophizing is redeemed by Li's brilliance at rendering her lived experience in novelistic scenes of limpid prose and subtly moving emotion. (Feb.) © Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved.

(c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved

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Review by Kirkus Book Review

A Chinese-American fiction writer offers an intimate memoir of "darkest despair."In her fiction, Li (Creative Writing/Univ. of California, Davis; Kinder than Solitude, 2014, etc.), winner of multiple writing awards and a MacArthur Fellowship, has created bleak worlds inhabited by estranged, psychologically damaged characters who are haunted by their pasts. The author, who grew up in Beijing under an oppressive political regime and with an emotionally volatile, demanding mother, has resisted the idea that her work is autobiographical. "I never set out to write about melancholy and loneliness and despondency," she writes. However, as she reveals in this bravely candid memoir, those emotions have beset her throughout her life, leading to a crisis during two horrifying years when she was twice hospitalized for depression and suicide attempts. Soon after Li came to the University of Iowa "as an aspiring immunologist," she decided to give up science and enroll in the university's famed graduate writing program. She was inspired, not surprisingly, by reading William Trevor, "among the most private writers," whose stories gently evoke the lives of sad, solitary characters. Li's abrupt career change included a decision to write in English, which led some to accuse her of rejecting her Chinese heritage. Others suggested that "in taking up another language one can become someone new. But erasing does not stop with a new language, and that, my friend, is my sorrow and my selfishness." "Over the years my brain has banished Chinese," she writes, in an effort to "be orphaned" from her past. Li frequently invokes writersKatherine Mansfield, Stefan Zweig, Philip Larkin, Marianne Moore, Hemingway, and Turgenevwho "reflected what I resent in myself: seclusion, self-deception, and above all the needthe needinessto find shelter from one's uncertain self in other lives." Her title comes from a notebook entry by Mansfield, which Li believes expresses her own reason for writing: to bridge the distance between her life and her reader's. A potent journey of depression that effectively testifies to unbearable pain and the consolation of literature. Copyright Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

Copyright (c) Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

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Dear Friend, from My Life I Write to You in Your Life 1. My first encounter with before and after was in one of the fashion magazines my friends told me to subscribe to when I came to America. I duly followed their advice--­ I had an anthropologist's fascination with America then. I had never seen a glossy magazine, and the print and paper quality, not to mention the trove of perfumes waiting to be unfolded, made me wonder how the economics of the magazine worked, considering I paid no more than a dollar for an issue. My favorite column was on the last page of the magazine, and it featured celebrity makeovers--­hairstyle and hair color, for instance--­with two bubbles signifying before and after. I didn't often have an opinion about the transformation, but I liked the definitiveness of that phrase, before and after, with nothing muddling the in-between. After years of living in America, I still feel a momentary elation whenever I see advertisements for weight-­loss programs, teeth-­whitening strips, hair-­loss treatments, or plastic surgery with the contrasting effects shown under before and after. The certainty in that pronouncement--­for each unfortunate or inconvenient situation, there is a solution to make it no longer be--­both attracts and perplexes me. Life can be reset, it seems to say; time can be separated. But that logic appears to me as unlikely as traveling to another place to become a different person. Altered sceneries are at best distractions, or else new settings for old habits. What one carries from one point to another, geographically or temporally, is one's self. Even the most inconsistent person is consistently himself. 2. I was leaving to teach class when an acquaintance who lived across the country in New Hampshire called my office. She had traveled to a nearby city. I talked to her for no more than two minutes before telling my husband to go find her. He spent twelve hours with her, canceled her business appointments, and saw to it that she flew back home. Two weeks later her husband called and said she had jumped out of her office on a Sunday evening. He asked me to attend her memorial service. I thought for a long time and decided not to. Our memories tell more about now than then. Doubtless the past is real. There is no shortage of evidence: photos, journals, letters, old suitcases. But we choose and discard from an abundance of evidence what suits us at the moment. There are many ways to carry the past with us: to romanticize it, to invalidate it, to furnish it with revised or entirely fictionalized memories. The present does not surrender so easily to manipulation. I don't want the present to judge the past, so I don't want to ponder my absence at her memorial service. We had come to this country around the same time. When I told her that I was going to quit science to become a writer, she seemed curious, but her husband said that it was a grave mistake. Why do you want to make your life difficult? he asked. 3. I have had a troublesome relationship with time. The past I cannot trust because it could be tainted by my memory. The future is hypothetical and should be treated with caution. The present--­what is the present but a constant test: in this muddled in-­between one struggles to understand what about oneself has to be changed, what accepted, what preserved. Unless the right actions are taken, one seems never to pass the test to reach the after. 4. After the second of two hospital stays following a difficult time, I went to a program for those whose lives have fallen apart. Often someone would say--­weeping, shaking, or dry eyed--­that he or she wished to go back in time and make everything right again. I wished, too, that life could be reset, but reset from when? From each point I could go to an earlier point: warning signs neglected, mistakes aggregated, but it was useless to do so, as I often ended up with the violent wish that I had never been born. I was quiet most of the time, until I was told I was evasive and not making progress. But my pain was my private matter, I thought; if I could understand and articulate my problems I wouldn't have been there in the first place. Do you want to share anything, I was prompted when I had little to offer. By then I felt my hope had run out. I saw the revolving door admitting new people and letting old people out into the world; similar stories were told with the same remorse and despair; the lectures were on the third repeat. What if I were stuck forever in that basement room? I broke down and could feel a collective sigh: my tears seemed to prove that finally I intended to cooperate. I had only wanted to stay invisible, but there as elsewhere invisibility is a luxury. 5. I have been asked throughout my life: What are you hiding? I don't know what I am hiding, and the more I try to deny it, the less trustworthy people find me. My mother used to comment on my stealthiness to our guests. A woman in charge of admission at the public bathhouse often confronted me, asking what I was hiding from her. Nothing, I said, and she would say she could tell from my eyes that I was lying. Reticence is a natural state. It is not hiding. People don't show themselves equally and easily to all. Reticence doesn't make one feel lonely as hiding does, yet it distances and invalidates others. 6. There are five time zones in China, but the nation uses a unified time--­Beijing time. When the hour turns, all radio stations sound six beeps, followed by a solemn announcement: "At the last beep, it is Beijing time seven o'clock sharp." This memory is reliable because it does not belong to me but to generations of Chinese people, millions of us: every hour, the beeping and the announcement were amplified through loudspeakers in every People's Commune, school, army camp, and apartment complex. But underneath this steadfastness, time is both intrusive and elusive. It does not leave us alone even in our most private moments. In every thought and feeling about life, time claims a space. When we speak of indecision, we are unwilling to let go of a present. When we speak of moving on--­what a triumphant phrase--­we are cutting off the past. And if one seeks kindness from time, it slips away tauntingly, or worse, with indifference. How many among us have said that to others or to ourselves: if only I had a bit more time . . . 7. One hides something for two reasons: either one feels protective of it or one feels ashamed of it. And it is not always the case that the two possibilities can be separated. If my relationship with time is difficult, if time is intrusive and elusive, could it be that I am only hiding myself from time? I used to write from midnight to four o'clock. I had young children then, various jobs (from working with mice to working with cadaver tissue to teaching writing), and an ambition to keep writing separate from my real life. When most people were being ferried across the night by sleep, unaware of time, unaware of weather, I felt the luxury of living on the cusp of reality. Night for those sound sleepers was a cocoon against time. For me, I wanted to believe, it was even better. Time, at night, was my possession, not the other way around. 8. A friend came to see me when I visited Beijing in 2008. We talked about her real estate investments and our old schoolmates. Half an hour after she left my parents' apartment, she called. She hadn't wanted to mention it in person, but a boy who had been close to me when we were teenagers had committed suicide, along with a lover. My first reaction was wonderment, that my friend would wait until we were out of each other's sight to tell me. My next reaction was still wonderment, as though I had always been waiting for this news. Our dead friend had had an affair, and both he and the woman had gone through difficult divorces only to be ostracized as adulterers. It'd have been better had he gone to America, my friend said. -- Michael Kingcaid Project Portfolio Manager and Book Developer Scribe Inc. www.scribenet.com main telephone: 215-336-5094 direct telephone: 267-507-1316 facsimile: 215-336-5092 7540 Windsor Drive Suite 200B, Allentown, PA 18195 Excerpted from Dear Friend, from My Life I Write to You in Your Life by Yiyun Li All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.

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