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Culture clash, survival and hope in 'pachinko'.

Jean Zimmerman

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In fiction we seek a paradox, the familiar in the foreign, new realities that only this one particular author can give us. Pachinko , the sophomore novel by the gifted Korean-born Min Jin Lee, is the kind of book that can open your eyes and fill them with tears at the same time.

Pachinko, for those not in the know, is one of the national obsessions of Japan, a dizzying cross between pinball and a slot machine, wherein small metal balls drop randomly amid a maze of brass pins. There's a comic feel of Rube Goldberg to the device, but the final effect is oddly mesmerizing. The urge to play can quickly become an addiction, and of course the game is a perfect metaphor for the ricochet whims of fate. Owning pachinko parlors becomes a way for the clan depicted in the novel to climb out of poverty — but destiny cannot be manipulated so easily.

We are in Buddenbrooks territory here, tracing a family dynasty over a sprawl of seven decades, and comparing the brilliantly drawn Pachinko to Thomas Mann's classic first novel is not hyperbole. Lee bangs and buffets and pinballs her characters through life, love and sorrow, somehow making her vast, ambitious narrative seem intimate.

"History has failed us, but no matter," she writes in the book's Tolstoyan opening sentence, hinting at the mix of tragic stoicism that is to come. During the second decade of the 20th century, as Korea falls under Japanese annexation, a young cleft-palated fisherman named Hoonie marries a local girl, Yangjin, "fifteen and mild and tender as a newborn calf." The couple has a daughter, Sunja, who grows to childhood as the cosseted pet of their rooming house by the sea in Yeong-do, a tiny islet near the Korean port city of Busan.

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As a shy, vulnerable adolescent, Sunja is the prey of a formidable middle-aged gangster named Koh Hansu. With features that make him look "somewhat Japanese," and elegant Western-style fashions such as "white patent leather shoes," Hansu embeds himself deeply into the remainder of Sunja's life. He's a Godfather, but also something of a fairy godmother. Most importantly, he provides a financial buffer when the family relocates to Osaka, Japan.

Lee deftly sketches a half-familiar, half-foreign but oftentimes harsh new world of a Korean immigrant in imperialist Japan. Sunja gives birth out of wedlock to Hansu's son, her shame erased at the last minute by marriage to a patrician, good-hearted pastor. The entwined destinies of the gangster's bastard and a second child, the son of a preacher man, become an engine that drives the story forward.

Amid the nightmare of war, the people of Osaka deal with privations. "City children were sent alone to the country by train to buy an egg or a potato in exchange for a grandmother's kimono." Sunja and her beloved sister-in-law Kyunghee have set themselves up in business making the flavorful national specialty of Korea, kimchi. Pickled cabbage serves as mode of survival, rising to symbolic importance alongside the pachinko game itself, organic and homey where the other is mechanical and sterile.

The cultures, Korean and Japanese, clash. Sunja's son, Mozasu, who owns pachinko parlors, will level with his best friend over fried oysters and shishito peppers, in a passage that lies at the heart of these characters' dilemmas: "In Seoul, people like me get called Japanese bastard, and in Japan, I'm just another dirty Korean no matter how much money I make, or how nice I am."

Lee is at her best describing complex behaviors and emotions with unadorned, down-to-earth language. "Isak knew how to talk with people, to ask questions, and to hear the concerns in a person's voice; and she seemed to understand how to survive, and this was something he did not always know how to do." There are horrors in Pachinko — a lengthy prison term is marked by gruesome torture — but the core message remains ultimately one of survival and hope.

"Pachinko was a foolish game," Lee writes, "but life was not." The reader could be forgiven for thinking that the reverse might also be true. This is honest writing, fiction that looks squarely at what is, both terrible and wonderful and occasionally as bracing as a jar of Sunja's best kimchi.

Jean Zimmerman's latest novel, Savage Girl, is out now in paperback. She posts daily at Blog Cabin .

By Min Jin Lee

‘Pachinko’ by Min Jin Lee is a historical fiction that utilizes a unique plot narrative that resonates with all people in terms of family bond, struggle for survival, and the will to reclaim one’s identity in a strange world.

Article written by Victor Onuorah

Degree in Journalism from University of Nigeria, Nsukka.

Epic and compelling, ‘ Pachinko ’ by Min Jin Lee takes the reader by hand for a mixed ride filled with joy and family bond, pains and sorrow, denial and discrimination accustomed to being in a land far away from, and outside, one’s area of protection.

A Sweeping Tale of Four Generations of a Korean Family

Min Jin Lee’s masterpiece ‘ Pachinko’ follows the story of a poor Korean family down to its fourth generation in what is a mixed ride of love, loss, and struggle to find oneself in a stranger’s land.

Sunja becomes the all-important central character connecting all four generations of a Korean family. She is the beautiful daughter of Hoonie, a man born disabled, who, unlike her three senior siblings, survives and grows into a strong woman and later the matriarch of the Baek family.

She has a tough start to life as Hoonie her father passes away when she turns 13, and by 17 mistakenly becomes pregnant for Koh Hansu, the handsome and rich fish dealer who’s also a dangerous gang member of the ‘Yakuza’. Hansu rejects to marry her making her life a disgrace and a living hell.

Sunja rises through the disappointment to raise her children Noa and Mozasu until they become responsible people in a (foreign) Japanese society that treats non-natives with biases and discrimination. Min Jin Lee uses her experience as an immigrant to tell such a relatable and emotional story in ‘ Pachinko.’

A portrayal of True Family Values, Love, and Survival

For the most part, Min Jin Lee’s ‘ Pachinko ’ is a novel that beautifully exhibits a tremendous amount of true family love, loss, and the gumption for survival that it portrays in a four generational tale of a Korean family.

The reader sees These epic combinations come to play from the start of ‘ Pachinko ’ with Hoonie’s aging parents who are forced to shower their only son, Hoonie – born with disabilities, with love and affection, survival values, and ethics – just the right quantities that he needs to take care of himself is a cruel world for when they are no longer there to protect and provide for him.

Hoonie, despite his disabilities (as he was born with two disorders in cleft palate and clubbed foot), does well to transfer these survivalist values, love, and affection to his miracle child, Sunja – who also transmits the same to her children and grandchildren.

An Emotionally Aggravating Loss to Generational Characters

When it comes to deaths and losses one finds the reader’s emotion is being aggravated on several accounts – thanks to the many instances of emotional deaths of characters each page is made to grapple with.

From Hoonie’s two brothers dying from illness to his aging parents passing away three years after he marries Hoonie himself. Sunja’s three senior siblings down to Baek Isak, Hana, and Yumi die a poetic death so that her son lives, and then there is Noa’s painfully unexpected suicide hitting us just right when he was larger than life and had more reasons to live for.

An Insight Into The History of ‘ Zainichi ’ Koreans

At best, ‘ Pachinko ’ is one of the few books that give the readership a short, yet complete insight into the history of the start of the ‘ Zainichi ’ race that still exists today in Japan.

‘ Zainichi ’, as a Japanese word, roughly translates to mean a new foreigner, and is designated by Japan to non-citizens to remind them that they will never become one of them. They are then met with systemic discrimination, ostracization, and dehumanization.

The reader learns from the book ‘ Pachinko ’ that the history of ‘ Zainichi ’ is traced back to around 1910 when Korea was annexed by Japan.

How much of a good read is Min Jin Lee’s ‘ Pachinko ’?

Min Jin Lee’s ‘ Pachinko ’ is without a doubt a good read and this has been proven by the number of high-profile reviews it’s gotten from top publications and personalities, such as Barack Obama.

How successful was ‘ Pachinko ’ post-publication?

Upon its release, ‘ Pachinko ’ immediately caught the eyes of the literary committee because of its historically insightful storytelling of Asian ethnicity. The book also was runner-up for the 2017’s National Book Award.

Is ‘ Pachinko ’ based on a true historical account?

Min Jin Lee included research for the final draft of ‘ Pachinko ’ by interviewing real-life Koreans who lived in Japan to get their experience and thoughts, however, this doesn’t make the book a true-life account and so is still considered a fiction.

Pachinko Review

Book Title: Pachinko

Book Description: Min Jin Lee's 'Pachinko' is an epic tale of a Korean family's endurance through colonialism, earthquakes, and WWII.

Book Author: Min Jin Lee

Book Edition: First Edition

Book Format: Hardcover

Publisher - Organization: Grand Central Publishing

Date published: February 7, 2017

ISBN: 978-1-4555-6393-7

Number Of Pages: 504

'Pachinko' Review: A Multigenerational Epic on the Racial Feud between Korea and Japan.

‘ Pachinko ‘ by Min Jin Lee is a sweeping four-generational epic based on the survival struggles of a poor Korean family in the midst of social and economic hardship brought upon by colonialism, earthquake, and World War II. The thrills of the story are neverending as it is a joy to the reader. It’s revealing and proves itself an abridged version of an interesting, yet untold history shared by Korea and Japan. With ‘ Pachinko ‘, there are so many life lessons to learn, and some of them are about value for family, others are on survival strategies and approaches to fitting into a strange, far away land outside of the home. The reader doesn’t have to understand the Korean language or be Asian to harvest from the wealth of interesting historical information portrayed in the book by Min Jin Lee.

• An abridged history of the racial feud between Korea and Japan 
• Teaches vital life lessons on survival strategies and family values 
• Easily readable, as stories flow into each other with seamless transitions
• Story is slightly one-sided, leaving out the Japanese accounts
• Too many less significant characters 
• Enormous inclusion of ethnic prejudices and ostracization

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About Victor Onuorah

Victor is as much a prolific writer as he is an avid reader. With a degree in Journalism, he goes around scouring literary storehouses and archives; picking up, dusting the dirt off, and leaving clean even the most crooked pieces of literature all with the skill of analysis.

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Awards & Accolades

Our Verdict

Kirkus Reviews' Best Books Of 2017

National Book Award Finalist

by Min Jin Lee ‧ RELEASE DATE: Feb. 7, 2017

An old-fashioned epic whose simple, captivating storytelling delivers both wisdom and truth.

An absorbing saga of 20th-century Korean experience, seen through the fate of four generations.

Lee ( Free Food for Millionaires , 2007) built her debut novel around families of Korean-Americans living in New York. In her second novel, she traces the Korean diaspora back to the time of Japan’s annexation of Korea in 1910. “History has failed us,” she writes in the opening line of the current epic, “but no matter.” She begins her tale in a village in Busan with an aging fisherman and his wife whose son is born with a cleft palate and a twisted foot. Nonetheless, he is matched with a fine wife, and the two of them run the boardinghouse he inherits from his parents. After many losses, the couple cherishes their smart, hardworking daughter, Sunja. When Sunja gets pregnant after a dalliance with a persistent, wealthy married man, one of their boarders—a sickly but handsome and deeply kind pastor—offers to marry her and take her away with him to Japan. There, she meets his brother and sister-in-law, a woman lovely in face and spirit, full of entrepreneurial ambition that she and Sunja will realize together as they support the family with kimchi and candy operations through war and hard times. Sunja’s first son becomes a brilliant scholar; her second ends up making a fortune running parlors for pachinko, a pinball-like game played for money. Meanwhile, her first son’s real father, the married rich guy, is never far from the scene, a source of both invaluable help and heartbreaking woe. As the destinies of Sunja’s children and grandchildren unfold, love, luck, and talent combine with cruelty and random misfortune in a deeply compelling story, with the troubles of ethnic Koreans living in Japan never far from view.

Pub Date: Feb. 7, 2017

ISBN: 978-1-4555-6393-7

Page Count: 496

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Review Posted Online: Sept. 25, 2016

Kirkus Reviews Issue: Oct. 15, 2016

LITERARY FICTION

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BOOK TO SCREEN

HOUSE OF LEAVES

by Mark Z. Danielewski ‧ RELEASE DATE: March 6, 2000

The story's very ambiguity steadily feeds its mysteriousness and power, and Danielewski's mastery of postmodernist and...

An amazingly intricate and ambitious first novel - ten years in the making - that puts an engrossing new spin on the traditional haunted-house tale.

Texts within texts, preceded by intriguing introductory material and followed by 150 pages of appendices and related "documents" and photographs, tell the story of a mysterious old house in a Virginia suburb inhabited by esteemed photographer-filmmaker Will Navidson, his companion Karen Green (an ex-fashion model), and their young children Daisy and Chad.  The record of their experiences therein is preserved in Will's film The Davidson Record - which is the subject of an unpublished manuscript left behind by a (possibly insane) old man, Frank Zampano - which falls into the possession of Johnny Truant, a drifter who has survived an abusive childhood and the perverse possessiveness of his mad mother (who is institutionalized).  As Johnny reads Zampano's manuscript, he adds his own (autobiographical) annotations to the scholarly ones that already adorn and clutter the text (a trick perhaps influenced by David Foster Wallace's Infinite Jest ) - and begins experiencing panic attacks and episodes of disorientation that echo with ominous precision the content of Davidson's film (their house's interior proves, "impossibly," to be larger than its exterior; previously unnoticed doors and corridors extend inward inexplicably, and swallow up or traumatize all who dare to "explore" their recesses).  Danielewski skillfully manipulates the reader's expectations and fears, employing ingeniously skewed typography, and throwing out hints that the house's apparent malevolence may be related to the history of the Jamestown colony, or to Davidson's Pulitzer Prize-winning photograph of a dying Vietnamese child stalked by a waiting vulture.  Or, as "some critics [have suggested,] the house's mutations reflect the psychology of anyone who enters it."

Pub Date: March 6, 2000

ISBN: 0-375-70376-4

Page Count: 704

Publisher: Pantheon

Review Posted Online: May 19, 2010

Kirkus Reviews Issue: Feb. 1, 2000

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by Mark Z. Danielewski

THE SECRET HISTORY

by Donna Tartt ‧ RELEASE DATE: Sept. 16, 1992

The Brat Pack meets The Bacchae in this precious, way-too-long, and utterly unsuspenseful town-and-gown murder tale. A bunch of ever-so-mandarin college kids in a small Vermont school are the eager epigones of an aloof classics professor, and in their exclusivity and snobbishness and eagerness to please their teacher, they are moved to try to enact Dionysian frenzies in the woods. During the only one that actually comes off, a local farmer happens upon them—and they kill him. But the death isn't ruled a murder—and might never have been if one of the gang—a cadging sybarite named Bunny Corcoran—hadn't shown signs of cracking under the secret's weight. And so he too is dispatched. The narrator, a blank-slate Californian named Richard Pepen chronicles the coverup. But if you're thinking remorse-drama, conscience masque, or even semi-trashy who'll-break-first? page-turner, forget it: This is a straight gee-whiz, first-to-have-ever-noticed college novel—"Hampden College, as a body, was always strangely prone to hysteria. Whether from isolation, malice, or simple boredom, people there were far more credulous and excitable than educated people are generally thought to be, and this hermetic, overheated atmosphere made it a thriving black petri dish of melodrama and distortion." First-novelist Tartt goes muzzy when she has to describe human confrontations (the murder, or sex, or even the ping-ponging of fear), and is much more comfortable in transcribing aimless dorm-room paranoia or the TV shows that the malefactors anesthetize themselves with as fate ticks down. By telegraphing the murders, Tartt wants us to be continually horrified at these kids—while inviting us to semi-enjoy their manneristic fetishes and refined tastes. This ersatz-Fitzgerald mix of moralizing and mirror-looking (Jay McInerney shook and poured the shaker first) is very 80's—and in Tartt's strenuous version already seems dated, formulaic. Les Nerds du Mal—and about as deep (if not nearly as involving) as a TV movie.

Pub Date: Sept. 16, 1992

ISBN: 1400031702

Page Count: 592

Publisher: Knopf

Kirkus Reviews Issue: July 1, 1992

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by Donna Tartt

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Pachinko review: a masterpiece of empathy, integrity and family loyalty

Min jin lee tells an endearing tale of hardship and inhumanity suffered by koreans.

Min Jin Lee: a writer in complete control of her characters and her story and with an intense awareness of the importance of her heritage.

Earlier this year, I wrote about Yaa Gyasi's debut novel Homegoing in these pages and praised the author's use of time and generational discord to tell a story that combined politics, history and gender with page-turning appeal. The same compliment could be offered to Min Jin Lee, whose novel Pachinko was one of the most popular choices among writers offering their summer reading selections to The Irish Times .

Pachinko tells the story of Korean immigrants living in Japan between 1910 and today, a family saga that explores the effects of poverty, abuse, war, suicide, and the accumulation of wealth on multiple generations. When the novel opens, we are introduced to Hoonie, “born with a cleft palate and a twisted foot”, who enters into an arranged marriage with Yangjin and despite their age difference – he is 28, she is 15 – a mutual respect and affection builds between them, not least because of their shared love for daughter Sunja.

It is Sunja who will prove the most important character in the novel. As a teenager, she is seduced by a yakuza, Koh Hansu, leaving her pregnant and unmarried, but when a sympathetic young missionary asks for her hand, it seems her disgrace will be avoided.

One of the most endearing elements of Pachinko is how honourable most of the characters are. Husbands love their wives, children respect their parents. Even Koh Hansu, who has played fast and loose with the affections of a young girl, spends decades trying to help Sunja, and although she is dismissive of him in later life, their relationship remains one of the most intriguing in the book.

Impoverished circumstances

But for all the love scattered across the pages, there is hatred too. The monstrous degrees of hardship, disrespect and inhumanity suffered by the Koreans makes for painful reading. They live in impoverished circumstances, are paid less than their Japanese counterparts, are spoken to as if they were dogs and, in one powerful scene, are forced to register time and again as strangers in a land in which many of them have in fact been born. Lee writes of this maltreatment with a stoicism that reflects the fortitude of her characters. Surviving is what matters to them, not human rights.

As the generations continue, we are introduced to Sunja’s sons, Noa, studious and intellectual, and Mozasu, passionate but disinterested in education. The choices both boys make in their lives stand in stark contrast to each other but they pursue their goals with equal conviction, albeit with markedly different results. No spoilers, but suffice to say that as the boys’ lives diverge they arrive at opposing fates. Ultimately, the importance of family honour proves so strong that revelations from the past lead to the most heart-breaking tragedy.

Pachinko itself is a Japanese version of pinball and while pachinko parlours become the family business later in the novel, it also stands as a metaphor for the lives they lead. In a game of pinball, the initial strike of the ball against the flipper determines how the game will play out. For Sunja and her descendants, it is what happens at birth that determines their fate. Over the years they may bounce off the sides of the machine, ricocheting against the bumpers, kickers and slingshots, but there is a sense that fate has decided how their lives will develop from the moment the plunger hits the ball.

Generational sweep

While Pachinko is only Min Jin Lee's second novel – her first, Free Food for Millionaires , will be reissued later this summer – it is the work of a writer in complete control of her characters and her story and with an intense awareness of the importance of her heritage. In its generational sweep, it recalls John Galsworthy's The Forsyth Saga , replicating some of that classic novel's focus on status, money, infidelity and cruelty as it explores the effect of parental decisions on children, and the children of children. As Faulkner put it, "the past isn't dead. It isn't even past."

This is a long book but is told with such flair and linguistic dexterity that I found myself unable to put it down. Every year, there are a few standout novels that survive long past the hype has died down and the hyperbolic compliments from friends scattered across the dust jacket have been forgotten. Pachinko , a masterpiece of empathy, integrity and familial loyalty, will be one of those novels.

John Boyne's latest novel is The Heart's Invisible Furies (Doubleday)

John Boyne, a contributor to The Irish Times, is a novelist and critic

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Culture | TV

Pachinko review: An epic, unforgettable story of a family and a people

You shouldn’t judge a book by its cover, and you shoudn’t judge a TV show by its opening credits. But the title sequence for Pachinko — in which its multi-generational cast dance joyously, all flailing limbs and sliding feet, to the rollicking Let’s Live For Today by The Grass Roots, beneath the brilliant lights of a pachinko arcade — is so good that it could only introduce something spectacular.

It proves to be the case, and emphatically so. An eight-part adaptation of the internationally best-selling novel of the same name by Korean -American author Min Jin Lee, this Apple TV + show is, like the 490-page book, epic in its scale — and enrapturing in its execution. It traces the fate of a Korean family across more than 70 years of the 20th century, flitting between timelines, traversing multiple countries, speaking Korean, Japanese and English, and employing various actors to play the same characters at different ages. In less delicate hands, it would be unwieldy; here, though, it emerges as one sublime portrait of both a family and a people.

Anyone who has read the book will notice that large swathes of its narrative are missing in the show — certain backstories and futures are hinted at rather than divulged, and some plot points have been remoulded — but never do these intricately woven characters feel anything less than whole. It all hinges on Sunja, born in the 1910s, during the early years of the Japanese occupation in Korea, to a cleft-lipped father who is shunned by society, but vows to protect her from “the ugliness of the world”.

He succeeds for a time, but his idealistic love can’t protect Sunja from witnessing the brutal treatment of her fellow Koreans at the hands of their Japanese colonisers — or, as she grows up, experiencing that racism herself. Poverty follows her for some time, too, first in Korea with her widowed mother, who runs a rural boarding house, and later as an immigrant in a claustrophobic, mud-splattered enclave of Osaka.

Pachinko is often subtle in its depictions of racism, like with the arc of Sunja’s grandson, Solomon; born in Japan and university-educated in America, now, in the late Eighties, he’s a high-flyer at a New York bank who still has to brush off casual digs about his Korean heritage. At other times, that hate manifests in sheer violence. One scene, in the penultimate episode, is particularly haunting.

But so often, Pachinko is beautiful. Sweeping shots of rural Korea from Sunja’s childhood are like a warm reverie; the glittering pachinko machines, a pinball-ish game in an arcade operated by Sunja’s wealthy son, glow with a neon enchantment; even the slithering creatures on sale at the seafood market are somehow imbued with their own tentacled charm.

The acting, too, is bewitching. All three iterations of Sunja — as a child (Jeon Yu-na), a young woman (Kim Min-ha), and a grandmother (Youn Yuh-jung) — feel piercingly authentic. Jeon is a star in the making, remarkably nuanced for her age. Kim ripples with a stoic determination. And Youn, introduced to international viewers with her Oscar-winning turn in Minari back in 2020, shows again just what kind of an actor western audiences had been missing out on in the decades prior (especially us “snobbish” British audiences, as called out in Youn’s Bafta acceptance speech that same year). She stitches together all the strands of Sunja’s story into one tapestry of a woman.

Cultural touchstones are lovingly handled. Steaming bowls of white rice, once a prohibited luxury for Japanese-ruled Koreans but now an everyday staple, are presented here like shining treasure. Barrels of Sunja’s home-made kimchi are a symbol of salvation amid hardship. It all helps to tell a grander story of displacement, belonging, sacrifice and success for the millions of Koreans who left their homeland for Japan during the occupation, and the hundreds of thousands who stayed there after the Second World War (many of whom became stateless when Korea split into two).

The theme of memory, and how the things you can’t forget will inevitably shape your future, is a key one in Pachinko. After watching these eight episodes, there will be a lot that you won’t be able to forget either.

March 25, Apple TV+

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Thoughts on Papyrus

Exploration of Literature, Cultures & Knowledge

Review: Pachinko by Min Jin Lee

“The Japanese could think what they wanted about them, but none of it would matter if they survived and succeeded” [Min Jin Lee, 2017: 117]. 

Min Jin Lee’s Pachinko had a long road to publication, almost thirty years, being first conceived as an idea by the author in 1989. The story spans four generations, and tells of Korean immigrants who come to Japan to seek a better life in 1933. This family then faces all manner of hardship, including poverty and discrimination, in the new country. For example, we follow Sunja, a daughter of a cleft-lipped, club-footed man, who takes her chance to marry a missionary, Isak, and goes to Japan to give birth there to her son, whose father, Hansu, remains a powerful man in Korea. In Japan, she meets her brother-in-law and his wife, and their life to survive begins. This emotional novel is a real page-turner and this is so not only because of its fascinating story set in a particularly turbulent time period. Pachinko is sustained by its vivid characters whose resilience in times of hardship is somehow both admirable and chilling. The characters’ determination to survive and succeed in conditions which are designed to make them fail will not leave the reader uninvolved. 

In Pachinko , the story starts in the 1910s and it ends in 1989, meaning that the characters in the novel experience the effects of the Japanese colonisation efforts, the Second World War and the post-war recovery. We follow different characters throughout the novel, first Sunja’s parents in Korea, then Sunja and her husband Isak in Japan, then Sunja’s children – Noa and Mozasu, and then Mozasu’s son. The plot also moves forward rather rapidly and jumps forward in time frequently. This does not mean that the story is any less interesting, however. It is absorbing right to the end, or almost right to the very end. Min Jin Lee makes historical and cultural observations throughout, and, by following the lives of the characters, we really get to know about the situation in Japan and the day-to-day hardships the characters experience as they try to adjust to their new life in a foreign country. Guilt, doubt and hope all mingle in the story, and religions and different classes clash. In the context of much deprivation, including discrimination, persecution and poverty, morality has the capability to be bent, and Min Jin Lee bravely explores this topic as well. Besides, the relationship between parents and children is one of the most prominent and fascinating themes. In Pachinko , parents want the very best for their children, and, to that aim, will not mind sacrificing a lot. It is also clear how much hope parents put in their children and how close Korean immediate families really are. The narrative goes “ Back home, having two healthy and good sons was tantamount to having vast riches. She had no home, no money, but she had Noa and Mozasu ” [Min Jin Lee, 2017: 209].

Even though it is not easy to keep up with all the characters in the novel (hence, feel sympathy for all of them), one of the most admirable features of the book is that different characters’ perceptions count. There is no one main character in this novel, and we are shown how different people cope with threatening circumstances and how they try to survive in a country which treats them as second-class citizens. For example, Noa, Sunja’s son, is very sensitive and has a belief that if he will be a perfect student who gets high marks and who is determined to persevere and work hard, then the society of Japan accepts him for who he is, recognising his humanity. His brother Mozasu, on the other hand, is not so sensitive, and does not mind to be employed in unprestigious positions as long as this is what he wants to do and he has a roof over his head. The point of the author is also that perspectives on national identity/discriminatory condition change as new generations in a family emerge. Pachinko is eye-opening in this respect because a person’s integration or belonging to a country in the novel also depends on their background, language-acquisition, views on their condition, their own temperament and desires, as well as on their ability to cope.

Having said that, Min Jin Lee is also clear in her thesis – nothing is going to change for Koreans in Japan, echoing the destiny of any foreigner settled in Japan, one of the most “closed” countries in the world, that remains somewhat averse to the concept of full integration of foreigners in terms of giving them full societal acceptance as “being one of us”. This is echoed in the title of the book. A pachinko machine is used to play a game of chance, but, as one of the characters note in the novel, the game may be fixed in advance in such a way that it is very unlikely or impossible that you will ever win. The same could be said about the characters in the novel – they may try to receive acceptance of the country they immigrated to and hope for the best, but, because unspoken rules have already been set, they will never win in this “game”. Only Hansu, a yakuza, seems to feel at home and successful in Japan despite being Korean, but he also clearly achieved this status through criminality.

The aim of the author to demonstrate the plight of those whom history may have forgotten, i.e., Korean immigrants to Japan, is admirable and, as readers, we truly sense this conviction to show the injustice in Min Jin Lee’s story. There are passages in the novel such as “ [Isak] felt an overwhelming sense of brokenness in the people ” [Min Jin Lee, 2017: 63], and “ every Korean must be on his best behaviour over there [Japan]. They think so little of us already. You cannot give them any room to think worse of us” [Min Jin Lee, 2017: 94]. Heartstrings will be pulled when reading this novel and it is impossible not to sympathise with the Koreans caught in a country which is so hostile to them, even to a person whose grandparents were born in Japan. However, there is also this feeling throughout the novel that the author strikes home this message of “hardship” too many times, as though her readers will not quite grasp the full importance of remembering those people or appreciate the horror of their situation back then to the full extent. Sometimes, there is a feeling that the narrative is just there to underscore the belief of the author of the appalling discrimination and treatment of Koreans in Japan, and that also means that the novel gets a little depressing and, definitely, a tad repetitive in its message.

Moreover, sexually-explicit passages are included in the story for no other reason than simply being there, and the story introduces too many new characters, with their own stories and life events, for no apparent clear purpose. For example, Pachinko jumps from one family to another without hesitation, describing in-depth Noa and Mozasu’s girlfriends and their family circumstances, something which becomes overbearing and needless since the main characters are hardly these brothers’ spouses or love interests. Realism and idealism also clash rather oddly in this novel. It may be all realistically traumatic when Tess of the D’Ubervilles [1891]-inspired heroine Sunja starts selling kimchi on streets out of desperation, but then we also have this idealistic turn when Rhett Butler-inspired character Hansu, who only knows how to serve himself (through crime), comes as an almost gallant protector of the heroine and tries to “rescue” her through the decades.

Pachinko is an easy-to-read, highly emotive novel with some great insight into the history of Japanese-Korean relations and the characters, even though it also loses its momentum towards the end and sometimes feels like a presentation to convey the message of the author on the plight of Koreans, rather than a stand-alone novel to be enjoyed in its own right.

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7 thoughts on “ review: pachinko by min jin lee ”.

Tu blog me ha parecido muy interesante, Diana. Volveré a visitarlo para leer atentamente los fantásticos artículos que publicas en él. Saludos! 🙂

Like Liked by 1 person

Muchas gracias! También me gusta tu blog.

I’ve finished Pachinko very recently and I loved it. 🙂

I am glad! It is a very good book especially in a way it introduces and portrays another culture and that country’s history through its characters 🙂

Yeah, though I work for a Korean company, it’s still nice reading about them and their culture. 🙂

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By Min Jin Lee

Book review, full book summary and synopsis for Pachinko by Min Jin Lee, a story of a Korean family in Japan across generations.

With the backdrop of the Japanese occupation of Korea, Pachinko follows the lives of a family living in Korea that re-establishes itself in Japan. The narrative progresses through the years and the events of WWII, and we see the family's struggles and the sacrifices made in the name of survival. Even as the story near modern day, its characters are never quite free of their history and the events of the past.

Pachinko is a story of a family told across generations, whose lives are shaped by the events and attitudes of the world around them. It's a moving and intimate story that deals in universal themes and struggles.

(The Full Plot Summary is also available, below)

Full Plot Summary

Book I introduces an old fisherman and his wife who turn their small home in Yeongdo, Korea into a boarding house. Their only surviving son, Hoonie, is a cripple who marries a nice but impoverished girl, Yangjin. The young couple has a daughter, Sunja. Hoonie dies of tuberculosis when Sunja is 13. Afterwards, Yangjin keeps running the boarding house by herself for income. When Sunja is 16, she meets a fish salesman, Koh Hansu, who seduces her, and Sunja gets pregnant. Hansu is married with children and cannot marry her. He offers to take care of Sunja financially, but she wants nothing to do with him.

Meanwhile, a religious man comes to stay at the boarding house, Baek Isak, who has tuberculosis, and they nurse him back to health. When he is better, he asks Sunja to marry him after hearing about her unfortunate situation. Sunja and Isak move to Osaka, Japan, to live with Isak's brother and sister-in-law, Yoseb and Kyunghee. Isak becomes the assistant pastor at a church. One day, some debt collectors come demanding payment on a debt that Yoseb incurred when paying for the costs for Isak and Sunja to come to Osaka. Sunja sells a watch Hansu had given her to pay off the debt. Right after, her baby, Noa, is born.

In Book II , young Noa now how has a baby brother, Mozasu. However, Isak gets arrested for religious activities. Afterwards, Sunja starts selling kimchi to help make ends meet. Soon, Kim Changho, a restaurateur, offers to employ both Sunja and Kyunghee to make kimchi for his restaurants, for a generous salary. They accept. When Noa is 8, Isak is finally released from prison, weak and sick, but he dies soon after.

One day, Hansu shows up saying that Osaka will soon be bombed by the Americans and that Sunja needs to leave. He's been keeping tabs on her, and Kim works for him which is why they were offered the kimchi job. He brings the family to a farm where they will be safe, though Yoseb goes to Nagasaki for a new job. Hansu brings Yangjin to the farm as well. Yoseb is badly injured when Nagasaki is bombed.

After the war, the family moves back to Osaka and rebuilds their house larger with the money the farmer gave them. Kim also stays with them and continues to work for Hansu, who now is a gangster running a "protection" racket. As Noa grows up, he is studious and well behaved, while Mozasu doesn't like school and gets into trouble. Mozasu befriends a Japanese outcast, Haruki, whose mother is a seamstress. To keep him out of trouble, a neighbor who owns a pachinko parlor, Goro, hires Mozasu to work for him. Meanwhile, Noa gets into the prestigious Waseda University in Tokyo.

Against Yoseb's advice (he knows Hansu is a bad man), Sunja asks Hansu for the money for Noa's tuition, which Hansu readily pays in addition to room, board and an allowance. Noa meets a pretty girl at school, Akiko, and they date for a long time. (Meanwhile, Mozasu marries Yumi, a girl who works for Haruki's mother.) When Noa breaks up with Akiko, she angrily tells Noa it's obvious Hansu is his real father and that Hansu is clearly a Yakuza gangster which is how he affords all these things. Noa confronts Sunja, and is furious when she confirms it even though he wasn't a gangster when they met. Noa quits school and leaves to start a new life, not wanting to be found.

In Book III , Noa now works as an accountant at a pachinko parlor in Nagano, and everyone he knows thinks he's Japanese. He gets married and has kids. When Hansu finally tracks him down, Sunja goes to see him and Noa kills himself. Meanwhile, Haruki marries one of his mother's assistants, Ayume, although he is gay. One day, she sees him engaged in a sex act with a young man, but never says anything.

Mozasu owns his own pachinko parlor now and has a son, Solomon, but Yumi soon dies in a car accident. Hansu shows up at the funeral, but he still hasn't located Noa yet. Solomon is a cheerful boy who attends an expensive international school. Mozasu dates a woman who was previously divorced and has three kids. Her daughter, Hana, gets pregnant and stays with her mother for a while. Hana is 17, but she seduces 14-year-old Solomon and convinces him to give her money. She then runs away, leaving Solomon heartbroken. (She ends up becoming a sex worker and dying of AIDs.)

Solomon goes off to Columbia University and works at a bank in Japan afterwards. His Korean American girlfriend comes with him, but is unhappy there. When there's a complication at work, Solomon is fired. His girlfriend wants to move back, but Solomon realizes he is Japanese even if Japan sees Koreans as foreigners. Solomon decides to stay and join his father in the pachinko business, even if it is un-prestigious compared to banking. The book ends with Sunja visiting Isak's grave and learning that Noa visited the grave all the time, even while he was living in Nagano. Sunja buries a photo of Noa in the dirt at the gravesite.

For more detail, see the full Section-by-Section Summary .

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Book Review

Pachinko by Min Jin Lee has been on my reading list and sitting on my bookself, looking lovely and forlorn, for some time.

With the wildfires, lightning storms and heat wave in Northern California, I decided to head to the coast for a spell and found some time to read it while chilling out in Monterey and listened to some of it via audiobook in the car while doing a little sightseeing. After reading it, I wish I had done so earlier, since it’s as good as the reviews say.

Pachinko is an understated but powerful story that is grounded in its historical context. The book starts with the Japanese invasion of Korea, and it highlights the difficulty of the lives of peasants and the discrimination Koreans faced at the hands of the Japanese during their occupation of Korea. As it proceeds, the effects and after-effects of WWII are reflected in the everyday lives of this Korean family living in Japan.

In Pachinko, the characters grapple with difficult decisions where there are often no good options, where the best option puts their integrity at risk or where any of the available options put their values to the test. Theirs is a family struggling to survive, comprised of individuals who are struggling to survive and whose lives are the result of many small decisions that are made according to the exigencies of the situation. And generations later, their children are still the product of those decisions that were made many years ago.

The meaning behind the title of the book is an apt, though perhaps not very subtle, metaphor. Min Jin Lee compares life to a game of pachinko, an gambling game where the player drops a ball down rows of pins to see where it ends up, which determines the payout. There’s a little choice in how you maneuver and semblance of personal agency involved, but mostly it’s a lot of luck and you never really know how the pins have been adjusted or tweaked to know how things will play out. At one point, Mozasu, one of the characters, tells his friend that “life’s going to keep pushing you around, but you have to keep playing.”

I don’t know that I entirely agree with that was a view on life, but it’s hard to argue that there’s not at least a pachinko-esque aspect to many parts of life.

One of the strongest aspects of Pachinko is how deeply rooted it is to the historical context of that time. Many will recognize how the treatment of Koreans by the Japanese is reminiscent of the treatment of racial minorities by Western countries. Even the Koreans born in Japan are treated like criminals and risk deportation. The book also highlights the precarious position of women during those years. It also examines the high price that must be paid and the sacrifices that are made by parents to improve the lives of their children.

Throughout Pachinko, there are so many parallels to Western history that can be seen, it makes me wonder why there isn’t a greater push to teach this type of history in schools.

Even as the racial slurs against Koreans decrease, the policies in place have kept the Koreans poor and that poverty is thrown around as an insult against them, not unlike the treatment of black people in America. The Koreans that do manage to become wealthy do so through less respected venues like running pachinko parlors, and then are marginalized socially because of their association with those trades. It’s not unlike the treatment of Jewish people who entered finance due to their exclusion from other profitable trades, which morphed over time to a stereotype about their people.

Some Criticisms

As much as I really enjoyed the book, I think there’s a few storylines that seemed incomplete or not really explored. Haruki being gay, for example, I think wasn’t given proper attention other than having his wife spot him performing a sex act, which seems like not a very complete or fair reflection of Haruki’s sexuality what it’s consequences.

I also wasn’t entirely satisfied with the ending of the book. It sort of just ends, but I suppose it’s the journey that counts in this case. I wasn’t looking for everything to be tied up neatly with a bow, but the ending felt like Lee sort of just decided she was done writing and stopped instead of concluding anything.

I also think that there was a weird sexuality to it in terms of the things that Lee chose to sexualize, which was almost elusively young women and the gay man in the book. I think those choices are questionable. I didn’t really understand what purpose it was supposed to serve or why we needed to know the shape and size of every woman’s breasts in this book. It bothers me because Asian women are already over-sexualized in media so adding to it, in a not particularly constructive way, seems counterproductive.

Audiobook Review and Apple TV+ Adaptation

Some quick notes. The audiobook is quite good. I definitely recommend it, the woman narrating does a great job. Also, there’s an adaptation of it coming soon to Apple TV+. For all the details, see Everything We Know about the Pachinko Apple TV+ Series .

Read it or Skip it?

Pachinko is a powerful book that interwines the story about the fate of a family against the backdrop of history in a way that is informative and engrossing. The Japanese invasion of Korea and the treatment of Koreans in Japan is also an often neglected history outside of Asia and is well-worth exploring and discussing, due to the important lessons it holds.

Beyond that, it’s just a good book that’s solidly written and that tells a compelling narrative. It’s easily one of the best books I’ve read this year so far, and I would recommend it any book clubs for sure, even if it’s not a new release. I’m really hopeful that the upcoming Apple TV+ adaptation will encourage more people to read this book, because it’s one that deserves to be read.

See Pachinko on Amazon.

Book Excerpt

Read the first pages of Pachinko

Movie / TV Show Adaptation

See Everything We Know About the 'Pachinko' Adaptation

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It is one of my next reads. Wonderful review! 😍

Loved your review. I read it very recently and thought the same. Perhaps you’d be interested in reading my review

I love d story and it serve as a good lesson to all people who read this book.

Gamble on Min Jin Lee's winning novel 'Pachinko'

Korea went through a lot in the 20th century. It was colonized by Japan for decades, then split into two due to the interests of foreign powers. Its people died from war and from deprivation, and many of them left, scattering to other lands.

A large number wound up in Japan during Imperial Japanese rule, and while some repatriated, many remained, despite explicit, legal discrimination — the U.S., as it turns out, does not have a monopoly on xenophobia.

This is a lot of history to pack into one novel, but Min Jin Lee is nothing if not ambitious. Pachinko (Grand Central, 485 pp., ***½ out of four stars), her follow-up to her lovely debut Free Food for Millionaires , spans the better part of the century, from 1910, the year Japan annexed Korea, until 1989. It follows multiple generations of one ethnically Korean family in its never-ending search for a comfortable place in the world.

There are several protagonists, but the backbone is a steady, quietly principled woman named Sunja. Her unplanned teen pregnancy and subsequent marriage to Presbyterian minister Baek Isak take her from her parents’ boardinghouse in a small fishing village near Busan to her in-laws’ home in a Korean enclave of Osaka, where she raises sons Noa and Mozasu.

Before her departure, she gets this piece of advice from a woman in her village: “Sunja-ya, a woman’s life is endless work and suffering. There is suffering and then more suffering….no matter what, always expect suffering, and just keep working hard.”

Pessimistic, to say the least, but this turns out to be true, not just for Sunja, but for almost everyone in the Baek family (also called the Boku or the Bando family — not even their name is a certainty in Japan). Lee is an obvious fan of classic English literature, and she uses omniscient narration and a large cast of characters to create a social novel in the Dickensian vein.

Her protagonists struggle with the whims of history, with survival and acceptance in a land that treats even native-born Koreans as foreigners — “For people like us, home doesn’t exist,” notes Koh Hansu, a shadowy guardian of the Baek family, with immense wealth of vaguely disreputable origin, the only kind available to Koreans in Japan. They also swallow what seems like more than their fair share of tragedy over eight decades.

The novel is frequently heartbreaking — its scope doesn’t deter attachment to individual characters, and when bad things happen, the swift pacing and wide-angle view make them seem even more brutal, if at times too sudden. This is the rare 500-page novel that would benefit from some extra flesh, particularly in the last third.

Like many Koreans in Japan, the Baek family gets into the pachinko business, a scorned line of work that “gave off a strong odor of poverty and criminality,” at least to the Japanese.

Pachinko is an unfair game — a gambler’s pinball with strong house odds — one that lends itself rather easily to metaphors about life. “There could only be a few winners and a lot of losers,” one character reflects. “And yet, we played on, because we had hope that we might be the lucky ones.”

Steph Cha is author of the Juniper Song mysteries.

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• <em>Pachinko</em> Is a Gorgeous Adaptation of a Literary Masterpiece, Marred by One Baffling Choice

Pachinko Is a Gorgeous Adaptation of a Literary Masterpiece, Marred by One Baffling Choice

W hen Japan annexed Korea in 1910, the occupation was more than just a political reality. As Korean resistance met with ever harsher responses from the colonial government, Japanese leaders took aim at the culture itself. A strategy of forced assimilation meant the destruction of cherished art, historical documents, and buildings dating back centuries. Koreans saw their language, religion, commerce, agricultural industry, and news media supplanted by the invaders’ institutions; they even had to adopt Japanese names. Meanwhile, with scarce employment prospects in their homeland, hundreds of thousands of Koreans had little choice but to relocate to Japan, where they were mostly relegated to menial jobs and faced brutal discrimination.

This atrocity, whose impact on the Korean people still reverberates in the present, forms the backdrop of Min Jin Lee ’s magnificent 2017 novel Pachinko . The rare National Book Award finalist that is also a bestseller, populated by rich characters and suffused with emotion, Lee’s story comes to television with a lavish adaptation premiering March 25 on Apple TV+. By all accounts, it was not easy bringing this epic, multigenerational, multilingual saga of immigration and family to the small screen. Creator Soo Hugh ( The Whispers ), working with filmmakers Kogonada ( After Yang , Columbus ) and actor turned director Justin Chon, as well as a uniformly excellent ensemble cast, beautifully conveys the sweep and spirit of the novel. The only major misstep is a structural choice that undermines Lee’s carefully paced storytelling.

Spanning most of the 20th century, Pachinko opens in the woods of rural, Japanese-occupied Korea in 1915. Yangjin—a young woman born into poverty, married to the cleft-lipped son of a family that owns a boarding house and reeling from the deaths of three consecutive infant sons—has come to secure a blessing for her fourth pregnancy. “There is a curse in my blood,” Yangjin (Inji Jeong) tells the female shaman. Then the action jumps three-quarters of a century and halfway around the world, to New York in 1989. An ambitious young finance guy, Solomon (Jin Ha), strides confidently into a meeting with a pair of white, male superiors, who unceremoniously inform him that he’s not getting a promotion they all know he’s earned.

When we meet Yangjin, she’s just months away from giving birth to the show’s heroine, Sunja, whose life will be shaped by what she endures during the occupation. Solomon is Sunja’s grandson. And this eight-episode first season (of four that Hugh hopes to make) patiently fills in the intervening decades, though not with the simplistic tale of immigrant bootstrapping that newcomers to Lee’s story might expect. In one of the two parallel narratives, set in the ’30s, a teenage Sunja (played with grace, vulnerability, and grit by Minha Kim) becomes entangled with a Korean businessman, Koh Hansu (South Korean megastar Lee Min-Ho), whose flexible morals have helped him prosper in Japan. Their romance catalyzes her departure for Osaka—although, again, not for the reason you might assume. The other core story line follows Solomon’s return to Osaka, where his family still lives, with a plan to prove he’s worthy of a VP title by facilitating a crucial deal that only an employee of Korean heritage could possibly close.

There is a symmetry to this structure, one that magnifies some of Pachinko ’s most salient themes. Even though they’re poor in the ’30s and relatively rich in the ’80s, the family is constantly forced, in both eras, to choose between impossible binaries: money and integrity, safety and authenticity, assimilation and persecution. But it’s not exactly difficult to glean these ideas from Lee’s chronological structure, which I greatly prefer. There’s a trend toward multiple timelines in TV these days; complicated storytelling has become the marker of prestige drama—of television as art. Yet Pachinko was art long before it was TV. The bifurcated narrative only adds too many transitions that disrupt the series’ emotional throughline and sows confusion around characters that turn up episodes before they’re properly introduced. Readers eager to see the book’s absorbing middle chapters onscreen will have to cross their fingers for a renewal.

Such a big miscalculation might sink a weaker show, but in every other sense, Pachinko —like its heroine—is too singular and alive to fail. As portrayed by Kim in her youth and Minari Oscar winner Youn Yuh-jung in older age, Sunja epitomizes immigrant persistence without devolving into a stock character. Hugh avoids reducing her to either a martyr or a plucky success story. It was a wise choice, and one that has only become possible in the streaming era, to mix Korean, Japanese, and English dialogue; color-coded subtitles efficiently convey how characters combine tongues and code-switch. The art direction surpasses that of TV’s most immersive historical dramas, including The Crown . Complementing this intricate mise-en-scène and the cast’s fiercely physical performances is cinematography that lingers on textural details: the hem of a wedding dress, the pudgy foot of a newborn, the snowy brilliance of Korean white rice.

Yes, this adaptation is less than perfect; the disservice it does to the structural integrity of a novel that gains momentum and poignancy as the decades progress shouldn’t be understated. The overall impression is of an epochal masterpiece cut into snippets and reassembled out of order. That’s frustrating. Even when you account for its shortcomings, though, TV’s Pachinko remains the rare show of both artistic and historic import. Everyone should see it. But maybe read the book first.

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What Min Jin Lee Wants Us to See

By Michael Luo

The author Min Jin Lee lives in a four-story town house in Harlem that she and her husband purchased in 2012. A creaking wooden staircase runs up its spine, leading to Lee’s research library, on the top floor, where she works. It is a compact, sunlit room, with a couch, a pair of desks, and a wall of floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. Before my visit, on a recent Monday morning, she had made sure to tidy up the room, but had left out a stack of books—some research materials for her third novel, “American Hagwon.” (The Korean word hagwon refers to a type of private enrichment school that is ubiquitous in Korean communities around the world.) They were mostly academic works about education and its centrality in Korean communities; some titles included “ Koreatowns ,” “ Education Fever ,” and “ The Asian American Achievement Paradox .”

Lee is a prodigious, inveterate researcher, who takes a journalistic approach to writing her novels. She is about halfway through a draft of “American Hagwon,” and so far has interviewed more than seventy-five college students of Korean descent. For her two previous novels, “ Free Food for Millionaires ,” from 2007, and “ Pachinko ,” a 2017 finalist for the National Book Award for fiction, she filled more than ten Bankers Boxes with interview notes and other background material.

Yet Lee’s writing does not feel overstuffed with facts. A defining quality of her novels is their propulsiveness. When I revisited them recently, I found myself immediately drawn in, much like the first time I read them, towed along by her intimately drawn characters and tightly cinched plotlines. Lee’s gift is her ability to write sweeping, magisterial books that take on ponderous political themes––the Korean diasporic experience, the invisibility of marginalized groups in history, the limits of assimilation––and to make their unhurried, quiet intrigues read like thrillers.

Lee describes herself as a late bloomer. She immigrated to the United States from Seoul, at the age of seven. Her family settled in Elmhurst, Queens, and her parents ran a wholesale jewelry store in Manhattan’s Koreatown, where they worked six days a week, until they retired. She attended the Bronx High School of Science, studied history at Yale, and then went to Georgetown Law. After working for two years as a corporate lawyer, she quit, in 1995, and decided to become a novelist.

In 2001, Lee started writing “Free Food for Millionaires,” about a brooding daughter of Korean immigrants struggling to make her way in the louche world of high finance in Manhattan. When it was finally published, six years later, it became a national best-seller. Lee labored for two decades on “Pachinko,” an epic saga that follows four generations of a Korean family through poverty, humiliation, and tragedy in Japan. In 2018, Apple announced that it would turn “Pachinko” into a television drama, and that Lee would serve as an executive producer. The eight-episode series will première on March 25th. But, for reasons that Lee declined to disclose to me, she is no longer involved in the production of the show. Among Lee’s latest projects is an introduction to Penguin Classics’ new edition of “ The Great Gatsby ”—a novel that, she writes, “called out to me, a girl who lived in the valley of ashes.”

Lee has a warm, motherly demeanor––she texted before my visit to warn me that it was icy outside––but also an unflinching bluntness. She has become increasingly vocal, during the pandemic and amid the rise in violence against people of Asian descent, as an advocate for Asian Americans. During our conversation, which lasted more than two hours and continued over e-mail, we talked about her experiences as an immigrant, her books, and her willingness to be “extra Asian” these days. Our conversation has been condensed and edited.

Your books are about the Korean diasporic experience. What do you remember about first arriving in the United States?

I think when I first came here I was really disappointed, because I thought in my mind that America would be like “Cinderella.” I thought that I would get off the airplane and somehow the airport would be like a seventeenth-century fairy tale. I thought that people would be wearing ball gowns. I thought there would be stagecoaches. That’s how stupid I was. And then I realized that it looks just like Seoul, except with non-Korean people. I remember thinking it was so ugly. I lived in such an ugly little hovel. This is a funny thing about not having money: people think that if you don’t have money that you’re O.K. with the ugliness, but I remember how ugly the apartment we were living in was. There was an orange shag rug, which was dirty. We had come from a perfectly decent middle-class house in Korea. My mother was a piano teacher; my father was a white-collar executive at a cosmetics company. I remember thinking, Oh, we came down in the world. Even as a little girl, I knew that there was something wrong.

I remember I had to share the bed with my younger sister. My older sister was on the top [bunk]. And there were mice and roaches. It was so scary for me to see all that stuff. I remember we were at a free-lunch program, and I knew there was something different when you got a free lunch versus other people. Things improved for us gradually. I think that my family is embarrassed when I talk about this, but I talk about it because my interviewees routinely talk about the shame of it, and I think if they know that I went through it, then they feel like, Oh, it’s not the worst thing in the world.

How did it get better?

My father ran a newspaper stand first. As a child, I thought that was quite glamorous, because of all this candy. He did it for a year. He really spruced that up. My mother must have gone through fourteen bottles of Windex cleaning it. And then after he got rid of that, he owned a tiny wholesale jewelry store—again, not in any way beautiful, or nice, or elegant. But they just saved and saved, and eventually they moved to New Jersey, in 1985. They bought a house and they moved to the promised land of Bergen County.

There’s a line in “Free Food for Millionaires” in which you write that the protagonist, Casey Han, feels that, although she went to Princeton, she was “not of Princeton.” Did you feel that way about your college experience?

Yes. My peers were so much better trained for Yale than I was. I went to Bronx Science, and I did really well for the rubric of Bronx Science, which is exams, short answers. And then I went to college and there are these kids who went to private schools, who wrote such beautiful papers, and they were so elegant in the way they spoke about things, and they’ve been everywhere. I felt like a rube. I wasn’t angry at them, because they’re perfectly nice kids. They just had more than I did in terms of this sort of sophistication and poise and ease. I remember thinking, O.K., well, I’m a tough kid from New York, and I’m fine. But I definitely felt outclassed.

You majored in history, but I read that you struggled a bit in writing classes.

I didn’t do that well in college. I took too many classes. I didn’t approach it like, Oh, you’re supposed to get a good G.P.A. to get into a good grad school. I thought I was supposed to get as much knowledge as humanly possible. Anyway, I took a lot of classes I shouldn’t have taken. But then—this is the weird part—the English department had these prizes, and I ended up winning the top prize for nonfiction and the top prize for fiction in my junior and my senior year, respectively. So, even if my grades weren’t that great, I ended up getting these prizes, which meant that whoever the readers were, in the English department, thought that I had something, and I remember thinking, Oh, I’m not a writer, but maybe I know how to say something.

What gave you the belief that you could be a writer?

In 1995, I thought, Being a lawyer is really too hard. I can’t keep doing this. I also had this liver disease. I’m actually really, really well now, because I had very serious intervening medication, which I was able to afford through health insurance. I was a chronic hepatitis-B carrier, and my doctor had told me in college that I would get liver cancer in my twenties or thirties. A part of me always felt like death was chasing me. I got married really young. I felt like I had to get all this done. I didn’t feel terrified of quitting being a lawyer, because I felt like, Well, if I’m dead, I’m going to write this book and then I’ll be fine. But, of course, that didn’t happen. It didn’t happen for fucking eleven years.

It was the fear of death that led you to writing?

I’m not going to live long, so I might as well do something that matters to me.

It wasn’t an easy path after you quit.

I don’t recommend it to anybody.

What were those years like?

Really depressing. I think it was humiliating because I’m so proud. I wanted to write––O.K., you’ll laugh at me––I wanted to write a great, great novel. I wanted to write something that people would read years and years later.

You took fiction-writing classes at places like the 92nd Street Y and Gotham Writers Workshop. There must have been so many dreamers in those classes. Why do you think you succeeded?

Well, I’ll give you a counterexample. I took a two-hundred-dollar class at the Asian American Writers’ Workshop, and my class was taught by a person named Jhumpa Lahiri, before she won the Pulitzer Prize, and in that class was Cathy Park Hong, Lisa Ko, and Ed Lin. So, is it possible to meet other people who are very, very serious about what you do? Yes, and it’s an extraordinary opportunity to meet other writers who care as much as you care.

That said, the other classes that I took—a lot of them were filled with retirees. A lot of them were filled with people who were processing things.

I know that you start your books with a thesis statement. In “Free Food for Millionaires,” the opening line is “Competence can be a curse.” What did you mean by that?

I think this happens to a lot of high-functioning people. We think that we can do everything, and in our process of doing everything we don’t do the thing that matters the most. We don’t do the things that take the greatest risk, because we are so competent. And often we’re overtaxed by our competence, and we don’t know that.

Were you trying to say anything about Asian Americans with that line?

Yes, I think so, because I think Asian Americans have a model-minority myth, in which we are perceived as highly competent. Obviously, because I’m Asian American, I know many incompetent Asian Americans. [ Laughs .] I write about them, and I love them. I’m incompetent when it comes to many things. Like I don’t know how to drive, like I failed the bar. There’s so many things I can’t do well. I am commenting on the model-minority myth with that statement.

Were you trying to say something about assimilation in “Free Food for Millionaires”?

Absolutely, because I think the assimilation philosophy is that you assimilate in order to achieve a certain goal, and that goal is economic stability and security. I think that that goal makes sense, but I believe that goal is deeply unsatisfying to everybody eventually. If you think about the first generation, we have to survive. We have to get the basic things—you know, food, shelter, clothing, stability. That makes a lot of sense.

The real disconnect is between the first and second or third generation, especially if the second or third generation has done sufficiently well. We’re not interested in just survival anymore. We’re interested in meaning, and that quest for meaning has just as many difficulties, if not more intangible difficulties, than just survival.

So, very often the first generation and the second generation are at conflict because they’re going, like, Well, why aren’t you happy? You have everything. And they’re, like, No, no, no, I have nothing if I don’t have meaning and purpose. And that gap can seem like an ocean or a puddle of water, depending upon who you talk to.

And what I see with my students, even in 2022, is just how much even second-generation parents who have achieved economic stability are internalizing the messages of the first generation, and cannot communicate to the third generation or the fourth generation. So I have students who are feeling, like, Well, I would like to be a photographer, or grow organic mushrooms if I want. Like, these things have value and meaning, and yet their parents are going, “Are you crazy? You’re going to stop being a C.S. major for this?”

There was a line in “Free Food for Millionaires,” when Casey Han breaks up with her white boyfriend, Jay Currie, in which you write that Jay, in his “unyielding American optimism, refused to see that she came from a culture where good intentions and clear thought wouldn’t cover all wounds. It didn’t work that way with her parents, anyway. They were broken-hearted Koreans––that wasn’t Jay’s fault, but how was he supposed to understand their kind of anguish? Their sadness seemed ancient to her.” What were you trying to say there?

I think there are so many well-intentioned people who don’t have your experience. They don’t mean to hurt you, and they don’t mean to hurt you by their sunniness. I admire it so much, and I need it around me. However, there is a racial and a cultural component that we can’t forget, as well as a class component. If you grew up poor, undesired, in many ways despised and different, and unable to see another way out, and you meet another person, even though they’re trying to help you, even though their strategies for survival have worked for them, they don’t understand that it may not work for your community. And even though Casey can perform, and has an ability to be around that world, it doesn’t mean that she’s at ease with it.

There’s a really ugly opening scene in the book in which Casey’s father hits her in the face. Why did you write about that?

There’s so much domestic violence in our communities that we don’t talk about for fear of harming our families or our culture, and I don’t think it is going to get better unless we talk about it. Also, just because someone hits you, it doesn’t mean that the person is evil. That’s a very controversial thing that I’m saying, but I’m going to say it because we have all felt violence in our hearts. Some of us have acted on it, and some of us have not. So part of my job is to see it in narrative, and so I put it there. But the statistics of domestic violence for our communities of color are really quite shocking.

Physical discipline of children, in particular, is common.

It’s quite normal. I’ve actually interviewed many Koreans who’ve had to contact social services when they’re growing up because of it, or gone to shelters as a result.

The Korean American church is a big motif in “Free Food for Millionaires.” What was the role of the church in your upbringing?

I was born in the church, raised in the church. Church is part of my life, and I’ve gone to Korean churches and Western churches. I go to church every Sunday even now, and that’s really strange in my community as an artist. I was at a Christmas party, a very literary party. It was kind of one of those drop-in things, and they said, “Well, where are you going now?” And I said, “I’m going to go to church,” because I was going to some evening service. They couldn’t believe it. They started laughing, and they didn’t mean to laugh, but they thought it was so preposterous that I was going to church. I was, like, “It’s Christmas and I’m going to church.” But I felt really ashamed, like, What did I do to make people think that it was impossible for me to go to church? It must be because I don’t stop swearing. But my grandfather was a Presbyterian minister. He went to seminary in Pyongyang, as well as in Japan. He ended up becoming a headmaster of a school for repatriated Korean orphans from Japan, after Hiroshima and Nagasaki. He was a pillar of his community. And then my mother and father, when we first came here, we went to the Newtown Presbyterian Church in Elmhurst, Queens. We went to a Western church.

Oh, that’s interesting.

Yes. We didn’t go to a Korean church. My parents really wanted us to learn how to speak English. Back then, in 1976, there were very few Koreans where we lived. Queens, when we think about it, it’s all these Koreans, but I grew up in Elmhurst, and then in Maspeth, before my parents went to New Jersey, and there were almost no Koreans. It was mostly white ethnic immigrants—Polish, Czech, Russian. Maybe a South Asian person here and there, but very few Koreans. A lot of Latinos, like Dominican, Puerto Rican, and there were also African Americans and Caribbean Americans.

Why do you think religion stayed with you? So many second-generation Korean Americans who grew up in the church have fallen away from the church, and it’s no longer part of their lives.

I’m deeply interested in God as the creator and God as an active force in the world, or inactive force. I understand if people feel Christianity is repugnant to them. I understand if people feel like the way certain Christians behave is horrible. There is that line from, I think, Chesterton: “What’s the best reason for not being a Christian? Christians.” And I get it because I’m horrified by some of the behaviors of Christians in the world.

You’ve talked about how you have a practice of reading a chapter from the Bible every day. Do you do that before you start writing?

What do you get out of that process?

When I first quit being a lawyer, in 1995, I was reading the F.T. , the New York Times , and the Wall Street Journal before I started writing. It didn’t turn out very well. I was, like, I need another ritual. I read that Willa Cather read a chapter of the Bible every day. I was really inspired, because I think her prose is so sturdy. I was, like, O.K., I’m going to read the Bible. I would read a chapter, and then I’d do my work. Gradually, I started to read the chapter and I realized that there were things I didn’t understand, and some of it was dreadfully boring. You have some people who just open the Bible and read whatever. I didn’t do that. I approached it the way I approach everything: I turn the page, like Robert Caro. I turn every single freaking page. So I bought a New International Version study Bible. They have commentaries below it. I’ll show you. [ Takes out a well-thumbed, large-print Bible. ] I will read let’s say—like, today was Psalm 113. So I’ll read the entire thing. And then I will read all of the commentaries twice, and then I’ll read it again. It’s really weird.

You’re making notes too . . .

Oh, my gosh, yes. I mean, it’s non-stop. And then I also keep a journal. It is like listening to God. It’s kind of like listening to a book. I’m overhearing the thoughts of God. There is this existential idea, which I appreciate, of listening to an author think, and, in this case, the author who inspired the men who wrote the Bible.

I also pray. I pray for inspiration and also to somehow stay in what I’m doing, because I find it so hard.

I read that you chose Casey Han’s name from someone you came across in the Times’ “Portraits of Grief” series.

This is right behind you, if you turn around. [ Points to a newspaper clipping on a bookshelf. ]

It’s Casey Cho, that’s her. I read that obituary. On 9/11, I lived downtown. We had to move. I was really depressed because all these people had died in my back yard. I couldn’t read the paper. I couldn’t function very well. I read the obituary, and I saw this Asian face, and then she had this Korean name and I thought, That’s incredible. She was adorable, and her background just sort of spoke to me, and I thought, Oh, I’m going to name my main character after her.

So it’s obviously not her—I don’t know who she is, I don’t know her family, I don’t know anything. But I love this idea of her name being Casey. And han , of course, is that word which, if I had to give a direct translation, is the inexpressible anguish of a person tied to this country, Korea, of all the oppression and dislocation.

The title of your book “Free Food for Millionaires” comes from a scene in which investment bankers receive free lunch after closing a deal.

I was making the ironic comment, “Why do we give millionaires free food? Why do the rich get all the goodies?” But the real thing that I was trying to argue was that we’re all really millionaires because we are given this grace, this unmerited favor of gifts and talents. So every character has a kind of extraordinary gift. Nobody’s actually poor if you really know what your gifts are, and that’s a life’s journey, right?

After “Free Food for Millionaires,” it took another decade before “Pachinko” was published. Part of the reason it took so long, as I understand it, is you have a really extensive research process. Can you tell me about that?

I read secondary material. I read academic material. I read scholarship. And then I also do numerous interviews of experts and the subjects. So, for example, there’s an undocumented story line in my next novel. I have been interviewing undocumented Koreans.

While researching “Free Food for Millionaires,” you took a class at Harvard Business School?

I interviewed all these people who went to H.B.S., and they said, “Have you been there?” And I said, “No, I haven’t. How do I go visit?” And they said, “It’s easy—pretend to apply.” I spent an entire day taking a class, listening to the welcoming session. And I took an entire semester of millinery [at the Fashion Institute of Technology] because Casey is a milliner.

How does all of this research translate to the page?

The answer is confidence. It’s the confidence I don’t have when I begin something. I have so much insecurity about the stuff that I don’t know, and by the time I finish my research I’m, like, Bring it.

It’s almost like you imbibe it so that you can then write it.

Yes. I imbibe it. I swim in it, and also I fall in love with it. I fall in love with my characters.

Your opening line in “Pachinko”—your thesis statement—is “History has failed us, but no matter.” What did you mean by that?

On a top level, I was arguing that the discipline of history, obviously, and history as a general rule has failed poor people and people who don’t have a voice. But, even more so, I was asserting that it doesn’t matter, that the people in charge are knuckleheads because regular people, ordinary people, have resisted and survived and done a lot of work-arounds.

It was specifically very important for me with the Koreans in Japan because I started out in the position of, “Oh, these are poor victims who’ve been oppressed by colonialism and how horrible.” And that’s all true, but they didn’t see it that way, and they told me, “You’re wrong.” And I was, like, “Well, O.K., how am I wrong?” When you hang out with them, you realize they’re quite––the word in Japanese––is they’re very genki . They’re very sturdy and strong. So I thought, Oh, well, where did that come from? And I realized it’s kind of like what Hemingway says about being broken, right? You’re stronger when you’re broken.

“Pachinko” follows four generations of a poor Korean family from a boarding house in Japanese-occupied Korea to Japan, where Koreans are discriminated against. Why did you focus on this passage of history in particular, one that most American readers know little about?

I mean, truly, can you think of any other subject that people could care less about? But I thought, It means so much to me.

I read that you first encountered the subject of ethnic Koreans in Japan during a lecture you happened to attend at Yale.

Yes. I was nineteen or twenty. Harry Adams, who was the master of Trumbull College, said, “Do you want to come to this tea? This missionary from Japan is coming.” And so this nice white guy, who helped poor Koreans in Japan, came and gave a talk. There were about two of us in the entire room, and I couldn’t leave. He told the story about, I guess, one of his parishioners, this little Korean boy who had been bullied by the Japanese kids that he went to school with, and he committed suicide. It changed my life, because I couldn’t stop thinking about this kid being bullied so hard that he had to jump off the building. It was so distressing to me. And, also, these are people of the same race; he was born in Japan. I had to do something about that.

Much of the tension over immigration in America is over racial difference. In Japan, hostilities exist within the same race. What is your understanding of the difference between anti-immigrant sentiments in the two countries?

They’re very similar. Very often, it comes from economic insecurity, anxiety, and the inability to compete, right? So, as globalization and economic forces [drive] changes around the world, you often have to find scapegoats. Throughout history, we see this. In Europe during the twentieth century, Jews were persecuted and scapegoated. I think in colonialism we have to figure out, how do you justify that these people can be treated this way? And very often it’s economics plus hatred. It’s both. It’s very often both. Nothing is only one or the other.

In “Pachinko,” there are also, obviously, parallels that can be drawn to the way America treats its immigrants. Were you consciously trying to expose these issues to readers?

I think, initially, I was very arch, and I wanted to teach these things. I was really angry. I was, like, “Pay attention to this. This is terrible. Notice this.” But then I realized there’s a lot of terrible things happening every day. How do I make people care? I realized I have to figure out another way. Learning how to write stories is really different from writing the facts. I’ve thought about this a lot. Every day is chaos, right? How do I create cosmos? How do I get you to change your mind? That’s going to require you to feel something.

You’re at work on your third novel, “American Hagwon,” and you have said that this is part of a trilogy and that the linkage between them is the diaspora experience of Koreans. What interests you about that?

I’m interested in the formation of modern Koreans. I’m trying to figure out, what does that modern Korean care about more than anything? In all of my travels, I’ve been asking people, and the thing that really comes up over and over again is education. So I was thinking, Well, that’s kind of a big topic, right? I’ve never met a Korean anywhere—like a Korean from Brazil or Canada—who doesn’t have very strong feelings about education, so I’m writing about that.

You wrote the introduction for the new edition of “The Great Gatsby” by Penguin Classics. What made you want to take this on?

“Gatsby” is this iconic book that is foisted upon pretty much every high-school or college young person as the primary American text. I felt that it was a real honor for me to be able to take it on. And then, in my intellectual vanity, I want to tell people how to read “Gatsby.” So I spent the energy justifying why I was right in saying those things. That’s why my ninety-one footnotes are there, because I needed backup. And I wanted the reader to know that this is a book about white people. It’s a great book about white people. But it’s not about all people. And it’s about one white man writing about specifically one white woman, and that love was a toxic love between two white people. Why do I say that? Because very often we are told that Americans are this. What they’re really meaning to say is white Americans are this. And me being able to say Korean Americans are that, or Puerto Rican Americans are that, is not in any way taking away from “Gatsby.” It’s just saying they’re different. So, I could really adore “The Great Gatsby,” and I do. I spent three months of my life talking about it. But I’m also going to say that it’s not everybody’s story at that time. Do I think we should read it? Yes. Do I think that it defines the American experience? I want to add a footnote. Using whatever little power that I have to say “hang on, there’s more” doesn’t mean that I’m kicking him off the shelf. I’m just saying, “Let’s reconsider the classic, with its flaws and its limitations.” And that’s why I spent that energy on it.

Do you think a book can be limited in its point of view, or in its depictions of race, but not necessarily be only about white people?

The book is about young white Americans who hail from outside of élite Northeast circles—Gatsby, from North Dakota; Nick, from Minnesota; Daisy, from Kentucky; Tom, from Illinois; and George and Myrtle, from Queens—and through Fitzgerald’s geographic choices he was able to discuss distinct geographic cultures of white Americans. Recognizing the specificity of Fitzgerald’s choices is a way to read and appraise his work fairly.

I don’t want to shy away from questions about how and why a so-called classic ages well or fails to do so. The only way to save good work through the passage of time and political climates and to keep reading is by pointing out what is observable with all the available knowledge and relevant context. It isn’t heresy or provincial to say a great book features whites, Blacks, Jews, or Chinese. The books can be about universal themes, and the biographies of the characters can be distinct. I am a Korean American writer who writes mostly about Koreans, and I hope to be read by anyone who cares for my work. Whiteness is neither my norm nor my center. It has a complex culture which I study, no different from how I study Koreans.

Your books have attracted Hollywood interest. “Pachinko” is about to première on Apple TV+. I’ve read that Netflix was interested in “Free Food for Millionaires.” What has it been like for you as an author to go to Hollywood?

I think Hollywood is different from publishing, and it’s a totally different visual medium. I think that it could be a really exciting place. And I am technically a professional screenwriter now. I’m a member of the Writers Guild now because I sold the pilot [for “Free Food for Millionaires”] to a real studio. It’s such different storytelling, but this is what I have learned about both Hollywood and publishing: it’s hard to create a good story. It’s really, really hard, and it’s actually really rare.

“Free Food for Millionaires” was in development with Netflix, but I know that doesn’t mean it’s going to get made. What is the status of the show?

It’s not going to be on Netflix. Netflix purchased the pilot, but it hasn’t been ordered to series. So it may go elsewhere, but I don’t know where right now.

And what was that like?

That was really wild because it’s one thing to write a novel—it’s another thing to adapt it into a screenplay. I was working with Alan Yang, who is just marvellous. He’s the co-creator of “Master of None,” and he made the film “Tigertail.” So having that experience with Alan was really terrific in terms of just thinking about a visual story and learning how to pitch to Hollywood. That was kind of insane because you are taking meetings with Hollywood studio heads and telling them about your book, but as a TV show. It’s really such a different thing. It’s almost like learning how to be an engineer or being a scientist or being a rock star.

This next question might be sensitive. The television adaptation for “Pachinko” is coming out soon. I had read earlier that you were an executive producer, but now, as far as I can tell, you’re no longer associated with the show. What happened?

I’m not an executive producer, and I’m not talking about that right now.

O.K. We’ll leave it there. So, what is Hollywood like?

Hollywood is like this beautiful fantasy. I mean, Fitzgerald ended up in Hollywood, and he died in Hollywood. He died, a drunk, in Hollywood.

Over the past few years, you have become one of the most visible spokespeople for Asian Americans, someone who’s looked to when we experience traumatic moments, like the spa shootings in Atlanta, or when Michelle Go was shoved in front of a subway train and killed, or, more recently, when Christina Yuna Lee was murdered in her apartment in Chinatown. Can you tell me about how you came to occupy this role?

Well, it’s weird. It’s a very strange thing because I would rather not say anything. I would rather not draw attention to myself, and, certainly, if you ask my sisters, of the three of us I’m the least equipped emotionally to handle that visibility. But, because I’m trained in history, I realized how important it is to be visible for Asian Americans in this country and how important it is for us to take certain positions that are unpopular and will make you seem like a troublemaker.

I’m terrified of being trolled. Oh, my God. I’m terrified of being criticized. I don’t like it. I don’t enjoy it. There are certain people who kind of want that. I don’t want that. So if I do issue a statement on an issue that I think is very important for me and people that may identify with me, then I’m incredibly careful about it. As a writer, I am attempting—perhaps vainly—to create portraits of people who have been rendered invisible. For me, it is worth trying because then, maybe, all the horrible and unfair stereotypes that Asians and Asian Americans endure each day can be chipped away.

What do you make of the concerns of the Asian American movement at this moment? In his new book, “ The Loneliest Americans ,” which you blurbed, Jay Caspian Kang writes that a lot of efforts around Asian American representation are consumerist, and part of a fight to have the “spoils of full whiteness.” What do you make of that critique?

I like Jay. I actually really like Jay’s book. And I like Jay’s book because, one, I read it—and I say that because I think those who haven’t read the book and criticize it are quite unfair. I thought that Jay’s book was very specifically about Jay. It’s a very personal book, and he has every right to believe those things. Do I think that Jay speaks entirely for me? No, of course not.

In the same way, if you read “Pachinko” and you don’t think it speaks for you, that makes perfect sense. Do I think that Jay has the right to espouse his view? Not only do I think that he has a right to espouse his view, I think he’s going to encourage people to have their own opinion and their own theory.

He believes that some of these fights around representation in the media are shallow.

I disagree, because I remember seeing a really great-looking East Asian guy as a model for a J. Crew catalogue years ago, and I remember thinking, This hot guy that Jenna Lyons or some art director has approved has advanced our cause.

Now, representation without good content is shallow. So, yes, it’s just an image that I saw in the J. Crew catalogue, and we can argue that this is a consumerist, materialistic foolish thing. If we only seek to be a good-looking guy on a J. Crew catalogue, that’s bad. But the idea that an Asian American man is considered attractive in that specific space, when you’re going against “Breakfast at Tiffany’s,” this image of Mickey Rooney [in yellowface] being the Japanese photographer—again, I’m getting you a citation in media history. So I think it’s far more complicated, but those representations matter. It matters enormously.

One of the most sensitive issues right now among Asian Americans in New York City is how Bill de Blasio moved to eliminate the test for specialized high schools, like Bronx Science, where you went. This is a really complicated issue, one rooted in efforts to desegregate New York City schools but one in which many Asian Americans have felt overlooked and politically slighted. How do you disentangle this issue?

Well, there are a couple of things. One is that you’d have to change the state law to get rid of Bronx Science and Stuyvesant and Brooklyn Tech in terms of testing requirements. So part of it is a red-herring issue. We’re distracting parents. But we keep having this conversation because data is so compelling. The data is that you have this alleged overrepresentation of Asian Americans in these schools. I say “alleged” because I have a really serious problem with the term “overrepresented” being used for Asian Americans, because we are deeply underrepresented when it comes to getting access to state funding and government funding. Even though we make up fifteen per cent of New York City, we get apparently around two per cent of government funding. And then the other thing that really troubles me is that if you look at the actual income levels of the Asian Americans who attend Bronx Science, Brooklyn Tech, and Stuyvesant, you will see that they are middle class and working class. These aren’t people who are out there just getting thousand-dollar-an-hour tutors. Some of the students I interviewed were using second-hand textbooks. They took these exams, and they’re there.

Now, that said, that performance—to be used as a wedge against or as a cudgel against Latino and Black students in New York City—is so deeply racially problematic. When I went to Bronx Science, from 1982 to 1986, there was a very fair representation of African Americans and Latinos. So we have to look at it as, What happened in politics since then to now? Some of this has been school choice, right? We’re talking about elementary school and middle schools and the feeder programs and getting rid of the gifted and talented [programs]. We’re just creating this problem and blaming Asian Americans for something that the Democrats have created—and I’m a Democrat. So that’s my little three minutes on specialized high schools. But, no, I don’t think that the tests have created this. No, the Party has created this, the people in charge.

There’s a conservative, almost nationalistic strain in some parts of the Asian American community right now. You can see some of it in the discussions about specialized high schools. Are you concerned about it? Do you understand where it’s coming from?

I do understand where it’s coming from. It’s coming from the fact that college admissions in this country have become a luxury item, almost like a designer handbag, or a pair of shoes. And we’re not focussing on how colleges are guilty of creating an impossible thing to get—this golden ring—and, rather, we’re focussing on how to get these kids to get in there.

I believe in holistic admissions. I love the idea of it. But I think in practice it’s being used in many ways to create a kind of racial balancing. I think that if you want to have the racial balancing, say you want to have it. I actually think it’s a good idea to have a kind of racial balancing. Do I think that colleges are being honest about it? No. So what’s happening? Parents are getting really anxious. So the parents keep trying to create children to be winning applicants. That is really dangerous. Why do I say this? Because I have met enough Asian American parents and children to know that their families have been destroyed by this focus on making the child a valuable commodity, when it’s a little person, with a little soul.

The Supreme Court is about to take up a case that could very well dismantle affirmative action. This actually might be “good” for Asian Americans in terms of admissions. Are you watching this case?

I hope to attend it. I attended the Harvard trial. I attended a good number of days. What affected me in that trial was how they’re not going after legacy admissions, or for athletes—just for discrimination against Asian Americans and how they’re graded according to the rubric. And I found that to be kind of stupid. So do I think that Harvard is trying to racially balance? I think so. Can I prove it? Well, the proof was there. Do I think affirmative action can be dismantled now? No. I think that, if it does get dismantled, it will be done for the wrong things. Do I think that it will have the outcome that Asian Americans want? I do not think that you’re going to see more Asian American kids getting to these colleges.

You said in a recent interview that you don’t mind being “extra Asian” in a moment like this one. What do you mean by that?

I was being glib by saying, “I’m extra Asian.” I thought, You know what, maybe if I said, as a fifty-three-year-old ajumma , “I’m O.K. with being Asian; no, I like it––no, I’m extra Asian,” maybe you can just say, “I’m Asian and it’s not good or bad—it just is.” This all goes back to assimilation again. Is assimilation the same thing as deracination, de-ethnicization? And I’m saying, “No, I’m going to lean in.”

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By Min Jin Lee

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Reviews of Pachinko by Min Jin Lee

Summary | Excerpt | Reading Guide | Reviews | Beyond the book | Read-Alikes | Genres & Themes | Author Bio

by Min Jin Lee

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A new tour de force from the bestselling author of Free Food for Millionaires , for readers of The Kite Runner and Cutting for Stone .

Pachinko follows one Korean family through the generations, beginning in early 1900s Korea with Sunja, the prized daughter of a poor yet proud family, whose unplanned pregnancy threatens to shame them all. Deserted by her lover, Sunja is saved when a young tubercular minister offers to marry and bring her to Japan. So begins a sweeping saga of an exceptional family in exile from its homeland and caught in the indifferent arc of history. Through desperate struggles and hard-won triumphs, its members are bound together by deep roots as they face enduring questions of faith, family, and identity.

Yeongdo, Busan, Korea History has failed us, but no matter. At the turn of the century, an aging fisherman and his wife decided to take in lodgers for extra money. Both were born and raised in the fishing village of Yeongdo—a five-mile-wide islet beside the port city of Busan. In their long marriage, the wife gave birth to three sons, but only Hoonie, the eldest and the weakest one, survived. Hoonie was born with a cleft palate and a twisted foot; he was, however, endowed with hefty shoulders, a squat build, and a golden complexion. Even as a young man, he retained the mild, thoughtful temperament he'd had as a child. When Hoonie covered his misshapen mouth with his hands, something he did out of habit meeting strangers, he resembled his nice-looking father, both having the same large, smiling eyes. Inky eyebrows graced his broad forehead, perpetually tanned from outdoor work. Like his parents, Hoonie was not a nimble talker, and some made the mistake of ...

Please be aware that this discussion guide will contain spoilers!

• " History has failed us, but no matter ." How does the opening line reflect the rest of the book—and do you agree?
• In a way, Sunja's relationship with Isak progresses in reverse, as her pregnancy by another man brings them together and prompts Isak to propose marriage. How does Lee redefine intimacy and love with these two characters?
• "Their eldest brother, Samoel, had been the brave one, the one who would've confronted the officers with audacity and grace, but Yoseb knew he was no hero.…Yoseb didn't see the point of anyone dying for his country or for some greater ideal. He understood survival and family." What kinds of bravery are shown by different characters, and what motivates this bravery?
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Reader reviews, bookbrowse review.

Although some of the central events of the novel, like World War II and the atomic bomb drop at Nagasaki, are familiar territory for fiction, Lee prioritizes out-of-the-ordinary perspectives: her Korean characters are first the colonized, and then the outsiders trying to thrive in a foreign country despite segregation and persecution. I recommend Pachinko to readers of family sagas and anyone who wants to learn more about the Korean experience... continued

Full Review (715 words) This review is available to non-members for a limited time. For full access, become a member today .

(Reviewed by Rebecca Foster ).

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Beyond the Book

"If you are a rich Korean, there's a pachinko parlor in your background somewhere," Min Jin Lee writes in her novel Pachinko . Several of her Korean characters end up working in pachinko parlors, despite their differing levels of education and their previous experience. Pachinko is essentially an upright pinball machine. Gamblers pay to borrow a set of small steel balls that are loaded into the contraption. Pressing a spring-loaded handle launches them onto a metal track lined with brass pins and several cups. The aim is to bounce the balls off the pins and get them to land in the cups before they fall down the hole at the bottom. A ball landing in a cup triggers a payout, in the form of extra balls dropping into the tray at the ...

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Pachinko by Min Jin Lee Analysis & Discussion

I just recently finished this novel and I really, thoroughly enjoyed it. Even though it was by no means a short novel, I was very sad to see it end and would have happily read more. I thought it was well-written, engaging, thought-provoking and with a vast array of both complex and very relatable human characters.

Initially, I was worried it would be too heavy-handed, one-sided, overtly critical of Japan, or alternatively, of Korea, but I found that was not at all the case. Quite the opposite actually. While it is critical of Japan, due to obvious reasons, it also looked at the Korean-Japanese "Zainichi" identity from all different directions, perspectives and walks of life. So, rather than being a book about criticizing or pointing fingers, it approached these questions and issues of identity, colonization, and the deep and generations-long-lasting impacts of war from a very open-minded perspective, rather than one of just passing blame.

Some characters were angry, justifiably so, some apathetic, or simply determined to purely survive, while others saw their life in Japan as normal and were fully-integrated, a life in Japan as all they had ever known and many even embraced it. I think this is a very accurate portrayal and look into many real people's experiences. It's clear she did a lot of research talking to many people about their firsthand, lived experiences and was faithful to them. I found the characters all very realistic and relatable. They weren't tropes or caricatures of themselves and even though the book is lengthy, I actually found myself wishing it was longer at parts, wanting a more in-depth look at some of the characters, for instance Yumi or Ayame or Noah's son. In fact, I feel an entire separate book could have been written about Noah and his family, or even simply about Noah's son. That's how well-written I felt her characters were. She really breathed life into them. Some character stories, while cut short seemed fitting, but others, I wished it wasn't so abruptly ended. Perhaps she did this on purpose as an allegory to how abruptly life can take people away from us, unapologetically and yet the world continues to move forward and go on. Life and those remaining continue to find a way to survive and persevere. I read this right at the beginning of the pandemic, the first wave of European lockdowns, and it helped put some things in perspective in regards to suffering, hardship and survival.

It's much less a novel complaining about or agonizing over the constant hardships and struggles faced, but rather how to simply survive, in some cases prosper, and even overcome those hardships, many of the characters without bitterness or without playing the victim card. It could have been very "preachy" and this was another of my big fears when the back cover (never trust the back cover, these are often written by someone who it seems hasn't even read the book) mentioned Sunja receiving "salvation" and a "new life from a Christian minister," but again, this was not the case at all. Not one single character was preachy, in that sense. Christianity was not "preached" but rather used as another occasional storytelling instrument, primarily in just one part of the book, exploring one specific character's life.

While reading, I kept getting a very 'Dostoevsky-esque' 'Brother's Karamazov' sense and later in the novel, when she references him, it definitely solidified this. In many ways, it read like a more modernised, 20th/21st century 'Brothers'.

I really enjoyed the novel and was curious to hear other takeaways or thoughts upon reading. Anyone else read this gem and wanted to discuss or share thoughts?

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Min Jin Lee’s Pachinko: A Captivating Tale of Immigration and Identity

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Pachinko : Immersion into a Captivating Tale of Immigration and Identity

Pachinko , written by Korean American author Min Jin Lee, is a remarkable novel that has garnered widespread acclaim since its release in 2017. This blog post explores the enduring popularity of Pachinko , its recent adaptations, and the thought-provoking themes it addresses.

Min Jin Lee has been a novelist for a long time, but her lastest novel Pachinko has made a few splashwaves in recent times.

(This post contains affiliate links you can use to purchase the books. If you purchase from Amazon using that link, I will receive a small commission from the sale. This does not affect the ratings for my reviews.)

The Guardian’s Review of Pachinko

One of the notable reviews of Pachinko comes from The Guardian, a renowned newspaper. Published in 2017, their review provides valuable insights into the novel’s compelling narrative and rich storytelling. Read The Guardian’s review of Pachinko here.

Upcoming TV Series Adaptation

Exciting news for fans of Pachinko is the announcement of an upcoming TV series adaptation. Apple has taken up the project to bring this captivating story to the screen, further expanding its reach and impact.

Author Engagements and Fan Meetings

When it comes to truly understanding a literary masterpiece like Pachinko , there’s no better way than connecting directly with the brilliant mind behind it. Enter Min Jin Lee, the exceptionally talented author who has been actively engaging with readers through a series of signings and fan meetings. These captivating events not only allow avid fans to meet their literary idol in person but also provide a unique opportunity to delve deeper into the inspirations, motivations, and creative process that shaped the phenomenal novel, Pachinko .

( Don’t know where to start with Korean literature? Check out our post – “A Beginner’s Guide to Korean Literature” to help get you started! )

Min Jin Lee’s fan meetings are a testament to her genuine appreciation for her readers. With warmth and enthusiasm, she welcomes audiences into her world, inviting them to explore the intricacies of her writing and the multifaceted characters that inhabit Pachinko . Through these intimate gatherings, attendees have the privilege of witnessing firsthand the author’s passion for storytelling and her commitment to delivering an authentic narrative that resonates deeply with readers.

During signings, Min Jin Lee engages in personal interactions with each reader, taking the time to listen to their experiences and thoughts. This direct exchange fosters a sense of connection and community, as readers not only receive a signed copy of Pachinko but also gain valuable insights and anecdotes from the author herself. Such encounters bring the novel to life in a way that extends beyond the pages, creating lasting memories and forging a deeper appreciation for the literary journey embarked upon by Min Jin Lee.

Exploring Pachinko: A Symbol of Immigrant Experience

Get ready for an incredible journey as you dive into the captivating pages of Min Jin Lee’s remarkable novel, Pachinko . This heartfelt story follows a Korean family who leaves their homeland to seek a better life in Japan. Spanning many years and generations, Pachinko reveals the struggles, triumphs, and the importance of staying true to one’s cultural heritage.

As you join the Baek family on their extraordinary adventure, you’ll discover the power of resilience and determination. Despite facing numerous obstacles, the characters in Pachinko never give up. They inspire readers with their courage and unwavering spirit, reminding us that we can overcome challenges when we believe in ourselves.

One of the most fascinating aspects of Pachinko is how it explores the theme of cultural identity. The Baek family grapples with their Korean heritage while living in Japan, navigating a new culture and facing prejudice along the way. Through their experiences, readers learn about the importance of embracing one’s roots, honoring traditions, and finding strength in their unique cultural background.

The story of Pachinko takes place against a backdrop of historical events. It provides a glimpse into the impact of Japanese colonialism and the aftermath of World War II on the characters’ lives. Through the novel, you’ll gain insights into the history of East Asia while following the Baek family’s journey and understanding the challenges they face in a rapidly changing world.

Join the Conversation: Book Clubs and Discussion Questions

As Pachinko continues to resonate with readers, numerous book clubs have embraced it as a captivating choice for discussion. The novel’s themes, including identity and the interpretation of biblical lessons, provide ample material for engaging conversations. If you’re planning a book club session around Pachinko , you can find thought-provoking discussion questions from the New York Times here .

Pachinko has become a beloved pick for book clubs because it takes readers on an unforgettable journey through the generations of a Korean family in Japan. The story explores the challenges of fitting into a new culture, understanding one’s roots, and the impact of historical events. When book club members gather to discuss Pachinko , it becomes an exciting forum where everyone can share their thoughts, interpretations, and personal connections to the characters and their experiences.

To guide your book club discussions, the New York Times has compiled a list of discussion questions specifically designed for Pachinko . These questions will encourage you and your fellow readers to dig deeper into the story. You’ll explore the motivations of the characters, their relationships, and the historical context that shapes their lives. These prompts will help spark lively conversations that touch on themes like family, sacrifice, prejudice, and the search for one’s true self.

One of the most interesting aspects of Pachinko is how it explores the relationships between characters and their evolving identities. As you discuss the book, you’ll have the chance to debate the characters’ choices and consider the consequences of their actions. The story prompts conversations about cultural heritage, the challenges of fitting in, and the pursuit of personal happiness.

With its fast-paced narrative and moments of intense emotion, Pachinko is an unforgettable reading experience. Min Jin Lee’s masterful storytelling and exploration of complex themes make this novel a must-read. Don’t miss out on this extraordinary tale that captivates readers across generations.

Frequently Asked Questions (FAQ)

Q: where can i watch pachinko in australia.

Pachinko is available for streaming in Australia on Apple TV+.

Q: What does Pachinko mean in Japanese?

Pachinko is a Japanese mechanical game similar to pinball. The word “pachinko” itself does not have a specific meaning in Japanese beyond referring to the game.

Q: Why is Pachinko looked down upon?

The game Pachinko has been associated with gambling and addiction, which has led to its negative perception in certain contexts. Additionally, societal prejudices and stereotypes have contributed to the stigmatization of Pachinko players and establishments.

Q: Is Pachinko based on a true story?

Pachinko is a work of fiction and not based on a specific true story. However, it explores historical events and themes inspired by the experiences of Korean immigrants in Japan during the 20th century.

Q: Can you watch Pachinko on Netflix?

No, Pachinko is not available on Netflix. It is being adapted into a TV series by Apple TV+.

Q: Which streaming service has Pachinko?

Pachinko is available for streaming exclusively on Apple TV+.

Q: Is Pachinko worth watching?

Opinions on the worthiness of watching Pachinko may vary. However, the TV series adaptation has received positive reviews and has been praised for its storytelling, acting, and production quality. It is recommended for those interested in epic historical dramas and stories exploring immigrant experiences.

Q: Why is Pachinko not on Netflix?

The rights to adapt Pachinko into a TV series were acquired by Apple TV+. As a result, it is exclusively available on the Apple TV+ streaming platform and not on Netflix.

Q: How much is Apple TV+ per month?

The monthly subscription price for Apple TV+ varies by region. It is best to check the official Apple TV+ website or contact their customer support for the most up-to-date pricing information for your country.

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Remember to immerse yourself in the remarkable world of Pachinko and explore the captivating narrative crafted by Min Jin Lee. Happy reading!

Another great Korean Historical novel is: White Chrysanthemum by Mary Lynn-Bracht!

What did you think of Pachinko by Min Jin Lee? Let me know here!

Peace! A.J. McMahon . . .

Let’s Connect! –  Instagram: FlyIntoBooks –  Pinterest: FlyIntoBooks –  Facebook: FlyIntoBooks –  Twitter: @FlyIntoBooks –  GoodReads: A.J. McMahon

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Meet the people behind three of the UK’s brilliant independent bookshops

Rebuilding from a fire, competing with Amazon and launching during lockdown – how these indies continue to thrive

A gainst the odds, independent bookshops seem to holding their own: in 2022 the number of indies in the UK and Ireland reached a 10-year high of 1,072 shops, according to the Booksellers Association (BA). Though this year’s figures have dropped a little – there are now 1,063 indie bookshops – bookselling has, on the whole “defied the high street trend for nearly a decade”, a spokesperson from the BA says – especially “if we consider the 2016 figure of 867 shops”. As we come to the end of Independent Bookshop Week, an annual celebration which has this year seen 100 events and 700 shops taking part, we shine the light on three of the UK’s independent bookshops.

The Berwyn Bookshop, north Wales

Few bookshops will have had as dramatic a start as the Berwyn Bookshop, run by Emma and Adam Littler. Three years ago, the couple were working for the business’s then-owner, when it was a dealership based in a warehouse rather than a bookshop, specialising in secondhand and collectible books.

Then, in November 2021, a fire broke out at the warehouse, destroying most of the stock, approximately 400,000 volumes, including extremely rare items such as a book Queen Victoria signed when she gave it as a gift to her lady-in-waiting.

The owner gave up the business after that, and the Littlers decided to take it on. Keeping the old dealership’s name and the small amount of stock that had been rescued from the fire, they relocated and pivoted towards a new business model.

Now, the Berwyn Bookshop is based in a former community centre on a residential estate near Mold. The couple still deal in used and collectible books, mainly via the online portal AbeBooks. But the shop now sells new books, too, and has put on packed-out events with authors including Lisa Jewell, MW Craven and Victoria Hislop.

“We do look different from a conventional shop,” admits Emma, 31. “And when we first started it was a bit of a struggle to convince authors to come to a former community centre in Mold. But the support we’ve had from authors and publishers is tremendous.”

In the wake of the devastating blaze the community rallied round and donated books to help replenish the lost stock. But the Littlers opened their new premises right in the middle of the Covid pandemic, at a time when movement in Wales was highly restricted through local lockdowns.

“We had no idea how we’d make it work after the fire, or if we even could make it work, but we’ve never looked back,” says Emma.

She concedes that running an independent bookshop is hard work and will never be a “get rich quick scheme”.

“The overheads are high and the margins are tight on new books, and we of course have to compete with Amazon and the supermarkets. Sometimes when a new book comes out, we’re paying the publisher per copy more than Amazon are selling it for to the public,” Emma adds.

“But people still seem to like supporting an independent bookshop if they can, and I think the value we offer in terms of the author events and the enthusiasm we have for books is something you can only get at an independent bookshop.”

Wave of Nostalgia, West Yorkshire

Nestled on the picturesque cobbled Main Street in the centre of Haworth, where the Brontës used to walk on a daily basis two centuries ago, Wave of Nostalgia is steeped in literary surroundings.

Earlier this year, it was named the best independent bookshop in the north of England at the British Book awards, which isn’t bad going for a shop that was never meant to be a bookshop at all.

Diane Park originally had a business creating clothing, which she would sell from her workshop in Barnoldswick, on the border between West Yorkshire and Lancashire.

Three years ago she relocated to Haworth, and under the Wave of Nostalgia banner she began to sell gift items as well as clothing, plus a few books.

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“It was the middle of lockdown and I was reading a lot, and I suddenly had this lightbulb moment,” Park says. “If I was catching up on my reading, then so were a lot of other people. And the books were getting more and more interest in the shop. So then it seemed obvious that we should become a bookshop.”

Park carefully curates a lightly themed shop, concentrating on books about feminism and strong women, the LGBTQ+ community, and conservation and environmentalism.

Since setting up, Wave of Nostalgia now has a six-strong staff, and runs events in its cellar and upstairs rooms.

“I never thought I’d need to take on so many people,” Park says. “But the value of an independent bookshop is the knowledge and enthusiasm of the booksellers. One person can’t be on the phone to a customer wanting to place an order and at the same time pushing books into customers’ hands in the shop, saying ‘You have to read this!’”

Haworth is a honey pot for tourists, making running the business a little unpredictable. “You never know how things are going to go … one day you can be full of tourists, and the next it can be dead,” Park says. “But we do seem to be a destination shop for a lot of people. They will come to Haworth just to visit us and to buy a book, or to attend one of our events, which we can have two or three of in a week, sometimes.|

Winning the accolade of best independent bookshop in the north of England was a high point of this year, of course, but Park has her sights set on going even further in next year’s awards. “We’ll be going all out to win the title of best independent in the country,” she says.

Falmouth Bookseller, Cornwall

There has been a bookshop in the centre of the Cornish harbour town of Falmouth for as long as anyone can remember, but for the past three decades the Falmouth Bookseller has been part of the growing chain of Cornish bookshops, started by Ron Johns. As well as the Falmouth shop, Johns owns the St Ives Bookseller, is a partner in the Padstow Bookseller and owns the small independent press Mabecron Books, which primarily publishes Cornish picture books.

Housed in a 200-year-old Georgian building, the Falmouth Bookseller has an arresting shopfront and a bright, airy interior. It’s a “brilliant” place to sell books, “for so many reasons”, says manager Eloise Rowe. “We absolutely have the boost of the Cornish tourist trade during the school holidays,” she says, as well as a year-round customer base of locals and university students.

One of the biggest hurdles is getting publishers to get behind indie bookshops, says Rowe. “We put on talks and events throughout the year, but one of the newer issues we’re facing is larger tour event organisers who do everything in house,” she says. “This means big authors, or perhaps their publicists, are becoming increasingly unlikely to do events directly with an indie bookshop. A few years ago we held an event with Michael Palin in our beautiful church in town, it was sold out and we sold a lot of books that night – that was such a coup for us and the town, but opportunities like that are becoming harder to find.”

That said, Rowe thinks the sector is in pretty good shape. While there are some “really big hurdles”, indies are “a really great place to be, and our customers really do value us”, she says.

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7 New Books We Recommend This Week

Suggested reading from critics and editors at The New York Times.

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Today is the first day of summer, and what better time to read a handful of books about adventures — or misadventures? Our recommended titles this week include Kevin Fedarko’s “A Walk in the Park,” his good-natured romp about encountering bad nature on a trek through the Grand Canyon, along with David Nicholls’s novel about a happier hiking trip, Nicholas Kristof’s memoir of life as a roving reporter and Kassia St. Clair’s look at an epic intercontinental car race in the early days of the automobile. (You can’t even call it a road race, because along much of the route roads were nonexistent.)

On a more sober note, we also recommend Kim A. Wagner’s meticulously researched history of a forgotten military atrocity and Steven Johnson’s reconstruction of an era when anarchists and police forces duked it out in a battle of wits (and dynamite). In fiction, don’t miss Morgan Talty’s rich debut novel, “Fire Exit,” about a man exiled from the only land and culture he has ever known. Happy solstice, and happy reading. — Gregory Cowles

A WALK IN THE PARK: The True Story of a Spectacular Misadventure in the Grand Canyon Kevin Fedarko

Two friends — the adventure writer Fedarko and the photographer Pete McBride — decide to walk the length of the Grand Canyon. What could go wrong? As this wildly entertaining book demonstrates, everything you can imagine, and then some. Fedarko takes us for a ride that’s often harrowing, frequently hilarious and, always, full of wonderful nature writing.

“Fedarko doesn’t describe awe; he induces it, with page-turning action, startling insights and the kind of verbal grace that makes multipage descriptions of, say, a flock of pelicans feel riveting and new.”

From Blair Braverman’s review

Scribner | $32.50

THE INFERNAL MACHINE: A True Story of Dynamite, Terror, and the Rise of the Modern Detective Steven Johnson

From the 1880s to, roughly, 1920, anarchists were considered America’s greatest terror threat. And in telling the stories of Emma Goldman, Alexander Berkman, Peter Kropotkin and the policemen who pursued them, Johnson makes it clear that his real protagonist is dynamite itself. While this functions as a lively history of an era in its own right, it’s also a timely meditation on the nature of violence, protest and American society.

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