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sjgrodsky's review against another edition
3.0
Read for the JCC book
selection committee book club. Then I realized I had a conflict and couldn't attend the meeting. I might not have spent time with this uninspired account had I worked that out sooner.
Although i thought it was just ok as a story, it's a good book club selection. I think this book will inspire a lively discussion as members debate the narrator's motivations and reliability. The picture is very mixed.
I had lost patience with (and interest in) the narrator long before the last page.
The book did give me some (presumably reliable) insight into how Chinese regard their country, a strange mix of pride, duty, obligation, and fear.
selection committee book club. Then I realized I had a conflict and couldn't attend the meeting. I might not have spent time with this uninspired account had I worked that out sooner.
Although i thought it was just ok as a story, it's a good book club selection. I think this book will inspire a lively discussion as members debate the narrator's motivations and reliability. The picture is very mixed.
I had lost patience with (and interest in) the narrator long before the last page.
The book did give me some (presumably reliable) insight into how Chinese regard their country, a strange mix of pride, duty, obligation, and fear.
stevenyenzer's review against another edition
3.0
The Boat Rocker provides a look into the tightrope its Chinese and Chinese-American characters have to walk in pursuing truths that are inconvenient for their governments.
The fact that Danlin's journalistic exposé is about his ex-wife and her relatively meaningless exaggerations doesn't make his crusade any less justified. But over the course of the novel, Ha Jin forces the reader into the same position as the ignorant public — knowing that they are being lied to and not really caring.
What chance does a crusader for truth like Danlin have against an indifferent, distractible public and the bureaucracies of two world superpowers who have mastered the art of using citizens' apathy against them?
The fact that Danlin's journalistic exposé is about his ex-wife and her relatively meaningless exaggerations doesn't make his crusade any less justified. But over the course of the novel, Ha Jin forces the reader into the same position as the ignorant public — knowing that they are being lied to and not really caring.
What chance does a crusader for truth like Danlin have against an indifferent, distractible public and the bureaucracies of two world superpowers who have mastered the art of using citizens' apathy against them?
debr's review against another edition
3.0
Oh dear. I really like Waiting. This book did not even come close. There are some interesting ideas in here about identity and politics, but they are buried beneath poor character development, impossibly awkward narratives, and a host of other basic literary shortfalls. Surprising and disappointing from this author.
dentaldiva's review against another edition
1.0
The irony of this book is that it is a terrible book about a terrible book. I couldn't even finish it.
margaretefg's review
3.0
The narrator, a thirty ish Chinese journalist living in New York, wants to expose fraudulent classes claims by his ex wife about her new novel. as the novel continued I got more suspicious that he was not reading the signs of his own vulnerability. he got increasingly tangled in a web of intrigue in which powerful people in China were manipulating events in the US. while the narrator keeps asserting that the US is there home of free speech and the rule of law, events in the book suggest otherwise.
blevins's review
2.0
Not so great Ha Jin novel that droned on and on about subjects and characters that didn't interest me in the slightest. I've enjoyed other books by him and it's been a few years, so I kept plodding along...it never picked up.
kcooper2710's review
reflective
tense
medium-paced
- Loveable characters? No
- Diverse cast of characters? Yes
- Flaws of characters a main focus? Yes
3.0
eagneta's review
informative
fast-paced
- Plot- or character-driven? Plot
- Strong character development? No
- Loveable characters? No
- Diverse cast of characters? No
- Flaws of characters a main focus? No
1.5
avvid's review
3.0
So I’m listening to this book on audio and all of a sudden it just ends. Nothing is resolved; no lesson is imparted. It’s as if you were to choose a random page partway through a completed book and write “the end”, and tear out the remaining pages. And then they rolled the credits and the audio ended. I was enjoying it enough up to that point. Not the greatest piece of literature, but mildly provocative. And then it ended. Hard to review without a legit ending. Sorry.
veingloria's review
1.0
Set in New York City just four years following 9/11, The Boat Rocker delineates Chinese journalist Feng Danlin’s exhaustive attempts to uncover and reveal to the public the relationship between his ex-wife’s romance novel and the Chinese government. Taking notice of Danlin’s writings, prominent Chinese figures step in to meddle with his career and his relationships. Things spiral out of control from there.
Frankly, I hated this book for a multitude of reasons. However, I’ll discuss the (scant) positives. Ha’s light and breezy prose makes for easy reading without crossing the line into being too simplistic or watered down. There is some interesting insight on Chinese culture and politics, although it can come off as a bit hamfisted at times.
This work’s most glaring flaw is the plot — or, depending on one’s perspective, the lack thereof. From the reader’s vantage point, there’s no appreciable conflict. The Chinese government may be meddling in Yan Haili’s marketing for her jejune romance novel, sure, but what kind of substantial impact does that have on the world? Why does this warrant the use of the main character’s time and resources compared to any number of other Chinese political issues that are indubitably more deserving of more publicity? Had the main character chosen to let the fanfare play out, the book would’ve dwindled into obscurity at some point, but just like picking at a festering wound, his “journalistic” efforts only serve to boost the novel’s presence in people’s minds and eventually leads to larger consequences for both the main character and the people surrounding him.
If you want us to take the main character’s side, you cannot write conversations that underscore how illogical their actions are. This occurs multiple times in the story, first with Shao Niya, a friend of Danlin’s ex-wife, and Kaiming, Danlin’s boss. The following is a conversation between Niya and Danlin.
“You rushed into the fray with so much passion that you cannot get out of it. You ought to be rational about this, Danlin. What’s at stake here? It’s just a romance novel—it’s not worth the time you’ve been spending on it.”
“My boss assigned this story to me, and with good reason. Haili and those behind her have been exploiting 9/11. They’re profiting from people’s pain and loss.”
“Who hasn’t made use of the tragedy? The White House has been using it, the Chinese government has been using it, Islamic militants have been using it, oil companies have been taking advantage of it, and every gas station has been benefiting from us. None of us can separate ourselves from the tragedy now that it has happened. We’re all a part of it.” (pp. 96)
Honestly, I’m with Niya here.
The second prominent issue that significantly hindered my enjoyment of the book was the prose. I always hesitate to remark on a non-native English speaker’s writing style, but seeing as how Ha Jin currently occupies a position as creative writing program director at a university, I don’t think his prose is exempt from criticism. As many other reviews have noted, his writing style reads as a poor translation. Ha also exhibits the unfortunate tendency of telling over showing, as seen in this example:
“I filed my second column on the scandal. In it, I quoted from the original press release announcing that Love and Death in September was being translated into thirty languages and threw that claim against my own conversation with Silverwood, where he had denied even having heard of the novel...I also mentioned that the Nobel Prize Nomination Committee in New Jersey was busy composing their Nobel nomination letter to be sent certified to Stockholm—the letter wasn’t difficult to write, I noted drily, but they couldn’t yet find a person among them capable of rendering it into formal English.” (pp. 60)
Instead of telling us what was in the column, why not include a snippet, or even the whole thing? That would reveal so much more about both the characters and the situation in a naturalistic and intriguing manner than just describing what was written. Choices like these strongly detracted from my enjoyment of the prose.
Dialogue is unfailingly my favorite part of any story, but it’s surprisingly difficult for many authors to master. Ha is no exception; his dialogue strikes me as unnatural and awkward. I simply can’t imagine the characters speaking like this in real life. One example comes in the form of another conversation between Niya and Danlin towards the end of the book:
“...It’s naive to maintain the distinction between the state and the ruling party, because every high official in China is a Party member—the Party has made itself identical with the country. The truth is that a country is not a god, it’s a historical construct. It’s foolish to imagine the country as a mystical figure, a generous mother that has raised all the Chinese, who in return must be obedient, longing for her love and nurturance. That’s a fallacy, a lie.”
“Wait a second,” Niya broke in. “I object! I believe we must maintain a distinction between the country and the ruling power, just as I love China but hate the Chinese government. Shame on you for you just said.” (pp. 213)
Frankly, who talks like this? I’d be more forgiving if this were a translation, but it’s not. Characters can have intense political and intellectual discussions without sounding like dry ivory tower scholars. There’s no distinction between characters — their speaking style is all the same. It’s bland yet pretentious, with intense vocabulary gratuitously peppered throughout. The issue with bad dialogue is that it completely sucks out the life and color of a character. As a result, each character in this book feels flat and unconvincing.
This segues into another point: the characters. Good lord, none of them were likeable. There was no one to root for, and while that can make for an interesting premise, it was clear that the author wanted the reader to root for Danlin and hate Haili. I finished the story not particularly attached to anyone. Danlin was especially grating — he’s braggadocious, vaguely misogynistic, spiteful, petty, and emotionally stunted, with virtually no redeeming qualities.
One thing that surprised me — and not in a good way — was the fact that the romance novel “plot” was dropped roughly three-quarters of the way through the book. Once Chinese officials interfere with Danlin’s livelihood, he simply drops the issue altogether and stops writing it. Thereafter, he licks his wounds and endlessly waxes poetic about China’s brutal oppression of its people. This would have felt more genuine and compelling had this not all occurred over something so mundane.
Although I ended up finishing the book, I feel no more enriched for it and I can’t bring myself to recommend it. I can see what Ha was attempting to accomplish, but if one wants to criticize their government and its relationship with its subjects and the media, perhaps they should choose a higher stakes situation than the publication of a shoddy romance novel to illustrate that concept.
Frankly, I hated this book for a multitude of reasons. However, I’ll discuss the (scant) positives. Ha’s light and breezy prose makes for easy reading without crossing the line into being too simplistic or watered down. There is some interesting insight on Chinese culture and politics, although it can come off as a bit hamfisted at times.
This work’s most glaring flaw is the plot — or, depending on one’s perspective, the lack thereof. From the reader’s vantage point, there’s no appreciable conflict. The Chinese government may be meddling in Yan Haili’s marketing for her jejune romance novel, sure, but what kind of substantial impact does that have on the world? Why does this warrant the use of the main character’s time and resources compared to any number of other Chinese political issues that are indubitably more deserving of more publicity? Had the main character chosen to let the fanfare play out, the book would’ve dwindled into obscurity at some point, but just like picking at a festering wound, his “journalistic” efforts only serve to boost the novel’s presence in people’s minds and eventually leads to larger consequences for both the main character and the people surrounding him.
If you want us to take the main character’s side, you cannot write conversations that underscore how illogical their actions are. This occurs multiple times in the story, first with Shao Niya, a friend of Danlin’s ex-wife, and Kaiming, Danlin’s boss. The following is a conversation between Niya and Danlin.
“You rushed into the fray with so much passion that you cannot get out of it. You ought to be rational about this, Danlin. What’s at stake here? It’s just a romance novel—it’s not worth the time you’ve been spending on it.”
“My boss assigned this story to me, and with good reason. Haili and those behind her have been exploiting 9/11. They’re profiting from people’s pain and loss.”
“Who hasn’t made use of the tragedy? The White House has been using it, the Chinese government has been using it, Islamic militants have been using it, oil companies have been taking advantage of it, and every gas station has been benefiting from us. None of us can separate ourselves from the tragedy now that it has happened. We’re all a part of it.” (pp. 96)
Honestly, I’m with Niya here.
The second prominent issue that significantly hindered my enjoyment of the book was the prose. I always hesitate to remark on a non-native English speaker’s writing style, but seeing as how Ha Jin currently occupies a position as creative writing program director at a university, I don’t think his prose is exempt from criticism. As many other reviews have noted, his writing style reads as a poor translation. Ha also exhibits the unfortunate tendency of telling over showing, as seen in this example:
“I filed my second column on the scandal. In it, I quoted from the original press release announcing that Love and Death in September was being translated into thirty languages and threw that claim against my own conversation with Silverwood, where he had denied even having heard of the novel...I also mentioned that the Nobel Prize Nomination Committee in New Jersey was busy composing their Nobel nomination letter to be sent certified to Stockholm—the letter wasn’t difficult to write, I noted drily, but they couldn’t yet find a person among them capable of rendering it into formal English.” (pp. 60)
Instead of telling us what was in the column, why not include a snippet, or even the whole thing? That would reveal so much more about both the characters and the situation in a naturalistic and intriguing manner than just describing what was written. Choices like these strongly detracted from my enjoyment of the prose.
Dialogue is unfailingly my favorite part of any story, but it’s surprisingly difficult for many authors to master. Ha is no exception; his dialogue strikes me as unnatural and awkward. I simply can’t imagine the characters speaking like this in real life. One example comes in the form of another conversation between Niya and Danlin towards the end of the book:
“...It’s naive to maintain the distinction between the state and the ruling party, because every high official in China is a Party member—the Party has made itself identical with the country. The truth is that a country is not a god, it’s a historical construct. It’s foolish to imagine the country as a mystical figure, a generous mother that has raised all the Chinese, who in return must be obedient, longing for her love and nurturance. That’s a fallacy, a lie.”
“Wait a second,” Niya broke in. “I object! I believe we must maintain a distinction between the country and the ruling power, just as I love China but hate the Chinese government. Shame on you for you just said.” (pp. 213)
Frankly, who talks like this? I’d be more forgiving if this were a translation, but it’s not. Characters can have intense political and intellectual discussions without sounding like dry ivory tower scholars. There’s no distinction between characters — their speaking style is all the same. It’s bland yet pretentious, with intense vocabulary gratuitously peppered throughout. The issue with bad dialogue is that it completely sucks out the life and color of a character. As a result, each character in this book feels flat and unconvincing.
This segues into another point: the characters. Good lord, none of them were likeable. There was no one to root for, and while that can make for an interesting premise, it was clear that the author wanted the reader to root for Danlin and hate Haili. I finished the story not particularly attached to anyone. Danlin was especially grating — he’s braggadocious, vaguely misogynistic, spiteful, petty, and emotionally stunted, with virtually no redeeming qualities.
One thing that surprised me — and not in a good way — was the fact that the romance novel “plot” was dropped roughly three-quarters of the way through the book. Once Chinese officials interfere with Danlin’s livelihood, he simply drops the issue altogether and stops writing it. Thereafter, he licks his wounds and endlessly waxes poetic about China’s brutal oppression of its people. This would have felt more genuine and compelling had this not all occurred over something so mundane.
Although I ended up finishing the book, I feel no more enriched for it and I can’t bring myself to recommend it. I can see what Ha was attempting to accomplish, but if one wants to criticize their government and its relationship with its subjects and the media, perhaps they should choose a higher stakes situation than the publication of a shoddy romance novel to illustrate that concept.