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pdoan06's review against another edition
dark
emotional
mysterious
tense
slow-paced
- Plot- or character-driven? Character
- Strong character development? No
- Loveable characters? No
- Diverse cast of characters? No
- Flaws of characters a main focus? Yes
3.5
jennermurnan's review against another edition
emotional
reflective
sad
medium-paced
- Plot- or character-driven? A mix
- Strong character development? Yes
- Loveable characters? Yes
- Diverse cast of characters? Yes
- Flaws of characters a main focus? N/A
5.0
novelvisits's review against another edition
3.0
3.5 stars Thanks to @duttonbooks for an ARC of #WhenWeFellApart.
From the beginning, Soon Wiley had me with his debut,
From the beginning, Soon Wiley had me with his debut,
matthewkeating's review against another edition
4.0
Soon Wiley’s debut novel, When We Fell Apart, is about searching.
Korean-American Min Ford, who has always felt “other”—Where do you come from? No, where do you really come from?—has come to Korea to find a sense of belonging, only to find the same judgmental looks and sideways comments from strangers in Korea, obviously out-of-place there, as well. He strikes up a relationship with Kim Yu-jin, a beautiful and intelligent student at a prestigious women’s school in Seoul. Min is living in Seoul on a visa, waiting for something to happen; Yu-jin is finishing school before moving on to the next stage of her life. Neither of them are under any misapprehensions about the transitory nature of their relationship, which both view as a boon.
Things change when, at the beginning of the story, Min is informed that Yu-jin has taken her own life. While Min’s narrative is told in third-person, first-person alternating chapters from his girlfriend Yu-jin examine her perspective. Yu-jin’s chapters look at from a young age, her desire for a sense of self separate from the strict path her parents have railroaded her along. The central conflict of Yu-jin’s life begins when she falls in love with another woman. At first, the tryst is a welcome change of pace, and keeping secrets is exciting; as Yu-jin’s feelings grow more serious, the realization comes that if she is ever outed, she will be ostracized, especially by her father. Min seeks to understand what led his girlfriend to the brink; Yu-jin explains how she got there, starting as a child and working her way up to the final day.
These stories are both handled fairly well, though Wiley has a tendency to over-articulate the motivations and thoughts of both characters, leaving little to imagination or interpretation. Late in the story, a beautiful and ambiguous moment abundant with symbolism is almost literally immediately explained in a way that takes away from the magic Wiley just created. Some may find this a welcome addition; I felt as though it veered into heavy-handedness. In relation to the alternating structure, though, Wiley’s use of dramatic irony throughout feels right, an excellent tool in setting the wistful mood that permeates the novel. Overall, this is the area where Wiley’s tendency to over-explain works in his favor. When he discovers a passion of Yu-jin’s, after her death, Min wonders: ”How many times had she wanted to broach the subject” with him? The audience knows the answer, having heard it from the other side just recently.
One of the central undercurrents of the novel is Wiley’s examination of the social pressures in South Korea: in the end, the book is a harsh look at the culture’s sexism and homophobia, as well as the suffering that comes with truly relentless pressure to succeed. The light cast on homophobia is a particularly unsparing one: South Korea has no protections against discrimination for queer people, and Yu-jin’s perception that her entire life would likely be ruined if she were outed is revisited often.
On Min’s end, Wiley looks at the way a Korean-American born in America is treated by the locals: often either gawked at for his height and build or derided as a kyopo (also spelled gyopo), a term for a Korean who isn’t from Korea. Min provides an excellent vessel for Wiley to show the audience Korean culture, as much of it is new to him, as well.
The central mystery aspect of the story as told from Min’s point of view has a tendency to feel dramatic in an incongruent way with the melancholic and introspective mood of the writing (for example, at one point, Min is dragged into an alleyway and roughed up by suit-wearing henchmen). Some of the elements at play feel slightly hackneyed: the hard-boiled detective punished in his search for the truth, the rich and powerful politician who will do anything to cover it up. Scenes that relate heavily to the external events are the weaker ones.
The dark and foregone conclusion to Yu-jin’s story makes it difficult to be satisfied with its ending; on the other hand, Min’s tale is wrapped up nicely. If one character isn’t done justice, it seems to be So-ra, whose bleak fate is left vague but certainly hopeless. Of the four central characters, So-ra seems to be the only one whose feelings aren’t fleshed out once all the cards are on the table and no secrets are left to be revealed.
The draw to When We Fell Apart, for me, is Wiley’s language, his vivid and fantastical imagery. “Before the sun crests the mountains, before streetlights power down, before stray cats slink under chain-link fences, there is a fleeting moment, a blue-gray spasm that grips Seoul, paralyzing time,” he writes. “Those who are lucky […] can imagine the city as limitless, untethered from time.”
When his focus is on poetic description such as the above, he delivers, hands-down. He has a knack, on display here, for creating a real sense of wonder. The earnestness with which he writes Yu-jin is also striking: the balance between her crystallized, confident exterior and spasmodic, insecure inner life is what makes her narrative the stronger and more interesting of the two. His descriptions of Seoul are surely one of the overarching highlights of the book: the city plays a large role in influencing the lives of these characters. His account of it all is thoughtful and generous — from its most peaceful, the wooded trail at Bongeunsa breaking into a clearing overlooking the skyline, to the pulsing, roiling cacophony of its underground music scene.
A contented sense of closure isn’t one of the gifts Wiley is interested in offering his audience: at the heart, this is a dark and sad story. But he does have gifts to give: a compelling story, told from the heart, a detailed and loving portrait of a beloved city, and sensitive, thoughtful prose.
Korean-American Min Ford, who has always felt “other”—Where do you come from? No, where do you really come from?—has come to Korea to find a sense of belonging, only to find the same judgmental looks and sideways comments from strangers in Korea, obviously out-of-place there, as well. He strikes up a relationship with Kim Yu-jin, a beautiful and intelligent student at a prestigious women’s school in Seoul. Min is living in Seoul on a visa, waiting for something to happen; Yu-jin is finishing school before moving on to the next stage of her life. Neither of them are under any misapprehensions about the transitory nature of their relationship, which both view as a boon.
Things change when, at the beginning of the story, Min is informed that Yu-jin has taken her own life. While Min’s narrative is told in third-person, first-person alternating chapters from his girlfriend Yu-jin examine her perspective. Yu-jin’s chapters look at from a young age, her desire for a sense of self separate from the strict path her parents have railroaded her along. The central conflict of Yu-jin’s life begins when she falls in love with another woman. At first, the tryst is a welcome change of pace, and keeping secrets is exciting; as Yu-jin’s feelings grow more serious, the realization comes that if she is ever outed, she will be ostracized, especially by her father. Min seeks to understand what led his girlfriend to the brink; Yu-jin explains how she got there, starting as a child and working her way up to the final day.
These stories are both handled fairly well, though Wiley has a tendency to over-articulate the motivations and thoughts of both characters, leaving little to imagination or interpretation. Late in the story, a beautiful and ambiguous moment abundant with symbolism is almost literally immediately explained in a way that takes away from the magic Wiley just created. Some may find this a welcome addition; I felt as though it veered into heavy-handedness. In relation to the alternating structure, though, Wiley’s use of dramatic irony throughout feels right, an excellent tool in setting the wistful mood that permeates the novel. Overall, this is the area where Wiley’s tendency to over-explain works in his favor. When he discovers a passion of Yu-jin’s, after her death, Min wonders: ”How many times had she wanted to broach the subject” with him? The audience knows the answer, having heard it from the other side just recently.
One of the central undercurrents of the novel is Wiley’s examination of the social pressures in South Korea: in the end, the book is a harsh look at the culture’s sexism and homophobia, as well as the suffering that comes with truly relentless pressure to succeed. The light cast on homophobia is a particularly unsparing one: South Korea has no protections against discrimination for queer people, and Yu-jin’s perception that her entire life would likely be ruined if she were outed is revisited often.
On Min’s end, Wiley looks at the way a Korean-American born in America is treated by the locals: often either gawked at for his height and build or derided as a kyopo (also spelled gyopo), a term for a Korean who isn’t from Korea. Min provides an excellent vessel for Wiley to show the audience Korean culture, as much of it is new to him, as well.
The central mystery aspect of the story as told from Min’s point of view has a tendency to feel dramatic in an incongruent way with the melancholic and introspective mood of the writing (for example, at one point, Min is dragged into an alleyway and roughed up by suit-wearing henchmen). Some of the elements at play feel slightly hackneyed: the hard-boiled detective punished in his search for the truth, the rich and powerful politician who will do anything to cover it up. Scenes that relate heavily to the external events are the weaker ones.
The dark and foregone conclusion to Yu-jin’s story makes it difficult to be satisfied with its ending; on the other hand, Min’s tale is wrapped up nicely. If one character isn’t done justice, it seems to be So-ra, whose bleak fate is left vague but certainly hopeless. Of the four central characters, So-ra seems to be the only one whose feelings aren’t fleshed out once all the cards are on the table and no secrets are left to be revealed.
The draw to When We Fell Apart, for me, is Wiley’s language, his vivid and fantastical imagery. “Before the sun crests the mountains, before streetlights power down, before stray cats slink under chain-link fences, there is a fleeting moment, a blue-gray spasm that grips Seoul, paralyzing time,” he writes. “Those who are lucky […] can imagine the city as limitless, untethered from time.”
When his focus is on poetic description such as the above, he delivers, hands-down. He has a knack, on display here, for creating a real sense of wonder. The earnestness with which he writes Yu-jin is also striking: the balance between her crystallized, confident exterior and spasmodic, insecure inner life is what makes her narrative the stronger and more interesting of the two. His descriptions of Seoul are surely one of the overarching highlights of the book: the city plays a large role in influencing the lives of these characters. His account of it all is thoughtful and generous — from its most peaceful, the wooded trail at Bongeunsa breaking into a clearing overlooking the skyline, to the pulsing, roiling cacophony of its underground music scene.
A contented sense of closure isn’t one of the gifts Wiley is interested in offering his audience: at the heart, this is a dark and sad story. But he does have gifts to give: a compelling story, told from the heart, a detailed and loving portrait of a beloved city, and sensitive, thoughtful prose.
adrianyt's review against another edition
dark
emotional
reflective
sad
medium-paced
- Plot- or character-driven? Character
- Strong character development? Yes
- Loveable characters? It's complicated
- Diverse cast of characters? Yes
- Flaws of characters a main focus? No
4.25
Solid writing and I learnt something about Korean culture and the diaspora experience
allisonrae13's review against another edition
emotional
reflective
slow-paced
- Plot- or character-driven? Character
- Strong character development? Yes
- Loveable characters? Yes
- Diverse cast of characters? Yes
- Flaws of characters a main focus? Yes
3.25
hitch's review against another edition
mysterious
slow-paced
- Plot- or character-driven? Character
- Strong character development? Yes
- Loveable characters? It's complicated
- Diverse cast of characters? Yes
- Flaws of characters a main focus? Yes
3.0
sllau's review against another edition
2.5
Had trouble getting into it and picking it back up. It explored conflict and self identity and turmoil well
thursdd4y's review against another edition
5.0
Wow wow wow wow - this book I really feel deserves 5 stars. The characters were all well formed, the narrative believable, and the ending is so painfully realistic that it’s sobering. I really enjoyed the dual narrative and the varying timescales.
I don’t want to share spoilers but I will just say that Min and Yu-Jin’s characterisations are well crafted. As a woman, I resonated with Yu-Jin and the pressures she faced. I could understand her rigidity and tunnel vision, and her performative nature made sense to me. However, Min’s struggle over a dual identity resonated with me most - not belonging to either ‘side’ fully, because you’re still one half ‘something else’. Being half Turkish in Britain was a challenge growing up, as I was completely detached from my Turkish heritage, yet simultaneously targeted by British people for my Turkish maiden name and being labelled as ‘other’ because of it. I felt alienated from both sides, so this is something I massively appreciated from Min’s narrative.
As a criticism, I didn’t massively understand the ending for So-ra. It just didn’t quite add up or make sense for me. I also really hate reading ‘committed suicide’ - ‘died by suicide’ is the preferred term. But I’ll admit that this terminology is what is probably used in South Korea, so it’s okay.
I don’t want to share spoilers but I will just say that Min and Yu-Jin’s characterisations are well crafted. As a woman, I resonated with Yu-Jin and the pressures she faced. I could understand her rigidity and tunnel vision, and her performative nature made sense to me. However, Min’s struggle over a dual identity resonated with me most - not belonging to either ‘side’ fully, because you’re still one half ‘something else’. Being half Turkish in Britain was a challenge growing up, as I was completely detached from my Turkish heritage, yet simultaneously targeted by British people for my Turkish maiden name and being labelled as ‘other’ because of it. I felt alienated from both sides, so this is something I massively appreciated from Min’s narrative.
As a criticism, I didn’t massively understand the ending for So-ra. It just didn’t quite add up or make sense for me. I also really hate reading ‘committed suicide’ - ‘died by suicide’ is the preferred term. But I’ll admit that this terminology is what is probably used in South Korea, so it’s okay.