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A review by veingloria
The Boat Rocker by Ha Jin
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.