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deryckfrancis 's review for:
Pachinko
by Min Jin Lee
dark
emotional
reflective
medium-paced
Plot or Character Driven:
Character
Strong character development:
Complicated
Loveable characters:
Complicated
Diverse cast of characters:
Yes
Flaws of characters a main focus:
Yes
Pachinko was a book club recommendation, but it quickly became one of the most absorbing novels I’ve read. The multigenerational narrative, framed within a rich historical context, immediately drew me in. Rather than focusing on just one standout character, the novel explores the collective experience of the Baek family, and it’s through their story that the real emotional power of the book emerges.
Min Jin Lee offers a stark and unflinching portrayal of the discrimination faced by Koreans living in Japan—from colonial times through to the post-war years. What struck me most was how each generation appeared to progress slightly further than the one before, yet never truly escaped the systemic marginalisation. One of the most heartbreaking moments was Noah’s suicide. His shame—about his heritage, his parentage, and his inability to ever be accepted as Japanese—was devastating. It highlighted just how entrenched these societal divisions were, and how deeply they shaped individual lives.
The writing itself is immersive and grounded. Lee’s style isn’t showy, but it’s incredibly effective in evoking both place and emotion. I thought the transitions across decades and characters were handled with great care, and it made the long span of the novel feel fluid and cohesive. The only sections that didn’t quite work for me were those involving Ayame and Haruki Totoyama. These chapters felt out of sync with the rest of the book and didn’t seem to contribute meaningfully to the wider story.
Solomon’s ending left me with conflicted feelings. After everything, he chooses to return to the pachinko business—a symbol of both the family’s resilience and its social limitations. It felt like the generational struggle to ‘break the glass ceiling’ came full circle. Even though he achieved what others couldn’t, his path still led back to a role defined by the very identity he hoped to transcend. And yet, there was something grounding in that choice, too. By embracing the complexity of his situation—acknowledging that morality and identity aren’t binary—Solomon took back a measure of control.
Overall, Pachinko is a powerful, moving, and quietly devastating novel. It’s a rare kind of historical fiction that manages to be both educational and deeply human. I’d highly recommend it to anyone interested in family sagas, diaspora narratives, or underexplored corners of 20th-century history.
Min Jin Lee offers a stark and unflinching portrayal of the discrimination faced by Koreans living in Japan—from colonial times through to the post-war years. What struck me most was how each generation appeared to progress slightly further than the one before, yet never truly escaped the systemic marginalisation. One of the most heartbreaking moments was Noah’s suicide. His shame—about his heritage, his parentage, and his inability to ever be accepted as Japanese—was devastating. It highlighted just how entrenched these societal divisions were, and how deeply they shaped individual lives.
The writing itself is immersive and grounded. Lee’s style isn’t showy, but it’s incredibly effective in evoking both place and emotion. I thought the transitions across decades and characters were handled with great care, and it made the long span of the novel feel fluid and cohesive. The only sections that didn’t quite work for me were those involving Ayame and Haruki Totoyama. These chapters felt out of sync with the rest of the book and didn’t seem to contribute meaningfully to the wider story.
Solomon’s ending left me with conflicted feelings. After everything, he chooses to return to the pachinko business—a symbol of both the family’s resilience and its social limitations. It felt like the generational struggle to ‘break the glass ceiling’ came full circle. Even though he achieved what others couldn’t, his path still led back to a role defined by the very identity he hoped to transcend. And yet, there was something grounding in that choice, too. By embracing the complexity of his situation—acknowledging that morality and identity aren’t binary—Solomon took back a measure of control.
Overall, Pachinko is a powerful, moving, and quietly devastating novel. It’s a rare kind of historical fiction that manages to be both educational and deeply human. I’d highly recommend it to anyone interested in family sagas, diaspora narratives, or underexplored corners of 20th-century history.
Content Warnings
Graphic: Ableism, Adult/minor relationship, Cancer, Drug abuse, Emotional abuse, Miscarriage, Misogyny, Pedophilia, Rape, Sexual assault, Suicide, Violence, Xenophobia, Police brutality, Grief, Abortion, Death of parent, Alcohol, Sexual harassment