If you have yet to dip your toes into the sea of Asian literature, I have read a few novels in my time that I found to be a great introduction to an entirely new world of writing. Some of these books are more well-known than others, some are written by Asian-American authors, and some are translations from their original language. Regardless, I picked all of these recommendations because, over anything else, they are beautiful stories from beautiful people. Such stories will stay with me forever, and I hope that they have a similar impact on anyone else who decides to read them.Â
Most of these are written by Korean authors since I tend to gravitate towards Korean names when I read Asian literature, but there are countless other amazing novels by non-Korean and non-East Asian authors as well.Â
“Yunjae was born with a brain condition called Alexithymia that makes it hard for him to feel emotions like fear or anger. He does not have friends—the two almond-shaped neurons located deep in his brain have seen to that—but his devoted mother and grandmother provide him with a safe and content life. Their little home above his mother’s used bookstore is decorated with colorful Post-it notes that remind him when to smile, when to say “thank you,” and when to laugh. Then on Christmas Eve—Yunjae’s sixteenth birthday—everything changes. A shocking act of random violence shatters his world, leaving him alone and on his own. Struggling to cope with his loss, Yunjae retreats into silent isolation, until troubled teenager Gon arrives at his school, and they develop a surprising bond.”
“Almond” was translated from Korean into English. I have my reservations when it comes to translated novels because oftentimes there are phrases or words in the original language that are unable to be translated—even if it is an altered translation and not direct, it doesn’t always hit the mark. However, “Almond” has been praised specifically for its English translation, and though I am not fluent, I can say that I recognize the effort and care after skimming the original Korean version.Â
I have also never really liked books that revolve around specific medical conditions because there are so many books out there that either romanticize being sick or have an offensive and inaccurate portrayal of said condition. My mom recommended “Almond” to me, and though I was skeptical, I decided that since I got the physical copy for Christmas I would at least give it a try. I am so glad that I did. “Almond” is a heartbreaking but beautiful book, and it’s one of those stories that makes you really root for the main character. Something that I especially like about this book, as well as several others on this list, is the fact that so many of the characters are morally gray. It makes you think a lot harder about their actions and decisions, and it’s a really individualistic thought process because of how complicated the characters’ situations are.
“In Bliss Montage, Ling Ma brings us eight wildly different tales of people making their way through the madness and reality of our collective delusions: love and loneliness, connection and possession, friendship, motherhood, the idea of home. From a woman who lives in a house with all of her ex-boyfriends, to a toxic friendship built around a drug that makes you invisible, to an ancient ritual that might heal you of anything if you bury yourself alive, these and other scenarios reveal that the outlandish and the everyday are shockingly, deceptively, heartbreakingly similar.”
Last fall semester in August 2022, every incoming English major received a copy of Ling Ma’s debut novel “Severance.” It was an honor to meet her and have her sign my copy, as well as my copy of “Bliss Montage” which I purchased on the spot. Though I have not included “Severance” on this list, I also highly recommend it. “Bliss Montage” is her sophomore novel, and it surpassed my expectations (though they were never low in the first place).Â
My two favorite stories are “Los Angeles” and “G.” There is a haunting in Ma’s words that really resonated with me as a fellow Asian-American, and I find it especially apparent in my favorites. My favorite thing about these short stories might be the symbolism hidden in each one. They seem odd and abstract on the surface, but a closer read shows you the real meaning underneath the Yeti lovemaking and the drugs that make you turn invisible.
“Michelle Zauner tells of growing up one of the few Asian American kids at her school in Eugene, Oregon; of struggling with her mother’s particular, high expectations of her; of a painful adolescence; of treasured months spent in her grandmother’s tiny apartment in Seoul, where she and her mother would bond, late at night, over heaping plates of food. As she grew up, moving to the East Coast for college, finding work in the restaurant industry, and performing gigs with her fledgling band—and meeting the man who would become her husband—her Koreanness began to feel ever more distant, even as she found the life she wanted to live. It was her mother’s diagnosis of terminal cancer, when Michelle was twenty-five, that forced a reckoning with her identity and brought her to reclaim the gifts of taste, language, and history her mother had given her.”
A common struggle that many Asian Americans face is parental issues. The stereotypes of having a “tiger mom” haunt us, no matter our specific ethnicity. Zauner’s description of her relationship with her mother throughout her life, as well as her struggles with being Korean-American as well as biracial, hit very close to home despite our differences. I have also loved Zauner’s music for years, and finding out that one of her albums was created because of the grief she dealt with after her mother’s death applied so much meaningful context.Â
Not only do I highly recommend Zauner’s book, which delves into the depths of a disconnect with your heritage, but also her music–especially her album “Psychopomp.”
“In a small, tidy apartment on the outskirts of the frenzied metropolis of Seoul lives Kim Jiyoung. A thirty something-year-old “millennial everywoman,” she has recently left her white-collar desk job—in order to care for her newborn daughter full-time—as so many Korean women are expected to do. But she quickly begins to exhibit strange symptoms that alarm her husband, parents, and in-laws: Jiyoung impersonates the voices of other women—alive and even dead, both known and unknown to her. As she plunges deeper into this psychosis, her discomfited husband sends her to a male psychiatrist.”Â
For a very long time, feminism was frowned upon in Korea. Even in the modern day, it’s not widely socially acceptable to be open about being a feminist. Countless beloved celebrities have been highly criticized for expressing their agreement with feminist ideals—especially female celebrities. RM from BTS was even criticized for reading this specific novel.Â
Of course, the country’s opposition to everything this book stands for is a large part of what makes it so compelling. As an American, I can duly agree with the statement that a lot of Americans are blind to worldwide issues—not that it is an individual’s responsibility to be one hundred percent aware of every current issue in the world. I myself did not know the extent of the distaste towards feminism in Korea until I read this book.Â
The English translation for this novel is not my favorite, but the story and the message behind it more than make up for it. I think this is an important novel for people to read, but especially for feminists and Korean-Americans. As someone who is both, I can say that it was an eye-opening and enjoyable read.
“On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous is a letter from a son to a mother who cannot read. Written when the speaker, Little Dog, is in his late twenties, the letter unearths a family’s history that began before he was born — a history whose epicenter is rooted in Vietnam — and serves as a doorway into parts of his life his mother has never known, all of it leading to an unforgettable revelation. At once a witness to the fraught yet undeniable love between a single mother and her son, it is also a brutally honest exploration of race, class, and masculinity. Asking questions central to our American moment, immersed as we are in addiction, violence, and trauma, but undergirded by compassion and tenderness, On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous is as much about the power of telling one’s own story as it is about the obliterating silence of not being heard.”
I specifically recommend this book to anyone who is the child of immigrants. My parents might have grown up in California for most of their lives, but this made me wonder what life would have been like had they stayed in Korea for more of their lives. Ocean Vuong is quite famous on social media, and you have probably seen some of his writing, whether you realize it or not. I see quotes from his book all over Instagram and TikTok, many of which are included in sad and aesthetic posts meant to tug at the heartstrings. Indeed, Vuong’s writing brings a tear to the eye, especially if you’re reading the entire book in one sitting.Â
This book also explores masculinity within Asian communities, which I think is a very important discussion. Masculinity is a sensitive topic for Asian men because they are shunned in so many aspects. Plenty of non-Asians see Asian men as feminine simply because of their race and or culture—this is evident from the constant, purposeful misgendering of male Asian celebrities and stereotypical jokes about penis sizes and height. On the other hand, masculinity is often handled awkwardly in Asian communities; sons are preferred over daughters, so as soon as they are born, men are both privileged and burdened by this. It’s a difficult discussion, especially if one is grappling with both sides of the coin as an Asian-American male, and I think Ocean Vuong’s poetic writing handled it delicately and maturely in a way that no one else has managed to achieve.
“In the early 1900s, teenaged Sunja, the adored daughter of a crippled fisherman, falls for a wealthy stranger at the seashore near her home in Korea. He promises her the world, but when she discovers she is pregnant — and that her lover is married — she refuses to be bought. Instead, she accepts an offer of marriage from a gentle, sickly minister passing through on his way to Japan. But her decision to abandon her home, and to reject her son’s powerful father, sets off a dramatic saga that will echo down through the generations.”
I have read one other fiction novel that discusses the historical impact of Japan on Korea, but I think that “Pachinko” is unique because of the extensive timeline the novel follows. We see Sunja in so many different stages of her life, from her youth to her golden years. Consequently, we see her as a tortured character because we see all of her struggles in-depth and as they occur. However, I think this shock factor was a good way to frame this story, especially if the reader is not that knowledgeable about Japan’s occupation of Korea and how severe of an impact it had on the country and culture. Even today, you can still see it if you look close enough.Â
Additionally, I absolutely adore Min Jin Lee. I have yet to read her other novels, but I have heard nothing but high praise. There is so much that happens in this book that it is impossible to simply skim it or discuss only parts of it, and I highly recommend it to absolutely anyone, but again, especially to those who are unfamiliar with the history of Japan and Korea. Also, it was recently adapted into a show on Apple TV, which I have only heard good things about.
“When sixty-nine year old So-nyo is separated from her husband among the crowds of the Seoul subway station, and vanishes, their children are consumed with loud recriminations, and are awash in sorrow and guilt. As they argue over the “Missing” flyers they are posting throughout the city – how large of a reward to offer, the best way to phrase the text – they realize that none of them have a recent photograph of Mom. Soon a larger question emerges: do they really know the woman they called Mom?”Â
Similar to my thoughts on “Crying in H-Mart” by Michelle Zauner, I think this book is essential for anyone who has parental issues. I love my mother, and the fact that she recommended both of these books to me makes me want to sob, but it really explores the relationship between Asian parents and their children. For me, it was very realistic and offered a glimpse into my mother’s possible point of view, which I never really thought about, being the selfish child that I am. In a way, that’s exactly what this book is about—how easy it is to focus on yourself after you’ve grown up, and you don’t realize how far you’ve drifted until it’s too late. There is a specific quote from this book that brings me to tears every time, and like Vuong’s work, I have seen it circulating over social media.Â
“To you, Mom was always Mom. It never occurred to you that she had once taken her first step, or had once been three or twelve or twenty years old. Mom was Mom. She was born as Mom. Until you saw her running to your uncle like that, it hadn’t dawned on you that she was a human being who harbored the exact same feeling you had for your own brothers, and this realization led to the awareness that she, too, had had a childhood. From then on, you sometimes thought of Mom as a child, as a girl, as a young woman, as a newlywed, as a mother who had just given birth to you.”
“Athena Liu is a literary darling and June Hayward is literally nobody. When Athena dies in a freak accident, June steals her unpublished manuscript and publishes it as her own under the ambiguous name Juniper Song. But as evidence threatens June’s stolen success, she will discover exactly how far she will go to keep what she thinks she deserves.”Â
I remember this being a highly anticipated novel because of Kuang’s past success with her debut series. I have not yet read “The Poppy War” trilogy, but after reading “Yellowface,” I might have to. This is one of the best satirical novels I have ever read. It puts a spin on the common criticism of Asian Americans for having “white-washed” aliases or pseudonyms, as well as the fetishization of Asian culture by white Americans. The scary part is that June’s character, as insufferable and racist as she is, isn’t that much of a fantasy villain. There are people like her everywhere in reality, and I have been unfortunate enough to come across several people like her character in my life. That is what makes the satire so delicious but equally terrifying.Â
“Before the nightmare, Yeong-hye and her husband lived an ordinary life. But when splintering, blood-soaked images start haunting her thoughts, Yeong-hye decides to purge her mind and renounce eating meat. In a country where societal mores are strictly obeyed, Yeong-hye’s decision to embrace a more “plant-like” existence is a shocking act of subversion. And as her passive rebellion manifests in ever more extreme and frightening forms, scandal, abuse, and estrangement begin to send Yeong-hye spiraling deep into the spaces of her fantasy. In a complete metamorphosis of both mind and body, her now dangerous endeavor will take Yeong-hye—impossibly, ecstatically, tragically—far from her once-known self altogether.”
If I could use a singular word to describe this book, it would be abstract. When you scroll through the top reviews on GoodReads, there’s a mixture of emotions—mainly confusion, but an underlying sense of compelling, sick curiosity that makes people prod further for answers. I felt similarly: I was a little confused by the writing style and the plot, but I think that is part of the ultimate point. Additionally, I wasn’t a particular fan of this English translation, and I think the wording and intonation were what added to a lot of the general confusion. However, I really liked this book overall. It almost reminded me a little bit of “Kim Jiyoung, Born 1982,” because of the feminist themes, but with a lot more gore and visceral imagery.Â
“Osamu Dazai’s No Longer Human, this leading postwar Japanese writer’s second novel, tells the poignant and fascinating story of a young man who is caught between the breakup of the traditions of a northern Japanese aristocratic family and the impact of Western ideas. In consequence, he feels himself “disqualified from being human” (a literal translation of the Japanese title).”Â
“No Longer Human” is more of a classic in comparison to the more contemporary and modern books I have on this list. However, it is so inspirational that I have actually read fanfiction based on this premise, and I completely understand that writer’s decision. Similarly to “The Vegetarian,” this book deals with some really dark themes in quite graphic ways. There’s also a lot of misogyny and hate prevalent within the novel—which makes some people wonder how such a story could possibly be enjoyable. If you’re looking to find enjoyment and happiness in a book, then this novel, along with most other books on this list, is not for you. “No Longer Human” explores the unfortunate life of an unlucky individual and questions how far a person can be pushed before they lose their humanity. I also think it’s important to keep in mind the fact that “bad” characters don’t automatically make a story bad—simply mentioning something dark is not glorifying it.Â
There is so much good literature out there, and people who refuse to expand their horizons and read books from other countries and cultures are only hurting themselves by limiting their experiences and knowledge. Even if you end up not liking any of these books, or just Asian literature in general, it can’t hurt to give it a shot.