Isabel Allende and the Use of Trauma in Fiction
Thoughts on Isabel Allende’s latest book, The Japanese Lover, and how she approaches trauma throughout the narrative.
*
In The Japanese Lover (Atria Books 2015; translated from the Spanish El amante japonés by Nick Caistor and Amanda Hopkinson), Isabel Allende demonstrates her masterful storytelling through a rich cast of characters and a tapestry-style structure that weaves together different times, places, and plots.
If you’ve read The House of the Spirits, don’t expect this to be quite the same; it’s more historical fiction than magical realism (though it has a few ghosts) and more of a practice in looking backward than moving forward — that is, the experience of reading this book is about sitting down to dwell with excellent characters and their memories, and not so much about finding out what’s going to happen next.
So it’s not a “page turner” in the common sense, but you’ll keep turning the pages just to spend a little more time with Alma, Irina, and the other deeply human characters you’ll meet. (Including the hilarious weed-smoking old people at Lark House.)
My short review is this:
The Japanese Lover takes loud stories — stories of overwhelming love and trauma — and makes those stories quiet, which isn’t easy. If that sounds appealing to you as a reader, then I definitely recommend this book.
cw: the rest of this piece addresses topics surrounding trauma, sexual violence, and PTSD. also, medium-level spoilers.
The irrevocable trauma of Japanese internment
in the United States cannot be understated. There’s a temptation to applaud Allende for including this narrative in the first place, since stories of internment are grossly underrepresented in World War II narratives, whether fiction or nonfiction. We must resist that temptation.
In this case, the trauma does not seem to be a mere “plot device” — although it certainly adds new depth to the plot — because it simply had to be there, because we have a Japanese family living in California in the ‘40s, because the narrative simply presents itself. Because it is the only truth.
Sometimes it felt too lighthearted, especially in Allende’s treatment of the damaged lives that emerged from unlawful incarceration. Sometimes it felt like the racism that the Fukuda family endured, even outside the camps, was more of an afterthought. Granted, these are not the main characters.
The story of Irina’s horrendous sexual trauma and exploitation,
on the other hand, really should not be an afterthought. I have a lot of mixed feelings about the use of sexual trauma in fiction, both (1) as a plot device that adds a twist to the narrative, and (2) as a tragic backstory that adds a “depth” to an otherwise-flat female character.
The way Allende approaches the revelation of sexually traumatic backstory! and the aha moment of finally getting over it! disappointed me immensely. I want there to be representation of sexual assault survivors in literature — representation is everything! But it felt like this horrifying story of trauma had been tossed in just to give Irina’s love story an interesting obstacle, and to make the book a little more edgy.
(Toss in an abortion storyline for some extra zest!)
On the other hand, narratives addressing PTSD can actually be some of the most evocative stories there are, allowing writers to interrogate humanity and truth in ways that would be impossible without the element of trauma (see: The Things They Carried by Tim O’Brien; Beloved by Toni Morrison).
I even feel conflicted offering this critique, because obviously the repercussions of that kind of violence do present obstacles to real-life survivors every day. Would it be fair to Irina as a character to make her childhood trauma take center stage in a story that isn’t really about that? After all, a terrible experience should not define a life — and yet. Almost every aspect of Irina’s character seems to be explained away by this one experience; she likes fantasy and sci-fi because they help her escape her own reality, and so on.
Here’s another question, perhaps unanswerable: why does a woman need to a tragic backstory to justify not wanting to be touched?
“The Only Interesting Sort of GirlAngst”
In the words of Maggie Stiefvater, who wrote This is a Post About Literary Rape (which I recommend, as she more thoroughly interrogates the misogyny that underlies — and is reinforced by — the “rape-as-plot-device” problem):
It starts to feel like the author believes the only interesting sort of GirlAngst is sexual abuse.
Yes. Having someone force themselves on us is pretty damn traumatic, folks. But guess what? Our personalities are formed by a whole host of experiences. Pretty much the same host of experiences that any man might encounter.
How can writers better represent characters who are survivors of trauma without tokenizing them, and without using that trauma as a plot device?
If you’ve read the book (or even if you haven’t and are just interested in the issue at stake) let me know if you have any thoughts/insights/recommended reading. Keep the conversation going.
Thanks for reading — I’m new to Medium and will follow back!
-Anna
