In the first few pages after opening Sohn Won-Pyung’s Almond, the central character recounts witnessing his mother and grandmother falling victim to a horrific killing. The next fifty pages rewind to build the backstory around Yunjae and his family before building up to the attack and exploring the aftermath as Yunjae tries to move on, make friends, and subsist as an orphan.
The central conceit of Almond is that the main character, Yunjae, is unable to feel emotions as the result of a brain condition called alexithymia. As a result, he has difficulty communicating with others, and the author very pointedly and tactfully notes it is distinct from autism or aspergers. The title derives from the similarity of the relevant part of the brain, the amygdala, being derived from the word almond—and Yunjae’s mother feeding him almonds in the hopes that that part of his brain will grow. The angle for the novel is underexplored and consequently pretty interesting and the pacing of the novel is very good. It’s a speed-read YA novel and definitely more engaging than most books of its genre. There are a number of threads which are actually somewhat difficult to disentangle for the purpose of a short review. Nevertheless I shall attempt.
Yunjae’s mother runs off with a man, which causes a rift with her own mother. Yunjae’s grandmother disowns his mother and the two do not see each other for seven years. When Yunjae’s father dies in an accident, his mother tries to take care of him, teach him how to communicate with other peoples’ emotions, and pay the bills with a book store. When she finds herself struggling, she introduces Yunjae to his grandmother, who immediately dotes on him.
One year on Yunjae’s birthday, the family goes out for dinner. A man begins killing people at random; he kills Yunjae’s mom with a hammer and his grandmother with a knife as she tries to defend Yunjae. Following the attack, Yunjae starts at a new school, where the other students make him into somewhat of a sensation, and they are endlessly curious about how he could be so unaffected by witnessing such a horrifically traumatic event.
Of course, going to school entails its own bullies and another boy in the class is relentless in bullying Yunjae. Incidentally, the bullying and dialogue is overblown and doesn’t ring true. In one scene, Gon (the bully) and Yunjae are in a restaurant; Gon starts throwing plates all over the restaurant and having a temper tantrum and it just doesn’t ring true at all. Elsewhere, the bullying scenes somewhat pay off. When Gon is relentlessly beating Yunjae, Yunjae doesn’t react and makes a comment about how Gon is bullying himself; it borders on an interesting existential moment. Admittedly, though, Mieko Kawakami’s Heaven is a somewhat similar premise but far more exceptional in its emotional and philosophical nuance.
As the book goes on, Gon and Yunjae develop an unlikely friendship which is not without some sweet moments of tenderness. Against all odds, Yunjae still runs his mom’s bookstore and Gon becomes a regular, bullying Yunjae into loaning him collectors’ pornography. It leads to an engaging moment, again bordering on the existential and again more accomplished in Kawakami’s work, where Gon reflects on the nature of aging. After doing a Google search on one of his favourite actresses and finding out that she’s old, he expresses concerns with Yunjae about their own aging. It’s a moment where the dialogue between teenagers actually reads as believable. So much of YA treats 15 year olds like they’re 6, so to actually have teenagers talking about some deeper issues was refreshing, even if there’s no payoff for it later.
Similarly, Yunjae has concerns over whether he is a psychopath, concerned that his lack of ability to feel emotion is what links him to mass murderers. I have to give Won-Pyung credit for the tasteful representation of mass killings. Many authors would use it as an opportunity for an extended discourse on societal ills. The novel maintains a light touch that trusts the readers. When discussing the motivations of the mass murderer, there is some suggestion that he would align with incels or something of the sort, but it’s hinted at just enough that you could delve into the conversation with students or gloss right over it if it’s not the right audience.
I also appreciated the references to the way the media depicted the events following the attack, Yunjae discusses how much attention the killer got on the news, where his every motivation was thoughtfully deconstructed and where he was made to be sympathetic or provided justification. Meanwhile, the victims were essentially ignored in the impact the attack had on them. It’s the kind of social commentary that doesn’t bludgeon the audience; it’s extremely tasteful and helps the clip of the novel move along.
As I mentioned above, the pace of the book is quite good. The book is full of short chapters and little vignettes. It’s wonderfully achieved, though there are two key developments that felt somewhat too abrupt. In the first case, the romance that Yunjae develops with a girl in his class happens very quickly, which is even less believable given Yunjae’s supposed inability to feel emotions. The other section of the book that speeds through is the climax; it always seems tough to pull off a climax in YA fiction because the stakes are so difficult to establish. The climax, while lackluster, isn’t that bad, all things considered. In some ways, the book is transparently manipulative. Even so, it does seem to have a strange kind of power. In particular, the bully Gon has a backstory that hits every trope in the book. He was kidnapped as a child and only returned to his family when his mom was on the verge of death. By the time his dad finds him, though, Gon has become a hardened criminal and out of shame does not introduce him to his dying mother. Instead, Gon’s father pretends that Yunjae is his long lost son (long story) so that Gon’s mother can die in peace. Tragic enough, sure. Then, it becomes clear that Gon suffers from low self-esteem, that he is lashing out because he hates himself, and so on. It’s super obvious that giving him a sympathetic backstory is a manipulation tactic but it does make him a sympathetic character and ultimately makes the dynamic between the central characters quite tender and beautiful.
Almond is at its best when Won-Pyung is developing that central relationship, which is nearly coded as a romance. Sometimes the sweetness of the novel doesn’t land. In particular, Yunjae has a love of books and discusses how they take us to all kinds of different worlds and expands the mind and so on. To me, it doesn’t seem authentic for someone who feels no emotions: how would you be compelled towards the characters? I suppose maybe it’s instructive, but the other part of me thinks that it’s part of a Big Books Conspiracy in YA fiction where it has to convince kids that reading is cool so that it can be included in classrooms. Anyway, the ending of the book is also pretty saccharine in a way I won’t identify for fear of spoilers.
Overall, Almond is a pretty engaging story that is quite competent. When classed alongside other YA counterparts, I think Won-Pyung excels in the genre. The novel, in most respects, works. In the areas that don’t work for me, I think it’s still more successful than much of its competition. The characters are the highlight, even when somewhat trope-y, and the pace of the book is really masterfully accomplished. It’s a book I’d recommend to some of my younger readers [even though I’d have to give trigger warnings for death, violence, sex, and bullying] as a book that does promote awareness and empathy without being so overt as to prompt an immediate rebellion in the classroom.
Happy reading, people! May your inner almond grow!
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