This line from Monique Truong’s The Sweetest Fruits sums up what I view as the central project of Monique Truong’s third novel, which is accomplished for better and for worse. The subject of the novel is Lafcadio Hearn, and it is my own ignorance that I did know until I began this review that he truly was an actual historical figure. As such, I had no idea why I should be invested in this character and Truong is not forthcoming for his details. It’s a testament to her project of giving primacy to overlooked women that she gives, essentially, no in-text reasons for us to feel invested in the supposed genius of Lafcadio Hearn. By the same token, though, it means that I had little investment in the supposed central focus of the book, which maybe undermines some aspect of the goal of the text.
The novel is a series of accounts from women affiliated with Lafcadio Hearn throughout his life—his mother in Greece and Ireland, his first wife in the United States, and his second wife in Japan. Ultimately, the organizational principle of the novel is via Elizabeth Bisland’s biography of Lafcadio Hearn, excerpts of which are interspersed between the accounts of the other women. Bisland, too, is a real person (who knew!) but I’m not sure if the excerpts are genuine or if fabricated for more dramatic effect.
Each angle of the book has its own charm. I liked reading about his mother’s conservative upbringing in Greece and her being unable to learn to read or write. I found Alathea’s narrative pretty compelling, since she was a former slave whose ‘voice’ in the novel is quite flowery. I also found it interesting watching the dynamics of their interracial relationship; when Hearn’s newspaper finds out about his marriage he is fired from his job. Ultimately, thought, I failed to feel consistently invested for what I think are two key factors. One, when the sections of a book are so clearly delineated by narrator my brain decides “well, this person isn’t worth getting too invested in—they’ll be gone soon anyhow.” The other factor is that, while the book is focused on women’s experiences, I felt I didn’t get enough of their interactions with Hearn himself to see what made their bond realistically special.
The sections were not explicitly connected except via the frame narrative and the fact that the human MacGuffin remains. In turn, it felt like not much really ‘happened’ in the book and the lack of progression felt more like an actual biographical account reframed through the personal stories of the women describing the man. It’s valuable to counteract the idea that the women are all “an afterthought in the lives of men” (244), but this particular novel felt a little flat to me.
This is all the more surprising to me because I absolutely adored (underline, bold, italics) Truong’s debut, The Book of Salt. In many ways, the books are similar. Both focus on periphery figures to the supposed giants. In The Book of Salt, the main character is a gay Vietnamese man in France serving as a cook for Gertrude Stein and Alice B. Toklas. Both books have unacknowledged characters serving white writers, but The Book of Salt really capitalized on the petty betrayals and destroyed hopes of its central character while The Sweetest Fruits meanders its way towards the end.
Perhaps another reason that I failed to connect with the characters to the same level is, again, because they were so frequently switching, but perhaps too because their identities were more amorphous than one might expect. The Book of Salt had a more narrow timeframe, but when you’re dealing with complete lives it’s hard to make every moment feel meaningful. In addition, one motif in the novel is that of names; most characters are dually or triply named, which adds to some confusion when already trying to keep up with different places, times, and locations is discombobulating. That said, the motif does contribute beautifully to the idea that there are names we know and names we don’t and that when one acknowledges a name authentically it gives the person new life.
In my post-read research I discovered that Monique Truong has a track record for writing food columns and her love of food is apparent throughout both her novels that I’ve read. The sensuousness with which she describes food is beyond any writer I’ve ever read. I don’t have a complex enough palate to fully appreciate her descriptions of food, but even for a complete food-philistine the words are delicious enough on their own right to be worth savouring.
The sensuous passages are intermingled with a sort of reportage style. I appreciated the interview-like tone of the first two accounts since they gave the narrators such a personal touch. The errors, misspeaking, and so on, so common to everyday speech are tastefully and artfully recorded to make the account feel more authentic. While at times dry, the overall tone is effective and Truong is most certainly a thoughtful, measured writer.
I admit to feeling somewhat disappointed in this book. After The Book of Salt, my expectations were through the roof. I will, though, take some personal accountability for my lacklustre view of The Sweetest Fruits. For one, I split up my reading over nearly a month, which meant my immersion was repeatedly broken. As a result, I was not a very careful reader and did not do this book justice.
My sincere hope is that I simply read this book at the wrong time. I hope that the day will come when I finish reading everything ever written and I can do some re-reading and find The Sweetest Fruits in a more favourable light.
Until then, happy reading!
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