Flashlight by Susan Choi: A Journey Through Alienation and Family Ties
There’s something inherently captivating about sprawling family sagas, especially when they unfold against the backdrop of historical turbulence. Susan Choi’s Flashlight caught my attention not just for its ambition but also for its promise to explore the intricate dynamics of family relationships across generations. However, it left me grappling with a sense of disconnection that made the reading experience a rather uneven one.
At its core, Flashlight is an exploration of identity and belonging steeped in complex familial ties. The novel kicks off with a young girl visiting a child psychologist after her father’s mysterious disappearance on the beaches of Japan—a premise that intrigued me but felt eerily disjointed as the narrative quickly zooms into the life of Seok, a Korean man navigating post-WWII Japan. The themes of alienation and cultural disparity resonate throughout the novel, explored through the lives of Seok’s wife Anne and their daughter Louisa. However, I often felt as though the story told me how to feel rather than allowing me to discover those emotions organically.
Choi’s characters are imbued with heartbreaking complexity, yet I struggled to deeply connect with them. Louisa, for instance, grapples with the challenges of being a “half-breed,” navigating the prejudices that surface in her interactions and setting. The dynamics between Louisa and her parents reflect real familial concerns, punctuated by a haunting quote that asserts, “You can love someone and still not be nice to them; in fact, it is more common.” While this encapsulates a truth we often shy away from, it also set a tone of emotional distance that made it hard for me to fully invest in their journey.
As I immersed myself deeper into the narratives that spanned from New England to Paris and gleaming Seoul, I found the pacing at times to be glacial, disrupting the flow of the story. Certain sections dragged on with minute details—for instance, the extensive descriptions of Korean BBQ, which felt excessive and disconnected from the overarching plot. I found the delving into cultural specifics intriguing in theory, but in practice, it contributed to a sense of confusion about where the narrative was heading. This unevenness made me yearn for the more eccentric characters and layered storytelling found in works like Tomorrow, Tomorrow, and Tomorrow or A Little Life—stories that felt more immersive.
As I turned the pages, my feelings oscillated between fascination and frustration. While the marriage between Anne and Seok was portrayed with a clinical chill that underscored their emotional desolation, it was scenes depicting Louisa that often felt muddled. Her struggles with cultural adaptation highlighted a deeper commentary on the human condition, and yet, I couldn’t help but feel that her characterization lacked the clarity needed to provoke empathy. A particular sequence where she experiences major culture shock in Japan was striking yet didn’t quite land as heavily as I hoped it would.
The book culminates in reflections on missed opportunities and the cyclical nature of familial struggles. It leaves us pondering the cost of potential lost amid the backdrop of geopolitical events and personal traumas. The beauty of the ending is undeniable, but it was somewhat overshadowed by the emotional distance the story fostered throughout.
Flashlight offers a unique exploration of its themes but may resonate more with readers who appreciate a more introspective journey through family dysfunction, rather than those seeking high-paced narratives. While I found myself somewhat disengaged throughout parts of the novel, I can see it appealing to those who relish a rich tapestry of cultural and historical contexts intertwined with personal stories. For me, it was an experience that illuminated potential yet felt overshadowed by a pervasive sense of alienation.