I’m not sure what you mean by ‘traumatised in a lasting way’.

I mean that it doesn’t define her for the rest of the novel. It’s a traumatic experience, but it doesn’t overwhelm the rest of her personality or experience. I don’t think she thinks of it as rape, either (I was sure she said something to the man about wanting to have sex, but accept I’m misremembering; but she definitely doesn’t frame it as rape when she tells her partner about the encounter), and you’re right, that *is* terrifying. But it becomes a part of her identity, not all of it.

I disagree. I think you’re interpreting her respect for her culture -collectivity, familial solidarity and its food - as a respect for herself, when in fact she often notes how she lonely and alienated she felt in China.

Yeah, and I think you’re interpreting her respect for her culture in the terms of our culture. You’re right that she recalls feeling lonely and alienated in China, but that’s not to do with the specifics of her culture, that’s to do with being a young person growing up. In some ways, she has a very *strong* sense of who she is when she comes to the UK (in others, not at all).

The interplay between sex/companionship/love is definitely one of the most interesting and sophisticated things about the book, but I think you’re overselling the negatives. If I don’t go finish off this comment now, though, Liz is actually going to tear the laptop from my hands and beat me over the head with it, so more later!

‘But she’s not traumatised by it in a lasting way — hence “not irretrievably horrific”.’

I’m not sure what you mean by ‘traumatised in a lasting way’. Is there such a thing as a rape that only traumatises you in the short term?! In my opinion a rape is the worst kind of violence that could befall a woman - it absolutely negates the power of her sexuality and her will. And it is clearly a distressing event for her, made worse by her complicity in the act itself - her excitement, shame and self-disgust conmingled. Her silence is itself indicative of trauma, as is her inability to reapproach what has happened to her. She tells no one - I’m not even sure she knows that what has happened to her is rape, which is terrifying - and immediately tries to erase the physical evidence by washing herself in the train. She senses something is wrong but she doesn’t have the sexual consciousness to express it.

‘All through the Europe trip you’re expecting something to go wrong, and it’s amazing that nothing does, but it’s not luck, it’s because most of the men she encounters deal with her on her terms.’

Perhaps my view does tend towards the pessimistic but it seems to me that Z encounters so many ‘kindly’ men (where are all the women?) because they sense her sexual vulnerability. They want to take her to their houses, and sleep in their beds, and stay a while with them. And as I see it Z has no ‘terms’. She is entirely passive across Europe. She never asks to go home with these men, she just falls in with them - they make suggestions and she follows on. At one point in the book she describes herself as a ‘fighter’ or a ’struggler’ or some such but I saw almost no evidence of this in the text. Z is needy, lonely and lost with little or no sense of herself in the world. She just bounces from one place and another, yearning.

‘but he thinks they’re mutually taking advantage of each other, and doesn’t realise he’s going further than she wanted when she initiated the encounter.’

She *doesn’t* initiate the encounter! He does. He is the one who preys on her at the cafe. You don’t think his intentions were honourable, surely? If a man approached me in a cafe and said: Can I take you to a special beach? I would run a mile and a half, and so should every woman. Children shouldn’t get into cars with strangers and women shouldn’t go into unfamiliar territory with men they don’t know. Even Z recongises there is something strange about him. If he didn’t intend to rape her, he definitely meant to steal from her or talk her out of money (as he tries to do at the end). She is so very very vulnerable. I wanted to cry for her.

‘In this book, it’s a traumatic event *because* it stands out so much from the surroundings.’

I disagree. I think it is a culmination of the books’ sexual trends, which are very dark. As a direct result of her upbringing Z has a very disturbed idea of sex, its meanings and its values. It looks like she is naive but really, she isn’t. When she goes to see the peepshow? You didn’t find that distressing? How she interprets the performers behaviour as love and affection, and merrily chimes that she wants to be a prostitute. That isn’t naivety, and its not guilelessness; its horrifying! (Also, I simply do not believe that Z doesn’t know what a prostitute is. Even if she has been protected from sex itself, every little girl, perhaps especially in sexually repressive cultures, comes to know what a prostitute is. They’re the ‘bad girls’; the ones you don’t want to be like.)

Somehow, somewhere along the line, she has made a mistaken connection between sex and love. When she meets those men in Europe she often wonders: ‘does this mean I love him’, or that he loves me. She is only disabused of this notion after the rape.

‘To start with, Z values herself, she just doesn’t value herself (to start with) in a Western way….’

I disagree. I think you’re interpreting her respect for her culture -collectivity, familial solidarity and its food - as a respect for herself, when in fact she often notes how she lonely and alienated she felt in China. I’m thinking of: how her mother used to call her an ugly peasant, how other children used to avoid her, how she hates her parents’ shoe factory. When she feels at her most low and alienated she calls herself these kinds of names - peasant, ignorant, ugly, Chinese. She values the machine, but not her part in it; you never really sense she is at home with either collectivity or individuality. She views everything from the outside.

‘As for her partner: he’s clearly not as wonderful as Z’s rose-tinted spectacles make him out to be, but I also think he clearly values and encourages the growth of Z’s independence.’

Does she really rose-tint him though? It seems like all she does is pick out his faults and how they hurt her love for him. Does she really love him? Of course not. She is almost entirely emotionally dependent on him and she mistakes this for worship and love, when really it is only a form of desperation. (I thought it was interesting how few acts of non-sexualised affection there are in the novel; lots of sex, far less companionship.)

But she’s not traumatised by it in a lasting way — hence “not irretrievably horrific”. I don’t think Guo glosses the consequences of the rape, or presents Z as falsely rationalising what’s happened, but I agree it’s there to highlight Z’s precariousness, and it was one of the things I had in mind when I said above the novel could be considered for being too generous. Le Guin says, “she certainly gains experience, though what she learns from it is questionable”, which suggests she wasn’t completely satisfied with the way the consequences were handled either.

All through the Europe trip you’re expecting something to go wrong, and it’s amazing that nothing does, but it’s not luck, it’s because most of the men she encounters deal with her on her terms. (Or rather, if the fact that most of the men she meets aren’t rapists is luck, you have a much darker view of male nature than I do.) From memory, even the man who rapes her does so because he *doesn’t understand* her “no” — he’s certainly taking advantage of her, and culpable for his actions (if nothing else you would think Z’d be giving off nonverbal signals that she wanted him to stop), but he thinks they’re mutually taking advantage of each other, and doesn’t realise he’s going further than she wanted when she initiated the encounter.

In a different book, that encounter would dominate the last third of the narrative, and represent — if you like — an inevitable consequence of Z’s behaviour. In this book, it’s a traumatic event *because* it stands out so much from the surroundings.

And her partner? he has no real respect for her as a person, just as she has no respect for herself.

I disagree with both parts of this sentence. To start with, Z values herself, she just doesn’t value herself (to start with) in a Western way; her journey over the book is one of adopting a different way of understanding her life. A way of independence rather than community, to put it crudely. I think the book comes down on the side of “our” understanding, but it doesn’t dismiss the value of her upbringing. (Look at Z’s awareness of sexism, for instance.) As for her partner: he’s clearly not as wonderful as Z’s rose-tinted spectacles make him out to be, but I also think he clearly values and encourages the growth of Z’s independence. Have you finished the book yet?

Have you lost your mind? On one of these occassions she is violently raped! And then has to have an abortion!

‘Which is not to imply that this is always a comfortable book, though it is one with an extremely generous view of human nature…’

I think we must be reading an entirely different novel… As I see it Z is constantly vulnerable to sexual attack - her naivity places her in extroadinarily dangerous situations. She has no sexual savvy. If she is only raped once it is because she is incredibly lucky, not because of any generosity of human nature. Everyone wants something from her, usually sex… she is an incredibly pathetic and lonely figure. And her partner? he has no real respect for her as a person, just as she has no respect for herself.

Hang on, I thought you liked Cloud Atlas …?

I think it shows quite plainly how sweet you are. ;-)

…

But I do wonder: why does the extent of a novel’s human generosity determine its quality?

I wasn’t saying that it is more generous therefore better; what I think I was gettnig at is thta it’s is more generous therefore the book feels more like a portrayal of real human beings therefore it’s better.

Now, that said, I think you could make an argument that Guo is too generous — that to a certain extent she idealises the situation that Z is in. As the review suggests, I’d argue she gets away with it, but I think it is one area where the book is vulnerable to criticism.

But you make me smile when you say: ‘Which is not to imply that this is always a comfortable book, though it is one with an extremely generous view of human nature (certainly in contrast to, oh I don’t know, The Inheritance of Loss).’

I think it shows quite plainly how sweet you are. ;-) But I do wonder: why does the extent of a novel’s human generosity determine its quality?