What do you think?
Rate this book
房思琪的初戀樂園（增訂版）
第一章 樂園 第二章 失樂園 第三章 復樂園 後記 附錄 臺北國際書展「讀字迷宮」新書發表會逐字稿 公共冊所座談會逐字稿 獨白 Readmoo「閱讀最前線」專訪 專訪 Readmoo「閱讀最前線」專訪 婚禮致詞
336 pages, Paperback
Published January 1, 2025
2 people want to read
About the author
林奕含
4 books32 followers出生於臺南，居住過臺北。沒有什麼學經歷。所有的身分裡最習慣的是精神病患。夢想是一面寫小說，一面像大江健三郎所說的：從書呆子變成讀書人，再從讀書人變成知識份子。
2017年初才剛出新書的林奕含，突然傳出過世的消息，令人感到十分震驚與不捨，得年26歲。
2017年初才剛出新書的林奕含，突然傳出過世的消息，令人感到十分震驚與不捨，得年26歲。
Ratings & Reviews
Friends & Following
Create a free account to discover what your friends think of this book!
Community Reviews
Displaying 1 of 1 review
Read
June 19, 2025I hate this.
This book has been praised to oblivion. Some naming it a masterpiece, a triumph, a testament.
But the truth is: this is the worst book Lin Yi Han could’ve written. It’s the only one she was allowed to write. And it shows.
The prose is raw, overwrought, teetering between brilliance and performance. At first, I felt a familiar type of irritation— when literary precocity announces itself too loudly, too arrogantly. But then the guilt hits. And then the rage.
Because Lin Yi Han was just a girl. Brilliant one at that. Nothing less, but not allowed to be anything more. A girl forced to survive by making her trauma palatable enough to print.
This book is amateur not because she lacked talent, but because she never had the chance to mature. She was killed before she could.
She was killed by the reminder that she’s beautiful every time she dares to be brilliant.
Killed by being muted under the guise of protection.
Killed by this debut being called a crown instead of a cage.
We should’ve gotten another novel. Her bad essays. Critique by people who believed in her potential. Maybe a few boring short stories. Then maybe a real masterpiece. Maybe she could’ve learned to write less beautifully and more honestly.
I find her writing the most beautiful when it is honest. The segment in the book about the prostitution. And her wedding speech.
I don’t know.
Hate 文青. Hate myself. 躲在英文後面. I cannot articulate myself ever in the way I want. I am the most pretentious one of them all.
Anyhow.
This book is not literature. It’s leakage.
Lin Yi Han said she wanted this book to be art. Literature maybe. She wants the reader to think it’s beautiful. She wants the reader to enjoy the sublime.
She said she expected and wanted the book to be completely useless. Deep down she didn’t believe it. Because no one would carve themselves open unless some parts of you want it to matter.
She knew. This book would be dissected, praised, pitying-ly loved. And maybe. If this was fiction, people will protect the characters, in ways she should’ve been protected.
But to most, this book was just a gorefest. Something that affects their sleep. For a day, or a week or two.
The prose of this book is absolutely beautiful. Yet the structure betrayed her. Reminiscent of an amateur Virginia Woolf.
She lied to herself.
And she still told the truth.
This book has been praised to oblivion. Some naming it a masterpiece, a triumph, a testament.
But the truth is: this is the worst book Lin Yi Han could’ve written. It’s the only one she was allowed to write. And it shows.
The prose is raw, overwrought, teetering between brilliance and performance. At first, I felt a familiar type of irritation— when literary precocity announces itself too loudly, too arrogantly. But then the guilt hits. And then the rage.
Because Lin Yi Han was just a girl. Brilliant one at that. Nothing less, but not allowed to be anything more. A girl forced to survive by making her trauma palatable enough to print.
This book is amateur not because she lacked talent, but because she never had the chance to mature. She was killed before she could.
She was killed by the reminder that she’s beautiful every time she dares to be brilliant.
Killed by being muted under the guise of protection.
Killed by this debut being called a crown instead of a cage.
We should’ve gotten another novel. Her bad essays. Critique by people who believed in her potential. Maybe a few boring short stories. Then maybe a real masterpiece. Maybe she could’ve learned to write less beautifully and more honestly.
I find her writing the most beautiful when it is honest. The segment in the book about the prostitution. And her wedding speech.
I don’t know.
Hate 文青. Hate myself. 躲在英文後面. I cannot articulate myself ever in the way I want. I am the most pretentious one of them all.
Anyhow.
This book is not literature. It’s leakage.
Lin Yi Han said she wanted this book to be art. Literature maybe. She wants the reader to think it’s beautiful. She wants the reader to enjoy the sublime.
She said she expected and wanted the book to be completely useless. Deep down she didn’t believe it. Because no one would carve themselves open unless some parts of you want it to matter.
She knew. This book would be dissected, praised, pitying-ly loved. And maybe. If this was fiction, people will protect the characters, in ways she should’ve been protected.
But to most, this book was just a gorefest. Something that affects their sleep. For a day, or a week or two.
The prose of this book is absolutely beautiful. Yet the structure betrayed her. Reminiscent of an amateur Virginia Woolf.
She lied to herself.
And she still told the truth.
Displaying 1 of 1 review