Based in Berlin, Taiwanese translator and author Kaori Lai (Lai Xiangyin) presents three portraits of ordinary or “lower-case” people. What these people have in common is that they lived through the period of Taiwan’s history known the “White Terror” when the authoritarian, anti-communist Kuomintang held sway. A period that lasted from 1947, when Japanese colonial rule ended, through to the mid-1980s and burgeoning democracy. Lai grew up during the final years of this regime but her central characters are based on her parents’ and grandparents’ generations. Lai was eighteen when martial law ended in 1987.
These are slice-of-life pieces that double as chronicles or social commentaries of everyday life under the Kuomintang. The episodic “Mr Ch’ing-chih” spans the years from 1958 to 1982. College student Kiyoshi (Ch’ing-chih) is diagnosed with TB which is, fortunately, treatable. But his illness gives him time to reflect on his turbulent childhood. He was born during the last years of WW2 in a time of poverty and deprivation. School became the centre of his world - despite being banned from speaking Taiwanese, a language he now only lapses into in the company of close friends. And he’s been left with a sense of unease that he’s unable to shake. Time passes, Ch’ing-chih recovers, and follows the pathways laid out for him: marriage, children, military service, work, yet remains lonely and uncertain. His job as a teacher requires constant vigilance, he must ensure his pupils don’t openly criticize the government, he must do nothing that might cast doubt on his own loyalties. It’s life lived on a knife edge. Ch’ing-chih’s account veers between highly personal recollections of precious time spent with his small daughter to observations about what’s happening in the wider country. His yearning for his lost childhood friends from his first love Ch’un-ho his first to now-dissident poet Chang suggest a man who’s been forced to exist in a state of compromise dictated by historical events beyond his control. It’s an informative piece sometimes lyrical, sometimes dense and dry. It also works well as a backdrop to the other stories presented here.
“Ms Wen-hui” is a far more impressionistic, intimate piece. It’s told from the perspective of a retired housekeeper, increasingly frail, she now lives with her granddaughter in their small apartment. Ms Wen-hui’s thoughts frequently turn to her past: she left home at 12 to become a maid, married at 19 to a feckless man who died young. She later went to work for eminent Dr Hsiao and his family where she remained for over thirty years, retiring well into her seventies. Through Wen-hui we’re given a sense of the limitations and burdens placed on women from poorer backgrounds as well as the realities of social inequality in Taiwan. It’s disciplined and incredibly moving, filled with arresting imagery.
The final entry features another woman “Miss Casey” but focuses on the experiences of the Taiwanese diaspora. Now in her seventies, Miss Casey lives in Berlin. Not long after finishing college she left Taiwan for Paris, unable to conform to Taiwan’s regime or be what her family wanted her to be. In Paris the anti-Vietnam War student protests are at their height, it seems a totally different world. One that suggests everything Miss Casey was led to believe about politics and possibilities is open to question. Like the earlier narratives, this depicts key moments in the central character’s life, her links to Taiwanese communities in France then Germany, her friendships, her work, her desires. It’s marked by an emphasis on seasonality, not uncommon in Taiwanese literature, which conveys aspects of her inner conflicts as well as her triumphs. The style falls somewhere between the first two, more personal than the first story, more historically detailed than the second.
Lai’s stories are grounded in meticulous research from listening to popular Taiwanese music of the era to historical records, and memoirs. She wants to bring this time back to life for contemporary Taiwanese readers and honour the sacrifices of those who came before them. Overall, this is a fascinating, memorable set of stories although, for me, the final two were by far the strongest. Lai’s work provides a perspective, and opens a window, through which to view Taiwan’s complex history and heritage. For those unfamiliar with Taiwan, James Lin’s introduction provides an overview and a context for Lai’s work. Translated by Sylvia Li-chun Lin & Howard Goldblatt.
Thanks to Netgalley and publisher Columbia University Press for an ARC
Shrouded in sadness and fear, Portraits in White tells the stories of three characters during Taiwan’s White Terror period. They share a similar theme of tapping into fragmented memories of the past, living cautiously in the present, and being unable to dream of a future. However, I did find the writing to be a bit clunky at times. A more detailed review of each story is available below.
We are first introduced to the story of Ch’ing-Chih, which spans decades and depicts the life of a poor student trying to create a prosperous life by climbing the socio-economic ladder. The tension between hopelessness and resilience is central to the story, and as it is depicted, “One must have a pursuit in life, and no matter what, he still hoped what awaited his daughter was a future with pursuits, a life where pursuits were possible.” Resilience ultimately wins in the end. Many new characters are introduced as his circumstances change, which can be hard to follow at times, especially since military ranks are often mentioned in conjunction.
Next is Wen-hui’s story, which explores the struggles of a less-educated woman during that period. She often ponders her future, as she feels her life has not turned out the way she had hoped. Wen-hui coincidentally shares the same Japanese name as her favorite actress. Living as a live-in housemaid, this reference highlights how starkly different their lives are.
The third story follows Casey, portraying the Taiwanese diaspora and their struggles during times of political unease. It also explores the lasting attachment to one’s homeland, even after decades of absence, expressed indirectly through her younger sister’s lyrics, “Ich hab noch einen Koffer in Taipeh,” or “I still have a suitcase in Taipei.” To note, this story jumps over several periods but isn’t explicitly stated; it’s embedded into the characters present, dialogues, and the political events, so I sometimes found it to be a bit hard to follow.
I don’t think I’ve ever written a review this long, but overall, I enjoyed the book. I’ve always been interested in Taiwan’s history, and this book offered a compelling glimpse into a part of Taiwan I wasn’t too familiar with.
Thank you Columbia University Press for the ARC! All opinions are my own.
It’s praised by the critics. And well received. In my opinion, the second story is the most successful and touching one. Describing the indescribable is not an easy thing to do. and it’s the main challenge of this book.
Portraits in White is a collection of three short stories set during the White Terror in Taiwan. Each story focuses on a an ordinary person during this time period. Their lives are all quite different, but the looming presence of the KMT is felt in all three.
As someone who is not particularly familiar with this period of history, story three was especially interesting. I really enjoyed reading about the resistance movement of the Taiwanese diaspora.
The introduction, translator's note, and author's note are all indispensable to the reading experience of this collection. The introduction and translator's note provide some background context for major events during the White Terror. The author's note includes an explanation of why certain things are left vague or without context in the stories. The author explains that readers who aren't familiar with the events should be able to relate to and understand the characters without a ton of historical context and that readers who are interested in the history will look into it on their own. This is my favorite type of of translated work. The author trusts the reader to understand the work without holding their hand through every specific detail.
Thank you to NetGalley and Columbia University Press for the ARC in exchange for an honest review.
The three novellas that make up this collection are set in Taiwan during the era known as the White Terror, a period of martial law under the Kuomintang (KMT) regime, beginning in 1949, a period which cast a long shadow across Taiwanese society and culture. Each of the three stories follows an “ordinary” person whose life is shaped by oppression and authoritarianism. The excellent – indeed indispensable – introduction and the author's afterword help any readers not familiar with the subject. The book offers a panoramic view of the White Terror in all its manifestations, and is an important historical document as well as a mostly engaging and immersive narrative. But it’s by no means an easy read, with a wide cast of characters, unfamiliar names for a western readership and its sometimes opaque historical and political background. The shifting timelines, places and perspectives don’t help either. But although challenging, it’s worth the effort involved and I felt that I had learnt a lot by the end.
This is a book about “good” sufferers (at first glance), awash in history and never pushing against it in any effectual way (or only ever doing it in small ways of raging against it—raging against their own ineffectualness, the smallness of their own lives). Which isn’t a bad thing or a sign of passivity in these characters’ lives, exactly; these characters’ recognizing their own ineffectualness and being nostalgic against it makes that nostalgia operate kind of like the way cuteness operates as Ngai describes it in The Cuteness of the Avant Garde: as a kind of refusal, a lashing out or mixed reaction to your own helplessness in history. It does mean the book doesn’t feel like it has much of an arc—but then again, these are portraits, not necessarily stories. And they work, even if they get a little sentimental at times.
Something to come back to: the emphasis on language mixing and the changes in what the lingua franca and the language of power were leading to changes the nature of the story and the possibilities open to a person WITHIN LIVING MEMORY, with the change occurring over the span of a handful of years, upending a sense of constancy — and a life then always in reference to someone else’s language, a self that will never be “naturalized” as always having “been there”…language as a core arena of Taiwanese identity and the attempt to define such a thing… I personally would love to reread the original and come back to this question (I didn’t even realize I had it on my shelf already! Huzzah!)
Lastly: it would be cool to read this in comparison to Fang Fang’s Soft Burial - re: the romantic vs the gothic / horror of history and memory in Fang Fang *not the same translator but the same press…!
I think this collection of 3 stories from the "white terror" period in Taiwanese history was very interesting, but not an easy read. If you don't read the introduction with historical context and translators notes, I think a lot of things are difficult to understand for a non-local reader. I have read a lot of Chinese fiction in translation and there were still a lot of parts I didn't quite understand without the historical context at the beginning.
Overall, some parts of certain stories were interesting but I had a difficult time picking it up because it didn't hold my interest as much as I hoped. Wen-hui's story was the easiest to follow.