A challenging read, in which the nameless main character reflects on youth, heritage, race, art and sexuality. Sometimes dreamlike, even hallucinating, sometimes harsh or brutal. Every detail seems to count, while the artist painter questions motivations and goals in life, and tries to come to terms with it. A haunting tale that keeps on lingering.
To be deciphered. That’s all I ever wanted. No, I’ve wanted most of all for my deciphering to be needed, for someone to need to do it, and for its discovery to reveal the other to themselves, that we need this to be who we are. Suddenly, I feel flushed with my boiling need. It hurts. 'Was your father depressed?' I asked. Her shoulders flinch. I feel quick, sharp sorrow. 'Actually, yeah.' 'Mine was too. That’s a male Asian immigrant thing.' She nods her little bird head. 'Social defeat, masculine honor, I agree. 'Mine left us, finally.' 'You must hate him.' The thing about having a father, and then not having one, but having one long enough to understand that he sucked, means I’m not fucked up about men. I think I say this out loud.
