Ru
A Novel
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4.0 • 3 Ratings
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- $12.99
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- $12.99
Publisher Description
Winner of the Governor General's Literary Award for Fiction
Winner of 2015 Canada Reads Prize
Winner of Grand Prix littéraire Archambault
Finalist for the 2012 Soctiabank Giller Prize
Finalist for the 2018 New Academy Prize in Literature
Longlisted for the 2014 IMPAC Dublin Literary Award and the 2012 Man Asian Literary Prize.
At ten years old, Kim Thúy fled Vietnam on a boat with her family, leaving behind a grand house and the many less tangible riches of their home country: the ponds of lotus blossoms, the songs of soup-vendors. The family arrived in Quebec, where they found clothes at the flea market, and mattresses with actual fleas. Kim learned French and English, and as she grew older, seized what opportunities an immigrant could; she put herself through school picking vegetables and sewing clothes, worked as a lawyer and interpreter, and later as a restaurateur. She was married and a mother when the urge to write struck her, and she found herself scribbling words at every opportunity - pulling out her notebook at stoplights and missing the change to green. The story emerging was one of a Vietnamese émigré on a boat to an unknown future: her own story fictionalized and crafted into a stunning novel.
The novel's title, Ru, has meaning in both Kim's native and adoptive languages: in Vietnamese, ru is a lullaby; in French, a stream. And it provides the perfect name for this slim yet potent novel. With prose that soothes and sings, Ru weaves through time, flows and transports: a river of sensuous memories gathering power. It's a classic immigrant story told in a breathtaking new way.
PUBLISHERS WEEKLY
Rendered in spare vignettes, Kim's lyrical debut novel is an autobiographical impression of motherhood and exile. Forced to flee their privileged, intellectual life in Communist Saigon, Nguyen An Tinh (an "extension" of her almost identically named mother and a stand-in for Th y), born during the Tet offensive, navigates the Gulf of Siam bound for a Malaysian refugee camp, where she and her family live for several months before making their way to Canada. There, Nguyen is blinded by the whiteness of the snow and the blankness of her slate. But her new home quickly makes its marks she learns French and English, what to wear in the harsh Quebecois winters, and the ways in which the American dream extends its reach around the globe. The narrative wanders through time as Nguyen mourns her autistic son's inability to say maman, recalls her childhood in Vietnam, and muses on the fork in her family tree that her life in the West represents. But like the married men Nguyen prefers, whose "ring fingers with their histories keep me remote, aloof, in the shadows," the disjointed narrative keeps readers at a distance, allowing tender glimpses of Nguyen's pain, but never fully exposing her.
