Scan barcode
A review by chrissie_whitley
Little Fires Everywhere by Celeste Ng
5.0
A fantastic, complexly-executed portrait of a family, densely and intricately Gordian themselves, and the lives around them, touched by their escaped tendrils.
With a vivid and lifelike cast of characters, Ng delivers an impactful and thoughtful novel. I connected and identified with so many of the characters, ways internal and external, leaving me feeling that unless I kept reading this book, I'd remain broken in the multi-faceted shards into which Ng had sliced me.
Told from varying points-of-view, all of which meld seamlessly and effortlessly from one to another, like the passing of the day as the sky changes from dark to light to dark again, Ng utilizes flashbacks and an overall style in this writing that adds so much mood and atmosphere to a tale already burgeoning with details and nuances. Her tone will crack open briefly into one that is from far away, somewhere in the future. She brings with this a sort of fortuneteller's pronouncement, omniscient and wise. The current goings-on will be there, and Ng will break off for just a sentence or two, and tell us how in upcoming years this one decision would haunt a character, or linger with them forever, or would be forgotten completely. I was mesmerized by Ng's storytelling powers.
The Richardsons:
The Richardson children alone somehow appeared both whole and made of separate, stolen pieces of me. This begs the questions in my mind: Is Ng so much like me that her blood, which runs through the veins of these people she created, is identical to mine in spirit? Or is she simply so talented that the life she breathed into their lungs filled with an undeniable connecting thread to which I clung? Maybe both.
The era in which this story takes place—1997-1998—would be the year after I graduated high school. I'm a year older than Lexie—the oldest of the Richardson offspring. Though she and Trip, the second born and the older boy, were the two kids with whom I identified the least, I could still sense so much of that time, the end of the 90s, pulsing in their decisions, their indecisions, and their daily life.
Growing up in the era led by Bill Clinton, in which the country, for the most part, had flourished economically, certainly set up a feeling that most the woes of money were more easily overlooked. The future was hopeful and the bad stains on society felt like they were clearing away. This is undeniably why, for me personally, the most recent presidential election and the hatred and vitriol that had been under the surface with so many Americans, was such a depressing and shocking punch to the gut when it all started seeping onto the fabric above. Will some stains never go away?
Lexie felt mature and capable, and I certainly fell into that category early on in life, and held onto it hard; I'm not sure I've ever really let go. Trip was uncertain of his future, and felt a need to coast because facing those decisions he had not yet made (what to do with the rest of your life?) was like facing a wall of water with the pressure building. It took me so long to realize that while you should begin each segment of your life with some sense of direction, you don't have to make a decision on the rest of your entire existence—especially when you are seventeen.
Moody. Dear, sensitive, and aptly-named Moody. It was his tenderness and open vulnerability that I loved. While I'm not as open about it, my sensitivity lies just beneath a carefully shielded surface. The covering is thin and fleshy, and sometimes the bruise beneath is more painful, sometimes it's healed more, but it's always there.
Which brings me to Izzy. Izzy. This girl, I cannot tell you how much of her I was. When you feel different and separate from your family, it can often manifest itself in anger. You lash out at people who you feel are unjust, wrong, or who make you feel judged. I cannot begin to count the arguments that I had with people around me regarding things I held close to my heart, causes I felt mattered so much that the world was blind to miss the importance. From equal rights for all, to the mistreatment of people with AIDS (remember it was the 90s—this was really a hot button), to systemic racism, to protection of the environment (I used to request that people gave me their gum wrappers or other trash on the bus in middle school so I could hold it and dispose of it later, rather than allow them to throw something out of the window), I wanted to defend it all. I screamed and yelled and argued my points with such angry passion that I'm sure I just showed others more about myself than about any cause I could possibly be trying to support. And to whom? My father? My grandmother? My mom? These people were unable to change the opinions of their neighbors, much less change the world. But that never stopped me. I still struggle to reset when this threatens to explode.
While I identified more with the teens here, being a mom now forced me to see so much in the parents, a bisection of who I am. The past me and the present me, which itself is always changing. Somewhere they mesh together and I'm still not sure where or how. Mr. Richardson was not as much a part of the story as he was a supporting member, but his wife was the foundation on which it was built. Mrs. Elena Richardson, the mom, was forceful and sure, planning every aspect and being content with it. She plowed on through life, leaving others in her wake. Her worry over newborn Izzy was an enlarged and exaggerated sampling of what it's like to be a mom in the first place, and her domineering presence spoke to that part of me that wants to just get on with it and stick to the plans or do what I'm supposed to do; the part that wants some kind of win.
The Warrens:
(Just to pause for a minute of bleeding my soul out here, I got tickled a bit every time I thought about their last names and their cars. A rabbit warren. I'm sure it's purposely done, but it popped off the page every time like a bold, uppercase word.)
Mia and Pearl. They are almost one unit and difficult to separate in thought. Between Mia's childhood and early adulthood, I was enraptured with this woman whose life I envied—to a point. Her drive, her ability to just adapt and continue to move was just a piece of what I would've wanted for myself. Her artistic nature and desire to create, to capture, and share spoke to me so urgently that I could not put the book down during her flashback.
Pearl was a bit more difficult, her character felt more like a piece of Mia to me. She was hard to make out, but easy for the reader to like. She's artistically inclined, but she is her mother's shadow—following her around her whole life. A shadow who does not even realize she's a shadow. But Pearl, perhaps over all the others, was the one character whose future I felt most sure about. Not a plan for her, but that she would turn out okay. She would be happy.
Honestly, a powerhouse of a book, I loved the slow build, the inky and churning waters, and the storm (by the bookended structure of the narrative) brewing in the background. Before I was even done with this one, I had already recommended it to my best friend—in whose hands I will shove this book.
Personal sidenote: I know someone who suffers with Mayer-Rokitansky-Küster-Hauser (MRKH) syndrome and I was so stunned to see it mentioned here. This congenital malformation deserves more recognition as so many women suffer from it without even a proper diagnosis. It is often a difficult diagnosis with which to come to terms, and those who suffer with it can struggle with identity and defining what it means to be a woman. Though the mention in Little Fires Everywhere was brief and not even fully named (excuse me while I roll my eyes), I hope this brings it to light more and is not dismissed as a fictional medical problem for purposes of this book.
With a vivid and lifelike cast of characters, Ng delivers an impactful and thoughtful novel. I connected and identified with so many of the characters, ways internal and external, leaving me feeling that unless I kept reading this book, I'd remain broken in the multi-faceted shards into which Ng had sliced me.
Told from varying points-of-view, all of which meld seamlessly and effortlessly from one to another, like the passing of the day as the sky changes from dark to light to dark again, Ng utilizes flashbacks and an overall style in this writing that adds so much mood and atmosphere to a tale already burgeoning with details and nuances. Her tone will crack open briefly into one that is from far away, somewhere in the future. She brings with this a sort of fortuneteller's pronouncement, omniscient and wise. The current goings-on will be there, and Ng will break off for just a sentence or two, and tell us how in upcoming years this one decision would haunt a character, or linger with them forever, or would be forgotten completely. I was mesmerized by Ng's storytelling powers.
The Richardsons:
The Richardson children alone somehow appeared both whole and made of separate, stolen pieces of me. This begs the questions in my mind: Is Ng so much like me that her blood, which runs through the veins of these people she created, is identical to mine in spirit? Or is she simply so talented that the life she breathed into their lungs filled with an undeniable connecting thread to which I clung? Maybe both.
The era in which this story takes place—1997-1998—would be the year after I graduated high school. I'm a year older than Lexie—the oldest of the Richardson offspring. Though she and Trip, the second born and the older boy, were the two kids with whom I identified the least, I could still sense so much of that time, the end of the 90s, pulsing in their decisions, their indecisions, and their daily life.
Growing up in the era led by Bill Clinton, in which the country, for the most part, had flourished economically, certainly set up a feeling that most the woes of money were more easily overlooked. The future was hopeful and the bad stains on society felt like they were clearing away. This is undeniably why, for me personally, the most recent presidential election and the hatred and vitriol that had been under the surface with so many Americans, was such a depressing and shocking punch to the gut when it all started seeping onto the fabric above. Will some stains never go away?
Lexie felt mature and capable, and I certainly fell into that category early on in life, and held onto it hard; I'm not sure I've ever really let go. Trip was uncertain of his future, and felt a need to coast because facing those decisions he had not yet made (what to do with the rest of your life?) was like facing a wall of water with the pressure building. It took me so long to realize that while you should begin each segment of your life with some sense of direction, you don't have to make a decision on the rest of your entire existence—especially when you are seventeen.
Moody. Dear, sensitive, and aptly-named Moody. It was his tenderness and open vulnerability that I loved. While I'm not as open about it, my sensitivity lies just beneath a carefully shielded surface. The covering is thin and fleshy, and sometimes the bruise beneath is more painful, sometimes it's healed more, but it's always there.
Which brings me to Izzy. Izzy. This girl, I cannot tell you how much of her I was. When you feel different and separate from your family, it can often manifest itself in anger. You lash out at people who you feel are unjust, wrong, or who make you feel judged. I cannot begin to count the arguments that I had with people around me regarding things I held close to my heart, causes I felt mattered so much that the world was blind to miss the importance. From equal rights for all, to the mistreatment of people with AIDS (remember it was the 90s—this was really a hot button), to systemic racism, to protection of the environment (I used to request that people gave me their gum wrappers or other trash on the bus in middle school so I could hold it and dispose of it later, rather than allow them to throw something out of the window), I wanted to defend it all. I screamed and yelled and argued my points with such angry passion that I'm sure I just showed others more about myself than about any cause I could possibly be trying to support. And to whom? My father? My grandmother? My mom? These people were unable to change the opinions of their neighbors, much less change the world. But that never stopped me. I still struggle to reset when this threatens to explode.
While I identified more with the teens here, being a mom now forced me to see so much in the parents, a bisection of who I am. The past me and the present me, which itself is always changing. Somewhere they mesh together and I'm still not sure where or how. Mr. Richardson was not as much a part of the story as he was a supporting member, but his wife was the foundation on which it was built. Mrs. Elena Richardson, the mom, was forceful and sure, planning every aspect and being content with it. She plowed on through life, leaving others in her wake. Her worry over newborn Izzy was an enlarged and exaggerated sampling of what it's like to be a mom in the first place, and her domineering presence spoke to that part of me that wants to just get on with it and stick to the plans or do what I'm supposed to do; the part that wants some kind of win.
The Warrens:
(Just to pause for a minute of bleeding my soul out here, I got tickled a bit every time I thought about their last names and their cars. A rabbit warren. I'm sure it's purposely done, but it popped off the page every time like a bold, uppercase word.)
Mia and Pearl. They are almost one unit and difficult to separate in thought. Between Mia's childhood and early adulthood, I was enraptured with this woman whose life I envied—to a point. Her drive, her ability to just adapt and continue to move was just a piece of what I would've wanted for myself. Her artistic nature and desire to create, to capture, and share spoke to me so urgently that I could not put the book down during her flashback.
Pearl was a bit more difficult, her character felt more like a piece of Mia to me. She was hard to make out, but easy for the reader to like. She's artistically inclined, but she is her mother's shadow—following her around her whole life. A shadow who does not even realize she's a shadow. But Pearl, perhaps over all the others, was the one character whose future I felt most sure about. Not a plan for her, but that she would turn out okay. She would be happy.
Honestly, a powerhouse of a book, I loved the slow build, the inky and churning waters, and the storm (by the bookended structure of the narrative) brewing in the background. Before I was even done with this one, I had already recommended it to my best friend—in whose hands I will shove this book.
Personal sidenote: I know someone who suffers with Mayer-Rokitansky-Küster-Hauser (MRKH) syndrome and I was so stunned to see it mentioned here. This congenital malformation deserves more recognition as so many women suffer from it without even a proper diagnosis. It is often a difficult diagnosis with which to come to terms, and those who suffer with it can struggle with identity and defining what it means to be a woman. Though the mention in Little Fires Everywhere was brief and not even fully named (excuse me while I roll my eyes), I hope this brings it to light more and is not dismissed as a fictional medical problem for purposes of this book.