Tag: book

Book Review | A Weekend with Susanna Jones’s The Earthquake Bird

Last weekend, I finally had the chance to read Susanna Jones’s novel, The Earthquake Bird. It was a long-awaited opportunity. I watched the movie adaptation on Netflix back in 2019, and it left a lasting impression on me. I was enchanted by the haunting atmosphere, the layered characters, and the psychological tension. And that left me wanting to dig up the original source material. But since the novel was published in 2001, it was difficult to find a copy. That is, until recently. The second I discovered it, I knew I needed to revisit Lucy Fly’s story, this time in the author’s own words.

Reading The Earthquake Bird was an intense experience. The novel immerses you in Lucy’s fragmented memories and unreliable narration, plunging you deep inside her mind. As I turned the pages, I could feel her guilt, her isolation, and her complicated relationships with the people around her. The raw emotional force of Jones’s spare, precise prose lingers long after you close the book.

Plot Summary of The Earthquake Bird

The Earthquake Bird is set in Tokyo, following Lucy Fly, a British expatriate who works as a translator and whose solitary existence is upturned when she becomes the prime suspect in the murder of fellow expat and her newfound friend, Lily Bridges. Lucy is the narrator, recounting her life, her entanglement with a mysterious Japanese photographer, Teiji Matsuda, and her intricate, troubled friendship with Lily.

The novel intertwines themes of guilt, cultural dislocation, and the indistinct boundary between love and obsession. The novel unfolds through Lucy’s recounts of the events leading up to Lily’s death, but her memories are disjointed and unreliable, leading readers to wonder how much of her version of reality can be believed. With its haunting atmosphere and complex character dynamics, The Earthquake Bird is as much a psychological portrait as a murder mystery.

Lucy’s Third-Person Narration

One of the most striking aspects of the novel is Lucy’s tendency to refer to herself in the third person when recounting her past. This shall seem, at first, an odd and disorienting narrative choice. But as I delved further, it was obvious that this was a conscious mirroring of Lucy’s psychological state. Her disconnection from her own memories reflects her emotional detachment, a coping mechanism she’s developed through her traumatic experiences and unbearable sense of guilt.

Lucy’s belief that she brings disaster and death to those around her is a recurring theme. She bears the burden of past tragedies, believing she is somehow to blame. This third-person narration creates a distance between her present self and her past actions, as though she’s attempting to disassociate from the person she used to be. This narrative technique enhances the haunting quality of the novel, immersing readers in Lucy’s splintered self.

The Mystery of Teiji

Lucy’s relationship with Teiji is at the core of the story, and it is as mysterious as the man himself. Despite being his girlfriend, Lucy realizes how little she truly knows about him. She doesn’t even know his last name. Surprising moments like Teiji’s casual mention of his love for mopping floors and washing up, or Lucy’s hearing him sing, remind us that people are always more complicated than we imagine. There are facets of Teiji that remain hidden from Lucy, even after they’ve spent a great deal of time together.

This realization resonated with me deeply. It’s a humbling reminder that we never fully know someone, no matter how close we are or how long we’ve been in each other’s lives. People have depths, and their inner worlds often remain a mystery. For Lucy, this lack of understanding becomes both a source of fascination and frustration, adding tension to their already strained relationship.

Chapter 12: Grief and Betrayal

If I had to pick a favorite part of the novel, it would be Chapter 12. In this chapter, Lucy is grieving the loss of her lover while grappling with the emotional aftermath of Teiji and Lily’s betrayal. What most impressed me was the way Jones portrayed Lucy’s pain so subtly. The chapter doesn’t linger on Lucy’s heartbreak explicitly, but her suffering is all but tangible in every sentence. The emptiness that she feels, the way in which her world appears to collapse in on itself—it’s all there, woven into the fabric of the narrative.

Jones’s ability to evoke such deep emotions without resorting to melodrama is truly masterful. It made me feel Lucy’s pain as if it were my own. It’s a testament to the power of understated writing—show, don’t tell.

My Thoughts on Lily Bridges

Lily Bridges is a character that elicits mixed feelings. From the start, Lucy is wary of her. Lily’s wimpy, needy attitude irritates Lucy, and it’s not hard to see why. However, Lucy secretly relishes Lily’s need for her. For someone like Lucy, who frequently feels invisible and isolated, Lily’s dependence on her makes her feel smart and capable. This dichotomy makes for an intriguing dynamic between the two women.

But I couldn’t help but disapprove of Lucy’s decision to include Lily in her private time with Teiji. If I were Lucy, I’d be even more territorial. I would not feel good about the idea of my man getting too friendly with a female friend, especially someone I am not personally fond of. And still, Lucy’s decision to allow Lily into her world says so much about who she is. It reflects her desire for validation and her struggle to navigate the dynamic of friendship and intimacy.

A Story That Haunts You

The reason The Earthquake Bird is so compelling is because it tackles guilt and identity. Lucy’s perception of herself is that she is a natural-born destroyer, that her very existence brings harm to the people she loves. It’s a guilt that permeates all facets of her life, from her relationships to how she sees her own worth.

The novel also takes up the theme of cultural displacement. As an expatriate in Japan, Lucy sometimes feels like an outsider, caught between two worlds. This alienation only exacerbates her identity crisis, heightening the poignancy of her struggles.

Final Thoughts

Reading The Earthquake Bird was an unforgettable experience. Susanna Jones has created a haunting and provocative novel, with a protagonist of such complexity whose presence reverberates long after the last page has been turned. Lucy Fly is not a loveable character; she’s full of imperfections and fear, making her narrative even more relatable.

If you’ve only seen the Netflix adaptation, then I recommend checking out the book. Although the film impressively conveys the tone of the story, the novel is a deeper exploration of Lucy’s mind and the labyrinthine relationships that make up her landscape. It’s a story about guilt, love, betrayal, and the fragmented nature of identity—a story that lingers with you, quietly unsettling, long after you turn the last page.

I’ll be reviewing the Netflix adaptation in a separate post, where I’ll explore how the movie differs from the book and whether it captures the same depth and nuance. Now, though, I’m glad to have finally read the novel. It was worth the wait, and, I suspect, a story I’ll return to, discovering different layers and meanings each time I do so.

Why I’ll Always Come Back to The English Patient

Daily writing prompt
What book could you read over and over again?
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Some books become landmarks in your life. It becomes more than something you read when you return to its pages again and again, like a familiar scent or a half-remembered dream. For me, that book is The English Patient by Michael Ondaatje.

I got my copy in 1997 while waiting for my night shift to start. I was 20 at the time, working part-time while studying for my IT diploma. My shift began at 6 p.m. and finished at 6 a.m. the following day. After dinner, I went to a nearby bookshop and picked up the novel. The film adaptation was playing in cinemas at the time, but I didn’t watch it until years later. I read the book during my breaks at work, but it took me a long time to finish it.

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Ondaatje’s prose was difficult. It didn’t care for neatness. The narrative was fragmented, the rhythm unpredictable—the whole narrative is a long lyrical poem. But I stuck with it, turning each page slowly, sometimes painfully. And I’m glad I did. While others found it disjointed, that was precisely what drew me in. It was too poetic for the mainstream, too fragmented for easy consumption, and too sensual for readers who prioritize plot. That’s what I enjoyed about it then—and still do.

When I went to university to pursue my IT degree, The English Patient became a silent friend. I read it during long, lonely afternoons in my hostel room as a soothing escape from the chaos of university life. Through Ondaatje’s pages, I could retreat to the worn walls of Villa San Girolamo, into the burned silence of the English Patient, and the sun-drenched memories of the Cave of Swimmers. I must have read the book ten times throughout the years. 

The story unfolds in the same way that memory does: disorganized, sensory, and half-lit. We learn about the English Patient’s past before, during, and after WWII. Of Katharine Clifton and their forbidden love. Of Hana, the grieving nurse who cares for him in the villa. Of Caravaggio, the thief turned British spy with missing thumbs. Of Kip, a gentle Indian sapper who dismantles bombs and falls in love with Hana despite their cultural differences.

The patient’s only possession is a battered, annotated copy of Herodotus’ Histories that survived the flames when his plane crashed in the desert. The crash badly burned him and caused amnesia. He couldn’t remember his name and lost his identity, but his voice led many to believe he was English. In time, we learn he is actually László de Almásy, a Hungarian cartographer and desert adventurer. Almásy’s character is loosely based on a real-life counterpart, Count László Almásy, a Hungarian aristocrat and explorer.

I remember reading passages aloud to my lover during late-night chats. We watched the movie adaptation on VCD, but I hated it. It lacked the haunting lyricism of the novel. The lushness of Ondaatje’s words cannot be translated to screen. His sentences breathe, linger, and seep in. They don’t just move the story forward. They remain in you long after you finish the novel.

I haven’t read the book in years. Maybe it’s time to read it again. Some parts of me have changed; others haven’t. I suspect the story will read differently now, the way all great books do when you return to them older and bruised with life.

There’s one passage that’s followed me for years, so much so that I placed it on my About Me page:

“She had always wanted words, she loved them; grew up on them. Words gave her clarity, brought reason, shape.”

This quote refers to Katharine Clifton, but I feel it suits me as well.

There are many other lines that have stayed with me through the years. There are too many to list, but here are a few that still haunt me:

“We die containing a richness of lovers and tribes, tastes we have swallowed, bodies we have plunged into and swum up as if rivers of wisdom, characters we have climbed into as if trees, fears we have hidden in as if caves. I wish for all this to be marked on by body when I am dead. I believe in such cartography—to be marked by nature, not just to label ourselves on a map like the names of rich men and women on buildings. We are communal histories, communal books. We are not owned or monogamous in our taste or experience.”

― Michael Ondaatje, The English Patient

“I believe this. When we meet those we fall in love with, there is an aspect of our spirit that is historian, a bit of a pedant who reminisces or remembers a meeting when the other has passed by innocently…but all parts of the body must be ready for the other, all atoms must jump in one direction for desire to occur.”

― Michael Ondaatje, The English Patient

“Moments before sleep are when she feels most alive, leaping across fragments of the day, bringing each moment into the bed with her like a child with schoolbooks and pencils. The day seems to have no order until these times, which are like a ledger for her, her body full of stories and situations.”

― Michael Ondaatje, The English Patient

“This was the time in her life that she fell upon books as the only door out of her cell. They became half her world.”

― Michael Ondaatje, The English Patient

“In the desert the most loved waters, like a lover’s name, are carried blue in your hands, enter your throat. One swallows absence.”

― Michael Ondaatje, The English Patient

“Sometimes when she is able to spend the night with him they are wakened by the three minarets of the city beginning their prayers before dawn. He walks with her through the indigo markets that lie between South Cairo and her home. The beautiful songs of faith enter the air like arrows, one minaret answering another, as if passing on a rumor of the two of them as they walk through the cold morning air, the smell of charcoal and hemp already making the air profound. Sinners in a holy city.”

― Michael Ondaatje, The English Patient

The English Patient is not a book you finish or a book you can read casually. It’s a book you carry, absorb, and savor.

And I’ll keep returning to it.

As long as I need to remember how language can ruin you.

And heal you.

And leave you haunted in the best way.